In between two of the 87 bratty post-birthday meltdowns I had today, I warned Henry that there was something I had to tell him. I used one of several “This is serious” tones I’ve collected from years of Days of Our Lives viewing.

Henry was walking past me when this happened, so he slowed to a tentative stop and cautiously asked, “What?”

Now, this could go several ways. I could tell Henry I’m cheating on him. I could tell him I used a fork on one of his precious cooking pans. I could tell him I can’t wait for the 2012 Olympics  so I can take my no-holds-barred humanity heckling global. Nothing puts me in the mood for some ethnic bashing than some good old-fashioned synchronized swimming.

It was none of these things, though.

“Yesterday at the fair,” I started.

“Yeah?” Henry asked, his moustache bristling in trepidation.

I baited him slowly. “I did something.”

“What did you do?” Henry asked in an exhausted sigh, probably realizing that we weren’t together the whole time yesterday and bracing himself.

“Whenever I felt sad, I looked at a picture of Jonny Craig on my phone,” I admitted gravely.

Henry shook his head and continued on his march toward to the kitchen, bent out of shape that I wasted a whole minute of his life when he wasted my last ten years.

“And then it made me feel so not-so-sad!” I giddily called after him.

Right now, I am currently designing my own I <3 Jonny Craig t-shirt. I’m going to wear it to the mall and all the 15-year-old girls are going to want to sit by me in the food court.

Tomorrow is my birthday and all I want (aside from all you tasty people to come to my rollerskating party!) is to know who reads this junk. Lately it’s been feeling a little all for naught, which makes me sad and angsty and because this here is my baby. Leave a comment, don’t be shy! Tell me something about you, tell me why you read this, tell me a band to check out. I want nothing more than some good old-fashioned Internet interaction.

Maybe I’ll even sweeten the pot and give something away to a random commenter. You know how I do. (And by that I mean resorting to bribery.)

The Pittsburgh stop of Warped Tour was exactly one week ago. I’ve wanted to write about it every day since then (even though no one reads the music shit on my blog*) but instead I’ve been floating around, basking in the glow, like Jeffrey Dahmer after masticating his first Hispanic rump roast. Even people at work have noticed a difference—I guess because my smile hasn’t been fake all week. It’s nice that I don’t get made fun of there for going to Warped Tour like I do elsewhere, you know, because I’m supposed to be “too old” for things like that. I have bitterness, can you tell?

(*I’m going to interview Henry about his Warped experience, which will probably be more appealing to people.)

I’ve had my ticket since last December, when there was a holiday pre-sale. That’s how 100%-without-a-doubt I am that I will be attending this thing every year. It’s my Christmas, that one day that gets me through. Henry and I have gone to a lot of music festivals together and I am known to miserably complain about the heat and the crowds, and we almost always end up breaking up. Coachella ’04 was so bad that I actually have large time frames of it blacked out in my mind.

However, Warped Tour is where Henry is pretty good about not being a puckering asshole because he knows how happy that day makes me. (Although this year we did have one or two snippy moments, but they were short-lived and stemmed from the fact that he wasn’t kissing the stage that Dance Gavin Dance plays upon.) And I never complain there. This year, it was already in the nineties at 10:00am when we were standing in line to get in. The heat index was over 100. Even just standing there, I could feel waterfalls of sweat cascading down my back. And I never stopped smiling and giddily elbowing Henry.

August Burns Red

I am a kid in many ways, but let’s face it—being in a pit is not something I can handle these days. I’m pretty content standing a ways back from the stage and aggressive kids, but there are certain bands that I break policy for and try to get as close as I can without putting myself in the line of fire. Of Mice and Men is one of those bands. Henry was originally right behind me, but by the end of their first song, I turned around and he was a few feet further away. By the end of their second song, I could only barely make out his bandanna in the crowd behind me. By the end of their set, I couldn’t see him at all and had to wait for the crowd to clear out.

“Yeah, this was close enough for me,” he said when I found him a few seconds later standing alone, out of sight of the stage, and looking aurally scarred.

