A couple years ago, I was in the skincare aisle at CVS with one of my friends.

“We’re going to start needing stuff like this soon,” she said, rolling a small jar of Estée Lauder anti-aging cream in her palm like a Ben Wa ball.

No, I argued. Our grandmas use that shit. We’re much too young! Not even thirty!

Well, now I’m 32, and while my mentality and maturity might still be hanging out with the sixteen-year-olds, my skin is starting to catch up to my factual age. While it’s not exactly a catch-all for wrinkles and liver spots, it’s certainly lost some of that sweet tautness it once knew a decade ago; also factor in the maniac 5-year-old boy I’m raising + all those years on the stripper pole*, and you just know the worry lines are right around the corner.

*(This is A Joke.)

So when my friend Lindsay started selling become beauty products and offered to send me a weekender sample kit, I said why the hell not. Plus, I’ve known Lindsay since high school and she’s never struck me as the type to one day turn into some chirpy Mary Kay hyper-fanatic, cruising around town in her pink Cadillac. So for her to actually be selling these products and raving about them on the daily, well, it piqued my interest because she’s not a bullshitter.

Besides, Lindsay doesn’t look a day over 25 and who the hell wouldn’t want that for themselves?

The kit had a wide range of product samples, from cleanser to toner to eye cream. The first thing I noticed when I tried the cleanser on my face was the smell. It was this delightful, light floral fragrance that was completely free of any of those harsh alcohol or medicinal odors that are commonly added to skincare products. (Remember Seabreeze? That shit doubled as smelling salts.)

As I worked my way through the line of samples that morning, I could actually start to feel my skin rebounding and tightening, and if it was a scene in a cartoon it would have come complete with a boinging sound. My pores looked smaller, too, which sucks for the elves who use them as cereal bowls while I sleep at night.

This stuff is made in Australia and has all kinds of juicy extracts of Jojoba, Australian Daisy, green tea, rosemary and pineapple, which outweigh all the crazy sesquipedalian-esque chemicals which you should never try to sound out in front of a Bulgarian lest you know the safe word.

My main skin issue is that it’s oily; on a normal day, I have the identical sebaceous sheen on my face as someone who had spent all day digging ditches with prosthetic legs in Kuala Lumpur. I spend half my day maniacally blotting and powdering, and I still look like a glazed ham by the end of the night.

The day I used the become samples, my skin stayed supple (yes, I went there) and not once did anyone come at my face with fresh hunks of Italian bread.

Later, Lindsay sent me this little sample jar of Reveal Enzyme Peel. In the morning, I smeared a small amount onto my dry, unwashed face and just started rubbing and rubbing it in until it starts gently sloughing up dead skin, which I could actually feel happening and it’s so cool. I’ve been using it every other day since last Friday and I still have some left, that’s how little is needed. I just used it a little while ago and I literally keep pausing to touch my face. IT IS SO SOFT, YOU GUYS. Piss off, dead skin; go get sprinkled on a cupcake by a cannibal.

My favorite product is the Age Resistant Color Therapy Mask. It comes in two pieces: one for the forehead and one for the lower portion of your face. How convenient! A facial mask that doesn’t get all over your fingers, hair and tentacles! The backing film peels off easily, leaving a thick, viscous orange layer which gently adheres to your face and then, well, that’s it. No need to make sure you evenly applied some gross, sticky gel or stinky clay. Set your timers, ladies; your work is done.

I kept the mask on for 20 minutes and loved every minute of it. Unlike other facial masks, which harden and make it physically impossible to activate any of your facial muscles, this mask flexed along with my face, allowing me to talk, smile and even get in a quick didgeridoo practice. I sat on the couch, delighting in the sweet ambrosia bouquet stuck like gentle leeches upon my face flesh, while relishing the fact that I looked like John Black when his face was wrapped in bandages on Days of Our Lives. (Sadly, today is not the first time I attempted to Google an image of this, and failed.)

