This weekend has been pretty stellar! Last night was almost a fail but it ended up being one of the best memories I’ve made with my kid to date. More on that soon. And also Palace of Gold shenanigans (see, if I allude to these things, then I have to write about them; helps keep me honest). Right now, I have to “help” Henry make pie pedestals and spray paint pumpkins for the pie party which is NEXT WEEKEND, fuck. I feel so panicked.

Only in Pittsburgh could you go to the local news website and see: BREAKING NEWS: Giant rubber duck coming up the river. Seriously, you guys—how am I supposed to work knowing that this is going on outside?! Pretty much the whole department has been watching the live feed of the duck’s voyage down whichever river it has been voyaging down. (We have THREE RIVERS in Pittsburgh; you can’t expect me to remember them all. THREE RIVERS! That takes up a lot of brain space.)

So this duck is like an art thing. Art installation? Please consult the nearest hipster. They will probably have more detailed 411.

(Jesus Christ. Here, I Wiki’d it for you: Rubber Ducky informative words.)

And Pittsburgh is the first US city that gets to host it! I don’t know when Pittsburgh suddenly started to get “cool”, but it’s happening you guys, so start studying up on your Pittsburghese. Don’t be a jagoff. (Ugh, even using Yinzer words ironically makes me feel totally stupid.)

I want to be out there right now! Even though I hate bridges! And rivers! And crowds! But I like giant things!

(Oh, hahaha–I just realized that the description on the picture above names the rivers. I don’t know which is which, though. I never listen to that part of the Gateway Clipper tours. Or really any of the parts.)

My work friend Chris and I walked over to that one bridge (there are like, 870 bridges in Pittsburgh, so pick one) where set-up for tonight’s Rubber Duck Bridge Party was underway. I think we’re going to try and stop over after stupid late shift. There’s the promise of food trucks and I will probably want to buy some super lame duck momento which will add to the eccentric cluttershack that is also known as “my house”.

Oh, Pittsburgh.

The duck is going to be docked here for a few weeks so I’m sure if you check back at a later date, you can expect to WOWd and amazed at a collection of ducky iPhone pictures.

This has been a really long week. A really long and not so good week. But Henry bought me TOMS with skulls on them today and now there’s a monster rubber duck chilling in the river by my office, so I’m pretty OK with life right now.

Hope you have a ridiculous weekend!

My awesome friend Elaine turned Marcy into such a cool work of art, and even included the perfect line from “Sex & Candy”. (She’s named after Marcy Playground in case you didn’t know.) I showed Marcy and she just stared at it, like, “Ok?” But I think she secretly loves it.

I can’t wait to frame this sucker!

Right before I fulfilled my parental duty of retrieving my child from school on Friday, Henry came home and began to gather up all of the dirty clothes to take to the Laundromat, which annoyed me because it meant he was going to be gone for like, two hours! On my day off! We barely get to see each other during the week, so I was not cool with this.

So after I brought Chooch home, the poor kid had just gotten comfortable in front of the computer, when I screamed, “OMG WE SHOULD GO STALK DADDY AT THE LAUNDROMAT!” Chooch thought this was a horrible idea because it involved us walking more than 20 feet. So I called him lazy, bribed him with ice cream and money, and he eventually caved.

This Laundromat is a mile or so away, I figured. And I know that there are safer ways to get there on foot, but I chose the way that made the most sense in my directionally-challenged head, because it only required us to make two turns. What it also required was us walking down a very busy road with little-to-no sidewalk. I never understood this since there are TWO HIGH SCHOOLS on this road! Isn’t that a thing that kids do—walk home from school? You’d think a road might be more accommodating. There are also several bends in the road so cars oftentimes came flying at us seemingly out of nowhere. I kept making Chooch walk further and further off of the side of the road until he started screaming at me for making him get burrs all over his shoes and socks and then OMG ONE GOT STUCK TO HIS HAND! It’s times like these, when nature-things are involved, that I am reminded how similar we are to one another.

And then, god forbid, a BUTTERFLY popped out of NOWHERE and that little sissy lala screamed like it was actually Jason Voorhees with wings, because he hates butterflies, you guys. Like, a lot.

I was going to DRAW a map until I remembered that maps already exist on the Internet.

I mean, that seems like a simple walk, right? MapQuest told me that it’s 1.58 miles and was supposed to take us 38 minutes but I think it might have taken us longer because Chooch tends to forget where he is and he will start walking in this slow, dreamlike cadence and ask me rambling questions about what my favorite insect is and then he will say his is the Kimodo Dragon and we will have a huge argument about how that is not an insect.

Meanwhile, I was so afraid we were going to get hit by a car and Henry would spend the rest of his life thinking we were walking to the Laundromat because we wanted to spend time with him since we love him and miss him so much—-wait, he totally wouldn’t think that. He would know for sure that we had our typical asshole-motives for walking down McNeilly Avenue during prime afternoon traffic.

(FYI: Spellcheck keeps automatically capitalizing Laundromat. Thank you for teaching me that it’s a proper noun, Spellcheck. OR IS IT?!)

Then I had to stop and buy Chooch his stupid “frozen treat”, as he kept calling it. But the shitty gas station had a minimum to use a credit card, so I ended up having to use his promised $5 to buy his stupid “frozen treat”, but he had totally forgotten about that part of the deal by then anyway.