I was smashed up against unlimited sweating bodies near the barricade and I know it must have been hot because the sweat never stopped dripping down my face, but the heat was the last thing on my mind. When Austin Carlile said “jump,” I jumped. I almost cried, I was so happy in that moment. Months of stress and tension melted away by Austin’s screaming. This is why I love bands with screaming: it matches what I already have in my head. The other night at work, I tried to explain to Barb the different kinds of screaming. At first she seemed interested, but by the end her eyes were glazed. I could talk about this shit for hours, which is probably why no one ever asks me questions about it.

I don’t hate anyone at Warped Tour, not even that Ginger kid right there.  I’m all Free Love and shit.

My legs were shuddering like sheet metal by the time Of Mice and Men were done. I felt like I was tweaking for real and I couldn’t quit smiling. This is why I keep doing this year after year. I had a conversation the other day on Facebook with an old high school friend who said he’s afraid of the day when he realizes he’s that old guy who shouldn’t be at the show. But for me, I don’t give a shit how old I am. As long as music makes me feel this way, I will keep going. I don’t care if I’m in a fucking HoverRound.

On the way to the next stage, I yelled to Henry, “And it doesn’t even seem that hot out here!” Henry looked at me with full-on incredulity as he panted like a dehydrated pitbull chained out back. What? I felt fine.

It was apparently hot enough for some of the local news stations to do the weather live at Warped Tour, though.

Always the most entertaining merch booth. Love Fueled By Ramen so hard.

If you’ve been reading this blog for more than like, a day, you probably won’t be surprised to learn that the band I was most excited to see was Dance Gavin Dance. I mean, I could have left right after they played at 1:15 and been OK with it. The first thing I do every year after I finally make it through the gates is rush to find a schedule to make sure I don’t miss my favorite bands on the tour that year. I will never, ever in a million years forget the sense of loss I felt at the 2007 Warped Tour in Cincinnati when I ran over to the Inflatable, only to see that Chiodos (this was back before Craig Owens’ head burst open like a pinata stuffed full of fame and megalomania) was the first band to go on at 11:00. It was, at the point, noon. It was also the point where I completely wrote off Christina’s sister, whose fault it was that we didn’t get there on time because she spent a thousand minutes in a fucking WALGREENS before we officially left that morning.

And this is why I go with Henry now. I don’t fuck around when it comes to Warped Tour. I know what I’m wearing the night before. I know when I’m waking up. I know what I’m eating for breakfast and when I’m leaving. And Henry is pretty good about complying with all of this. I will not go with anyone else. I do not cater to anyone else. I run a well-oiled machine that no one wants to fuck with.

Anyway, back to Dance Gavin Dance. Everything else I did that day was planned accordingly around their set time. I mean, I put them even above D.R.U.G.S., Craig Owens’ new band, and we all know how much I love Craig (although that love has been starting to wane lately). The thing with Dance Gavin Dance is that they’re not instantly palpable to most people. Adults, especially. Henry hates them (though I think he’s grown immune to them over the years). They have a screamer, but they’re not really all that heavy, musically. They have an extremely underrated drummer and guitarist. They’re definitely not metal, and lately they’ve kind of veered toward the prog-rock scope of things, with even slight hints of funk here and there. They’re kind of frenetic, which I think must appeal to me on a subconscious level, because it feels like what my brain would sound like if it could talk: schizophrenic. How else can I explain Dance Gavin Dance?

Oh yeah. Jonny Craig, provider of clean vocals and a million scene teen-heartthrob fantasies. If it were up to me, my entire bedroom would be covered in Jonny Craig posters, but it’s Henry’s room too and I actually do have a small ounce of respect for him somewhere. (You’d never know it by the way I’ve made him keep all of his belongings in boxes stored in the attic, basement and garage since he moved in with me in 2002. He claims this is convenient for him because when he eventually leaves me, everything but his clothes will already be packed, and he doesn’t really have much of those considering I’ve thrown 80% of his sock collection in the garbage.) A ginger has never been so hot to me before, but I blame this solely on the fact that he has a voice specifically designed to hit the g-spot and he’s a huge douchebag. That love/hate thing is hot. And really, what girl doesn’t secretly wish to be treated like shit.

