The fact that Henry was in charge of purchasing the decorations for Chooch’s party made me nervous. I mean, he’s Henry of the Non-Descript T-Shirt Tribe, after all. I hear his people like to transcend their non-descript persuasions upon parties, too.

So I wasn’t surprised when my friend Janna and I arrived at the pavilion an hour before the party started and I found in a bag one (1) Star Wars table cloth and five plain black ones.

What did surprise me was the Jaguar parked next to the pavilion, owned by a family of yuppies frolicking around the nearby playground under the overcast sky.

Let me rewind to 7AM when I woke up and panic immediately staked out a home in my chest. In my mind, this was the most sloppily-planned party to date and I was running around swearing, barking orders, threatening cancellation and stinking up the house with Yankee Candle’s brand new BITCH scent. Plus, it was raining. I was anticipating this, as the weather had been calling for 24:7 rain for Saturday all week long. Henry, who had been in the kitchen cooking army-sized batches of rigatoni and potato salad, came out and said, “I got this. Just sit down.”

So I put on Bring Me the Horizon super loud and changed my clothes eighteen times.

I was still shaking beneath my skin by the time we got to the pavilion, even though Henry promised me the food situation was under control. So when I saw Mr. Jaguar and his douche-brood, I pretty much snapped.

“They better fucking leave before the party starts,” I growled, and Janna assured me they probably would once they realized the pavilion was spoken for. (I gave it a promise ring the night before, after all.)

There was one bag of white balloons. Who buys one bag of just white balloons unless they’re celebrating virginity? I called Henry and yelled about this.

“Well, they didn’t have any black!” was his excuse. After hanging up, I noticed that the streamers were black and white. What the fuck, were we having a fucking Over the Hill party?

I was in the middle of holding Janna at the mercy of my rant about the lack of decorative color when Mr. Jaguar himself approached us.

“Did you guys rent this pavilion or something?” he asked with one of those sharky smiles you’d expect from a small-statured Jaguar owner. He kind of looked like Billy Joel.

“Yes,” I said figuring he would then leave.

“Hmm,” he murmured, sharky smile losing even more of its friendliness. “I’m pretty sure I rented this one, too.”

My fingers involuntarily dropped the bag of balloons. Adrenaline began pumping through me and the morning’s panic was back and better than ever.

“Woodland Crest?” I probed.

“Pretty sure that’s the one,” he said, and we both moved over until the pavilion marker was in our sight. It clearly said Woodland Crest.

There was a moment where the atmosphere birthed babies of awkwardness right on our faces. I started wringing my hands. What if I had the wrong pavilion? I wasn’t with Henry when he rented it, but I was sure I triple-checked the paper work before sending out the information to all the guests. I had a vision of Jaguar banishing us from the premises like the poor raggedy folk we are, and all of Chooch’s friends showing up and being taken under the wings of the mini-Jaguars while Daddy Jag spoon-fed them all caviar on the swing set. They were going to steal my party.

I wanted to stay for that party.

“How many people you got coming?” he asked me.

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “Like, at least 30.”

His eyes widened and he said, “Wow, that’s a lot. Well, I certainly don’t want to be the bad guy here.” And I thought, before he walked back to the playground, that he said he’d back out. But they all stayed and continued to run around in their riches and scream delightfully.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I squealed to Janna. “He rented this entire pavilion for his family of five?”

“Maybe he thinks that just because he was here first, that means it’s his,” Janna offered, trying to keep me from hanging from the rafters.

I called Henry in a panic and he flipped out. Of course, he didn’t have the permit in the car anymore, and even though he was nearly to the pavilion, he turned around to get it from home.

“If that motherfucker is still there by the time I get back, I’m punching him in the fucking mouth and calling the police!” Henry shouted, which made me laugh because Henry has never been in a fight before, unless you count the time as a kid when he fought a five-year-old girl over a Barbie sundress. I couldn’t even imagine him kicking gravel at the guy’s car. Meanwhile, Janna had gotten hold of someone at the park office who confirmed that the pavilion was indeed in Henry’s name and that we could always stop by and have a copy printed off.

“She also said to call the police if he doesn’t leave,” Janna, looking all important for being privy to this information. I’m all for confrontation, but not when my child’s birthday party was expected to start in thirty minutes. I’m already such an outcast among the school moms, imagine if they showed up with their children just in time to see the South Park police prying me off this rich dick, and I mean that in the least sexual sense possible. (For once.)

However, once I had confirmation that we were legally in our rights to be there, I instructed Janna to finish decorating. Let us not forget that she is the help.