(I love a good DAYS reference.)

Just watching some Friends reruns and trying to remember my identity; ‘sup with you?

This mask is, in a word, awesome. I didn’t have to worry about accidentally swiping my hand across my face, leaving it feeling like I just dunked it in a honey pot. And when the 20 minutes was up, I easily and effectively peeled off the two pieces in one fell swoop, pitched it in the garbage, and was left with a face that had the texture of porcelain. No tedious peeling of a now-dry gel mask from my cheeks or trying to scrub hardened clay from my eyebrows and beneath my nostrils. The Color Therapy mask left nothing behind, not even the smallest jelly shrapnel. Literally — all that sweet-smelling glutinous orange putty was gone; my skin drank that stuff faster than Snooki drinks coconut rum.

And it didn’t leave me with that “Just Windex’d” rubber-rubbing sensation when I touched my face like some products do. It was just completely soft and my complexion was positively dewy. I hate using all these beauty product clichés, but my skin honestly felt replenished and hydrated, and there’s just no jerky way to say that.

This stuff isn’t cheap, but if you’re serious about changing your skin, it’s worth it. I mean, I’m a tightwad, and I have totally put my stamp of approval on become. Want to see for yourself? Let Lindsay help you!

(And no, Lindsay didn’t dangle locks of Jonny Craig’s hair in front of my face or otherwise bribe me in any way to write this review other than sending me the aforementioned samples, though I suppose she could have at least thrown in a cupcake. Now I want a cupcake! Without the dead skin sprinkles, please.)

I was sitting here watching “Friends” (I have a rough life) when I heard the UPS man drop a package between the front doors, at which point I then heard a tinny Spanish children’s song cue up. I thought it was the UPS man’s cell phone and started to laugh, but when I opened the door to get the package, I realized it was coming from inside the box.

Whatever it was, I loved it already.

And then, from within the box, I pulled out the most amazing APPLE DOLL.

Jesus, I love it so much. Thank you, Andrea and Amanda! Marcy loves it too!

(Someday I’ll remember to hold my phone horizontally.)

Valentine’s Day is right around the corner, you guys, and I’ve added two new cards for 2012! If your concubine is anti-sap and more into macabre humor, then these cards are perfect for you. Otherwise, go cry to mommy.

Got someone in your sights? Woo them with a card featuring the mug of huggable coed killer, Ed Kemper. The words on the card are his own (though I swapped out “her” with “you/your” to make it more personal).

This could be used as a Valentine, a random note to put the fear of God in your stalkee’s heart, or a reminder to your current mate not to feel too safe.

Because no one knows passion more than a serial killer.

Card is standard size and comes with an envelope, because that’s what Ed would do.

Everyone wants to compare their love to a zombie’s affection for brains, but what about mass nurse-slayer, Richard Speck? Let your loved one know that your adoration for them is on par with Speck’s passion for fine, nubile womanly caregivers. Make someone swoon today, why dontcha. Use it as a Valentine; a pick-me-up; a “Sorry I banged the nanny”; a reminder that yes, you’re still there, hiding behind the bush in the front yard.

The inside is blank in case you want to go ransom note-style on it.

This card comes with an envelope! What a fine world we live in.

Check out the full collection over at non compos cards. And if serial killers aren’t your thang, check out the zombie Valentines!

I haven’t been rollerskating since I dragged a visiting Andrea there last September. We’re always so busy trying to get the most out of the fall weather that we just can’t fit rollerskating into our Sunday schedules. And then comes the fucking holiday season, which is even more manic. All throughout December, I kept saying to Henry, “I just can’t wait for this shit to be over so we can go back to skating regularly.” Thank god for winter! (I never in a million years would have imagined my fingers would type that horrible sentence.)

Henry still has to lace my skates for me. And since Chooch actually wanted to come with us this time, he had to lace his too. I was angry that he laced Chooch’s first. What a fucking slap to the face.