Sometimes I worry that Jonny’s voice is going to get me pregnant.

(I just literally spent the next 6 minutes staring through the computer screen, thinking about Jonny Craig. These things happen when Henry isn’t here to keep me in check.)

Um, OK. So Dance Gavin Dance played on one of the stages under the ampitheater, which was hugely displeasing to me. Those stages are hard to get close to because there is very little empty space before the seating starts and I definitely don’t like the sensation of being trapped, so Henry and I grabbed seats a few rows back. I wasn’t able to get any pictures but I also wasn’t really worrying about my camera considering I was barely able to keep myself upright when they started playing.

There is one word that Jonny sings that inexplicably makes me fold in half and crumble into a pile of pheromones and Erin Luvs Jonny notebook graffiti: “Wonder.” I have no idea what it is about the way that word slides off his tongue, but I grip Henry so hard every time and smother my annoying sex sounds into his bicep, while he shrugs away from me disgustedly.

Can you sense a theme here?
Dance Gavin Dance disgusts Henry.
Erin disgusts Henry
Erin listening to Dance Gavin Dance drowns Henry in a barrel of his own filthy disgust.

I tried to get Henry to fist pump during “Turn Off the Lights, I’m Watching Back to the Future,” but he fought me. In the end, his pocket-stuffed hand won. We had a brief argument afterward because I was mad at him for not paying attention to them (he kept looking over his shoulder during their set, which is the rudest) and he was all, “I STOOD UP FOR THE WHOLE THING DIDN’T I” and I guess that’s progress considering he’s old and prone to collapsing spontaneously. Every time Jonny would talk between songs, Henry’s mouth would creep into that same exact disgusted sneer that I know so well. Jonny and I must definitely be meant to be if we both inspire the same look of appallation from Henry.

“I think his eyes got closer together,” Henry yelled at one point. And: “I don’t like how he keeps touching his crotch.” That’s because in Henry’s eyes, Jonny Craig is a predator. If it wasn’t 1,000 degrees, Henry probably would have protectively draped his arm around me.

Never before has a man made me want to vomit and swoon in tandem. Oh, Jonny Craig. You’re so sleazy but with 6 condoms, a before-and-after dip in a Purell pool and doctor’s proof you at least don’t have AIDS, I would 99.9% do you. (And then pray I don’t get pregnant with a ginger baby.)

I never hold my breath when making my friends listen to them, because no one my age ever does and it’s always the screaming that does it. But just try and focus on Jonny’s clean vocals. This is one of my favorites:

For the rest of the day, I would periodically rest my head on Henry’s shoulder and murmur, “I can’t believe we just saw Dance Gavin Dance. I miss them now.” He would give me that sneer, of course, but I know deep down he was all, “OMG I JUST SAW JONNY CRAIG. KEEP YOUR COMPOSURE, HANK, YOU OLD DOG YOU.”

Terrible Things were not terrible. Coincidentally, I used their album ad in Alternative Press for the letter “T” day at Chooch’s school. It was a picture of a boy and girl having a tea party. (With a burning house in the background.)

Would have bought Henry a pair for Christmas if he hadn’t DRANK ALL MY MONEY.

It started raining after 5 and everyone fled for cover. Henry and I stayed at the front of the stage and continued watching Sharks. It’s just rain, you guys. These people complained all day about the heat and had no problem getting drenched at the misting stations, but when nature provides relief? OMG run. The rain only lasted for about a half hour and it cut the heat for the rest of the day. It was perfect.

