I took these with my iPhone Saturday evening when we were walking across the bridge back to Station Square from the art festival to distract myself from the fact that OMG I’M WALKING ACROSS A BRIDGE & GOING TO PERISH!

I hate bridges and rivers. I live in Pittsburgh, so I’m doing a LOT of hating on a daily basis.

I almost didn’t get to go see The Get Up Kids & Saves the Day last Sunday. Henry was being a tightwad as usual, tossing in some guilt about how buying tickets was like taking food from our child’s mouth. But then, much to Henry’s chagrin, I won two tickets through the promoter’s Facebook page. I never win tickets! The last tickets I won was to a sneak preview of “The Substitute” in 1996. Included in that was a poster and the soundtrack, which I actually played the fuck out of it because it was all rap and I was deep in the Yo! Culture.

The message they sent me on Facebook said to make sure that my Facebook name and name on my ID were the same. I already knew they were, so I was a little confused as to why there was a hold-up at the will-call counter at Mr. Small’s that night.

“You don’t seem to be on the list,” a pixie-haired girl said, squinting to read the names in the dim light. “Are you sure you won?” she asked with a nervous laugh.

I said yes in a high-pitched voice constricted by worry. I started to fumble for my phone for proof when Henry sighed and mumbled, “It’s on there. I see it.”

They had me listed as Erin Appledale. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why until it dawned on me later that one day, I added Appledale as my maiden name, so it comes up on Facebook next to my full name in parenthesis.

There was a moment of hesitation on the ticket girl’s part. I was ready to burst into tears if my winnings were taken away, and she seemed like she really wanted to believe me but didn’t want to get in trouble in case I’m just a really great Sally Struthers impersonator. I was ready to show her the confirmation I had on my phone when she crossed out Erin Appledale with her highlighter and said, “It’s OK, I believe you. But if someone named Erin Appledale comes looking for her tickets—-” and we all had a good laugh. Well, all of us except for Henry, who realized he fucked himself by pointing out my name on the list. That could have been his out! He was so irritated that he actually tweeted about it, and boyfriend barely ever tweets.

I knew Henry was majorly put out by having to be there that night, mostly because he had to leave for work later on around 2AM, but also because 90s emo means nothing to him. So in an effort to make him happier (like that’s ever possible), I stayed in the back of Mr. Small’s with him, next to one of the bars. I even suggested that he get a beer, since we saved money on tickets, but he very curtly reminded me that he had to be at work at 2AM. OK, sorry, big shot. I pointed out several times that for once, Henry wasn’t even close to being the oldest guy at the show. There was nary a scene kid in sight. It was kind of nice.

My friend Bonecrusher arrived with her fiance Brendan, who also had no interest being there so I thought that maybe he and Henry could commiserate about that and moustaches, but then I remembered that Henry won’t talk to anyone he hasn’t met at least 4 times. He’s so weird. So I essentially stood with my back toward Henry and talked to them, which is exactly what Henry and I were making fun of some other guy for doing to his date earlier, now that I think about it. Yes! I’m officially That Douchey Guy in the Bike Shop T-shirt. They stayed with us for the whole show which was cool but of course my social second-guessing had me paranoid that they felt stuck, and then I felt guilty and wondered if they thought I was super lame for standing all the way in the back. These are things that happen when one doesn’t take anything for social anxiety.

I don’t remember who the opening band was. They were local and OK.

Saves the Day played for around 90 minutes and it was non-stop amazement. I tried to make Henry clap a couple times and then he nearly broke my fingers, which is how I found out he doesn’t appreciate me using his hand to touch guys’ asses.

He also yelled at me for having fun.

When Saves the Day played “Tomorrow Too Late,” I almost lost it. THAT IS MY FAVORITE SONG. That whole album makes me think of when I finally walked out of the job where I had been emotionally abused for four years.

(Not from the show I went to, but best quality I could find on YouTube.)

“This would be a good time,” I yelled in Henry’s ear, wagging my ring finger in his face. He rolled his eyes and smirked.

“A good time for WHO?” he asked.