While I blew up white balloons and Janna stapled them in trios around the corners of the pavilion, a guy on a bike skidded to a halt next to us.

“Hi!” he said cheerfully, wiping his brow. “I’m having a party here—-”

Detonating nerves shot stomach acid up to my esophagus like a geyser. If the inside of my stomach right then was a comic book cell, it would have KABLOOEY stamped across it.

“—in two weeks, and my wife sent me here to count the picnic tables.”

Janna and I looked at each other and started to laugh. The biker was too busy counting to question it and instead said, “Have a great party!” We thanked him and laughed harder as he biked away.

We had a few bags of animal twisting balloons for Bill, and Janna suggested adding one to each cluster of white in order to give it a shot of color.

It was a nice phallic touch, and we agreed it was a good thing there were three balloons in each cluster, and not just two.

“Should I stick with red and green?” she asked. We were basing the color choices off the colors in the lone Star Wars table cloth.

“I’d use other colors too, otherwise it goes from an Over the Hill party to some Italian guy’s Over the Hill Party.”

At 1:40, the Jaguar-brood loaded up in their car. (Not before discarding a drink tray onto the ground; the environment thanks you, litterer-fucks. Don’t worry, I threw it away.)

“Thanks for letting us intrude on your party,” Daddy Jag joked, and I couldn’t help but wipe his sleaze off my face.

“No problem,” I said with a tight-lipped smile.

And then Henry’s son Robbie arrived with his girlfriend Karen, who dutifully twisted and hung the black and white streamers. Karen was really concerned with getting the streamers to look prom-ready, practically fashioning a yardstick out of tree roots to measure the proper length, but I was like, “Please. Look around. This party is already halfway down the path to Cousin Jim-Bob’s Prison Release hoe-down, BYO-Moonshine.” 

Ain’t no one dancing to Forever Young beneath the streamers on this day, friend.

Anyway, I like Robbie and Karen because they laugh uproariously at everything I say. Good audience. And because I basically whaled the streamers at them and they asked no questions.

Right before 2:00, a cop car crunched down the dirt path to the pavilion.

In my head, I was screaming, “FUCK I DON’T HAVE THE PERMIT. WHERE IS HENRY WITH THE PERMIT. HE’S GOING TO THROW ME IN THE POKEY WITH ALL THE OTHER PARTY DEVIANTS. CAN ANYTHING ELSE GO WRONG RIGHT NOW. ANYTIME YOU WANT TO MAKE IMPACT, METEOR. I’M READY.”

But really, he was just there to smugly tell Janna she couldn’t keep her car parked in the dirt. Seriously? That may have been the most eventful hour of the whole day, and the party hadn’t even kicked off yet. It was like there was a beacon above our pavilion, alerting everyone to go fuck with the short-fused party host.

And don’t even get me started on the staple gun.

On my tombstone, please have engraved: “No, the universe was not fucking kidding you.”

I was already on the fact track to Pacemaker and hadn’t even been faced yet with the torturous chore of making nice with the preschool moms. And then it started to rain.

“Beauty Has Her Way” is the epitome of the ’80s for me. It’s impossible not to associate it with The Lost Boys, which will always be one of the best vampire movies of all time (get fucked, Twilight), and to this day it’s still my favorite movie soundtrack based on the strength of this song alone. It’s one of those gems that I would never, ever skip over when it comes on.

I always wanted it to be about me.

But then, what girl (and Henry) wouldn’t?

I had their only release on cassette, which I found years and years ago on eBay and it was already pretty warn. Today, I found it on soulseek and I almost died, hearing “Chestnut Tree” again.

It’s making me want to have another 80s party.

What song defines the 80s for you?

I know it wasn’t my birthday, but Bill and Jessi had a present waiting for me at Chooch’s party.  Because they know I was probably petrifying from the inside out, having to watch my kid get all the attention instead of me. (I’m a Leo. We like our attention. In fact, there are things here at work called “Attention Required” and I often think the stamp should just say “ERK.” Those are my initials. Now you know, in case you wanted to order me something monogrammed from Sky Mall.)

It’s OK though, because Chooch’s birthday party means that Bill and Jessi will come visit from Michigan, so I’m alright with giving him his own day. Besides, I had more friends there than he did, so I win.

(It just occured to me that maybe this is one of the reasons my co-worker Sean just asked me who I’m referring to on Facebook when I say “Chooch.” He seemed surprised that’s my son’s nickname and said he assumed it must have been my brother. BECAUSE I AM SO COMPETITIVE WITH HIM.

)

As usual, I’m typing way more than I intended to, which will just give one of those Blog Frog broads more reason to tell me that people don’t read my blog because my posts are too long. (True story, happened last night.