Bands we saw that day that no one cares to read anymore about:

• Go Radio (good way to start the day.)
• Grieves with Budo (high point of the day!)
• August Burns Red
• Of Mice and Men
• Dance Gavin Dance
• Big B
• Sick of Sarah
• Sharks (so good)
• Peelander-Z
• A Skylit Drive
• Terrible Things
• Stephen Jerzak
• Larry and His Flask (more Henry’s speed than anything else that day)
• D.R.U.G.S. (Henry was upset that Craig dyed his hair darker. OK, Us Weekly.)
• Moving Mountains
• Middle Class Rut (Henry had this moment of excited realization when they played their radio single)
• The Wonder Years
• Set Your Goals

Set Your Goals came on at 8, and they were the last band we saw that day. During their set, I looked at Henry and started crying. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, knowing it was because it was almost time to leave.  I feel like I wait all year for this one day and it’s over so fast. (If you ask Henry, he will say it’s the longest day of the year.) Being there makes me so happy, breaks down my walls, lets me live. I can’t believe it’s been a whole week now. I wish I could go to every single one.

Oh, and I’m totally getting married at Warped Tour. Just as soon as I find a groom. MAYBE IT’S YOU.

When I launch a new obsession, I of course want to share this with my work friends. For example, the Wacky Worm. I was hoping it would become a wide-spread sensation, culminating in a department field trip to DelGrosso’s, which is a semi-local amusement that has A PERMANENT WACKY WORM, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. Naturally, the Wacky Worm hysteria flopped as far as pandemics go, although Barb very thoughtfully brought me a DelGrosso’s brochure she saw in a State College hotel over the weekend, so that was progress.

Most of my work friends smiled and let me go on about the Wacky Worm, except for Glenn. What you need to know about Glenn is that he is little more than a better-dressed Henry. He makes the same faces at me that I get from Henry on the daily: those judge-y smirks and annoyed frowns. I’m pretty sure he thinks I have a mental handicap that went undetected during my interview.

I’m used to this treatment at home, so it’s OK. Glenn and I are still friends.

Regarding the Wacky Worm, I believe Glenn’s reaction was, “WTF is wrong with you?” And then when I showed him a picture of it and asked, “See? Doesn’t it look awesome?” he very dryly said, “No. Not really.”

He was equally unimpressed with my Wacky Worm t-shirt design. “Does it come with a helmet?” he asked with a very Henry-iffic smugness.

“Obviously that means you want one,” I provoked.

“I’m pretty sure people would get the wrong idea if I wore that,” Glenn laughed.

“Why, because it’s pink?” Sometimes I’m not that quick.

“Uh, no. Because of what it says.” He even used the same “I’m talking to a child” tone that Henry has patented.

Glenn should have just kept his mouth shut, because from that moment on my mind was in full-blown revenge mode.

Yesterday at work, I had Barb and Nina stall Glenn near my desk so I could take a covert picture of him. (Although I don’t feel I was very covert about it. We made eye contact at least four times but he didn’t seem to catch on. Probably because he’s used to me huddled at my desk, laughing alone and looking suspicious.)

This morning, I made a new Wacky Worm graphic. I’m printing a bunch out and plastering them around Glenn’s desk. (This is why I don’t ever get important shit done.)

Nobody puts Wacky Worm in the corner.

[ETA: It is now the end of October and Glenn still proudly has his Wacky Worm postcards taped to the front of his desk like they’re pictures of his kids.]

Pretty much everything this week will be “[       ]: Warped Tour Edition” because I just lived my favorite day of the year last Friday. So either pretend you care or come back next week, I guess. I know, it sucks. But I’m just so happy, you guys!

Waiting for the doors to open. I make Henry get there super early every year because I have anxiety ever since the time in 2007 I relied on some douchebag (read: ex-bff Christina’s retarded sister) to get there on time, which we did not and I missed motherfucking CHIODOS, whose set time was the same time the doors opened. I still have horrible flashbacks to that day.

Of Mice & Men are one of the few bands I’ll fight to get up front for at my old age.

One of the cool things about Warped Tour is walking past a stage and being pleasantly surprised by the hiphop you hear. Grieves with Budo were a high-point of the day.

As close as we could get to A Day To Remember, but I didn’t care. Having 90% of the crowd at one stage just opened up a bunch of other opportunities for us.

See this post to see how THAT worked out.

