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.

****

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.

One of my most treasured hobbies used to be scouring eBay for Cure artifacts. (OK, I still do this sometimes, but it’s not as much fun now that I don’t have Mommy’s AmEx card to pay for my bounty.) Some girl painted the above portrait of Robert for an art class and I had to have it. Henry and I were at King’s Island in Cincinnati the day that the auction was ending, and this was in 2005 so I didn’thave the luxury of hawkeyeing my iPhone every 3 seconds, watching the auction countdown.

So I did it the old-fashioned way: I wrote “DON’T FORGET THE CURE” on my wrist and left the amusement park early enough to get back to Christina’s house so I could place my winning bid. I love the fuck out of this painting and hopefully one day I’ll find a suitable (read: gaudy) frame for it.

I think I won this on eBay in 1999? It was actually delivered to my house on Christmas Day, that much I do remember. It was the best Christmas present ever.

Yes, before I had a Jonny Craig doll, I had a Robert Smith doll. I’m certain I (see also: my mom) paid a small fortune for this.

But my favorite piece in my collection is probably this limited edition print of a self-portrait Robert painted in 1990. At the bottom is a verse from the yet-to-be-released “Letter to Elise.” This print has been hanging over my couch for as long as I can remember and I refuse to replace it with anything else, not even a picture of my kid.

I remember this one time, a journal that Robert Smith and Lydia Lunch had shared together was up for auction. Of course, the reserve on it was something astronomical. I drove to my mom’s house to beg her to help me get it, I pulled my hair in desperation, I rolled around on her kitchen floor in anguish. At the pinnacle of my frenzy, I even suggested that I sell my car.
You guys, I was pretty obsessed. I have really calmed down a lot since then (I mean, mostly) but there is not a day that goes by that I regret a single cent I spent on any of this memorabilia. The Cure was such a huge coming-of-age influence on me and helped me really discover who I was behind that yo-girl, gangsta rap-spouting front I always had up. I never really considered myself to be Goth, but being on the periphery of that scene was really where I started to find myself. I was even inspired to not only start writing again, but to share my writing with strangers. I stopped being the fake-happy person I thought everyone else wanted me to be and started being myself. In a way, the Cure kind of helped me to grow some fucking balls.

And now I’ll leave you with the song that reminds me of driving down dark country roads to haunted hayrides; roomfuls of apple cider candles; and sitting cross-legged on the floor, making mixtapes.

So, instead of going away this weekend, I declared that we stay home (Henry cheered) and refinish furniture (Henry sighed).

Ugh, Home Depot. The very stench of that place fills me with a sadness & despondency normally reserved for your basic orphan.

We bought this coffee table last winter at Goodwill for TEN DOLLARS. I finally got Henry to bring it outside yesterday to sand it down and prime it (so now we have a bunch of junk mail, remotes* and other assorted shit strewn about the floor) and today he started spray painting it for real. (Pink and gold glitter. Henry sighed and asked, “Can you make the house any MORE like Liberace’s?”)

*(Why do we have so many remotes? OMG.)

The center is going to be filled with Instagram photos. That was my big job, putting pictures I want to use into a folder on the desktop.

“I’m really excited about one picture in particular,” I giggled on one of my visits outside to Henry’s Paint Studio. “You’ll never guess what it is!”

Henry groaned. “What? It BETTER not be JONNY CRAIG!”

“It’s not…but I think I might have one of the Jonny doll. Anyway, it’s something to remind us about one of me and Chooch’s favorite day of last summer,” I blurted out through my weird, throaty giggle that I do when I’m reaching the height of giddiness.

“I can only imagine…” Henry said wearily.

“IT’S ROSS ENGLISH’S BLACKBERRY!” I cried.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Henry sighed before returning to priming some random desk I never knew we had in the garage because that is where all of Henry’s crap is, so why would I ever go into the garage? Besides, I can’t lift the garage door.

I was a little buzzed last night and couldn’t stop taking pictures. Be lucky I’m only making you look at two of them.

Hi. Remember last week when GLENN REPLACED MY SMART ONES WITH A RANSOM NOTE!? Well, aside from  durian candy-bombing his desk, I never really paid him back for the stress and prolonged hunger he caused me.