Thanks for the feedback, ho-bag.

)

My present was a Michael Myers plushie. Michael is my BOY. I have very strong feelings for him. In fact, back when Henry was “courting” me, he bought me several pieces of Halloween memorabilia until he eventually whittled down my defenses and look at me now. LOOK AT ME NOW.

LOOK BEHIND YOU, DANDELION!!

He’s so hot.

Chillin’ with Don, watching “Desperate Housewives.”

Tonight, he’s at work with me. I’m trying to convince him that one of the sea monkeys is not Laurie Strode.

God, I’m so smitten.

After Chooch’s party yesterday, we took Bill and Jessi to the gaming shop up the street. They own their own gaming shop in Michigan and were interested in seeing what this one had to offer.

Apparently, not too much. When we walked into the stuffy shoe box-sized store front, all four gamers stopped with their cards in their hands and stared at us uninvitingly.

I felt like Pee Wee after just knocking over a row of motorcycles.

I even said hello to the one in the Steelers jersey, but his response was to stare back at me stupidly. I know, girls are so weird. I never know how to respond to their salutations, either.

Same guy cornered Bill after allowing him to browse for a few minutes. The rest of us left Bill in the shop to diffuse the geek-bomb on his own.

Anyway, he had a great crack and I felt obliged to share it with the Internet.

I miss Bill and Jessi already. :(

After checking into the hotel, I had enough time to eat the other half of my massive grilled cheese and call home to talk to my son who clearly didn’t give a shit that I was 2.5 hours away before it was time to meet Jason and managing editor Annie at the House of Blues. I was immediately carded, which pleased me greatly and became another sparkling facet to the best day ever. While we waited for Jason to get our tickets and passes to the opera box, I got my first glimpse of Craig Owens, who was doing a signing with D.R.U.G.S. Jeffree Star was there too and I wondered why anyone would want his autograph, but I guess that’s just me being old.

Or rational.

Annie pointed out a scene mom and I hope that if I ever age into that brand of trashy crispy duo-toned hair and too-small-for-my-fat-frame Hot Topic clothing, Henry will asphyxiate me with a burlap sack. Also, it was clear that she and her scene kids were there to see Black Veil Brides, who I was not looking forward to, if we’re being honest here.

I’ve been to the House of Blues before, but never got to sit in the opera box. It was fantastic! Just us and a bunch of people from AP; no drunk assholes behind me tying to instigate a fight, no douchey couples in front of me talking loudly through the whole show. There was no Tallest Man In the World standing in front of me, obstructing my view with his sweat-soaked back. And there was a dutiful waitress who re-appeared every time I needed another drink.

It was the coolest way to enjoy a show.

(Not that I don’t also enjoy experiencing it from the floor. I don’t mind getting jostled around here and there, as long as there’s no Lurch optically-blocking me.)

But for Old Man Henry, it was awesome because he got to drink beer and stuff his face with food, while not worrying about possibly having to defend my honor (like when some guy pushed me at a Thrice show and Henry turned his face and pretended it didn’t happen). For him, it was the next best thing to not having to go at all.

It was definitely interesting to scope the crowd and try to guess what bands they were there to represent. With such a diverse lineup, it was kind of like a scene safari—so many varying breeds and hybrids to scope. BVB fans were easiest to pick out because they were mostly girls and femme-boys, these neo-Goths in all black with stupid shit painted on their faces. Really, it wasn’t a far cry from the kids who were into nu-metal back in the early-00’s. They probably had those stupid metal rings on their pants, too.

The girls who were there for Craig Owens—I mean, D.R.U.G.S.—were also easy to spot because they were the quintessential scene girls with so many layers of makeup, they’d be unidentifiable on a slab at the morgue without it. They also wear giant bows on their heads.

The more Minnie Mouse in girth, the greater the devotion to the scene.

And then you have regular people, like Henry and me, who look like we’re there against our will because of our kids. This is only true in Henry’s case. I still get the psychotic butterflies in my gut while waiting for the show to start, just like all the kids do. I hope that never goes away. I suspect it won’t.

Conditions was the first band to go on, and while their sound is pleasant and they’re energetic enough, the highlight was definitely when members of the other bands stormed the stage and started playing along. The same happened during VersaEmerge’s set, when Jeffree Star was carried across the stage on a couch. Jason said the last night of the AP Tour is always like that, so now I’ll obviously only be going to the Cleveland shows from now on. I don’t think Henry knows that yet.

