Having nothing better to do, we took a “family drive” down south yesterday. Henry even packed us sandwiches! All-American family we are! Can you stand it?!

Anyway, Henry and I managed to go ALL DAY with nary a conflict. We even ogled a waterfall and bonded over ridiculing some Georgian slutbag who had the great sense to wear stiletto boots for a jaunt down an icy snow-packed path. I hoped she would slip and plummet to a rocky, waterfall-y death. Alas, she did not.

Chooch slept for the part of the ride, and spent most of his awake time demanding to listen to The Cure’s “The Baby Screams.” Sensing my annoyance as I ejected the CD I was enjoying, Henry reminded me that, “Hey, it could be Disney music he wants.” So true, Henri.

The trunk of our car is becoming a treasure trove for serial killer disguises.

Then we came home and Henry buzzed those odd follicular wings right the fuck off of Chooch’s dome.

After giving Chooch a nice and even pate, Blake came over and we made fun of the lame Pittsburgh holiday parade that was broadcast on television for those of us who were too busy not giving a shit to bother watching it live from downtown. And oh, was it a good one. The singer from the Poverty Neck Hillbillies was performing, ya’ll!!! Oh, how I swooned. Then I hurried up and hit ‘record’ so Christina can see all the wonders of our townie parade for her own two eyes next time she visits. She’s not gonna believe how star-studded it was, oh no she’s not. I heard even Christina Aguilera was considering coming home for it, but opted to keep her prior plans of being suspended by her nipples over top a bubbling cauldron of Pete Wentz’s semen. I dare Cincinnati to come with something stronger. We had JOHNNY & THE ANGELS***, BEAT THAT CINCI.

***Johnny Angel & the Halos, even. They’re so awesome I couldn’t even remember their awesome name.

Giraffe was on the verge of defenestration. He was five months overdue on his account at the adult video shack, the landlord of his apartment (in the not-so-prime location above an auto body garage) had just nailed an eviction notice to his broken front door, and the Donut Den had retired his favorite peanut butter and grilled cheese-filled breakfast pastry.

On a balmy May afternoon, Giraffe chugged a hearty intake of moonshine before flinging himself out of his second story tenement. He landed in a supine position right next to Monkey, who was waiting patiently for a routine tune up on her Chevelle, which was being half-assedly worked upon on the other side of the garage doors.

Giraffe could not deny Monkey’s charm as she reached behind her to pat his head. “I too have survived a botched defenestration,” Monkey confessed.

Three weeks later, on their seventh date, Monkey served Giraffe with a basket stuffed with piping hot flaky pastry.

“They’re filled with peanut butter and grilled cheese. I know it sounds weird, but—”

And that is the story of how Giraffe and Monkey embarked on a beautiful journey of cross-breeding.

(11×14 with border.)

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:27 I got thick bangs and Henry hates them. SUCCESS.#
• 16:59 http://twitpic.com/o125 – Object of Henry’s hatred #

• 11:09 ♪♫ Listening to “Springtime Out The Van Window” by Anthony Green on @Favtape http://tinyurl.com/5af5z6
• 16:13 Henry to Chooch: Remember when your mother doesn’t do anything? #
• 01:00 I wish Bobby Flay would challenge ME to a throwdown. I’d take it to the bedroom. Holla! #
• 01:09 Listening to Chuck Mangione’s Feel So Good & Henry said “o the days of having sex to this song.” I yelled YOU DID? He exasperatedly said no. #
• 01:12 Henry has me Googling gruyere substitutes. Oh, the things we silly kids do. While listening to Chuck Mangione. #
• 01:13 ♪♫ now u can be listening to C-Mang, too @Favtape tinyurl.com/6dmjr4 #
• 01:20 Henry just orgasmed into a container of sage and murmured, “I love the smell of sage.” Now he’s sad because I said it smells like a disease. #

• 11:57 I’m so glad that Chooch thinks that all parades are asshole parades. I never should have made that damn shirt. #
• 11:58 Look Chooch, here comes Santa – the biggest asshole of them all. #
• 12:03 I am thankful that I haven’t had a donut with my coffee for so long because now that I am, it tastes that much better. #
• 17:51 What. Henry left me alone in the house while he went to pick up his mom and there is a timer going off IN THE KITCHEN. #
• 18:44 My ass just changed the channel to 666. My bro said “well if ur gonna do that, can u at least put on the BET Awards?” #
• 18:47 Apparently my bro was tutoring kids at a Baptist church but quit after some of them had sword fights with crowbars next to his car. #
• 19:34 The bane of my existence is the act of existing. #
• 19:42 Hello. We still haven’t eaten our obligatory Thanksgiving dinner yet. #
• 22:00 It has been decided that Henry quit the beverage biz to become a pro thanksgiving dinner cooker. #