But then today, the new issue of Us Weekly was delivered literally three minutes before I left for work, and as soon as I saw the now-infamous picture of twerkin’ sensation Miley Cyrus, I tore off the front page, folded it, tucked it into my purse, and giggled the whole way to work.

“Why do you look so happy?” he asked when I walked past him on my way to my office-thing. “That concerns me.”

I just smiled bigger and got to work. And by “work” I mean printing out his stupid face to tape onto another stupid face.

I think he really enjoyed this one, to be honest. I could tell by the way he was trying not to laugh, which is the same thing Henry does when he doesn’t want to admit that maybe, god forbid, something I did was actually mildly humorous.

P.S. Todd is the poor guy who has to sit in front of Glenn.

****

I’m so glad today is Friday. My nerves and patience are twerkin’ in doubletime.

DSC00043, originally uploaded by appledale.

This morning, my brother Corey texted me this picture of him holding an Infant Chooch and I lost it. Awkward baby holding definitely runs in our family, I guess!

Super bad quality photo. I think I actually took this using my camcorder?!

There have been two times in my life when I was so scared I thought I could die, really honestly fucking die:

• In 1998 when I caused an FBI to flip his car over on the highway. I can still feel blood draining from my face when I think of that day.
• In 2006 when I arrived at the hospital for my C-section.

But then on Saturday, August 17, 2013, I went to the Lawrence County Fair and accumulated one more for that list.

Everything was great for the first hour. It was a fair we had never before been to so it was nice to see some new things, like the Grand Wheel, which was beautiful. (From the ground. From the top, not so much.)

I mean, what DOES make Henry smile these days? WHO THE HELL KNOWS.

I was terrified the entire time we were stuck on the Grand Wheel; it just seemed like it went faster than normal ferris wheels, I don’t know. And no, this was not what made it to #3 on my SHIT THE PANTS list.

I approved of the interesting carousel animals.

And then disaster struck. OK, luckily for me it stopped just shy of being a legitimate disaster, but it was still enough to inflict some hardcore emotional damage.

I saw the Vortex before we even pulled into the parking lot of the fairground and got pretty excited because these don’t pop up at the fairs we typically visit every summer. But it was a different midway company supplying the attractions for the Lawrence County Fair, which was one of the reasons I wanted to go. Because I’m a midway dork, OK!? I found this out one night at work when Gayle told me she was going to be selling her jewelry there and I googled, “WHAT MIDWAY COMPANY PROVIDES THE RIDES FOR LAWRENCE COUNTY FAIR?!” because this is what any normal person would do. When I saw that it was the MIDWAY RIDES OF UTICA, I texted Henry and said, “IT IS A MIDWAY COMPANY THAT WE’VE NEVER ENCOUNTERED SO WE HAVE TO GO.”

Anyway, the Vortex was a big pull for me. I hadn’t seen one of those sons of bitches in years and I was pretty excited to ride it. Chooch was 2 inches too short, but he didn’t really give a fuck because there was some stupid bounce-house nearby and he’s still a three-year-old when it comes to that shit. So he and Henry walked away while I stomped up the steps to ride alone.

I should have trusted my gut, you guys. But then again, my gut is usually telling me to eat 5,000 grilled cheeses. The carnies at this fair did not seem interested in their jobs at all. Oh I know, that whole carny stereotype! But actually, even though I poke fun, the fairs we typically go to employ carnies who pay attention to what’s happening on the rides. Their teeth might be falling into your lap when they speak to you, but at least they’re dilligent with safety harnesses, seatbelts, latches.

I sat in my seat and buckled the seatbelt—which was attached to the botton of the shoulder harness—into the thingie on the seat between my legs (NOT MY VAGINA, YOU GUYS, GOD), then pulled the harness down. It sprang right back up, so I thought that probably it just wasn’t time for that yet. The gate to the ride was still open, and kids were slowly trickling in and filling up the rest of the seats. No one ended up sitting in the seat next to me and eventually one of the non-English-speaking carnies came over and pulled down the gate, trapping us into a veritable metal cage. I motioned for the carny to look at my shoulder harness.