Our absence did not go unnoticed by Roller DJ, who lectured and guilted me from his DJ Booth Throne. He kept reminding me that we could have come out on Saturday nights, but let me tell you something about Saturday nights at the roller rink: They fucking suck and remind me over and over again how much I really loathe the human race. It was a Saturday night when I took Andrea there in September and it was just miserable. There were some cool jammers there, but the ratio of decent humans to fucking idiotic teenagers was way too imbalanced to ever get me to come back. The whole time I was skating, I could just sense that they were ridiculing me,  like  I was in a bad anti-bullying promo on MTV. And then Andrea fell and they really did openly ridicule her.

“The clubs are still open after the Saturday night session is over! Come skate, then go to the club!” he retorted.

Because I really look like a club kid, I guess. Must be those shapeless jeans and hoodies I commonly wear to the rink.

“I usually have other obligations on Saturday nights,” I blurted out to Roller DJ, who was really applying the pressure.

“What’s his name?” he laughed.

“What? Oh my god, no! I’m not talking about a guy,” I yelled.

“So then what’s her name?” he asked under a glaze of chauvinistic slime.

“Goodbye, Roller DJ!” I half-sang, stepping onto the rink.

I really missed our talks.

Chooch seemed pretty perplexed when he saw me loitering by the DJ booth.

“Mommy, who were you talking to?” he cried, probably because he’s so used to me shirking away from even the flimsiest social altercation. I explained to him Roller DJ’s purpose and told him that if there was a song he wanted to hear, he could ask Roller DJ to play it.

“Do you think he’ll play ‘Party Rock’?” he asked all seriously. “Go tell him to play it.” He’s going through a heavy (and alarming) LMFAO phase. I probably shouldn’t have bought him their most recent CD for Christmas, which came with a large temporary tattoo that has been on his stomach for the last week. He likes to flash it at school so his classmates will know that he’s sorry for party rocking.

“I’m sure he’s going to play it at some point,” I said before leaving Chooch in my dust. I had some serious child-slaloming to partake in.

Something happened since the last time Chooch was there in August; I’m not sure what exactly, but it changed him. He actually wanted to skate as opposed to sitting on the bench, draining my phone’s battery. Most of the time, Henry wasn’t even holding his hand on the rink. And he was skating, really skating,  not stumble-walking along the wall like he would normally surrender to. I was so fucking proud. This of course is no thanks to me, because I’m always too preoccupied with skating as fast as I can to be bothered to slow down and lend my child a hand.

Henry is always saying, “Why don’t you teach him? He should learn from you,” clearly acknowledging that I’m the more excelsior skater in the family. But I’m always trying to remind him that I don’t know how to teach someone to skate, since I was born with all of the skillz. No one had to teach me! I just put skates one day and knew.

This always makes Henry roll his eyes. I guess the truth annoys him.

Eventually, Chooch skated over to me and said, with an exasperated sigh, “Fine. Take me over to Roller DJ.” So I led him over to the music booth and Chooch yelled up to him, “Are you going to play Party Rock?” and just his tone alone was priceless, like he was so annoyed that he even had to ask such a stupid question.

“I got it coming on, buddy,” Roller DJ assured him, and Chooch made one more agrivated sigh before skating back out onto the rink. Sure enough, “Party Rock” was the next song to come on and Chooch erupted into this hearty cheer, but then caught himself and bit his lip in embarrassment, like he was ashamed or something. I was like, “No dude, BE HAPPY! CHEER! It’s OK!” It was the most awesome thing ever to witness my kid getting that first taste of music request fulfillment. The music is the best part of skating! I can still remember getting so excited to hear New Edition or Michael Jackson, Tears For Fears or Men At Work when I was in elementary school and tearin’ it  up at Spinning Wheels. Nothing* beats that rush of hearing the first couple of notes of your jam.

*(Except for maybe if Jonny Craig was there singing my jams to me personally.)

(Oh god, Jonny Craig.)