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Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:49 At the Library, having shitty service and expensive omelets.* #
• 13:58 I used to like the Library but now I hope it perishes in a fire. #
• 19:33 Happy to report that someone found my blog by searching 4 “my used tampon.” Almost as good as “Erin whore ass raped” & “grandma’s vagina.” #
• 21:04 We’re having T-giving at my crazy abode. Janna doesn’t know it yet but she’s not invited unless she brings this: tinyurl.com/6f5he2 #
• 00:47 I haven’t been on a blind date in a long time. I should do that again soon. Maybe wear a wig too. And a wire. #
• 00:49 And talk about my souvenir spoon collection, and the dead granny I keep in the basement. Someone hurry – set it up! #
• 01:20 I wish I knew an Amanda. But I wonder how many times I could take her by surprise & make her realize, before she’d begin to expect it. #
• 11:22 Can’t wait for the day when-hopefully-Chooch can GENTLY love our cat, instead of turning an innocent embrace into a hostage situation. #
• 11:25 Used to know a guy who collected REO Speedwagon bootlegs & talked with his chin tucked into his chest. I need more ppl like him around. #
• 13:54 I mused aloud that its chilly and my 17-year-old I mean 2-year-old retorted with an annoyed “no shit.” #
• 15:59 I wish I really did get a penny for my thoughts. Or at least one of those delicious yogurt covered peanuts. #
• 21:20 One of the drivers and my manager both called me kiddo tonight and they can’t be much older than me. It was awkward. #
• 23:49 Was TRYING to entice Henry with my ultra sexy scarf dance with the sounds of Pgh Pridefest on the TV behind me. He told me to sit down. #
• 01:20 we were at the grocery store & every instrumental masterpiece spraying down from the speakers made me think of X-Rated Alice in Wonderland. #
• 11:29 I just asked henry what I can make for thanksgiving. “Yourself scarce” was his answer. #

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*OK the omelet brunch was actually a fair deal but the waitress’s sour puss made it seem like soggy jail food.

Since my mom is being a sack of rotting assholes, I decided to take Thanksgiving into my own hands. And then promptly handed it off to Henry.

I have never hosted a holiday meal at my small house before, and I know that Henry is just shitting his pants with delightful anticipation. In fact, he just came fromw ork and mumbled about needing a nap because he has “so much to do tonight.”  See? DELIGHT. Shitting his pants with it. He has asked me at least twenty seven times if I’ve noticed how small our kitchen is. I always shrug and ask, “What does that have to do with anything?” which causes his face to darken and tremble, like his brain is about to blow.

My contribution? Scouring the Internet for like, AN HOUR, looking for delicious side dishes that do not require meat and do not ask to have crunchy onions hidden within their folds. Then I found some lady’s cupcake blog and wasted at least twenty five minutes gagging on my saliva like an epileptic so retarded she can’t even choke on her tongue right. Eventually, I had a proper menu put together.

It was going great until Henry realized one of the recipes required a cheese that costs approximately $15 a pound. “That’s more than the turkey!!” he yelled in front of the cheese display at Giant Eagle. He promised to find a poor people substitute but that was two nights ago and curiously, I haven’t heard another word about it. I’m sure he’s devising a way to use a log of Velveeta. In any case, whatever he comes up will probably be right at home on the paper plates it’ll be plopped on. We doin’ this bitch up RIGHT.

I asked Henry yesterday if there’s anything I can make. “Yourself scarce,” he answered.

Fine, I’ll go sit in a bar until dinner’s ready HENRY. At which point, I may or may not be home, depending on what my new-lover-from-the-bar’s got cookin’ at home.

Happy (day before) Thanksgiving, have some music.

My New Underage Homies

Somewhere in between salivating over the extensive candy spread that was being sold as skater’s fuel and Christina trying to fillet herself with a saw, we braved the cold in order to have a cigarette. This is where, beneath rain that was trying desperately to be ice, we met Jordan. Boasting an I <3 Haters t-shirt and braces, Jordan proceeded to give an argument that he was, in fact, 18 and oh brother could we please spare a smoke? Apparently, his argument was convincing enough for Christina to flick him a Camel with no hesitation. I guess he felt obligated to give us some chatty as payment, as he hung around and told wild tales of being the only black kid in his school who likes hard music. “Well, except for one other black kid. But he’s gay.” He then went on  to say that being gay is like the new goth, and Christina and I agreed fervishly, as we had just made fun of a faux-lesbo couple inside the show. They were literally dragging each other around, holding hands with feigned passion, and then quickly scanning everyone around them to see if anyone was noticing. It was the lamest thing I think I’ve ever seen. Kind of like when Christina wears bandanas as headbands.

Then some other youngin’ with a nearly-Canadian accent ambled over, skateboard in tow, and weasled his own cigarette from Christina, the human tobacco dispenser. She’s like an anti-Truth billboard. He wove yarns about chain-smoking Camel Crushes and coughing up blood. “They were recalled, you know,” he said in earnest. Christina looked horrified because evidently she’s been smoking them too. I waited for her to fall asleep that night in the hotel room before chanting, in a soft, monotone whisper, “Smoke more Crushes. Have another Crush. You think Crushes are better than pot. Smoke them all day long. No more food, just Crushes.”