“It’s not locking!” I shouted, pushing it away from my body to demonstrate.

The carny gave me the thumbs up sign and laughed. THEN THE RIDE STARTED AND MY HARNESS WAS STILL NOT LOCKED WHAT THE FALALALALALALALALA-UCK!!!!!!!!!

I was like, “YO! WAIT UP HOMIE! DON’T START THE—–”

Boom. Too late. That first revolution around, I honest to god thought to myself, “This is it. This is how I die. OMFG IS THIS REALLY HOW I DIE!?” I went upside down, the harness dropped away from my chest and my body was 100% off the seat. The only thing keeping me from being thrown around inside a cage like a scene kid rag doll was the fact that the seat belt was still fastened, at least. But there was so much slack on it that every time we went around, my head was literally about a centimeter away from slamming into the top of the ride. I kept trying to bear-hug the harness into me, and had my legs spread out with my knees locked in an effort to keep myself as still as possible, but it was futile: every fucking time we went around, the harness dropped and I followed.

After the 14th time, I finally reasoned with myself that I was not going to die, probably. Even if the seat belt were to snap (and I know I’m Chubs City, but somehow I think that seatbelts are built to withstand weight even greater than my own), I wasn’t going to fall out.

Probably.

But then I started to maniacally storyboard all of the different ways I could lose a limb, get concussed, LOSE MY MEMORY, GET SCALPED.

I caught the attention of the kid in front of me. Through the grated partition I called out to him, “SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT, LOOOOOOK!!!” and I showed him how the harness was essentially just flapping in the breeze and that kid’s eyes got all bulgey. Even a kid knew that I was going to perish, maybe!

My heart was beating at a methodical FRIGHTENED RABBIT pace. Then I lost my voice for awhile. I would open my mouth to scream and…nothing. Just a hoarse cry. Like I had lost the will! And what would it matter? Those fucking carnies were probably down there mapping out their rape spots for the night, and definitely not paying attention to the HORROR ABOVE THEM.

And then, oh-ho-ho and then it changed directions and this time, going backward, it was even worse somehow. By this time I was flowing through some fucking mean yoga poses, something that maybe Takasha Shimizu would choreograph if he suddenly decided to leave the horror movie industry and become a Yogi.

Long story ridiculously-lengthed, the ride stopped and my body was freezing cold. And damp with perspiration. When the one carny came over to lift the gate, I shouted at him, “THIS WASN’T LOCKED THE ENTIRE TIME!!!” and angrily threw the shoulder harness up into the air.

HE LAUGHED AT ME.

“No. No, this isn’t FUNNY. That was not a GOOD TIME!” I cried, pointing up into the air at what was now a really sick memory that I get to replay over and over whenever I need to decide whether or not I want to become housebound for the rest of my years.

*****

When I found Henry, I was still yards away and he knew something was wrong. He said he’s never seen me look so white, and I was trembling really bad. I could barely even feel my lips and had some pretty fucking cold sweats going on. I told him what happened and you know it’s a Situation when Passive Henry gets involved. He set off to find a supervisor.

Speaking of carny supervisors, KIRK NEVER WOULD HAVE LET THIS HAPPEN TO ME!

And then I just kind of stood there in the middle of the field, while the rest of the fair swirled around me. I wished I could have went back to ten minutes ago and decided not to go on the Vortex when we realized Chooch was too short. I wished I had trusted my gut, but I didn’t, because my gut is usually always dreadfully wrong. (Because it is lined with paranoia.)

Henry returned with this short fucking troll-lady who made me go back over to the Vortex with her while she shouted indecipherable grunts into a walkie talkie. I did not want to go back over to this ride, but I had no choice. I didn’t want to see someone else get hurt, no matter how much I rant about hating people. She made me point out which seat I was sitting in and then she climbed up onto the ride platform and started yelling at the carnies in Spanish while giving the harness a basic physical.