I was happy I See Stars was on the tour because I needed to hear some screaming. It was absolute pandemonium near the end of their set. We saw them last year at Warped Tour and it was pretty unmemorable, but they left a lasting impression this time. However, it would have been 4567815689x more awesome if Bizzie Bone had made an appearance since he guested on their first album and he’s from Cleveland. They really should have tried harder to:

1. make that happen
2. provide a private room in which Bizzie could make numerous attempts to sire my child.

Bone Thugs n Harmony will always be deeply rooted in my heart, no matter where my musical tastes currently lie. No shame.

I admitted to Jason that I might cry when D.R.U.G.S. came on. I haven’t seen Craig perform since the last time he was at Warped Tour with Chiodos in 2009. When they kicked him out that fall, I never worried about not getting to see him again, because someone with the talent of Craig doesn’t just stop making music. I don’t think he could if he wanted to. What I did worry about was what kind of band he’d find himself in, if they’d be even close to comparable to the juggernaut Chiodos had become with Craig at the helm. I worried that it wouldn’t have that same emotional impact on me as Chiodos had.

But Craig didn’t let any of us down. D.R.U.G.S. is a goddamn powerhouse, practically a scene supergroup comprised of ex-members of From First To Last, Story of the Year, Matchbook Romance and Underminded (Nick Martin is totally my favorite). I think this is going to be the band that propels Craig out of the scene and into the mainstream. That and the fact that he’s been linked to Ashlee Simpson, never mind the fact that her husband Pete Wentz was the guy who picked Craig up off the ground after Chiodos dumped him, signed him to his record label, and helped build the band around him. Pretty skeezy, Craig.

The last time I was at the salon, I flipped open an issue of InTouch right to a page showing Craig and Ashlee walking side-by-side. Never would have imagined seeing his mug in a magazine fixated on who wore it best, Angelina Jolie, and American Idol updates.

Craig has always had this demi-god presence on stage, but it seemed amplified that night. He would stand on the edge of the stage, making the crowd scream louder, and his eyes just looked so crazed as he drank in all this maniacal worship. He’s always struck me as an extreme narcissist, but it definitely seems to have gotten worse. Still, it felt so good to hear Craig scream again.

And yes, I cried.

I was 100% convinced that this was one of the Roloffs from Little People Big World, since you know, obviously all midgets look the same, but I think it was just random little person. I REALLY wanted it to be Zach Roloff though.

D.R.U.G.S. was definitely the best performance of the night. They should have headlined.

But instead, Black Veil Brides did and I couldn’t have been more underwhelmed.

Long black hair? Check.

Tight leather pants? Check.

Black face paint in varying designs? Check.

Whoa-oa’s in every last motherfucking song? CHECK ME OUT OF HERE.

But the kids loved it, and I guess that was the whole point of having them headline.

What really pissed me off, was the completely unnecessary DRUM SOLO that went on for fucking ten minutes. I watched all this was bored eyes and mouth slightly agape. They were the only band that didn’t participate in any last show shenanigans. No one from other bands came out on the stage. In fact, no one was really even standing on the side of the stage. During all the other bands, there were pretty large crowds watching from the side of the stage.

I also thought a lot of their interactions with each other seemed staged at best, like a beefy manager was standing on the side, yelling, “OK, now play your guitars back-to-back!” The one kid was a spitting image of Jami Gertz circa The Lost Boys. I couldn’t stop looking.

***

After BVB were finished emulating KISS, we followed Jason through a door and down some steps, where a House of Blues girl checked our names off a list (I’ve never been on a list before!) and an elevator took us to the Foundation Room. When the doors opened, I had one of those YOU GO FIRST!! moments and pushed Henry ahead of me. Everything was dark and plush—the walls were covered with some kind of tapestry, I don’t even know, but the whole ambiance screamed EXCLUSIVE! and VIP ONLY! and YOU MIGHT NOT MAKE IT OUT OF HERE ALIVE! There were a lot of candles everywhere. I hoped there wouldn’t be a fire.

There weren’t many people in there yet, thank God, and none of the bands were there yet either, so my anxiety level was pretty much at a steady “medium.

” Jason went to the bar to get our drinks and told me to go in this private room watched over by a huge cobra monument. I walked in, looked around, and came back out. Meanwhile, some other people had gone inside in my wake.

When Jason saw this, he said, “I told you to go in there!”

“Oh, you wanted me to STAY in there?” I don’t take direction well. Luckily, those people ended up walking right back out, so we were able to re-claim it, no thanks to me. I think at that moment, Jason got a small sampling of what Henry goes through daily.