The guy in front of us had his arm around his drunk girlfriend. I tried to get Henry to sling his limp arm around me, but he was busy jabbing at his phone with fat thumbs.

“Who are you texting?” I yelled, trying to read it upside down.

He pushed my hand away. “Scott, my roommate from THE SERVICE.”

OH MY GOD. I’m going to have to do some recon on this. This could be our inside into Henry’s SERVICE DAYS.

And then The Get Up Kids came out and I thought it was pretty impossible not to just smile and be happy, but of course Henry proved me wrong.  The only song The Get Up Kids sang that Henry enjoyed was a fucking Blur cover. It’s weird, but instead of feeling old because these bands have been around for so long, it actually made me feel younger. Maybe because I’m so used to being the Scene Mom at all the usual shows we go to.

Henry said I was being exceptionally annoying all night.

It’s 90 degrees in my house right now, so I will just say that The Get Up Kids were awesome, Saves the Day were awesome, and it was nice to just be able to enjoy a show for once without crying through the whole fucking thing because I’m an emotional wreck.  I even caught Henry clapping once. ON HIS OWN!

There’s not too much to tell about the zoo trip considering Chooch didn’t let us stay more than 20 seconds at each exhibit before yelling, “OK, GREAT. I SEE IT. I SAW IT. LET’S GO!”

Bitch, I want to look at the fucking lion! I haven’t been able to really enjoy the lion (or any other animal for that matter) at the zoo in years thanks to my unimpressed son. I could literally stand there and watch the Silverback all day. I’m totally going by myself next time.

Totally not caring about the giraffes.

Even though it was a school trip, the class didn’t stick together. I was partially glad about this because I didn’t want to get stuck shuffling through the zoo with the mom brigade, but at the same time I felt bad for Chooch because he rode on the bus with his buddy Zachary and expressed interest in sticking with him through the zoo. However, I felt like Zachary’s mom held him back when we got off the bus, purposely preventing him from getting stuck with us.

Or it could be that she was waiting for her husband and youngest son, who had driven separately, but if that’s the case then no one will feel sorry for me. Wah.

Before we got to the monkey house, I remembered that I had the crappy point-and-shoot in my purse, so I shoved it at Chooch and suggested that he take pictures of the animals. This bought us significantly more time at each exhibit, even though he wasn’t actually taking any pictures because he’s too impatient to hold the button down for the whole ONE POINT FIVE SECONDS it takes to capture an image. So every once in awhile, Henry would grab it and start snapping random pictures just so it would look like he accomplished something. Funny how when it comes to taking clandestine photos of me with my phone, Chooch has all the patience in the world.

I wanted to stay and look at the octopus for much longer than Chooch allowed me. Henry was all, “Just take your time and look at things! I’ve got Chooch.” But what I heard was, “Here give me your phone so you have no concept of time and miss the bus and have to stay here forever getting raped by orangutans, you ruined my life, bitch.”

Nice try.

All the times I’ve been inside the aquarium, I had no idea you could actually pet the sting rays! Of course I wouldn’t know that—Chooch never let me check out their tank because it’s right by the GIFT SHOP. I refused to leave until I touched one.

“Just touch one of the smaller ones that keeps swimming past,” Henry begged, after we had been standing there accomplishing nothing for countless minutes.

“No! I want one of the big ones,” I said defiantly.

“I forgot who the kid is here,” Henry muttered.

I finally got to touch one for .00008 seconds before screaming and pulling back my hand. It was squishy and soft and pleasant on the fingertips, but it was still a STING RAY.

Chooch actually let us hang out with the sharks for awhile. Probably because I told him that they’re our cat Marcy’s relatives.

Marcy underwater

There was an incident where four older boys ganged up on Chooch in one of the play areas. They were probably around nine or ten, and I thought that they had been playing pleasantly at first, because older kids seem to generally appreciate Chooch’s foul mouth. But a few minutes later, we had moved on to this area with little scooters, and they were already there. Chooch walked over to get on a scooter and one of them said, “Leave us alone!”