I keep wanting to write my actual post about Warped Tour but then I get sidetracked with watching videos from it on YouTube. I’m in denial.

I have mucho to write about Warped Tour, much to everyone’s chagrin! I’m also trying to weasel an interview out of Henry. We’ll see how far I can get with that.

I wish my arms were really that skinny.

I’m going to try and follow the rules as much as I can.
1. Link the person back who awarded you
2. Share 7 things about yourself
3. Answer the following questions below
4. Award this to 15 bloggers

Seven things about myself:

1. Randomly-strewn items across my house pull my Bi-Polar Lever. If Henry leaves his socks on the floor, I throw them in the garbage. Bro is 46 fucking years old. He knows where the hamper is.
2. I love jelly on my grilled cheeses.
3. I have a slight problem with anthropomorphism. For example, I hate leaving my shopping cart alone and always try to choose a cart return that has other carts already in it. WHY SHOULD ANY SHOPPING CART HAVE TO FEEL ALONE LIKE ME?
4. Ska is my least favorite genre of music. I think it’s just too happy-sounding for me. You know how people will say, “I like everything but country”? Give me country before you give me ska. In fact, don’t give me ska at all. I’d rather listen to Katy Perry and Jessica Simpson have a yodel-off.
5. I hate Katy Perry & Jessica Simpson.  I’d consider quitting my day job (night job, as it were) to be the president of their hate club. FOR FREE.
6. For a minute in high school, I considered going to college for sit-com writing. Instead, I dropped out of high school. Look how awesome I turned out.
7. I have a pretty sizeable inferiority complex.

Questions:
Name your favorite color-
purple, pink, puke

Name your favorite song-
This is an impossible question. Damn you for asking it. But let’s just say this morning I turned up the radio real loud because a commercial for a restaurant with “In the Air Tonight” was playing in the background.

Name your favorite dessert-
All of it? I don’t know. It doesn’t seem very fair to pick favorites. Henry will probably tell me I’m being racist, because apparently being racist is the only thing I excel at. Cherry pie almost always pleases me. But that’s just because I’m racist against all the other berries.

What wizzes you off-
When Henry doesn’t let me wizz him off.

When you’re upset you-
Beat bitches up. In 99.9% of all cases, the “bitches” are “Henrys.” I also break the fuck out of breakables, which is why factories in China make them in the first place.

Runner-up: Listen to screamo real loud and cry.

Your favorite pet-
MARCY, THE BEST CAT EVER. But don’t tell Don, Willie, Nicotina, FRANCIS! or Henry.

There was also that pet orange I had in 10th grade that was a real good pal to me.

Black or white-
OMG WHAT A RACIST QUESTION, RIGHT HENRY??

Mulatto, for sure.

Your biggest fear-
Having to go to Alaska. Fuck Alaska! Scariest place in the world with all that icy water and non-sexy vampires. Also, falling inside of a water tower. Having river water touch my delicate skin. Clearly I’m horrified of water, which is probably why I stink so bad.

best feature-
Being so obnoxious, immature and flighty that people are shocked to find out I’m a mom. In fact, I believe “juvenile” is the most-used word Henry chooses to describe me. Close second: fucking psychopathic whore-bitch.

Everyday attitude-
Stay posi.

J/K. That’s for pussies & nancies.

I guess my attitude is STRANGER DANGER. Every time I walk out the door, it’s social fail.
What is perfection-
The Cure’s Disintegration.

Vanilla Pastry Studio cupcakes.

My child during those rare 15 minutes a week he’s not making me regret things.

Guilty pleasure-
MTV reality, specifically The Real World and all the various incarnations of The Challenge.

Uncooked tortellini

Ke$ha, replacing Lady Gaga who just isn’t weird enough for me anymore.

Xiu Xiu

Um, I’m not popular enough to know 15 other bloggers.

stutterbrain.

mrs.evils

the real mean girl

onyx and alabaster

josh

If you are reading this and have a blog, congratulations! It’s your turn.