I had lost my voice during the show, thanks to this nagging sickness I’ve had for the last week, so I spent the whole time croaking inaudibly across the table to Annie and her boyfriend Matt, wishing I had a white board to communicate with instead. Jason received word that Craig had split right after the show to go home to Michigan, and I was kind of relieved. I don’t think I could have handled seeing him. He freaks me out and makes me cry. Especially now that he seems to be completely engulfed by his own ego.

I blurted out that I thought BVB were boring, and was told, “Well, that’s because you’ve seen that all before.” I was glad I wasn’t the only one who didn’t see their appeal.

Jason had to leave us several times to make the rounds, and I was glad we were able to stay behind in that room. I wouldn’t have been able to socialize without coming off as some starstruck reject from Kansas. Besides, it was more fun staying with Annie and Matt and getting laughed at for liking Cold.

At one point, I mentioned that I was barely able to sleep the night before. “It felt like Christmas Eve!” I exclaimed as much as someone with 5% of a voice can actually exclaim.

“Isn’t she fucking adorable?” Jason said. “How can you not love her.” And at that moment, Henry’s head exploded as he mentally wrote a dissertation on all the millions of ways he could argue Jason’s point.

Best fucking day ever.

Happy Jason Voorhees Day!

What I really want to do is just lay my body down across the keyboard and post whatever comes of it; only then would you understand what it was like to be inside my head as Henry and I followed Jason down the hall and through the door to the Alternative Press offices.

I know a lot of people don’t really get it; maybe you feel underwhelmed about it at best, because really—why get so excited over a magazine?  But if you really knew me, you would know that this was my Make-A-Wish-Kid moment. Because in a world of car payments, rent, student loans and chaperoning preschool field trips, this is the one connection I have left to my youth. This is something to get excited about every month when I get the mail and find it amongst all the bills and political propaganda. (And Henry’s issues of Better Homes & Gardens.) And when you devour a magazine from front to back like I do, the names you read every month become as familiar as family; you start to value their opinions and it maybe makes you feel slightly less alone in a community of grown-up friends.

So maybe it makes sense to you now, and you can understand why I was practically riding Henry’s back through the doorway.

“I’m too nervous to walk in first,” I whispered to Henry. “I’m just going to stand behind you the whole time.” But Friday’s definition of “stand” had clearly changed to “to meld one’s body against the backside of another.”

The first thing I saw was the wall of framed AP covers. I had heard about this wall, how it will literally stop bands in their tracks when they walk into the office, but I had no idea it would make my breath catch in my throat. The first issues were there as well, the ones that (AP creator) Mike Shea put together by hand and for the first time in awhile, I felt that I could use the word “awesome” in its appropriate sense.  It was better than a museum. (For me, anyway. I’m sure Henry thought it was cool, but he’d probably have rather gone to a strip club or some Air Force memorial.) There was so much history on the walls, so many signatures and memorabilia, it was all I could do not to act like some jejune farm girl plucked straight from the corn fields of Iowa. I just wanted to touch everything and squeal like a rosy-cheeked girl who’s never watched porn.

Jason took us around and introduced us to people, all while making me sound way cooler than I actually am; there were times when I wanted to say, “Dude, I know who this is” but opted to smile politely in lieu of desecrating the office with my overt creepiness.

I remembered standing in line outside of the Grog Shop in 2009, waiting for the doors to open for Craig Owens’ solo show. I used to get Craig’s tweets sent to my phone back then, like a good little hyper-fangirl, and while I was standing out there, shivering, he sent a tweet saying that he was hanging out at the AP offices  before the show.

I was with Alisha that night, and I remember turning to her and saying all bitterly, “He’s so lucky.”

Almost exactly two years later, my Facebook status said something like, “Just sitting in Jason Pettigrew’s office, listening to The Cure. No biggie.”

When Jason told me a few weeks ago that he’d like to give me a tour of “where the magic happens,” my first thought was to wonder if I’d get to meet Mike Shea.

“I’ll cry,” I told Henry. “And then probably puke.” At the risk of sounding like a syncophatic psychopath, his is a name that I’ve known for a long time.

I did get to meet him, but I didn’t puke on his shoes or cry in his face. I felt I did a good job keeping it together even though what I really wanted to do was squeeze Henry’s hand harder than your typical woman in labor. I have so much respect for him. (Mike Shea, not Henry. Bitch, please.) Especially after the Oral History of AP was printed over the course of several issues and I saw how much adversity he overcame to keep the magazine alive. Because music is that important.

That’s the kind of person I want to know still exists in this world.

There were moments where I legitimately cried while reading the oral history, and I don’t care if the whole Internet knows.

I think “appreciation” is the best word to describe it.