That flipped my bully retaliation switch real quick-like and I said loudly, “DON’T LISTEN TO THEM, CHOOCH. YOU’RE OK.” One of their trashy Jersey Shore moms was standing nearby but she was too engrossed in studying her slutty Lee-Press Ons to notice that I was about to trounce her fucking asshole children.  So then I did that thing I do really well, which is say things super loud and immaturely to Henry, putting him in an awkward accomplice position.

“WHICH ONE OF THOSE ASSHOLES SAID IT?” I kept loudly demanding, to which Henry would WHISPER back, “Which one do you think? Take a wild guess.” Then he was pissed off when I proceeded to guess wrong three times because in my opinion, it could have been any of the four. I really thought it was the fat boy swaddled head-to-toe in DC brand, but Henry said it was the preppy fuck with sunglasses on his head.

They were in my crosshairs for the rest of the day after that, and when they walked past me after deeming the scooters “lame” upon Chooch’s arrival (hello, aren’t they too old for that shit anyway?) I said loudly to no one in particular, “I HATE bullies.” I made eye contact with some of them and then quickly swiveled to make sure the mom chaperone had heard me, but she was too busy with her nose to her phone, watching Young and the Restless clips on YouTube.

“They’re like, ten,” Henry reminded me when I proclaimed that I was going to fight them and stalked off in the direction they left in. We had several encounters in the reptile house, but I think they had caught on by that point that some kid’s mom was looking to fuck up their world, so they didn’t give me any more reasons. But we did make lots of eye contact and it was not of the MILF variety, I promise you that.

Meanwhile, Henry used this trip to the zoo to remind us that he knows a lot about birds, which is why I won’t be going to the aviary with him.

For the last ten years, B! Machine has been one of my all-time favorite synthpop artists. He is criminally under-appreciated.

I’m really feeling some synthpop for a darkened room today.

Chooch graduated from preschool last Wednesday. I even convinced Henry to take the day off work so he could be there for the assembly and then join us for the zoo field trip afterward, not because I wanted him to be there for his son, but because there was no way in hell I was doing another one of these parent-fests alone. So don’t get it twisted.

The parents for all the 3- and 4-year-old preschoolers crammed into the hot classroom and I started to fear it was a ploy to get us to sweat out our demons and how embarrassing would it be when I was the only one it happened to.

In other words, it was fucking hot in there.

I stood awkwardly in the back of the room by the coat rack. That’s kind of where I always stand and at this point in the game, no one tries to bother me.

Chooch’s teacher walked past me and whispered, “I was just over by the office and they asked me to send you over.” She had a big smile on her face, but I saw right through it.

I knew exactly what this going to be about and my heart thumped irregularly the whole way down the hall.

I’m not sure if I ever got into the back story here before, and I’m sure it must seem strange to some people that someone like me is sending my child to a Catholic school. But in the beginning, it actually wasn’t what I wanted, nor was it my idea. Henry and I had spent most of the summer freaking out over where to send him. (OK, I freaked out while Henry was basically the poster-douche for “whatev.”) But then my aunt Sharon (the crazy one) had taken it upon herself to call the school across the street from me and essentially get the ball rolling for enrollment. I was definitely against it at first. But she sang the praises for this school, telling me how great the principal was and that they wanted me to come over and get all the paperwork.

“Grandma and I are going to handle the tuition,” she stressed, stating that they felt like they hadn’t done enough for Chooch and this was something that they could contribute.

This sounded like a debt, if you asked me. And Henry was also very skeptical, getting into bed with my family. But being a one-car family, and the start of the school year fast approaching, convenience won over and I enrolled him.

Sharon was supposed to make a monthly payment. But when Chooch started bringing home invoices, my good old friend Disappointment draped a heavy arm over my shoulder. Conveniently, Sharon quit returning my calls so I started making the monthly payments myself.

Then the end of December happened: another big blow-out with my mom, which further isolated me from Sharon; and my own student loans caught up with me, resulting in garnished wages. I could no longer afford to make his tuition payments.

But the invoices stopped coming after that so I thought, hoped, prayed that Sharon was actually pulling through. A bit uncharacteristic, but it helped me sleep better at night to believe that.