And then it was finally time!

Turned out that Henry was all the way in the back watching Family Feud, so this allowed Chooch and I to slip in through the front door and trench-crawl around aisles of washing machines, popping up every now and then to snap some pictures. (Chooch’s turned out AWESOME. Sike.) Our stalking unfortunately was cut short because CHOOCH hasn’t quite learned to stifle his giggles on the war field, so Henry eventually caught on. (Eventually = 30 seconds.)

Subject turns upon hearing mysterious yet familiar choked chortles.

And then we were totally busted, thanks Chooch. I knew I should have left him at home! (I mean, it’s OK to leave a 7-year-old home alone if there are cats in the house too, right? And pretzels?) So then Chooch wasted more money in the vending machine and watched too-young cartoons on the complimentary telly while I ran around taking pictures like I’ve never been in a Laundromat before (this is almost true since Henry does all of the laundry, all of the time).

Once Henry found out that we walked down McNeilly, he got all Fatherly and started lecturing me about how dangerous and stupid that was. YEAH I KNOW, OK. THAT IS WHY THE WORD “HINDSIGHT” WAS INVENTED.

“I didn’t think you two would actually walk all of the way here to help me,” Henry mumbled dejectedly.

Then I got bored and decided it was time to walk back home (a safer way this time!). I thought for sure Chooch would hang back and come home with Henry in the car, but he was all, “No, I love you more than daddy. He can rot. Let’s go!”

Ha-ha, look at the Dance Gavin Dance pin on his collar. I made him wear that to school.

After Henry came home with a thousand loads of laundered clothes, we went to dinner at Hanni’s Place, which is my new go-to for cheap American fare. They serve an outstanding veggie burger dumped with some mean coleslaw on a fresh Cellone’s (local bakery, OK?) buns, the waitress was pleasant without being overbearing or too interrupt-y, and who I can only assume was Hanni himself even came out from the kitchen to thank us for coming in. That’s a place I want to support. A thankful place with good coleslaw, I guess.

Henry couldn’t find a single thing to complain about it, and he he is one of those super crotchety complainer types that can take a five star meal and whittle its merits down to your basic Happy Meal.

Chooch thought he was so cool for ordering beer cheese fries and then proceeded to call forth eight different personalities to entertain us. It was exhausting. But not so exhausting that I couldn’t later walk down the street to CVS to rent absolutely nothing from Red Box! By the time I went to bed that night, I had accumulated a little over nine miles on my pedometer, and that doesn’t count the first walk to and from school that morning because I hadn’t yet put on my pedometer.

What a productive day off! I’ve already decided on my next day off, I’m going to sit on my front steps and wait for Purple Pants to walk by, and then I’m going to follow her around all day because I need to know where she goes.

Henry bought these big ass motherwhompin’ Fuji apples and at first I was like, “Fuck yeah, big ass apple!” But then once I brought it to work, I soon realized that there was no way this morbidly obese fruit was fitting in no goddamn apple corer.

Bitch, please.

It’s like the size of a baby’s head. And probably just as juicy. Mmm, soft spots.

Here it is next to a Homie for perspective.

So earlier today, I approached Gayle. And in my sweetest voice and best innocent visage, I cued up the violin music and dove into my sob story.

“Yes, I’ll cut your apple for you,” Gayle interrupted after about 5 seconds. I guess it was pretty obvious where my tale of woe was going.

I met her later on in the kitchen and watched her use A BIG KNIFE to lobotomize my mutant fruit. Our boss walked by on her way out of the office and kind of looked at us funny.

“My apple was too big for the corer, so Gayle is cutting it for me,” I explained with a shrug.

“And do we really want Erin handling a knife?

” Gayle added. This seemed to satiate the boss’s curiosity.

Thank you for your heroics, Gayle!!

The slices couldn’t even fit all the way into my huuuuuge mouth! THAT IS HOW BIG THIS DAMN APPLE WAS.

It was such a delicious apple! Although, every time I jammed a piece into my mouth, I tried to remain blissfully ignorant to what sort of science made my apple so gigantor in the first place. LALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALA.

You know how sometimes I might become, oh I don’t know, obsessed with things? Usually never anything that is commonly obsessed over, like One Direction or twerking, but little things like strange fruit and wheelchairs? Well, it happened again you guys. Yesterday I was able to finally admit out loud that I am obsessed with my trolley driver. Maybe even in fake-love with him

He’s wearing a bandanna today! I texted Henry when I sat down on the trolley.

What does it look like? Henry replied, because he likes to encourage these things.

And is also apparently trying to dump me.

I was totally excited about this bandanna thing for most of my trip to work, because I had never seen him wearing a bandanna before! I wonder if he was trying to impress me!? So I sat there and chuckled quietly along to all of his happy honkings, until we reached the First Avenue platform.

I hate this platform because this is where his other broad is often standing and he gets all happy to see her. Thankfully, she never actually gets on the trolley. But I can’t figure out why. All of the trolleys go to the same destination at that point, so it’s not like the one after ours is going to take her someplace different. What if she is just pretending to be waiting just so she can see Trolley Driver? MY Trolley Driver!

Usually Trolley Driver will open the door and they will shout cutesy phrases to each other and she will laugh and gloat, like, “Look at me, the one he loves the most!” and I sit there in my dirty trolley seat, stewing in hobo filth and jealousy.