I think that kid’s name was Kyle. He looks like a Kyle, in any case. Kurt. Kam. Kleatus. He was going to give Christina a cigarette as soon as his friends came back in the car where he left his pack. But that’s like basically saying, “What, baby? I put on a condom, I promise.” She told him not to worry about it, which is a good thing considering THAT CAR DOESN’T EXIST.

The Bathroom Condition

I don’t generally make use of the facilities when I’m at shows because club bathrooms make me feel like I’m walking into an STD incubator. But I had been drinking a torpedo-sized can of Monster and kind of really sort of had to go.

The stalls weren’t too bad. I was able to enter one without the need for a hockey stick to slap away sullied tampons or soggy wads of toilet water. Soggy from the commode water or emo tears of angst, who knows? I was able to pee without worrying some rare bacterial eel from Asia was going to swim up from the pipes and enter my vagina. I was even able to wash my hands with a lovely aromatic hand soap and not that orange shit that reeks of hospitals and  high school science labs. A very surprising jaunt into a public restroom, to be sure.

But I did not attempt to return to the bathroom later on and here is why: Two girls  were hogging the sink area, posing sexily with each other, lips all smooched out and dripping with glittery lip gloss, taking their photos into the mirror. The one girl’s hip was jutted out so far that it kept grazing my thigh as I tried desperately to suds up while fixating on my hands and not at the creepy sexual circus that was opening its big top right next to me. The worst part was that they looked like they had ended up there accidentally after leaving a Hollister sale and decided, “Oh what the fuck, while we’re here let’s update our Facebook pics because OMGWE’REATAROCKSHOW!” They looked to be in their early twenties, making this display completely unacceptable. I wanted to toss some Maroon5 tickets at them to get them to go away.

Maybe I should have just looked for a nice photo booth to piss in.

The Worst Moment of My Life

Sometime after my accidental immersion in restroom eroticism, Jonny from Emarosa was back behind the merch table, not being noticed. Christina wanted to go talk to him, but I kept saying I didn’t want to. I knew what was going to happen: I was going to get up there, he was going to look at me expectantly, and I was going to blubber all over his pants. It happens all the time when I meet people in bands that genuinely affect me. So Christina is all, “Well, I want to meet him” and somewhere inside the pit of my soul, the thirteen-year-old in me reared her unreasonably jealous head and whined, “THAT’S NOT FAIR I LIKED THEM FIRST AND I LIKE THEM MOST.” Still not wanting to do this, but also not wanting her to meet him on her own, I reluctantly trailed behind her with my head down.

Here is where I am going to be honest: this was a really painful moment for me. It hurt me so deeply that I haven’t wanted to write about this trip at all and I have barely talked about it even with my friends. But here is what happened in a nut shell – Jonny essentially didn’t notice me at all because as usual, boring old Erin was eclipsed by Christina’s showy charm and no matter how many times I tried to talk, he would always go back to her. So of course, she gets this brilliant idea to try to make me look like the super fan, which backfired and made me look like a fucking loser. Oh look, it’s the new Suicide Smoothie from Jamba Juice, and it’s seeping from my pores. We probably only had a minute of face time with him, but it dragged out in excruciating intervals and I could hear my own stammering voice, laced with fear and doubt, as though I was screaming to be heard outside of the fishbowl on my head. After I told him he was awesome for the FOURTH time (wtf ugh), I thought the game warden had finally arrived with the shotgun but NO. NO NO NO that fucking tampon Christina had to go and be a fucking backstabber by asking if she could take a picture with him. So then it was all, “Here Erin take this photo of us” and then I don’t know which of them had the brilliant afterthought to include ME, the one who actually LIKES HIS MUSIC AND OWNS EMAROSA’S ALBUM, but the next thing I knew, I was in the asshole picture too and let me tell you that picture is like keeping the jizz of the trucker who raped you in the rest stop THAT IS HOW SICKENING this momento is to me. Horrible. Awful. Painful.

I vaguely remember almost tripping over someone’s bike as I retreated. I almost wish I would have. That would have been the richest ending to this story. AND THEN ERIN WAS IMPALED BY THE SPOKES OF SOME THIRTEEN YEAR OLD’S BIKE AND BLED OUT ALL OVER THE FLOOR BUT THE SHOW STILL WENT ON THE END.

Later that night, Christina had the audacity to say that the most traumatic moment of the night for her was that goddamn Benny Hill Show scene with the fucking Mountain Dew can. Oh, well la de da. I was just psychologically mauled back there by the merch booth, but hold the phones, Christina didn’t know where to set down a can of fucking Mountain Dew. That bitch is lucky I didn’t haul off and wizard kick her fucking cartoon face right then and there.  God, get fucked.