Then the bookkeeper called me in the beginning of May. Nothing had been paid since the last check I handed over in December. Sharon and I had been on speaking terms again since April, because of my grandma’s waning health, so I called her in a panic and asked her what was going on. She said she would call the school and take care of it, that she had some sort of retirement check coming in the next week.

The last time I heard from her was on Mother’s Day.

So there I was, waking down to the office, my legs shaking and my chest hurting. The principal came out immediately and, with old lady fingernails, beckoned me into her office. She wasn’t mean to me, not even stern, but I was already emotional that morning to begin with and had teared up once already, so when she showed me the index card that had the remaining tuition balance scrawled on it, I lost it right there in her office.

I’ve never cried in a principal’s office before.

The guidance office? Yes.

The school social worker’s office? An embarrassing amount of tears shed.

And now, thanks again to my family, I can add principal’s office to that list.

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean to distress you,” she murmured, running off to get me a tissue. But the kinder she was to me, the harder I cried. All I could manage to say was, “My family does this to me all the time.” She told me not to stress out, that even if I just paid a little at a time, that would acceptable. We work something out, she promised.

“I’m certainly not going to prohibit your son was participating in the program this morning,” she assured me, patting my back.

And on that note, I was sent back out into the school, but I couldn’t convince my body to stop producing more tears. I went outside and called Henry, who was still in the classroom with the kids.

“I can’t do this. I have to just go home,” I sobbed, pushing the camera and Chooch’s extra shirt into Henry’s chest. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get myself to stop crying. All I could think about was my own preschool experience, all the times my mom would forget to pick me up and my Pappap would have to come and save me from sitting with the nuns. I hate that I get myself to the point where I’m done, over it, completely convinced that nothing will change, only to have Sharon come at me with her smooth-talking and reel me back into the dysfunction. I let the fact that maybe a good three months of her acting fairly rational had gone by, so maybe things would be different; maybe I could trust her.

I walked across the street, crying freely now that no one was around. I fumbled with the lock on my front door and I stood in my living room, trying to train my breath to go back to normal. I saw my favorite cat Marcy watching me from a dining room chair, and that helped me calm down. What I really wanted to do was curl up in my bed and indulge myself with a full-scale pity party, maybe break out a bottle of wine and a rusty razor. But if I didn’t go back to the school, I was only going to let my own disappointment turn into my kid’s disappointment, and that wasn’t fair to him. It’s not his fault that I come from a family of fuck-ups.

Instead of going back to the classroom, I went straight to the church, sunglasses hiding my blotchy eyes, and sat alone on a pew. I hoped no one noticed my sniveling demeanor, but I’m pretty sure I looked like a walking Lifetime movie; I was moving like I had the weight of 87 scorned women on my chest. A few minutes later, Henry and the other parents came in and the assembly started, which gave me an opportunity to cry outright along with the other sentimental mommies.

Some of the kids had solo lines to recite in the microphone. Chooch was one of them, and also the only one who knew what to say without being told.

“What did he say?” the mom of a 3-year-old preschooler hissed to her cop husband in the pew in front of me. I wanted to wrench her back by her brassy hair. AT LEAST HE DIDN’T HAVE TO HAVE HIS LINES WHISPERED TO HIM 29 TIMES.

For most of the assembly, Chooch in the last row making zombie faces and punching himself in the face. Exactly what I hoped wouldn’t happen, but I was too emotionally drained to care anymore. I was too distracted being That Parent, the white trash one, trying to think of how the fuck I’m going to pay the remainder of his tuition.

There’s always prostitution. Grab a corner, Henry.

Afterward, we all went back to the classroom, where the teacher announced to all the parents that the “beautiful handwriting” on the certificates was done by me, so everyone did exactly what I didn’t want to happen and LOOKED AT ME with my tear-streaked face and sad dog eyes.

And then we got to ride a school bus to the zoo, but that’s another story. Rough day.