I finally designed my Wacky Worm (a/k/a The Caterpillar) t-shirt! I bought a nice gray t-shirt today at Target so now Henry has to do the rest. I SLAVED OVER THIS FOR A WHOLE 30 MINUTES!

I know Janna and Corey will probably want one, too.

Christmas is just around the corner, you guys.

(Henry is not impressed.)

When I was a kid, I loved my birthday. And not just because my Pappap spoiled the shit out of me, but because I always had a party. And being a summer baby means pool parties.

My grandparents had an in-ground pool and lots of patio space, so I could invite as many girls as I wanted. We would swim for hours and then my Pappap would grill us burgers and hotdogs while boasting to anyone within earshot about how he was the best griller around. If anyone could turn me back into a carnivore, it would be him.

Afterward, we would all wrap ourselves in towels and go down into the game room, where we would shiver in the air conditioning while playing slots and Pacman.

And if I didn’t want to have a pool party that year, my mom would rent a party room at V.I.P. in South Park where everyone could swim if they wanted to, but most importantly—there was outdoor roller-skating. The birthday kid always got to request a song ahead of time, and two years in a row I chose “Heart and Soul” by T’Pau.

There are a million reasons I miss being a kid. But having my Pappap around for my birthday definitely tops the list.

It hasn’t been the same since he died in 1996. I didn’t really want to celebrate my birthday for awhile after that, just little, simple things with close friends. But during the summer of 1998, I decided it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and I threw myself a birthday party marathon.

It was the best ever! It was FOUR DAYS LONG and different people came each night because that was back when people LOVED me! (And it had nothing to do with the fact that I was the only broad who had her own apartment and a mommy who kept the fridge fully stocked with beer & assorted alcohol). There were so many different people that I made everyone sign a guest book.

It ran the gamut from good, light-hearted fun to Saudi Arabians teaching people how to roll pyramid-shaped joints to fist fights between brothers to reenactments of my hissy fits to one guy wanting very badly to stick his dick in me in spite of my vehement turn-downs to me leaving on the fourth night, completely drunk and in tears, and driving to nowhere really while blasting Foo Fighter’s “Everlong.”

A week prior to my birthday, I had broken up with my boyfriend Erik. There was no real good reason other than as long as I had the title of “Girlfriend,” I couldn’t help all the neighborhood boys use up their condoms.

He came to my apartment on the third day of birthday bacchanalia to give me back my stuff, and with him was his ex-girlfriend who had stalked him the entire year they were broken up. He had apparently gotten back together with her after I dumped him. Also with them was our friend Sergio, who I eventually ended up winning custody of since Erik no longer was allowed to have friends, having gotten back together with his crazy asshole ex.

Erik seemed genuinely sad that day on my front porch. He started to wish me a happy birthday, when the ex-girlfriend snapped and started screaming, “You fucking whore! You dumb fucking cunt! I’ll kill you!” And then she broke away from Sergio’s grip and charged after me. Erik clothes-lined her and dragged her back to his car, shrugging an apology along the way. My friend Heather didn’t even bother to put her shoes before running out the front door, ready to fight this temperamental nutjob who had just threatened me on my birthday. That was the awesome thing about my friend Heather. She was always ready to throw down. I don’t have friends like that anymore.

For years, Erik was the “one who got away.” I kicked myself for dumping him. It was stupid and impulsive (though, so was the way we hooked up to begin with, but that’s another story). Sergio told me years later that Erik had married that broad and had succumbed to a life of emasculation. It was settling at its finest. For awhile, I tried to find him. Searched for him online. Fruitless.

Then I met Henry and forgot about my hunt to get him back. But I still think of him, and that fourth night of my birthday party marathon, every time I hear “Everlong.”

Since then, I haven’t really done anything major for my birthday. A small, poorly attended get-together here and there, but nothing noteworthy.

Then came my 30th. I was sure Henry was going to do something awesome for me. I hadn’t hinted about it, you can’t hint about things to Henry and expect him to catch on. No, I flat out told him, “I want you to have a party for me.” Turning 30 is a big deal, and I’ll tell you what—I was ready for it. I was ready to forget most of the last decade and the toxic people that came with it. Bring on the 30s.