My fake crush has made me fake jealous. What the fuck, you guys.

Yesterday, my bandanna-orgasm was cut short by the presence of Other Woman, now forever known as Bitch Face. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was there at all, standing in all of her public transportation skankiness (those cardigans aren’t fooling anyone, you trolley tramp), Trolley Driver actually removed his person from the trolley in order to cajole with her on the platform. This was 100% not OK. I’m also pretty sure his BOSS would have the same opinion of the matter. I could report him! But I am too in love with him to do that. Although, at one time I was also “too in love” with Henry, and just look at all the shit I’ve done to THAT chump, wouldya.

Still, I took a picture so that when I stomped into work and put Trolley Driver on blast, at least I would have visual proof to illustrate this disgusting tryst to all of my non-caring co-workers.

UGH IT’S SO SICKENING! I CAN’T STAND IT.

I’m off tomorrow and am strongly considering standing around on the platform, but not getting on, just to see if the Rail System Romeo makes any untoward advances on me like he does her. I mean, he did stop me on the sidewalk that one time when he was off-duty, but I need to know who he likes more. I ran this idea past some of my work friends, and most of them shook their heads and murmured, “No. Not a good idea.” Except for Nate. He was on board with this.

But then last night, Henry proposed that I board the trolley that arrives right before the one I normally take, and then I should GET OFF at the First Avenue platform and STAND RIGHT NEXT TO BITCH FACE. Make your choice, Port Authority Player!

This seemed like a great way to spend my day off, but then today, there was some broad driving my usual trolley so now I’m wondering if he really did get in trouble for leaving his post?

!

But then some guy boarded the trolley with his stroller-bound toddler, pulled out a composition note and proceeded to frantically scribble. So I fixated on him mostly, until I saw Bitch Face look up from her phone as our trolley screeched to a halt at her platform, and then I smiled smugly when I saw the look of disappointment on her stupid bitch face when she realized it wasn’t Trolley Tease. BECAUSE YOU PROBABLY GOT HIM FIRED, BITCH FACE.

Meanwhile, Kevin Spacey’s character from “Seven” was totally ignoring his kid, whom he had deposited behind his seat and into the accordianed area that connects the two trolleys, and just furiously thought-jotting away.

There was this weird moment right after I took his picture when I wondered if he was writing about the stupid white sweater-wearing bitch taking pictures of him on the trolley. God, I hope so.

I guess at this point, I should probably just make an entire blog category for the trolley.

I got this comment last week on my Big Butler Fair blog post and I thought for sure it was spam. I read it and laughed. “Oh OK, Pumpkin Funnel Cake. Thanks,” I thought, and then moved on with my life.

But then over the weekend, I noticed that the stats for that particular post had spiked, which I thought was odd since it’s nearly two months old. But then I saw that the referring link was Facebook and that Pumpkin Funnel Cake was a real page. Of course I had to go investigate, and this is what I found:

Hahahaha! “interesting review but thanks.”

“Oh god, what did you write about them?” Henry asked wearily.

“I can’t remember, but I’m sure it was something classy,” I shrugged.

Henry went and re-read it and just kept sighing. “I’m so glad there’s pictures of me and Chooch in this post. Hopefully they recognize us next year,” he murmured, and I think maybe he was being sarcastic.

I’ve been blogging since 2001 but it still never fails to amuse me when my blog is actually found by someone. You know, like Andy from “Child’s Play” (true story : we’re Facebook friends now because he read my blog post about how I wanted to bang him), the proprietor of my favorite bakery, the parents from Chooch’s old Catholic school (oh, we laugh about it now). I guess when your stats hover between 100 and 150 per day, it’s kind of surprising still to be “found.” There’s a slight adrenaline rush to it, which is also sometimes accompanied by a stomachache, depending on the nature of the blog post. But I write what I write, no take-backs. And sometimes I have to deal with (and expect) backlash. Henry is usually very “I told you so” when this happens.

So I started thinking about this (I’ve been very thoughtful lately, you guys! Too bad I still haven’t relaced my Big Green Glasses, because my thoughts would probably be even better if they happened while I was wearing glasses) and about how I haven’t really progressed much at all in terms of visibilty and readership and do I even have any sort of goal with this damn thing? I guess I don’t. I mean, I’m not the type of blog that companies want to ply with free swag in exchange for reviews. I don’t have advertisements on here. I don’t “schedule” my posts. I don’t really have a “following” or belong to any type of blogging community. I’ve tried that and it didn’t suit me. A lot of Christian housewives who would skip over my blog or just pretend to read it when we would have Friday comment parties. And you know, who really wants comments that just say, “Nice post. Stopping by from <insert stupid community name>”? It just seemed so phony to me and I was tired of reading blog posts about those stupid muffin tins that SAHMs were using to “creatively” feed their children broccoli and apple slices.

I don’t go to local blog conventions or podcast thingies or tweet-ups or anything that requires me to socialize with other people who have blogs, because that’s just not my scene. I don’t even like the word “blog”! Every time I say it out loud, I just hear “blahhhhhhhhugh.” Blah ugh, indeed.