Jason told him how long I’ve been subscribing, and Mike thanked me. But really what I wanted to do was thank him. I’m not even sure if I did, it was all such a blur. All I remember now is petting his dog and asking him if he wanted me to shut his door on the way out, then feeling my eyes burn a little with tears when we went back to Jason’s office.

I also remember Mike asking me, “So what are you listening to these days?” Without hesitation I blurted out, “Dance Gavin Dance,” much to Henry’s chagrin. Well, I’m not going to lie to the man.

I texted Barb and Andrea a bunch of over-capitalized jibberish to express my sheer mania. I suspect they were able to translate it appropriately. Seriously one of the coolest moments of my life; the whole afternoon was perfect. I didn’t even care that I got made fun of for liking the band Xiu Xiu, because I was in a building full of people who actually know who Xiu Xiu is.

As we walked out of the office a few hours later, my arms full of AP swag, Jason asked me if I was happy. How do you effectively convey that you feel like the happiest girl alive, without the aid of a confetti gun?

You can tell he’s proud of it.

When I look back on it now, the most amazing part about last Friday was that Henry and I not only made it to Cleveland right on time to meet Jason at Melt, but we drove the whole way without:

• tears
• bloodshed
• break-ups
• one of us getting kicked out of the car
• muffins being whaled at faces*

(*This happened once, in Virginia. And I will never let Henry forget it. In fact, I might write about that this week since I’m on a roll with illustrating to the Internet what a fucker he can be.)

We did, however, listen to copious amounts of Dance Gavin Dance, even though I had made a mix specific to our road trip. I hate my one-track mind sometimes.

Jason, when planning the itinerary for Erin’s Dying Wish Day, remembered that I’m an aficionado of melted cheese sandwiches, even had my friend Sarah draw me a grilled cheese in the stylings of the Sacred Heart, complete with crown of toothpicked-pickles, which I’d have already had tattooed on my arm if it weren’t for student loans fucking up my entire life. I’ve wanted to go to Melt for sometime now, so Jason made that happen and even got there early to act as a place-holder since Melt is a hot commodity and can get super crowded before the doors even open.

Now, the whole two and a half hours it took us to get there, I tried to reason with myself that I should focus on one thing at a time instead of the entire day ahead of me, which would undoubtedly cause me to ping around the car like a cat with Scotch taped-paws. So that’s what I did, I focused all of my nervous energy on Melt.

What was I going to order?

How was I going to decide?

What if I got sick?

Why didn’t I buy Rolaid Soft Chews*?

What if I puked?

What if it was super crowded there and I had a panic attack and died before even tasting my grilled cheese?

(*When I was friends with Christina, she knew to always keep Rolaid Soft Chews on her person at all times when I was visiting her. My excitement and nervous energy, combined with even the slightest speck of grease on a plate, never fails to manifest itself into a brick of anxiety in my stomach.

)

There were a lot of things to consider. Maybe if Henry was more fun in the car and would play obscene travel games with me, my neuroses wouldn’t have time to activate. Or if he’d be less of a square about picking up the occasional hitch-hiker. (I haven’t helped out a hitcher in ten years because of Henry. This is, right now, being added to the CON column of my Henry List.)

We arrived shortly before 11 and I was relieved to see that Jason was the only one standing outside the doors—no crowds! There was one “what if” to scratch off the list, but I still had to worry about what to order and going into cardiac arrest, possibly finding a way to lethally impale my eyeball on the straw in my water glass. Maybe I shouldn’t use a straw…Or maybe skipping a beverage altogether was key.

But then what if I found myself choking? Henry knows the Heimlich (he learned it in THE SERVICE; I just found this out recently because he was bragging about it), but would he actually use it on me, or would he find himself paralyzed in a state of extreme pleasure, watching my face morph from Erin to Smurf in 0.5 seconds?

While my internal dialogue was percolating my synapses, Henry and Jason stood around talking like normal people.

I wonder what that’s like.

By the time the back door was unlocked, a substantial line had started to form behind us. Suddenly, waking up early to get there didn’t seem like such a drag after all. (Not that I could even sleep the night before, anyway! God, I was so giddy.)

We were seated at a corner table, and Henry filled Jason in on my need to sit in whichever seat allows for the most panoramic view of the restaurant, like I’m a CIA agent. (I just prefer having as few people behind my back as the seating arrangement permits.) Jason offered to switch seats with me and I almost took him up on it until I realized how ridiculous I was being. Lately, I have become hyper-aware of my neurotic preferences.

“And then I’m usually stuck staring at the wall,” Henry complained. Bitch, shut your mouth and be thankful that I even allow you to go out in public with me.