Anyway, it’s always nice when you take solace in someone’s music and then when you try to tell them that, they act like they would rather by q-tipping their dickhole than sharing the same air as you. But to quote Christina, after we walked away, “OMG JONNY WAS SO NICE SQUUUUEEEE” and you know I’m pissed off when I write the word “squee.”

Trying not to let it ruin my night, I consoled myself by going back to scene kid adoration and trying my best to enjoy Breathe Carolina’s set while blocking out the horror show that had just transpired, knowing I’d have the rest of my life to replay it over and over and over in my head like that fucking 1-800-MY-LEMON commercial that I hate so much.

I wish I had been there with Purple Hood. I bet she would have acted like half of a faux-lesbian couple with me, holding my hand tenderly while not forcing me to talk to Jonny. Maybe she would have won me a cute pink stuffed sea barnacle from a Claw machine after the show, braided my hair and told me I was pretty while playing me a mix tape full of Seaweed and Sunny Day. Then the next day we’d go to the mall so she could get her cartilage pierced and then she’d buy me a bracelet at Hot Topic and maybe we might stop for a Slushie at 7-11 and talk about how rad Jennifer Aniston is (Team Aniston FO’ LYFE). Shit, now I want to date that girl.

And then later I hugged a Teletubby. People in costume always prod my desire to dole out hugs. I don’t know what it is, but at haunted houses especially, I’m always wanting to dry hump every last Joe in a Kmart mask.

And then I made Judas tip him.

At some point, Pierce the Veil came on and I was able to go back to that sensation of inner peace for awhile. I was a little sad though that Henry wasn’t with me, because he likes them too and their songs always make me think of him. I was partially aware that Christina wasn’t even really watching the show, which annoyed me but whatever. She broke up a chick fight at one point because she always has to meddle. Me? I’d have liked to have seen how that would have panned out, but whatever. I will say, however, that by the  time Christina stepped in, the back of the one girl’s head looked like what’s beneath Tyra’s weave. It was all nest-y and knotted and I can only imagine how badly her scalp must have ached. I wanted to know what started the fight, and for whatever reason, I dwelled on that for days following.

This dude was standing near the front with us and it was kind of like having Henry there. Old? Check. Earplugs? Check. Glasses and 1980’s THE SERVICE ‘stache? Check. Except this guy was shaking his jock all over the place. He was INTO IT and it was incredible. He was also recording a lot of the show, and I was worried because there were two young girls in front of him who were dancing with each other. It started out innocently, but before I knew it, they were essentially simulating sex. The one girl kept throwing her head back and a few times it hit my arm. I was afraid they were going to get me pregnant so I stepped to the side. So yes, I was worried that the Bizzaro Henry was clandestinely filming them for some sick, underground clothed porn ring, but then I think the one girl was his daughter. Which, depending on how you tend to view sex in the 21st century, is still alarmingly awkward.

Also next to me was a young kid with gaudy fake eyelashes who I assumed was a chick until he leaned over me to shout in a husky tone, “Is Monica here?” There was definitely a bobbing Adam’s apple. The youngest trannie I’ve ever seen in person (and the first scene trannie), as I happily jotted in my diary later that night.

I really like Pierce the Veil because a lot of their lyrics are about soul-crushing love and suicide and just being fucking miserable. Among my favorites are:

“Please understand me when
I’d rather see you dead
Than live without me, so thirsty for more
Beyond the sea blue light I met the love of my life
She’d rather see me dead than face me
I like your starry eyes, they yell surprise! Surprise!
I’m in love…but not for long”

***

“Another boy without a sharper knife
The moment, that’s where I
Kill the conversation
Wrap this up
With a knife that loves to feel
How do you know how deep to go before it’s real “

***

Plus, there’s some screaming too which stirs the anger I always got brewing in my veins. I love you, Pierce the Veil.

I am done with this fucking saga.

Part I Part II

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:55 Chooch has had me wearing a party hat all day. I keep waiting for him to pull out the dead body he’s been hiding under his crib. CAKE TIME!! #
• 14:02 kiefer sutherland was just on tv and i told chooch that was david all grown up. he looked at me like “lost boys dont grow old, asshole.” #
• 18:53 My phone has been deleting my call log immediately. How am I supposed to know if robert smith calls!? #
• 19:25 At eat n park, listening to some high school girl recount the fight she got in. SHE BROKE OFF AN ACRYLIC, YA’LL. And there’s a video??!!! #
• 19:52 Just burst into giggles at eat n park, causing Henry to whip his head around and say “what’s going on, who’s flirting with you?” Paranoid! #
• 19:57 Some lady just complimented Chooch on his “nice set of fangs.” I was waiting for him to reply with “Maggots, Michael.” #
• 20:03 Eat n Park: continuing to dish out their classic brand of shitty service. #
• 20:45 Oh plz someone take me bowling. #
• 21:32 @ownthehour I’m jumproping! #
• 22:43 Today was useless. My bananas foster french toast was the highlight. Ten yrs ago it might have been getting high w/ a hitchhiker. Alas. #
• 01:20 I don’t think I should feel this angry when I watch Food Network, but these Road Tested assholes inject me with Satan’s piss, I swear. #
• 01:22 The broad of the Road Tested pair is like if Sherri Shepperd got a breast and humor reduction. HENRY WONT TURN IT. #
• 01:27 THE NEELYS. I vote that they, un-funny Emeril & that alcoholic Sandra whore get their own channel that’s only broadcast in Phuket. . #
• 01:28 Because PHUKTHEM. #