I don’t really have a theme. I’m not a food blog. I’m not a mommy blog. I’m not a DIY blog or even really a lifestyle blog. I’m a….what am I? A variety blog? The Hee Haw of blogs? This will never be the kind of blog that suddenly “gets discovered” and none of my posts are the sort that would ever go viral. Because it’s not mass appeal, I guess. If you like amusement parks, crude sex analogies and pictures of ice cream cones, then I guess this is your jam right here!

I have had the same blog design for years and years. The header shows up as an “x” whenever I view anything that’s not on the home page. But I’ve never cared enough to fix it. The sidebar is an unorganized shitshow. I don’t even offer people the ability to “pin” my stuff!

But then…I don’t really care about Pinterest.

I try not to push this thing down peoples’ throats. When I update, it automatically posts to Facebook and Twitter (except for when that function is broken.) I used to send out email notifications, but then that broke. So then Henry fixed it, but it wasn’t fully fixed, and people bitched. I think some people read this from a LiveJournal feed, but I have no way of knowing for sure because I don’t care, I guess?

Sometimes I try to re-post old shit, because I read once that you should sometimes re-post old shit. Try to generate interest, I guess. Like, “Look! My blog used to be GOOD, you guys! I used to kind of write for real!” But is it really writing? Isn’t blogging just the bastard offspring of writing?

Quitting is always in the back of my mind, but at the end of the day, temper tantrums aside, I genuinely do enjoy blogging. I like having a compilation of Chooch’s childhood and concert reviews and pictures of Henry’s frowns. And it always amazes me that while this is still just a small potatoes-blog, that anyone who doesn’t know me in real life has cared enough to stick along for the ride. I’ve made some really awesome friends over the years by publicizing my dumb life, and I would never want to give that back! But honestly, most of my in-real-life friends don’t even regularly read this, so believe me—I don’t expect many others to, but the ones that do, I really appreciate.

I’m trying to get motivated to change some shit up, I guess. At least maybe add an “about” page, which I always thought I had but this morning I was looking for it and realized that I guess Henry took it away, so fuck you, Henry.

I did add this “popular post” widget thing all on my own, though! (And probably busted five other things in the process.) It’s on the righthand side over there —–>

Does TLC do blog-makeovers? Because I mean, I’ve been making-over so many other facets of my life this year, why not throw my blog in the mix? So, maybe I’ll change some things. Maybe not. But one thing’s for sure:  your ex-wife still won’t read this trash. :)

Blake came over to visit us Saturday night! Yay! We don’t get to see him nearly as much as we’d like to, because, you know, he’s 20 and has a life. He hadn’t even fully crossed our threshold yet before Chooch was erupting in a near-epileptic fit of “Blake! Blake! Blake! Hey, Blake!”s. And then we had to sit there and pretend to be students in Chooch’s Internet Meme class. He refused to believe that old people like us know memes, so he gave Blake a notebook and demanded him to draw the memes that he knew.

Well, Blake. YOU chose to spend your Saturday night this way!

****

I want to say Sunday was leisurely but it really wasn’t because somehow, even though I did not lift one literal finger during the entire coffee table DIY extravanza, I managed to get sick from inhaling spray paint fumes.

Chooch actually came outside for awhile and we stalked a chirping squirrel. It was really exciting! This squirrel was so pissed off at something on the other side of the fence, maybe a cat? I don’t know, but it was hilarious to watch. Then we went back in the house and had a legitimate fight with each other over who was going to tell Marcy. Chooch won. :(

Marcy did NOT give a shit.

Speaking of Marcy, here’s a picture of her wearing my bowtie last Friday night:

Every antonym for “thrilled”!

As the day went on, my spray paint ailment kept getting worse. At first it was just a slight headache, but then we left to go to the asian market for fruit (more on that in another post) and I started to feel nauseous. But we were going to get ice cream after fruit-shopping and you better believe I’m going to have to be sicker than that to pass up ice cream. But it was kind of putting me in a bad mood, so I acted all diva-ish at the first place we stopped.

“NOTHING IS JUMPING OUT AT ME, OK?!” I snarled. And Henry just sighed and he’s lucky he didn’t say what he I know he was thinking (“Their menu is the same as all the others.”). So we ended up going to Oh Yeah! which is where I originally wanted to go but I was trying to be accomodating by choosing a different place closer to the asian market.

You guys, Oh Yeah! is the shit. It’s kind of like a Cold Stone Creamery in that you can choose a base ice cream and then pick whatever mix-in you want. But Oh Yeah! is a vegan-friendly indie establishment with soy-based flavors in addition to regular Dave and Andy’s offerings, and their mix-in menu is bananas. They pander to my lavender-loving taste buds and they also have amazing waffles, if you’re into that kind of thing. I have always sensed that Henry does not like Oh Yeah! because it’s too cool for him.

As usual, we told Henry what we desired in a cone (way more complex than ordering twist cones, so sorry, Henry) and then ditched him. The same guy is always working there, I’m not sure if he’s the owner or not, but he and Henry seem to have a mutual affinity for one another and I’m going to go off on a limb here and guess that it has everything to do with their fantastic facial coifs. I need to get a picture of that guy next time. I think he’s the same guy who coerced me into buying a bottle of Kambucha back in 2009, which took me almost a week to drink. I’m almost positive he rides a sick bike, too. I want to be friends with him but he is really intimidating.

As usual part 2, I’ve had entirely too much coffee today and now I’m trying to blog which always spells disaster in alphabet soup letters.

Henry, forever ordering ice cream alone.