When she returned to me, she had a laundry list of excuses for me, such as:

• “Well, you must have made the safety latch release by pushing in and out too many times.” (UM, IT WAS NEVER LOCKED TO BEGIN WITH AND IF THAT’S HOW THOSE THINGS ARE DESIGNED, THERE IS ONE REALLY FUCKING RETARDED ENGINEER OUT THERE IN THE WORLD.)
• “You weren’t going to like, fall out or anything.”
• “We actually just had a meeting with the guys this morning about how they need to make sure they check everyone before starting the ride.” (SO IN OTHER WORDS: NOT HER FAULT.)

And then she tried to indulge me by reaching out to give me a half-hug.

I pulled away and said, “Don’t touch me.”

“I know, you were so scared! But honestly, you were safe up there. There are like 4 different brakes that will come on before anything could happen to you.”

And then she said that this happens all the time and then LAUGHED ABOUT IT!

OK, but the main issue here was negligence and I was super pissed with the way it was handled. I was in a major state of shock so at first I said I didn’t want to leave. We walked around for a little bit, me feeling like a ghost, Chooch scolding me for not listening to him when he said I shouldn’t ride the Vortex, Henry hoping to emerge from the fair without hemmorhaging money.

Then Henry pointed out a sign that said “Cowlick Milkshakes, the Best at the Fair” or some other superlative, and I don’t know why, but at that moment I had to have a fucking Cowlick Milkshake. I wasn’t even sure what it was because my brain was still trying to piece itself back together, but I knew that if anything was going to help me heal, it was a Cowlick Milkshake.

Turns out a Cowlick Milkshake is just a regular milkshake in your standard milkshake flavors of chocolate, vanilla or strawberry.

“I thought it was going to be a cowlick flavor,” I said in a pouty tone when we walked away with two chocolate shakes.

“Ew, why would you think that? How could ‘cowlick’ even sound like a good flavor?” Henry asked with a disgusted look wrapped around his moustache.

BECAUSE I WAS NOT THINKING RATIONALLY OK. Maybe I was confusing it with a Cowtail candy thingie. Cowtails are good. I imagine a Cowtail milkshake would be as well. But probably not a Cowlick Milkshake; you’re right, Henry.

About two hours after we left the fair, the shock wore off and I started to cry. I was in total Final Destination mode for the rest of the weekend after that.

Gayle texted me later that night and said that they had stopped running that side of the Vortex, which tells me that this probably happened again to some other dumb asshole!

****

The next morning, I woke up feeling like I had been bench-pressing a car. I had some fucked up Indian brushburn under my left arm, my right shin was screaming, and I had a piercing pain in my right shoulderblade anytime I leaned against something.

I told Henry that I’m done. I’ll never go to another fair or amusement park again. And I HATE that I feel that way. I hate that I’m practically a bubblewrap burrito now, because these were things that were fun for me, and now this one shitty experience could ruin it all for me. What will summers be like without riding shit like this until I get sick? Without getting excited because the Big Butler Fair has a new ride? Without at least one spin on the Zipper?!

I hate this. But I think I might be done riding things, for real. At the very least, I’m DEFINITELY never going anywhere near a carnival or county fair hosted by MIDWAY RIDES OF UTICA. They can suck a fucking dick. MIDWAY RIDES OF UTICA SUCKS, PASS IT ON.

(Um, I might still go on this ride though, if I ever come across it again.)

****

I will now address some FAQs that I have been getting ever since this happened:

Do you actually expect to go to county fairs and be safe??

While I try not to “expect” anything in life, yes, I do go to the fair with some sense of being safe. This is what state laws and regulations are for. This is why rides are required to be inspected. This is why you don’t hear news reports of thousands of people dying at the county fair every summer. Freak accidents can and will happen, but most of this shit can be prevented by the diligence of trained ride operators, which is what I hope to find at these places.

Don’t you know you shouldn’t ride the rides at the fair?! Only amusement park rides are safe!

We aren’t “safe” anywhere. In one weekend this past summer, seven people were injured at Cedar Point when the log flume tipped over while it was ascending a hill and at a Six Flags in Texas, a woman was flung to her death from a roller coaster. Dude, a toddler died after contracting e.coli from a PETTING ZOO at one of the fairs. Last year, some guy was shot OUTSIDE of a county fair. It’s not just the rides. A bitch can get killed pretty much anywhere.