At my birthday party last summer, every single song that came on that night was one of my jams. It was the most amazing skating experience of my life. You don’t go to a regular skate session and get to do laps to Dance Gavin Dance or Billy Ocean. It was such a perfectly schizophrenic mix of music.

And now my kid is finally starting to get it.

Earlier in the skate session, Chooch was sitting at the table right near the refreshment counter and decided quite early on that he couldn’t stand the way one of the employees was yelling “PIZZA!” every time a new slice was ready to be claimed. Eventually, he started mocking her loudly enough that we had to take him back out to the rink. He was SO PISSED about her pizza caterwauling and was acting like an elderly man about it. You have to admire a 5-year-old with balls.

We were in the snack room again when Roller DJ announced that it was time for the next Couple Skate just as the opening bassline of Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings” began pulsating through the roller drome. I lost my shit right then and there, in the snack room, in front of a herd of Orange Crush-stained children. Completely threw my arms up and yelled, “Are you fucking kidding me?” That is one of my favorite slow jams OF ALL TIME and I had to miss skating to it because when Chooch is with us, the term “couple” gets chucked right out thw window. Not that we’re the definition of it when we’re without him, but at least then we can actually pretend to skate close so I don’t have to miss out on cruising beneath rainbow track lights to some hot sex ballad.

When Chooch is with us, we have to forfeit our right to indulge in such frivolous acts of amour because we can’t very well leave a 5-year-old unattended on the bench. I mean, I suppose we could. But that’s not the sort of parental class I want to be a card-carrier for.

So instead, I sit around and stew and make my kid feel like shit for being born all because mama can’t skate to motherfucking Mr. Mister.

Henry was irritated that he’d have to take off his hat at the rink, lest he get the whistle blown on him, so he started practicing taking it off in the car. God Henry, what’s the point of having Kristy McNichol locks if you’re not going to let them flow freely?

The rink ref from my birthday party was there on Sunday. We exchanged pleasant smiles and a quick salutation as we whirled past each other, acknowledging that we did indeed recognize one another, but he and Henry totally bro’d out, slapped each other on the backs, exchanged knowing glances and head nods, acted like this was the sweetest reunion of their lives. Boys are so fucking weird.

It happened during one of the 18 & up skates. Henry and Chooch were spectating from the bench as I skated around with all the other accomplished and capable adult skaters in an indulgent anti-children glory. That’s when I saw him, that bald-headed sweat fountain who kept trying to court me on quads during the last adult skate Henry and I attended last spring. Oh, I wanted to die. I just kept praying he didn’t see me, kept trying to make a beard with my hair to disguise myself, wishing for a lever to pull to open up the floor beneath me and shoot me off to a preferable hell.

Of course we made eye contact and he kept trying to skate up next to me like this was some low-budget student production of Xanadu and we were mere pawns in some greater love story. It’s easy to fall prey to the 1980s fluorescent romanticism of roller skating—Christ, HENRY looks attractive to me out there on the rink—but I was already duped by this flashy jammer once and I was not going to let him reel me in again.

Not even when he did a FLIP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RINK, YOU GUYS.

Didn’t do a thing for me.

Not a thing.

All the little pre-pubescent girls kneeling on the benches squealed in delight though.

Imagine an afterschool special where some Opie motherfucker NARCs on all the cool kids smoking in the roller rink bathroom, starring Henry McNichol-hair as the Opie NARC motherfucker. That’s what flashes through my brain every time I see Henry rollerskating.

I want to write about all the people there I hated, but I will keep it to myself, lest I get another disappointed Tweeter telling me they hope I find happiness someday. I apparently give off the impression that I am very embittered. But now that I think about it, there really weren’t too many people I hated. I mean, aside from the kids, but that’s a given. You are reading Oh Honestly, Erin, after all.

However, there was a lady when we first got there that gave me the stink eye a few times, causing me to say loudly to Henry, “That broad is going to look at me one more time…” which in turn made Chooch stand up, crane his head all around, and yell, “What broad, mommy? That one? Where, mommy? WHAT BROAD, MOMMY?”