Chooch killed time by plunking keys on the piano by the door. At first I was like, “Oh god, we’re going to get kicked out” because I expected him to start hammering out the Schizophrenic’s Waltz with his mallet-hands, but instead, he gently tapped a few keys and then whispered to me, “Isn’t it the saddest song ever?”

And then, “You should buy a piano for the house, so then when you ask me to entertain you, I can.”

He has all of the plans.

More importantly, I got sweet cream with lavender, pretzels and coffee grinds and it was fantasmic. Fantastic and orgasmic. Get it? Fantastic + orgas….

….eh, forget it.

I was orginally going to order one of the house combinations called Honeyhead, which had baklava and orange peel in it, but Henry was all, “NO THAT IS WHAT I AM GOING TO GET. GO BACK TO YOUR LAVENDER.” So I thought, “Wow, this will work out great. I’ll just share with Henry and then still get to eat all of my own because Henry hates lavender and coffee!” But that dumbass used chocolate ice cream as his base and it was all effed up. Way to go, Henry.

I was SO MAD about this too. He was all, “But why? This is MY ice cream!”

Whatever. What’s his is mine. Duh.

As soon as we came home, I thought I was going to barf, but I held it in because what a waste of perfectly good ice cream that would be! But serioulsy, those fumes had really gone to my head at that point and I had to actually TAKE A NAP which I only ever do when I’m really sick. So you know I was really sick.

Meanwhile, Henry went to the store to get the stuff I needed to practice baking pie pops later that evening. Yes, he left Chooch and I home alone. But we managed to just hang out in my room without fighting or igniting. We tried to teach ourselves to snap our fingers at one point, but that was unsuccessful.

Then I spent Sunday evening bouncing back and forth between the Penguins pre-season game and practicing pie pops, until I flat out quit the pie pop part and focused solely on lounging on the couch with my Penguins.

Anyway: A pox on baking. (More on that in the asian market post.)

At some point, I made Henry eat a rainbow-y treat, but we both agreed it was pretty terrible.

All in all, it was a pretty relaxing weekend, which is nice because the next several weekends are going to be really busy. Really fun, but busy. Gotta get it all in before the neverendingly oppressive winter months fall upon us.

Henry painted the legs and knobs yesterday and was able to put them back on by late afternoon. And that was it! DONE! (Well, except it still needs more coats of Mod Podge plus a hard coat, but I figured it looked done enough that I could put a picture on here and say it’s done and you people would believe me.) We (haha “we”) used a textured black metallic paint for the legs and knobs, but that’s also what’s in the center of the table, so the pictures have a sparkly border to them.

We make such a good team!! I just stand there, arms akimbo, lips pursed, pointing out everything he’s done wrong and then he snaps, “I’M NOT DONE YET.”

The most amazing part to me is that Henry and I made it through three weeks of  this without severely fighting or me flipping the table through the living room window! (The latter is mostly because I didn’t really have anything to do with this project other than gathering Instagram pictures and then doling them out to Henry 10 at a time to ensure they were laid down in an order I approved of. If I had to paste any of the pictures down, that would have been the end of the table, and possibly Henry’s life.)

There are pictures from cemeteries, amusement parks, fairs, the Bayernhof!!!, all of the cats, my brother, Blake, various friends, Warped Tour, Pierce the Veil, and just random moments that I’m happy to have to look at every day. Henry, however, is not amused that there are so many pictures of him, and that just makes me happier! There’s even a picture of the day we were locked out of the house because that still makes me laugh!

Look how magnificent this gold is! I begged Henry to paint our living room ceiling in the same vein, but that proposal was vetoed with a disgusted glare. The other desk-thingie that he’s working on is going to be entirely gold glitter like the drawers. But this one also has doors on it, so I want him to paint those with black, pink and gold chevron stripes, to tie that in with the coffee table. Henry was like, “….what are chevron stripes?” so I showed him a picture and he sighed wearily.

I don’t know how much this project ended up costing us, you’d have to ask Henry since I tend to black out anytime we’re in Home Depot or Lowe’s. But the table itself was literally $10 at Goodwill. I guess because there was particle board in the center and it was coming up on some of the sides and basically looked like shit. My original idea last year was to just sand it down and paint it with chalkboard paint, but now I’m glad Henry was too unmotivated to work on it, because it forced me  to think things out better. And you really have to catch Henry at the right time when it comes to these things. He’s really good at the projects I give him, but it has to be on his terms (which I hate because this is MY kingdom, but whatever). I was so annoyed that it took him so long to finish this table, but he quietly explained to me that he wanted to “not rush through it and get it done right.” Like he was deflowering it, I guess.

My favorite part is that someday, this will hopefully be in Chooch’s house (and not a landfill) and he’ll get to tell his friends and family about the different pictures and then he’ll get tired of explaining things and start directing people to my blog and then maybe my blog stats will spike. That is, if blogs still exist then.

I told Chooch that this might end up being a family heirloom someday and he gave me a look that could make Henry’s basic frown shrivel in fear.

“Dad, why do we have a picture of some weird guy yawning on our table?” future Chooch-spawn might ask.

Chooch, sighing heavily, “I don’t know. Here, just go read grandma’s blog.”

Two down, 87,154 more to go! (Seriously, I want everything in our bedrooms re-done, too. Hahahahahaha.)