I wasn’t looking for love at Soul Skate. It was hotter than Snookie’s kooka in that joint and really all I was focused on was not melting into a flesh-puddle while rollin’ to Justin Timberlake’s “Summer Love,” which I never realized just how truly anthemic that song really is until I had quads laced to my feet. (Also, Alicia Key’s “I’m Ready” made me almost consider giving Henry a sex-coupon, which never would have happened outside of a roller rink.)

And then I saw him: the rink lights bouncing off his smooth-shaven pate, the slick way he b-boy’ed around the rink with the best of the soul skaters, spinning tricks and commanding attention.

Holy shit, he was exactly my type! Which is: not Henry.

AND THEN HE DID A SPLIT, YOU GUYS.

To put it simply, motherfucker had it going on. (Does anyone still say that, other than En Vogue fans circa 1993?) I started imagining all the scenarios in which we paired up for couple’s skate, our roller passion so undeniably palpable that disco balls and T’Pau records birthed between us.

Of course, I told Henry immediately. I always alert him when there is someone within close proximity that I want to reverse-rape. He has the extreme misfortune of not only being my boyfriend, but also best friend, and sometimes those lines get a little more than blurred.

Since the rink was doubling as a sweat-tent, I had to take generous breaks to stand by the open side-door and wring out my tank top which was already the sheerest material I could morally get away with wearing in public, but skating around that rink on a ninety-degree day made me feel like I forgot to leave my burqa at home. I was sitting on the bench, across from the open door, tweeting faux love notes about this totally skilled skater when I looked up and saw him.

He was standing across from me by the door.

He smiled.

I smiled back.

He said something indecipherable, presumably about the heat, and I laughed and nodded, which is my go-to when I have no clue what’s going on. In my mind, I pretended he was wondering out loud why a hottie like me was ringless. And in my mind, I was saying back, “You think you’re sweaty now, baby?” The next thing I knew, Henry was sidling up next to me and my prey skated away.

“DID YOU SEE HIM TALKING TO ME?” I squealed.

Henry rolled his eyes.

“If he asks me to skate with him, will you let me?” I pleaded, adopting my best whiny-daughter tone.

Henry’s reaction is as follows:

We were still sitting there when Roller Crush skated by backward. He smiled at me, and I smiled back coyly then buried my head in Henry’s belly to smother my laughter.

“You know he’s been going out of his way to skate near you,” Henry mumbled. NO, I DID NOT KNOW THAT! God, Henry is a good wing-man.

So that was fun for awhile, making eye contact and then looking away bashfully, like suddenly I was in 3rd grade again with my big blond ponytail, flirting with boys from other schools at skating parties. (I was decidedly not cute at all anymore after third grade, so good thing I got in all that pre-teen flirting while boys could still look at me without vomiting.)

But about 45-minutes later, Henry and I were taking another break when Roller Lover came over, stood right beneath the pulsating speaker, and started talking to me as though Henry was completely invisible. (Which is completely acceptable, actually.) Again, I could barely hear what he was saying, but I heard enough to make me want to punch all those lustful feelings right back up into my ‘gina. He opened his mouth and braggadocio projectiled out on waves of squirrel-voiced bullshit. Through snaggled teeth, he told me about how he can “skate with the best of them” and how he and his ex-girlfriend were basically the King and Queen of shadow-skating. (Minus-87,000 points for bringing up an ex-girlfriend in the first sentence. Christ, that was annoying, a total turn-off.)

(Oh, look at me, acting like my boyfriend of 10 years wasn’t sitting right next to me.)

He said he goes to all of the Rollers’ parties, but this was the first time I have ever seen him.

And then he splashed sweat on me.

Henry at this point had completely checked-out of the conversation and was staring wistfully over my shoulder. I kept trying to make eye contact with him so he could bail me out, but I have a feeling he was purposely ignoring me. He does that sometimes, like all the time.

“You know what song I love to skate to? Return of the Mack,” Roller Disappointment said, almost smugly, like he was hoping to stump me.

“Um, yeah, that’s only like the best song ever to skate to,” I returned in my own smug tone.