Aside from learning that there probably won’t be any adult nights under the new ownership (I am so full of dislike over this), it felt so good to be there again, especially now that Chooch genuinely likes it and even said he wants to have his birthday party there. A bunch of Kindergartners (and Barb) sprawled out on the rink like pins in a round of human bowling—should be a good time.

I’m still going apeshit over apples. I forgot to bring my 7pm apple to work the other night and was absolutely freaking out over it, so the next day, an anonymous apple was lounging on my desk. Turns out it was from Barb, who was wracked with guilt after she got my kid gloves and NOTHING for me.

I would shank an orphan for a cup of coffee, that’s how dependent I am on it. Yesterday, I met my oldest friend (not in the sense that she’s a 300-year-old vampire)  Christy for lunch at Pamela’s. She’s been perpetually late ever since I’ve known her (since we were 4!) but I still left my house on time because I wanted some goddamn coffee. I had already gone through most of a carafe by the time she arrived (she has an almost-3-year-old and 1-year-old twins; she’s allowed to be late, y’all).

Christy—who is also Chooch’s godmother—& I don’t see each other nearly enough but we always pick right back up. I don’t know why this was so funny to me, but she was talking about how she felt guilted into signing up for Build a Bear emails after her daughter built one, and now their updates are usurping her inbox. “I mean, how many bears is a person really going to build?” she said so earnestly that I had to put my head down because I was laughing so hard.

Let it also be known that she chose a Poor Henry pin with NO HESITATION.

This concludes another edition of Wordless Wednesday completely hijacked by my idiot words.

I guess my new seat isn’t too bad.

[Ed.Note: The Juggalo rant is still going strong. Lee asked me to remind him how it even came up and I said, “Because you asked what Henry does for a living and I said he distributes Faygo. BLAME HENRY.”]

Saturday night was the first time ever that Henry and I hung out with Tommy and Jessy sans Chooch. It was a fucking miracle, really. But we left him at home with Henry’s mom, who likely regaled him with tales of alleyway hookers and god only knows what else, while we went off to try and remember what it’s like to hang out with other adults while drinking alcohol.

Or, in Henry’s case: he needed to try to (quickly) remember how to babysit me while we hang out with other adults (one of whom is just as immature as me) while drinking alcohol. In all fairness, I do not remember most of what happened that night, but I do know that Henry had me so concerned about it that I texted both Jessy and Tommy to preemptively apologize just in case it ever comes up in the future.

(They both said I was fine, so fuck you, Henry.)

I love that the meat was placed right next to me.

We hadn’t been there for more than 5 minutes before I had a gigantic glass of wine on my hand, courtesy of Tommy, so by the time Jessy pulled out Quelf and started reading the directions, I was already in a giggly trance. I do, however, remember Tommy saying that all the directions said were “Draw a card. Make fun of Erin.”

Henry had to wear a bib and then snort like a pig instead of laughing. Since Henry rarely laughs unless he’s watching Blue Collar Comedy (a lie, but you’d think it would be true, right?), there really wasn’t too much barnyard bacchanalia happening; but when he did snort, it was fucking outstanding. Since I had already gurgled a good full bottle of wine by the time Henry drew this card, I did not react with the appropriate level of hilarity. Instead, I turned into a giddy 8-year-old on a swingset with a limp-wristed hold of her motor skills and inadvertently kicked Tommy in the shins about 17 times in a row.

Sorry, Tommy.

This was pretty much how I looked too every time I had to read a card. Tommy served me a bottomless glass of wine. I don’t know how I didn’t puke everywhere or completely black out, but there are big chunks of the night that Henry was telling me about which I swear I wasn’t a part of. Like, I don’t remember Jessy purposely making her face up like Mimi until the next day when she posted a picture on Facebook.

Ballerina Tommy.

Pretending he can read.