Don’t you think you’re being dramatic?

Look, I was pretty certain after a few seconds that I probably wasn’t going to die, but if you honestly think I’m blowing it out of proportion, well, just pray that something like this doesn’t happen to you someday.

How were you able to squeeze your fat ass into a ride like that to begin with?

An ass-corset made of strategically-placed industrial strength Ace bandages, Spanx and a wreath of tiny elven butt-huggers.

****

On the brightside, before we left the fair, Henry bought me a pretty necklace that some Ugandan broad made out of paper. I wanted two of them, but I guess my near-death experience wasn’t worth $30 to Henry. Oh well, it will be a nice accent for my new bubblewrap suit.

SATURDAY!

• This was the last weekend before school started and even though technically there are still a few more weeks of summer, IT JUST FEELS LIKE IT’S OVER OK. Nothing felt right, wah.
• On Saturday, Chooch and I went to a birthday party for my work friend Colleen’s one-year-old boy, Owen. OMG he’s so cute and makes me want to HAVE A BABY THERE I SAID IT. I was the first co-worker to show up, but everyone there was super nice to us and didn’t make us feel like the “bastard guests” which is sometimes how it feels when you go to parties ruled predominantly by family and close friends. Thanks for making us not feel like redheaded stepkids, Colleen!

Chooch totally got ganged up on by two older girls, haha.

• Later, I met my brother Corey at Blue Flame for some grilled cheese/vent sesh. We hadn’t seen each other in awhile, so it was really nice. He’s pretty much all the family I’ve got so I can’t take that for granted, yo.
• When I came home, we walked to Brookline Boulevard for ICE CREAM because that is what we do on the weekends, apparently, IS EAT ICE CREAM OK. The place on the Blvd usually has red velvet and it’s fucking delicious. Here is a video of our walk to get ice cream, because this is what I do on the trolley: edit videos on my phone so that I don’t have to m ake eye contact with creeps (including myself in the window reflection).

• In the first part of the video, Chooch and I trying to hide from Henry, which is an All American Pasttime for us.
• In the second part, some totally fucking….I was going to say “weirdos” but we’ll just go with “Brookliners” because tomato/tomahto….were having a cow over one of the machines in the ice cream parlor full of those rubbery “eye popper” toys, and the husband LOST FIFTY CENTS trying to get one, and you best believe he complained to the ice cream scooper who was pretty much like, “Frankly, I don’t give a shit.” So then his wife gave him more change and all he got WAS SOME TINY LITTLE PIG-THING!! He was PISSED at this point, but I think whatever slight mental disability he had was preventing him tfrom expressing anger in any capacity other than hilarious whining. He gave Chooch the pig and then his wife was all, “HERE LITTLE BOY HAVE SOME QUARTERS LITTLE BOY TAKE MY MONEY LITTLE BOY” and I said, “Go ahead” because better someone else’s quarters than my own. AND CHOOCH GOT THE SAME LITTLE PIG! Oh, I thought the husband was going to have a shit fit. Him and his long, tiny braid and Rolling Stones shirt. When we left, Henry and I exchanged “WTF” eyes while Chooch said, “That lady was really nice.”
• The third part is actually from Sunday, when Rick Astley’s seminal hit was dripping sweetly from the mall’s inhouse speakers, right after we ate pizza in the food court and HENRY REUNITED WITH SOME GUY HE USED TO “PLAY WITH” IN MIDDLE SCHOOL! Oh my fuck, I get so excited when I see some missing piece from Henry’s clandestine youth-puzzle. And then I found out that they’re actually already Facebook friends, so clearly I don’t spend enough time creeping on Henry’s whopping 78 friend collection.

SUNDAY!