I had to walk to the post office this morning to mail a Jeffrey Dahmer birthday card. It’s still summer but damn if it doesn’t feel like fall out there today! I got all giddy and actually meant it when I said good morning to people! Me! Actually delivering meaningful sentiments!

Oh, Brookline, you fancy for fall, huh?

Couldn’t come home without stopping at the bakery for some girly treats to force Henry to eat.

They didn’t have any pretty donuts, so I bought two princess cookies and decided to drag Chooch into the torture.

He clearly didn’t care though.

Then Henry shared his with the true princess of the house, Marcy. I LOVE HER SO MUCH YOU GUYS.

Some of my friends on Facebook were shocked and awed by Henry’s legit smile in this photo, so I decided since Henry’s smiles are like the Halley’s Comet of facial expressions, we should from now on call them Henry’s Comet. No one seemed to think this was a great idea, but I’m doing it and NO ONE CAN STOP ME.

A little bit later, Chooch and I had a movie date at the small independent theater down the street. As we were leaving, Chooch said to Henry, “And you better clean the house.” It was fucking awesome.

We were too early (I’m chronically early) so we stopped at the used book shop next door and bought some Goosebumps and a Choose Your Own Adventure book because apparently I’ve failed at parenting for the last seven years and Chooch had never heard of such a thing.

Rectified.

Then we saw the matinee showing of “Labyrinth” even though we have it on DVD—who wouldn’t want to see that classic flick (and David Bowie’s spandexed weener) on the big screen?

Chooch has seen it when he was younger, so he only vaguely remembered parts of it and seemed 100% captivated; he didn’t even mention Minecraft!

“Um, that almost made me cry,” he said angrily when it was over, and then GLARED at me because I obviously made that movie.

Man, how many girls from my generation weren’t totally entranced by this movie? The first time I saw it, I was at this girl Elisabeth’s house in elementary school, we were making shitty friendship bracelets or something, and this movie came on TV. We were like, “Whaaaaa?? Hold up!” And then completely fucked the bracelet project. I thought Jennifer Connelly was the SHIT and coveted that damn blouse she wore. I’d still wear that.

So, you know…this was just as much for me.

Chooch and I don’t really do things without Henry’s supervision so it was really fun and I was glad that Henry was too lame to want to see “Labyrinth.” It’s probably too high-brow for him, anyway.

Then we raced each other back to a house that Henry was NOT cleaning. And that has been my Saturday so far.

My friend Natasha shared a link on my Facebook timeline just a few moments ago:

“On this day in 1990, The Cure released its “Disintegration”-era live album “Entreat” – recorded in London’s Wembley Arena in July 1989.”

I remember it being so hard to find this when I started to really really really like the Cure in the late 90s because it was released as a promotional item. Pretty sure I was still unaware of Amazon in 1999. I don’t even think I was using eBay yet? Instead of relying on the Internet, I relied on my weekend visits to Eide’s Entertainment in the Strip District, where my “Cure dealer,” as I lovingly referred to him, would see me walk in and run to pull out the latest bootlegs and imports that they had acquired, and I would in turn pull out the good old credit card. And whenever there was a new video (always on VHS), it was truly a red letter day. The last couple of times I visited Eide’s, it was obviously a very different experience. As it is with any record store in the iTunes-era.

I love the Cure. I will always love the Cure. But I hate that it is not as fun to love the Cure, as far as “collecting” goes.

Now I can just go online and download what was once considered a treasure to find. I can go on YouTube and watch live videos from Tokyo, the same videos that made people say, “Sweet find!” about my Live in Japan VHS I snagged when I was 20.

<

If I can’t make it to Lollapalooza, I can live-stream the Cure’s set from my fucking living room. Technology may have made it easy to be a band’s #1 fan, but it sure as shit took a lot of the fun out of it.

On the other hand, what I think is great about Robert Smith is his lack of an Internet presence. Because not only is there a huge over-share problem with us regular plebes, celebrities in general post so much bullshit on Instagram and Twitter that there is no mystique left. I’ve seen the weeners of half of the metalcore scene thanks to Twitter and the now-defunct Is Anybody Up. But you don’t get that with Robert. There’s still that air of mystery. I can still pretend that Robert’s wife Mary never existed and that he sleeps in a coffin with my picture taped to the top.

My Robert Smith love is very different from my Jonny Craig love, that’s for sure. I would never fly to Australia for that douchebag, that’s for sure.

Anyway, unrelated to any of this, I want to close out my unofficial Cure Week with one of my favorite songs from The Head On the Door, which was the Cure album I was listening to the most during the time I was running around trying to secure travel arrangements to see the Dream Tour in Canberra. Coincidently, the week I was over there was the exact same week Henry started his job at Weiss Meats, the place I was currently employed. So his first impression of me was an empty desk and everyone telling him that I was the “crazy office manager” who flew to Australia “for some band.” Before we started dating, when we were in that awkward “Does he/she like me?” phase, Henry “randomly” made me this elaborate Cure screensaver; that’s when I knew he liked me for real. (God, that’s so dorky!)

Four years later, we were on a plane to California together, destination: Coachella, where the Cure was headlining. Thank god I found someone who could tolerate my hyper-obsessions.

Saturday was all furniture painting, parenting and “Weeds” marathoning. Nothing too exciting there.