Confession: I had already looked at the menu the night before at work, in hopes of narrowing it down. I was pretty sure that I wanted the Mushroom Melt, but then I made the mistake of picking up the menu in front of me which immediately placed my brain at the center of a maelstrom of grilled cheese choices. I felt confused and panicked, especially when I noticed that there were vegetarian options for nearly every item which I hadn’t known, and this opened up a brand new ordering quandary by practically doubling the choices available to me.

And then! I noticed the Grilled Peanut Butter and Banana, which sounded rebelliously unorthodox amidst the cheesy variety. I kind of wanted to be That Person who goes to an establishment built around grilled cheese and not order a grilled cheese. Plus, the latticed nerves in my stomach were kind of craving something sweet.

But how much of a faux pas would it be to not order a grilled cheese on my virginal visit to Melt?

Everyone at home would be so disappointed in me. Chooch would probably get harassed at school. My grandfather would roll over in his grave and haunt me for the rest of my life: All those years of practice you had, ordering grilled cheese at Denny’s and Blue Flame, and for WHAT? It would be right up there with dropping out of high school. I’d eventually get that tattoo only to be reminded of the fraud I am; the banner on it would have to be changed from “4 lyfe” to “fair-weathered fan.”

(Technically, the peanut butter and banana has cream cheese on it.)

After all of this inner hemming and hawing, I went with my first instinct and ordered the Mushroom Melt, which the waiter, after suggesting 87 vegetarian options, admitted was his favorite. This ended up being a wise choice because it was simple enough to not sink through my stomach like a cannonball, but it still had enough going for it to make it better than any restaurant grilled cheese I ever had. Carmelized onions* were draped luxuriously around clumps of portobello mushrooms and stuffed generously into the middle of  a viscous expanse of hot provolone, providing the sweetness I was looking for without making my teeth ache.

(*One of the few onion variations I can tolerate on a sandwich; I’m notoriously fussy when it comes to onions, enough that Henry had to make himself a guidebook to prevent instances prompting me to chuck meals back in his face.)

There was enough cheese packed between those slices of bread to fashion a fromage robe, and believe me, I thought about it. Fuck Lady Gaga.

I’m adding cheese to the list of porn I need to direct.

Henry and Jason ordered things that had meat on it so I didn’t ask them how it was. And really, wasn’t it all about me anyway? I can’t even remember what we talked about while we ate, I was so tuned in to my sandwich and the fact that once it was demolished, we were going to the Alternative Press office which would make my stomach lurch but I’d wash it down with water all while managing to not impale my eyeball on the straw after all. But I do know that I lasted forty-five minutes before practically vomiting the subject of Jonny Craig, causing Henry to wince from across the table. I tried to promise that I wouldn’t reveal my true, obnoxious 16-year-old fan girl self by eagerly mentioning him (and it’s always eagerly, believe me), but keeping promises was never my strong point.

The Mushroom Melt was glorious, like taking the best grilled cheese in the world and infusing each bite with seasoning ground from comfort, magic and the best childhood memories. But, truth be told, I’m going to have to make at least a dozen more pilgrimages to Melt before I can write an accurate review. (In other words, I REALLY want that peanut butter thing.)

I think one of the worst feelings for me is having all these things I want to write about, but being sick for the fortieth time this year has left me with the mental energy for little else but catching up on my DVRd CW shows. (Whoever thought I would like Hellcats?) Seriously considering home-schooling Chooch so he’ll stop bringing preschool slime home with him; he and I have been sick so much this year and it’s never been like this until he started SCHOOL.

His party is Saturday and I have no idea how I’m going to get anything done and I’m freaking out.

Thursday night, I outright lost my voice at work. It returned the next day, only to go AWOL during the show that night and even now it’s only at about 60%. (I love making up percentages. I guarantee that they are inaccurate 96% of the time.) I sound like an emphysemiac* trying to converse while J-Woww’s boobs plow-drive my chest.

(*Totally not a word.)

As the #1 Hater of Erin’s Voice, Henry is not complaining.

Speaking of Henry! He did fuck-all for me on Mother’s Day. His excuse is the same one he’s been slapping me in the face with for the last 5 years like a raw, bleeding steak: “But…you’re not my mother.”

Oh OK, well then I guess our son can just call himself a cab to drive him to whichever store he decides to shoplift my gift. Good job, Henry.

Not even a card. I couldn’t even look at Facebook at all on Sunday because I didn’t want to be reminded of the non-family I have.

This latest let-down will get filed in between the Black Forest Cake ball-drop of 2010 and the thirtieth birthday that blew by like a dejected balloon, except a balloon would falsely imply that there was some sort of celebration planned in my honor.

Which there was not.

I think I have bronchitis.