• Chooch had another birthday party to go to on Sunday (this one was for a school friend), but Janna wanted me to go check out an apartment with her so I got out of that one just in the nick of time. (Not that I don’t like birthday parties, but I clench up in fear at the possibility of hanging out with other school moms. God forbid I should make friends.) Anyway, this apartment is atop of some man’s garage who LIVES ON A GOLF COURSE IN A $500,000 HOUSE. You better believe I told Janna to take it. The apartment itself is tiny but in immaculate condition and the owner was basically like, “YOU ARE FAMILY NOW AND CAN USE THE DECK WHENEVER YOU WANT OK PLEASE USE MY DECK.” I was like, “Janna, you have to use the fucking deck.” He thought we were both 20 and, when describing his nationally-ranked motocross stepdaughter, pointed to me and explained, “She’s real small. About your size.” I LIKE YOU, GUY. Totally colorful character and I have to admit this was a motivating factor behind my decision to encourage Janna to snatch this place up. Here’s hoping this deal doesn’t sour! (Janna if you’re reading, I don’t think it will. JUST DON’T PLAY YOUR ACE OF BASE CD’S TOO LOUD!!!) What a strange meeting.
• After last minute school shoe shopping at the most run-down mall in Western Pennsylvania (remind me to write a mean letter to Journeys; their employees were too busy ironing out social plans to help us find shoes for Chooch’s caveman feet), we went and GOT ICE CREAM AGAIN. Fuck, do we live large.

• And then I had a temper tantrum at the grocery store, because I hate grocery stores.

So, all in all it was a good weekend, but it felt weird. I’ve been distracting myself from summer-mourning by throwing myself headfirst into pie party* planning. I already sent out the official invite on Facebook OMG. This is going to be the best one, I can feel it. Henry and I are doing a bunch of DIY bullshit this weekend in preparation, so LOOK OUT all of you Pinterest hoes: Erin and Henry are going to be spray-painting and gluing shit.

*(This links back to the very first pie party. I had no idea then that it would be become an annual “thing,” but I’m so glad it did!)

P.S. Sorry for being so shouty. I guess I’m acting out because I had a pretty shitty night at work and I couldn’t use this tone toward some of the people who deserved it. (No one in my department! They’re all on my good side. So far.)

I posted this on Facebook this morning and my friend Mindy said, “That’s the exact same face you used to make in high school anytime I couldn’t drive you home from school” and I laughed really hard because it’s true.

:(:(:(:(

This morning was awful, you guys! Neither Chooch nor I am ready to go back to this stupid school routine. The getting up at 7AM part isn’t so bad because I continued to get up that early all summer even though I didn’t have to. But Chooch was like 100% void of any semblance of his usual self this morning. We basically just sat on the couch staring stupidly at some episode of Ridiculousness we’ve seen 87 times already, while Chooch methodically spooned peanut butter Cinnamon Toast Crunch into his mouth.

And then it was time to resume our morning walks to school. Which wouldn’t be so bad except that HELLO THERE IS A NEW CROSSING GUARD ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? I really, really liked the old crossing guard!! I HATE CHANGE!! I DON’T KNOW HOW CHOOCH FELT ABOUT THIS BECAUSE I DIDN’T ASK SINCE IT’S ALL ABOUT MEEEEE.

Anyway, we turned the corner after experiencing this devestating crossing guard-staffing-blow and were met with an undulating wall of students and parents pushing and richocheting around an unorganized “line” into the school. It was so out of control that there were severaly times where I grabbed Chooch by the wrist and line-jumped and it didn’t even matter because NO ONE WAS PAYING ATTENTION.

I hate disorderly lines!!! Whatever happened to “single file”?! I’m bringing it back.

The reason for this veritable mob scene was that no one knew what homeroom they had been assigned to until the reached the lobby of the school, where the principal and several teachers stood there with clipboards, asking everyone for their name. Until Chooch made it up. How the fuckkkkkkkkk does everyone there know his name?! I’m not sure if I should be worried or proud.

Anyway, Chooch got his homeroom assignment and barely tossed me a goodbye over his shoulder. Then I walked home and remembered that I have my mornings back!! So I went to the cemetery for a job, came home and got yelled at by Jillian Michaels, then drank pumpkin spice coffee and watched whatever the fuck I wanted to watch and suddenly I was all, “Woo hoo, school’s back in sesh!!”