• 11:33 Even as an adult, Secret of Nimh makes me want to rip out my heart. Cartoons shouldn’t be so sad. Shit. #
• 12:05 Trudy Stufflebean wants someone to sit on her lap. She has a fat wad of Washingtons in her jock. tinyurl.com/5jmpos #
• 17:37 Its almost time for xmas decoration critiquing. I think this year, I’m going to start writing people up. #
• 17:44 twitpic.com/nepo – Because I’m looking to gain back the last 5 pounds I lost. #
• 17:56 Have I ever driven past a house while someone inside is being murdered? Just something I like to wonder about on occasion. #
• 19:01 I could watch my son try to dress himself all night. Would be even funnier if I was drunk. And him, too. #
• 21:28 I have old jeans that want to be skirts. You do it. #
• 00:13 The cinematography in Alice in Wonderland: an X-Rated Musical is really outta sight. #
• 12:31 I asked Chooch if he knew what my name was. He said “erin robbins” and I almost shat. “Not in your dad’s lifetime” I said. #

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Technically, Blake’s sixteenth birthday was last Monday, but we didn’t get to do it up right with a cake until today. Janna and Henry’s mom joined in so that the obligatory Happy Birthday serenade had more of a full-choral feel and less of that chirping cricket sensation. However, they also made sarcastic remarks during a viewing of Jon and Kate Plus Eight which made me get all defensive. I HAVE YOUR BACKS, GOSSELIN FAMILY.

Since Blake’s mom just had a party for him on Friday, we left tradition bleeding out like road kill on a highway shoulder, eschewing the standard birthday cake in favor of two halves of speciality fare: pumpkin prailine and chocolate mousse. Broaden the kid’s cake horizons, you know?  Chooch made known his desire to blow out Blake’s candles (and really, if he hadn’t, I’d have to suspect that he was some sort of alien baby from a planet where children 10-and-under aren’t entranced by dancing flames) and Blake very graciously allowed for this to happen. I was impressed; I was always resentful when my younger brothers stole my candle snuffing spotlight on my own jacked up birthday. I guess that’s what true sibling love looks like right there. Thank you, Blake and Chooch, for illustrating for me what could have been if I wasn’t so busy being cannibalized by jealousy and fury.

After we ate cake, Henry’s mom made funny faces at my artwork and Blake’s piercings simultaneously while Chooch lazily watch Max and Ruby from the quiet sanctity of his sugar coma. There were so many things I wanted to get Blake but just couldn’t afford (for example, his own piercing parlour), but he seemed to like his gifts we settled on so I guess it wasn’t too much of a bust. It was what a normal American family might consider a “good afternoon.”

I finished the training phase of my job a few weeks ago, so they have me working alone now. One of the reasons they hired me was because three of the billers were looking to take a leave – they all work full-time jobs on top of this one – so now it’s just me and this woman Diane. She works 1-2 nights a week and I work the rest, which is great because now my evenings are a little more flexible and I have more time to get other shit done.  Basically, it’s the job I’ve been pining for all my adult years.

Since I work alone now, I can listen to music outright instead of pissing around with headphones. And my boss doesn’t mind if I’m playing screamo or hardcore. (I think he’s the best boss I’ve ever had.)  So since I’m bringing actual CDs to work and not my mp3 player (CDs –  OMG remember those??), it’s turned my work station into a conversation starter. Last week, one of the night drivers was walking past and paused when he heard Chiodos playing. He came over and inspected the CD, then started asking me questions about them. Then he commented, with raised eyebrows, that he had seen the types of music I had listed on that dumb diversity sign.

“You were surprised, I take it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I would have taken you for the bubblegum type.” And this is what I’m used to so I laughed heartily and admitted that under my blonde hair and friendly smile (I really AM friendly sometimes!), I’m all aggro and breeding hate.

I had never really talked to this particular driver before at length, but that night we bullshitted for about thirty minutes, about how we miss Nick’s Fat City (a local venue that closed a few years ago) and how we’ve probably been at the same shows at the same time and just never knew it. He kind of looks like a pirate and wears big hoop earrings and he’s totally my new best work friend. My boss commented later that he’s never seen me so lit up, to which I responded, “You’ve never talked to me about music!”

There’s another driver that I see every day; he’s one of the daylight drivers so he’s always finishing his day while I’m there billing. Diane had mentioned off-handedly a few weeks ago that he’s the only person there who creeps her out, and my boss Dave once wondered aloud if this guy jacks off in the truck while watching women in parking lots, but I never thought much of it until I started working alone.  He’s like the predatory uncle that you avoid at family reunions; he’s that kind of creepy.