So, my birthday came and went. I spent the day helping my friend Alisha move into her new apartment. It was in the 90s that day, and rainy. Have you ever moved boxes in a rainforest? That’s what I did that day. It wasn’t pleasant. That night, Henry made me a grilled cheese and I watched DeGrassi. I tried not to be a big bitch-baby. He did get me a ticket to see Emarosa and Dance Gavin Dance for that October, after all.

But I wanted a party. It’s not about the presents. It’s about sharing a day with my friends, having them all together in one place (serial killer logic!). I wanted to feel loved.

I waited a week. Maybe he planned something for the following weekend.

Nothing.

Finally I broke down and started asking my friends, “There’s not going to be a party, is there?”

There wasn’t. Of course not. Throwing parties for friends is something I would do, and have done. But fuck me for having lofty expectations of others.

Last year on my birthday, I blogged 24 hours straight for charity, while Alisha sat next to me and whined about the abusive relationship she was in with a married woman, because it was all about her, l the time, always. Never mind I needed to stay awake for 24 hours and write relentlessly. It was all about her.

Even on my birthday. That was the beginning of the end of our friendship.

And for that same birthday, I told that motherfucker Henry all I wanted was a motherfucking black forest cake, and did he think he could handle that? Apparently not, because I got nothing. Not even a CARD. People might think I’m being over-dramatic here, but I think back to those last two birthday fails and I feel like shit. I’m a Leo for Christ’s sake! We want things big. We want our friends to give a fuck. And when they don’t, we at least want our BOYFRIEND SINCE 2001 to give a fuck.

And when he doesn’t? Well, our self-worth kind of gets flushed down the commode like nothing more than a soggy turd.

Which is exactly what we feel like.

So last winter, when I started roller-skating again, I knew. I just KNEW that I was going to take matters into my own hands, like I always have to do when I want anything to get done, and I decided right then and there to stop feeling sorry for myself and stop relying on Henry (joke city) and just throw myself my own 32nd birthday party at the roller rink. And not only that, I was going to rent that bitch out for the night. Do it up proper-like. (Also because I’m so pathetic, I hope that free admission will make people want to come.)

And that’s exactly what I did, so on the night of August 7th, I get to relive my childhood and skate to my favorite songs and if only 10 people show up? Well, then I’m lucky to know 10 people who care enough to want to celebrate my birthday.

And you better believe I’m putting “Heart and Soul” on my birthday mix and telling Roller DJ to give a shout out to the birthday girl before he plays that track, motherfucker.

Oh, and you know what else? My actual birthday is next Saturday and I’m spending it at the Fayette County Fair, which is run by my favorites: Powers Great American Midways. IT IS ALL ABOUT ME THIS YEAR. AND IF I WANT TO FUCK A CARNY, I WILL FUCK A CARNY. I want to be happy, too, you know.

This just happened while I’m stuck here at work. I MISS EVERYTHING!

Can’t wait to hear his Cindy Brady lisp.

Also, I would like to apologize for the lack of substance this past week (not that you expect quality from me anyway).

It’s very hot out theses days (it is summer, after all) which means sitting at the computer inside my un-air conditioned house feels approximately like being coddled by the Sun after slow-roasting in El Diablo’s oven for an hour in a baste of Snooki’s pap smear.

It is hot, moist and disgusting.

My sincerest apologies.

I dragged Henry and Chooch to the Reptile Expo at the Washington County Fairgrounds (worst fairgrounds ever) on Saturday specifically to search for a Pacman frog. I’ve had two in the past (RIP Hubert & Gustav) and have felt the urge to mother a new one. They used to be available in local pet shops but I hadn’t seen any in awhile.

As soon as I saw this one, I knew he was mine. The neon blue dart frogs didn’t have SHIT on this guy. I paid the guy and we left after being there for only 15 minutes. Poor Janna, she drove all the way out there to meet us only for me to say, “OK, got ’em! See you!” And in the parking lot, Chooch decided for everyone that he was going to go home with Janna, so I was like, “Have fun, guys!” and Henry and I quickly left the parking lot before Janna or Chooch changed their minds.