Sunday was all ICE CREAM and SUSHI:

Stopped at Dari Delite after making Henry buy girly fabric at Joann Fabrics. Don’t think Henry was all bent out of shape having to go to a fabric store—I was ready to leave after five minutes, but we were there for OVER A HALF HOUR because of Henry’s desire to browse every single aisle. I have no idea why he’s slinging Faygo and not teaching middle school brats how to sew.

We were originally going to stop at some place that has gelato, which I’m a whore for, but I gotta tell you, I’m really into soft-serve these days. Dari Delite’s was good, but I did not approve of their sprinkles. They tasted waxy or something, I don’t know. But it’s not like it was so bad that I scraped them off on the edge of the picnic table. I mean, sprinkles are sprinkles. (I will never call them jimmies.

)

“I was going to get the Monkey in the Middle,” Henry mumbled dejectedly after joining Chooch and me at a table behind the building. We always ditch him at the ordering window because we want him to serve us, you know? I asked him why he didn’t get it and he said because too many people were standing behind him and he got nervous. God, I’m dating an ice cream wuss.

I guess Chooch is really into chocolate milkshakes now or something.

I don’t know what we’re going to do for my weekend splurge once it starts getting colder (yes, “mine.” Those assholes eat whatever they want 7 days a week). I’d say cupcakes, but this is Pittsburgh and good cupcakes are A LOT harder to champion than ice cream, that’s for sure. I’ve had a ton of bad cupcakes in this city (*cough*DOZEN*cough*). Donuts, maybe? I used to not give a shit about donuts, but that’s the beauty of Weight Watchers: pretty much anything made with sugar is something I’d like to eat. Cronut road trip, maybe.

Plus, I could still get my sprinkle fix….

?

It’s just nice to have something to look forward to, OK?!

Sunday evening, Laura and I had sushi and fiery drinks at Yamato.

OBLIGATORY SUSHI PHOTO, OMG. I didn’t post it on Instagram though, so I just lost hipster cred that I didn’t even have.

That’s Laura in the background, bagging up molly.

Went back to Laura’s place to basically sit on the couch with Mike while Laura packed up boxes of books and kept trying to give me things that I don’t need. She DID give me this hot ass rabbit mask though, which she bought for me while she was in Seattle. My old rabbit mask has seen much better days, so I’m happy to have a new one! I LOVE IT.

And then I got new TOMS. The end!

When I was really little, maybe 5 or 6, I remember my stepdad having parties where there was always a David Bowie record spinning, or Duran Duran, or The Cure, or…Hall & Oats (and I still like them because of this!). My dad wasn’t necessarily a huge fan of the Cure that I know of, but he is definitely how I first heard of them. It wasn’t love at first listen, though. I wasn’t wearing Head on the Door t-shirts to Kindergarten with my hair all teased out. I was still primarily a radio-happy kid who loved Madonna and Michael Jackson and Toto’s “Africa.”

I didn’t own any of the Cure’s music myself until I was 12, when I bought the “Friday I’m In Love” cassette single at National Record Mart. I used to watch a lot of late night MTV in my room then. I can’t even pretend to be cool and talk about all the actual records of theirs that I owned, because by the time I was really starting to get into music, CDs had already hit the scene. Up until then, the only records I owned were T’Pau, Steve Winwood, Flashbeagle and that terrible Julio Iglesias/Wilile Nelson duet. So believe me, even though I was making mix tapes with my little Fisher Price tape recorder, I wasn’t half the audiophile that Chooch is already at age 7.

So even though I owned that cassette single from the Wish album, it wasn’t until I was in my late teens when I actually heard anything else from it (I had to let the gangsta rap stage run its course, OK??); I was immediately taken with “Open” and how, even apart from the lyrics, it’s like listening to someone’s sanity completely derailing.

and the way the rain comes down hard

that’s how I feel inside…

God, yes! That’s how I feel even without the assistance of drugs or alcohol. How relatable are Cure songs to us sad sacks? So on point!

The whole Wish album is amazing, really. Even the oft-skipped over “Wendy Time” lights a spark in me, and obviously “From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea,” during which I have had to force Henry’s hands into the sky the two times we saw the Cure together. He’s so stubborn!

Henry and I went to Cleveland in 2005 to see Circa Survive and I bought this cheap plastic ring at the greatest store ever (Big Fun) because the design on it reminded me of the Wish album cover. It’s cracked now, on the part that goes around the back of my finger, and I barely wear it anymore because I don’t want it to break.

One more video! This one is from Wild Mood Swings, which is actually in my bottom 3 favorite Cure albums, but I lovelovelove this song because there’s a line that goes “It kind of wasn’t quite what I hoped for, you know” which basically sums up how I feel about most everything.

Thanks to all who have been following along and contributing Cure stories and favorites of your own! This has been so much fun, but tomorrow will be the 7th post already! :(

My childhood bedroom was amazing. Deep purple carpet; purple and silver foil wallpaper; furniture set painted by my mom in alternating yellow and purple textured spray paint. I even painted my windowsill and frame in colored stripes. My room was the shit and so bursting with color that, even apart from the typical teenaged angst factor, it was my favorite place to be.