So now for whatever reason he tries to bait me with his awkward jokes and he teases me like a CREEPY UNCLE TEASES A LITTLE GIRL BEFORE STICKING HIS HAND UP HER PINK PARTY DRESS OMG EW. I usually stay out of the dispatch room when I hear his voice in there, and I am thankful that there are always twenty five million men around me at all times. I end each altercation with him by turning my back and pantomiming the kind of projectile vomiting I imagine would follow up a molestation session.

Every one else is awesome. I mean, I got a paper cut the other day and I thought one of the drivers was going to fly to the nearest shaman and come back with a piece of rare medicinal fabric woven with magic and the pubes of Elvis to wrap around my wound. THAT is how concerned this dude was. Last night, I overheard him sayng that when he comes home from work early, he hides in the basement so his wife doesn’t know he’s home. “It’s like when you play hookie from school,” he said. I hope that someday, Henry harbors enough resentment to put him in hiding, too. Only then will I feel success as a woman.

There are two Republican drivers who don’t really bother with me because they know they can’t tell racist Obama jokes and refer to those of us who voted for him as “whackjobs,” and there are a few other guys who get nervous around me, like I’m the new class pet that they desperately want to poke with a stick but are afraid of getting paddled. But mostly, I’ve been accepted there and have slowly been revealing facets of my personality. Soon they’ll know I really AM a whackjob, I guess.

The best part is that, unlike my last job, I actually enjoy the work I do and I’m consistently busy. It makes the nights go so fast and it’s also rewarding to know that they’re counting on me to get this shit done. I didn’t feel like I mattered at my last job, which made me hate it that much more.

I hope this is one long-lasting honeymoon, that’s all I’m sayin’.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:48 How do you know how deep to go before its real. #
• 17:46 I got a papercut and two guys rushed to get me a bandaid. Having boobs rules. #
• 23:41 I just gushed, “I would probably die without the CW” and Henry mumbled, “I’ll see if I can cancel it.” Someone’s getting a Draino enema. #

• 15:37 It’s amazing how much more savory work is when you have like, five work crushes. #
• 16:14 about to plan my next game night and EVERYONE is invited. Well, maybe not rapists, murderers, Elizabeth Hassleback.
  buy vilitra online buy vilitra generic

  But other than that…. #

• 01:20 I have never died in anyone’s arms, tonight or any night ever. #

• 15:37 It’s amazing how much more savory work is when you have like, five work crushes. #
• 16:14 about to plan my next game night and EVERYONE is invited. Well, maybe not rapists, murderers, Elizabeth Hassleback. But other than that…. #
• 01:20 I have never died in anyone’s arms, tonight or any night ever. #

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After being stuck in that hallway for an hour and breathing in the subtle aroma of Clearasil (I think I witnessed some of those kids reaching puberty, even), they finally opened the door to all of us non-skaters. We had our hands stamped and claimed our spot by the stage. Naturally, Pink Sleeves and Pot Belly in Stripes (the adolescent bimbos who never stopped flitting back and forth on the heels of the roadies) beat us there.

Waiting for Emarosa to come on, I killed time by analyzing the scene kids before me, wondering which of them were in it for the music, and which were just pretentious retards who have to rip off other people’s styles to look cool.  Christina and I deduced that probably it was mainly just the boys who were real underneath the assymetric coifs and skinny jeans. Don’t get me wrong! I love me some scene kids at the post hardcore show, but some of them are just ridiculous. (And I know, it’s like that no matter what the scene is. Posers never die out.) And then I make the mistake of getting close enough to hear their oral banality and I’m reminded that at the core, most of these kids are just obnoxious teenagers. It’s going to be hard weeding through the fake ones to find the good ones, like Blake, if I ever get off my ass and put that book together.

The cool thing about this venue was that, if I got bored with kid-watching, I could pivot to the left and take in some skateboarders on the ramps. There was this one guy, he looked older than the rest (like, he could have been TWENTY, OMG), who was riding his bike on the ramps. In true asshole fashion, I cried out “OH MY GOD BE CAREFUL!” in mock-concern. I guess he took that as the mating call of a new fan, because when he reached the top of the ramp closest to me, he got off his bike and rested there, smiling goofily at me. Stewing in discomfort, I quickly slid behind the pillar I was leaning against. But every time I peeked around, he went back to grinning at me. Christina thought this was hilarious and was practically passing out wedding invitations.

But then I became distracted by this bitch who was totally stealing my gimmick of being the plain, older girl at the show. I glared at the back of her ugly head and shouted to Christina, “This broad’s usurping my demographic and I hate her!” She stood so close in front of me that I could smell the product wafting from her too-shiny black hair, which was unacceptable considering the show hadn’t yet started and there was around, oh I don’t know, 678765 cubic feet of empty space around the stage.

In the middle of thinking thoughts generally reserved for the minds of the criminally insane, Emarosa took the stage and I went from being a homicidal head case to a teary-eyed girl with a melting heart.