Later that day, we went to Petsmart to get some accoutrements for FRANCIS!’s new abode (which would be much more pimped out if Henry hadn’t vetoed 99.9% of what I wanted to buy) and of course they had a Pacman frog for sale there. Same price, but not nearly as majestic as my babe.

Anyway, all that has nothing to do with my new babe, FRANCIS! (That’s how it’s spelled, all caps and an exclamation mark, and said in an angry, hoarse whisper a la Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.) FRANCIS! has been doing well, loving his new digs (as much as I can tell from his stagnant expression), chowing on crickets. Surprisingly, Chooch hasn’t been shoving his hands in the tank like I suspected he might. I think I successfully scared him by telling him about how Hubert (who I used to sneak into high school with me) used to latch on to my fingers, mistaking them for sausage.

FRANCIS! is a real mama’s boy. I think I might take him to work today.

This is what happens when I’m subsisting on coffee and Slim-Fast in 90 degree weather and Henry is home from work all week. It’s not even funny but my urine is threatening to come spraying out forcefully like my body is a crop duster; I just can’t stop giggling. Henry walked by and frowned. Maybe I need a vacation, too.

Wish you were here.

[Edit: Henry was just standing here and said, “Why didn’t I think of that?” and I thought he was talking about dumping a hooker into the river. Turns out he was talking to himself about a package we need to mail. SO HE SAYS.]

I made Chooch watch the British Open with me on Sunday. Parts of it, anyway. (I actually don’t know anything about golf;  I just really wanted to share with him my inexplicable love for Phil Mickelson.) Approximately 2 seconds in, Chooch had completely peaced out. I believe his exact words were, “Oh my god, STFU!” Let’s just say that me watching golf is akin to me riding the Caterpillar. Lots of from-the-gut yelling and high energy cheering. The only thing Chooch took away from the experience was the word “brouhaha,” which he heard one of the commentators say. Except he doesn’t believe that it’s a real word, but evil laughter.

Later that day, we went to see Thor and in the middle of the movie, Chooch leaned over and hoarsely laughed “brouhaha” into my ear, which resulted in me cracking up after I had spent the majority of the movie shushing him.  (It also made me crack up when one of the scenes was a bunch of  galaxy shots, and when a particularly brown cluster of gross outerspace scenery was shown, Chooch said, “That looks dirty. Like daddy’s poop.” I totally lost it.)

***

While I was at work last night, Henry took his mom grocery shopping. It was raining pretty hard and I guess Henry’s mom jokingly told Chooch she was going to make him get out of the car and walk. (I’m sure he provoked this threat.) Then she said she was just kidding, that she would never actually try to get rid of him, to which Chooch responded, “Mommy would. She tries to get rid of me all the time.”

The boy speaks the truth.

And now if you’ll excuse me, Henry’s on vacation this week and if he thinks he’s going to sleep past 9:00 every morning, well, he’s about to find out how very misinformed he is.

This was supposed to be an ongoing series, but it’s taken me a whole year to make the second one. Sounds about right.

Hey, in other news, those of you who requested a People of Brookline postcard might actually get one soon! Henry is off all week so he can do fatherly things with the kid during the day and maybe I might actually get a chance to do something, anything.

It only took 13 years, but I think Marcy is starting to like me. Lately, when I’m laying in bed pouting (because douchebag Henry and his twatty attitude leave me perpetually suspended in 16-year-old limbo), Marcy pushes my bedroom door open and first, all I see is her big plumey tail, raised and curled up at the end. (This, along with her ferocious bite, is why I call her Shark Attack.) Then Marcy jumps on the bed, wherein she allows me to pet her approximately four strokes before either sinking her claws into me or clamping her jaw around my hand.

But it would feel weird if it didn’t end that way.

She’s my best friend. Even though she’s in love with Henry. She can have him.