But the house I’ve been renting since 1999 (NINETEEN-NINETY-NINE WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK!?) is blah. White walls. Shitty hardwood floors that were never sealed. Plain furniture. BLAH. And Henry is one of those people who refuses to paint the walls of a house he doesn’t own any color but white. And since god knows when we’ll be able to realistically start looking for a house to buy (although things are looking up now that my student loans are out of default!), the compromise has been to give our furniture a makeover. And Henry is surprisingly doing it without too much bitching.

So, I already posted last week about the $10 coffee table we got last year from Goodwill. Talk about a labor of love with that thing. It still isn’t finished, though it’s really coming along. Henry finally started gluing down the photos on Saturday. It’s not the kind of project that can be rushed, because I don’t want to set my coffee down on a table and find another bubbled area I hadn’t noticed before.

I hope he hurries up though because that green tape is really growing on me and I might change my mind and have him paint a green border. I know you don’t want more work Henry, so chop chop.

We (haha “we”) sprayed sparkly black paint in the center of the table so it looks like all of the pictures have glittery borders and it is goddamn adorable. (Henry’s words, not mine.)

The drawers are all gold and glittery AND I LOVE THEM SO MUCH. But Henry’s all, “NO. IT IS NOT TIME TO BRING THE DRAWERS IN THE HOUSE. LEAVE THEM!!”

The knobs are going to be finished with the same black shimmery paint as we used in the center of the table, and the table legs will match as well.

I was over Laura’s last night and I texted Henry to see how the table was coming along, but he was all, “Yeah right, I’m not gluing a single picture on this without you here.” Because he KNOWS, you guys. I’m very particular when it comes to the order of things.

Meanwhile, we’ve also been working on our beaten up TV stand, which was originally dingy white and made out of fake wood from the Ikea forest. I’ve had this piece of shit table since I moved into this house in 1999 and it is Fug City. So I picked out some lively green paint to give it new life.

We managed to get this project done in less than 24 hours because there was no humidity this weekend and the paint dried amazingly fast. While the second coat was drying, we went to Joann Fabrics (on par with GROCERY STORES to me; god, I hate that place) and I picked out the most Brady Bunch-esque fabric I could find, much to Henry’s chagrin.

Henry opted to not sand out the scratches on the legs of the table, since they were made by the cats. At first I thought he was just using that as an excuse to do less work, but I think he was really sincere and it warmed my stupid heart.

The fabric makes it look pretty, but it’s also functional because it hides all of our cocaine bricks. I mean, electronics.

It doesn’t hide all the shit underneath it though so I guess I’ll still have to actually clean at some point. Gross.

Sorry for the poor quality photos. I was using my phone.

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The other in-progress project is an old desk thingie that Henry had stashed in the garage, which is going to be solid gold with gold glitter. (I have other plans for the doors on it, though.) Henry was working on that this weekend too, so now every time light hits his face, he sparkles. Gold glitter in his beard, his moustache, his big bushy eyebrows. He’s really looking majestic, you guys.

He said he hopes that when he goes to work today, everyone thinks he did a cabaret show over the weekend. But I hope they think something worse, like that he went to a Ke$ha concert.

Anyway, this is not one of those Pinterest-y DIY blogs, so I won’t be doing product placement or telling you what tools we used. Mostly because I don’t know. These ideas came from my head, yo.

My commute to work has definitely gotten noisier since Trolley Driver came back from vacation last week, though the first two days were pretty quiet. So quiet, that I began to wonder if perhaps he was scolded for too generously doling out honks. Then one day, he began hyper-beeping and I thought, “OK, maybe the horn was just broke for awhile.” But then I realized he was beeping at a truck who had ignored the trolley crossing sign and nearly got T-boned by us. That was pretty damn exciting.

But by the end of the week, he was back on track, so to speak. Please, enjoy a video I compiled of my shitty trolley ride to work:

That last part is only a tiny snippet at the maniacal beeping that goes on. For instance, there is some work being done on the tracks right after the stop I get on at, so there have been clumps of port authority workers doing their thing. As Trolley Driver passes them, he beeps—once for every single person. And then he slows to a halt and begins to jovially chide the guys in their fluorescent yellow and orange vests and they look like they’re so fucking exhausted of this charade. Man, I really love Trolley Driver!

But guess what!? There is some stupid broad who is sometimes waiting on one of the platforms downtown and he will idle there with the door open, having a conversation with her, even though she’s not getting on the trolley. This has happened numerous times since I’ve been a regular on this particular trolley, and usually the passengers will start to get vocal because hello, we have places to go! So then they say goodbye and he jingles his little trolley bell (and I don’t mean his weener, but maybe I do) and gives one last little TOOTTOOT before continuing on his way.

This happened yesterday and I realized THAT I AM JEALOUS OF THIS BROAD. Does he like her more than me!?!?

Henry pointed out that he* would probably do the same thing to me if he saw me standing on a different trolley platform. I guess he’s right. I mean, he did shout at me from the backseat of a car while he was on vacation.

*(Trolley Driver, not Henry. God, Henry would probably do a rain dance just so he could splash me upon passing.)

“It’s a Trolley Triangle,” was Henry’s response when I texted him the picture of The Platform Harlot.

I NEED TO MAKE HIM LIKE ME MORE THAN HER.

Should I (have Henry) bake him cookies?! Buy him an airhorn? Get him a Best Beepin’ Trolley Driver mug? Ugh, I’ll think of something.

You know I’m going to be obsessing over this now. I should probably find out his name at some point.