Jonny, I love you long time.

Many times I have attempted to explain how I feel at these shows, and I know fail miserably. It’s like when you get a tooth ache and you swish with scalding hot tea, letting it seep into the nerve pocket. That’s how it is for me at these shows — I derive some sort of sick pleasure from the pain I feel in my heart. It’s like passionate torture and part of me wants to run out the door but the other part is like, “No, this feels good. Let’s break out the nail-studded dildo now.”

I didn’t pay  much attention to the people around me during Emarosa’s set, but there was one incident involving a scene kid who, when you factored in the height of his Robert Smith back-combed hair-scraper, towered at least six feet and planted himself right in front of me. Then his puny little girlfriend joined him and they dove into an impromptu reunion-slash-lovefest of sorts with the kids next to them. There was a lot of hugging and before I knew it, I lost track of whose jelly-braceleted wrist belonged to whom.

There’s good old Pink Sleeves, probably devising a plan to get on the band’s RV and dole out statutory blow jobs.

While Jonny sang, I forgot about the cocksucker who wrecked his Hummer, leaving me with wet bangs. I forgot about Christina directing me to the wrong Holiday Inn because she’s an idiot who couldn’t remember where she made reservations. I forgot about the fight I had with my mom. I forgot about making a grooming appointment for my cat Marcy. All the shittiness got pushed aside and I was able to just relax and breathe for a little while. I never realize just how much stress is building up in my muscles until I go to show and the thundering bass releases it all from my body. Thank you, thundering bass. Mama’s neck was so TIGHT. (I can’t stop calling myself Mama lately and it’s freaking me out.)

Since Emarosa was the opening band, their set was very short. I caught myself putting my hands to my heart a few times though so it was probably best that they left the stage when they did, before I ended up on the floor in a piteous puddle. I knew seeing them live was going to fuck with my emotions. Just listening to them in the car has forced me to pull over and bury my face in my hands on occasion – I WON’T LIE. Thankfully, they didn’t perform any of the songs that leave me vulnerable to a razor’s edge.  I know, it sounds lame, but aside from my kid, this is all I got.

(Part three: Making underage friends with near-Canadian accents, meeting Jonny against my will, and what hair looks like after a chick fight.)

Yes, you read it right. I’m actually in a GOOD MOOD, despite the fact that I suffered a near-lethal paper cut last night at work and that my son turned his bedroom into a blue Sharpie art exhibit today. This offer is good until the day after Thanksgiving, but not valid on non compos card line. Can be used in either my Somnambulant shop or Appledale shop — look at me, practically hemorrhaging generosity. In the “note to seller” portion, just mention my blog and I will adjust the price for you.

Also, I’m doing this new thang over at Somnambulant. With every purchase of art (not card or photos), I’ve been tucking inside a CD of some of the songs that have inspired my paintings. Kind of like a soundtrack. I don’t know how well received it will be, but it seemed like a fucking rad idea when I thought of it while changing the litter box.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:17 The first time Henry saw my boobs, he drunkenly slurred, “Oh boyyy!” #
• 21:36 Chooch goes to bed and one by one, all the cats emerge from hiding. #
• 09:18 “How nice it is to not have to walk anywhere, now that the kid carries me by my neck. Like a lethal taxi.” – our cat Nicotina. #
• 11:10 Prairie Dawn can suck one. #
• 12:11 Just gargled with unicorn piss, and am now about to mount a centaur in order to conceive the next Messiah. #
• 12:12 damn, centaur’s got WANG #
• 12:57 I wouldn’t mind snow if it fell from bright blue skies, tasted like almond roca, & produced lsd-like highs w/o residual side effects. #

• 19:07 I just braved a roomful of men to get coffee and was immediately barraged and raped by testosterone. #
• 01:07 This afternoon’s foray down Soundsgoodbutnot Lane: marshmallow fluff, chocolate syrup, pumpernickle bread. #
• 10:45 My son has taken a liking to Jon&Kate+8. He calls them his friends. Unforch, this show makes me want to have 8 more kids at once. INSANE. #
• 12:48 I could really go for some gaily wrapped candy. #

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By the time I packed my overnight bag IN THE DARK (dude, it was overcast that day), my street had turned into a hotbed of activity. Cops had both ends blocked off, and when I was forced to drive up on a curb to leave THE STREET ON WHICH I LIVE, the cop who was blocking that end turned and gave me a “What do you think you’re doing?” look so I yelled, “What are you looking at, retard??” which made Christina cower.

Ten minutes later, I realized, “Oh fucking goody, I forgot my wallet at home. I can’t wait to go back to my street. Maybe fucking Fox News will be there by now!” Since I couldn’t get past the roadblock, I made Christina jump out and run down the block (to clarify, I told her to run, but she only power-walked), where Henry met her at the front door with my wallet and, according to Christina, a smug look that read, “She’s all yours!”