I have no shame in being a whiny sissy lala. Cheer me up, please.

Happy Mother’s Day. My only plans are to watch D.R.U.G.S. videos all day and reminisce with Henry about how awesome Friday night was, at which point he’ll say, “It was alright.” But I know what that really means is, “I have a man-crush on Craig Owens and don’t want you to ruin it for me so I will continue to act emotionally disinterested every time we talk about the show.

”

Here’s hoping your kids don’t act like assholes today. Can’t make any promises for my own.

EDIT:

Me: All I want for Mother’s Day is for you to not be a jackass.
Chooch: No, never. I’ll never stop.
Me: :(
Chooch: Can’t I just buy you something instead?

Yo! Henry and I peaced out of Pittsburgh this morning in favor of Cleveland. My friend Jason [see this post] invited us out to be his guests for the last night of the Alternative Press Spring Tour. Craig Owens’ new band D.R.U.G.S. is among the five bands on the line up, and if you know me or have maybe skimmed this lame blog, you know that Craig is in my Top 5 of all time favorite singers. His word are inked into my flesh, even.

So that alone has me beside myself.

But then Jason threw in lunch at Melt (more for your trivia card collection: grilled cheese is my most favorite food ever) and the chance to see “where the magic happens” at the AP office and now I know what Charlie felt like when he got the motherfucking golden ticket.

Last night, it was like trying to sleep through Christmas Eve. This morning, I was in such a spastic state that I could barely dress myself. I wound up putting on the same shirt I wore to work last night just to save myself from throwing clothes all over the floor like a girl dressing for her first date.

You have to understand that Alternative Press shaped who I am today: a music-obsessed scene mom. 80% of what I listen to was discovered in the pages of that magazine. The rest was mostly from west coast pen pals in the early ’90s and sheer serendipity.

Henry and I were in Cleveland in the mid-00s for the Curiosa Festival. I tried to get him to find the AP office for me then, because I just “wanted to admire it from afar.” He refused, thought it was weird I guess, although I did finagle him to find the intersection of E99 & St. Clair, an homage to Bone Thugs n Harmony. We almost broke up because of that, in the heart of Cleveland’s ghetto, and I have it all on tape.

This is way longer than I intended and now I’ve added motion sickness to my already nervous stomach. But now you’ll know what I’ll be doing today: having dreams come true and probably puking.

I had a pretty bad night, sleep-wise. I’m a little under the weather and just wanted to rest, but it was one of those nights where Chooch just refused to stay in his bed.

Henry had already left for work super-early—like around 2AM so he can get shit done since we’re going to Cleveland tomorrow morning and his co-workers can’t be trusted to do jack shit to help him out—-so I couldn’t pawn the child off on him as I am normally wont to do.

  It wouldn’t have been such an issue if Chooch hadn’t been bringing his industrial snoring machine into my bed with him. I’d escort him back to his room, wait for him to fall asleep, climb back into my own bed, and within an hour the cycle would start all over again.

Somewhere around 4:30AM, he came into my room and announced that he had “accidentally” peed in his bed, which I’m fairly certain he did on purpose because the kid hasn’t had a bed-wetting episode in at least a year. And what better way to eliminate his bed from the equation.

Finally, I left him in my bed and went downstairs to sleep on the couch. He found me about 2 hours later and fell asleep on the other end, in an up-right position. He was still snoring.

Talk about the most annoying shadow of all time.

You’ll understand then why today I am not only a bit sick, but I am fucking exhausted and slightly stressed and completely nervous about the aforementioned trip to Cleveland (but in a good way). So about thirty minutes ago, when I heard a loud thud in between my front doors followed by an angry and impatient knocking, I was ready to fight; maybe even miraculously call forth some of the moves I learned in the Zombie Self-Defense Course.

Turns out it was one of the asshole mailmen, delivering me an unexpected package from my decidedly non-asshole friend, Misty.

She made me a goddamn Robert Smith purse and it is perfect! It made me squeal and tear-up. I love the Cure so much and any relic makes my heart swell. My mom once got me a poker chip with Robert’s face on it and to this day I have it displayed in my curio cabinet like it’s the fucking Hope Diamond. Anytime someone recognizes my love for the Cure, I am so touched.

And for Chooch, Misty made a tooth-receptacle which he thinks is the coolest thing ever.

He and I are totally not friends today so he’s lucky I even let him have it. I could’ve used it for my crack.

KIDDING.

The inside of the purse is lined with this mesmerizing owl fabric! I LOVE OWLS. It is absolutely perfect and completely turned my day around. Thank you for your awesome friendship, Misty! I’m so happy right now!