“I’m going to see if the DJ will play it for us,” he said excitedly, and skated off. I was going to mention that Roller DJ ALWAYS plays that song and shouldn’t he know that since he comes to all of the soul skates, but I let him go because that was my way out. I slipped back onto the rink so fast, I almost fell backward. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Roller Braggart was now sitting down by the rest rooms, changing t-shirts. I imagine his other one had to be half-dry by then, since he wrung most of it out on me while we were talking. A drop of his sweat even got near my lip and just typing that out made me dry-heave all over again.

Now that my skating goggles had been forcefully adjusted, I began to see that he actually had no rhythm at all. Sure, he could stunt better than most of the guys on the rink that night, but he had no flow whatsoever. Total skate-jam foul. (Look at me, like I’m some fucking Beyonce-replica on quads.)

Roller Doof sniffed me out later when I was standing by the door, letting the breeze blow under my shirt. During this painful conversation, I learned that he’s from Wheeling, which is apropos because it’s “WHEELing, GET IT? ROLLER SKATES HAVE WHEELS?” he shouted at my face. Yeah, I got it, Roller Perspiration, now back up off me.

Henry was clear on the other side of the rink, looking at the skate display that hasn’t changed since we started going there in January.

“Return of the Mack” came on just then.

“There’s our song!” he yelled, smiling all goofily. And that is how I ended up skating with a man who was not Henry. I can’t not skate to “Return of the Mack!” That’s the epitome of roller skate theme songs. So if it just so happens that some crazed man is skating alongside me, then so be it. I put myself in my Professional Skater zone and cruised along, muttering several “I bet!”s every now and then in reply to his tall tales. Then I noticed Henry back on the rink so I slowed my pace, and Roller Creeper kept going, not noticing my absence.

“What the fuck!” I yelled to Henry when he caught up with me. It was like he just came back from an “I Told You So” facial. Every last inch of his visage was silently admonishing me. Finally he said, “You asked for it.”

The rest of the night turned into a cat and mouse chase. Roller Stalker would literally cut across the rink just so he could skate beside me, causing me to panic and increase my pace, wedging a wall of soul skaters between us. I’m totally going to just stick with the black people from now on.

Here he is, in his third t-shirt of the night. My hand-drawn heart oozes sarcasm.

We could have taken the night, been a tour du force under the rainbow track lights, and then rode home together on the back of a Ke$ha-sponsored unicorn. If only he hadn’t opened his mouth.

And now I leave you with Mark Morris’s seminal hit “Return of the Mack.”

At the flea market on Sunday, someone was selling a huge box of Pogs. Remember Pogs? They were big in the 90s, probably around the same time as those dumb Tamagochis. And in this case, “dumb” of course means TOTALLY FUCKING RAD.

There were kiosks at the mall that sold Pogs. My friend Keri and I would dump out bins of them on the floor and sit there Indian-style, sifting through the cardboard disks emblazoned with pictures of the Simpsons and Looney Toons characters until we found ones that interested us.

One day, I hit the motherlode—the OJ Simpson trial series. Are you fucking kidding me, I thought as I slapped my mom’s money on the counter before anyone else could snatch them away from me. I even invested in the slammer (slammers were thicker, harder Pogs; there was a point to Pogs but I never played, just collected) which was something like brass and had OJ’s face embossed on it, flanked by the word INNOCENT. It was the king of all slammers and quickly became my prized possession.

I was kind of obnoxious about OJ Simpson, which even got me booed out of a classroom during the trial. I’m sorry, but I can’t turn my back on someone who had a cameo in Back to the Beach.

People knew about my slammer. Word travels fast about an asshole who believes in OJ’s innocence. This could be because I was very boastful about it, flashing it to classmates whenever possible. I remember receiving a particularly incensed reaction from a group of people in my homeroom (the same group who wouldn’t teach me how to play Magic!). And then, the slammer went missing.

I never did get it back, but I promise you I know who took it. (Same person who convinced me to stick a foil gum wrapper into an electrical outlet!)

Favorite 90s craze? Go!

It took me at least eight tries to spell “Wednesday.” Also, I posted this while sitting in a pew at CHURCH.