I calmed down after being on the road for an hour. And it’s really remarkable that I was able to maintain that calm, considering that Christina is like a talking doll full of stupid remarks and obvious statements. But somehow, after not having money for the toll booth man and me flipping out because I saw mountains that looked like looming ocean waves, we made it to the Holiday Inn on Genessee Street. Thanks to my speedy driving, we had plenty of time before the show to eat greasy food at Max’s Overpriced Grill and run amok through the stinky halls of Holiday Inn like children who were getting to stay at a hotel for the first time ever because Mommy needs to be three states away before Daddy gets home from work.

The Mountain Dew Dilemma

For whatever backwoods reason, we arrived at the venue (a fucking SKATE PARK, hello adolescence) an hour before the show started and attempted to conform to our surroundings. The odds of us blending in are relatively slim, considering we probably had about 13 years on most of the kids in line, and no braces. I was hoping to just stand there, quietly hate on others (there were these two frumpy groupie-types who really needed a lesson from my hand), and avoid any type of conflict that could potentially draw attention to us.

Then I remembered that Christina was with me and she was born with this grating inability to just…BE. However, she was kind of being subdued, aside from blantantly photographing the kids in line with us, and forcing photo ops where I look like I’m giving birth to a porcupine.

And then the Mountain Dew can happened.

Some kid had inadvertently tossed his empty can of Mountain Dew as he walked past us. The can rolled to a stop near my feet. Christina picked the can up and set it upright in the exact place the can had landed. When I asked her what the point of that was, she replied with a shrug that she didn’t want people to think I had littered. “So, by setting the can upright, that reclassifies it as non-waste?” I asked. Considering this, she picked the can up, then proceeded to stand in the middle of the walkway, holding this piece of hot refuse, and looking like a soccer mom caught with dripping anal beads. Seconds ticked away and she continued to just stand there, frozen, looking left to right and holding this can like it’s an HIV-positive knife from a crime scene. People were watching by now, thanks to Christina’s over-exaggerated way of life; I could feel their eyes on us as they waited to see how this was going to play out. “Just put it over there,” I hissed, pointing to a corner. She then made a big production of setting the can down and walked away with her eyes darting all around. I half expected her to shove her hands in her pockets and whistle cartoon music notes.

Next – PART II: Managing to not commit suicide during Emarosa’s too-short set, making underage friends, and quite possibly the most mentally disturbing moment of my life.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:50 Me: “chooch don’t you think mommy and daddy should get married?” Chooch: “asshole!” #
• 15:12 Just woke up chooch in the backseat so he could see his first rainbow. His response? A grumpy “you asshole.” #
• 20:18 HI JANNA AND I R AT BDAY PARTY EATIN FOOD DRINKIN WINEEEE #
• 20:33 Some guy just walked around introducing himself. Janna asked “did he just bless us?” Um no. He told us his name. #
• 20:50 There is a woman at this party getting pleasured by a snake. #
• 21:43 Janna hit me!!! #
• 22:16 I pee fast. Like a doood. #
• 22:28 I love u when I’m drunk. #
• 22:36 There needs to be some cheese cubes going on in this bitch. Yo. Sup. #
• 23:03 Apparently, she’s in my tit. #
• 23:03 I have to change my tam to the pon. #
• 23:35 Mr. Aorta wants to talk to you! Hear the cries of the carrots!!! You fuckers!! #
• 23:55 Evidentally I look JUST LIKE a WWE diva. #
• 10:22 What good is a supposed best friend if they never answer their phone. Currently screening for a new one, submit applications. #

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I went to my friend Brenna’s birthday party Saturday night. (Though, if you go by my text to Christina, I was “drunk at Bernna s parteeeee.”)  She asked me to bring food, so I brought Janna but then was severely disappointed when no one noshed on her thigh. I also brought a bottle of wine and then demanded that Brenna open it immediately because Mama’s kid had given her some shaky hands. I drank a big cup of Merlot entirely too fast, got nice and warm, discovered some kind gentleman had brought a case of Woodchuck, and my mental reflexes quickly went downhill from there.

But it was a good time. We laughed a lot, mostly I laughed for no reason much like the criminally insane (I mean, so I hear) and punched Janna’s arm a lot. I even got to explore Brenna’s basement, in the purest, non-sexual sense.  

Brenna’s friends were nice. Liz (whom I’ve met previously and already knew was rad) and Diana doled out cigarettes to me (and Diana kept poking Janna’s belly which I was glad for); Nick was my designated bottle-opener throughout the night; Jay entertained me with tales of psychedelic cats and crystals; Dave showed me a picture of his cat licking its ass and then said I look like WWE diva Jillian Hall (I Googled her when I came home, and while I do look like I’m on steroids, my jugs are nowhere near as mountainous); and Willis, after blessing us, showed off his art portfolio AND invited us back for a feast, at which point Jay blurted out that he wants to slaughter his own lamb and I was like, “Damn, this party done got GOOD.”

Happy birthday, Brenna!