I think Tommy’s expression mirrored my own at that point.

Henry had to wear lipstick as one of his punishments, like that’s even a stretch for him. He was pretty much like, “Oh thank God this is all I have to do for once.”

My favorite thing that Jessy had to do was stand in a corner and repeatedly say “Thank you sir, may I have another?” repeatedly, over top of the cacophony the rest of us were creating during our own turns.

Quelf is fucking ridiculous.

Tommy was drumming with tampons, but I can’t remember why.

Of course most of my challenges required me to sing and dance. It’s a good thing I suck at both, otehrwise it probably wouldn’t have been very funny for those jerks.

I just kept glugging away. Thanks, Tommy.

I don’t even need liquored up to act a fool, so I can only imagine how obnoxious I was being.

Oh wait, I don’t have to imagine, since I have Henry to remind me over and over again.

I wasn’t sure if I was just randomly wearing this bowl as a helmet or if I was told to. I guess Quelf told me to so I did it. The bridge of my nose hurt the next day which made me remember the bowl slipping down my face a number of times.

I was about to pass out on their couch after somehow ending up outside, which was about the time Henry gripped me by the elbow and asked, “You ready?” but what he meant by that was, “I’m taking your drunk ass home before your set their house on fire, asshole.”

The next day, Henry made some comment on Facebook about how “it’s always a fun night when you have two drunk people and you’re sober.” Except he spelled it “your.”

Can’t wait to do this shit again, you guys!

The sound on this is atrocious, but let’s be real for a minute: I’m not posting this for the song. This is one of my favorite videos to watch on YouTube because Jonny doesn’t look as much like a red neck crackhead for once. (Probably also because it’s from the 2008 Pierce the Veil tour where he was only a quarter of the hot mess he is today.)

Chooch stayed home from school today, and when I showed him this video on my phone, he sighed and half-sang, “It’s peanut butter Jonny time.”

***

Elsewhere in my pathetic existence, I have designed a total of 7 different blog promo cards. Anyone want a stack to help spread the word about some idiot’s mediocre blog? Comment here or email me your address and I’ll send you some: butgavincantdance@gmail.com

For weeks, I was all backed-up with blog posts and it was all, “I can’t wait until I churn these out & get caught up so I can go back to fucking off on here.”

Except that now it’s all, “I HAVE NOTHING TO WRITE! HOW WILL MY IMAGINARY READERS COPE?”

The problem is that I haven’t been doing much this week, which has been LOVELY. My friend Wendy lent me a book and I have actually had time to READ IT. You guys, I’m READING AGAIN! And it has been heavenly.

So to cap off my week of leisure, I will leave you with pictures of my current nail art, an homage to our own Henry.

When he saw his likeness on my thumbnail, Henry mimicked its exact expression without even trying. It was rich.

Then I came to work to find that Barb had bought Chooch a pair of gloves. Why’s everything gotta be for my kid? I WEAR GLOVES TOO.

Highs: Had lunch with my friend Rick today. He threw out some suggestions, but after Square Cafe, he made sure to add that they have Johnny Cakes on the menu. I haven’t had Johnny Cakes since Henry and I stayed at the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast in 2003, but that’s not why I was so quick to choose Square Cafe.

It’s because of Jonny Craig, ya’ll.

Johnny (Craig) Cakes.

 Yes, I have a problem. But it’s OK. I have a support group. Kinda.

Rick tried to get me to order a side of bacon. I’m pretty certain my vegetarian days are numbered. I succumb so easily to peer pressure. This is going to be like the shaved eyebrow incident of 1995 all over again.

Came home from lunch to find Henry home from work and all lounged out on the couch, Marcy in his lap and watching TeenNick. What a life.

Lows: A bunch of us got our desks moved at work today. I’m clear on the other side of the department now, a side I barely visit. Not surprisingly, I am being a pretty big cry baby about this. The upside is that Barb and Bob got moved over here too, and now I’m close to some of my work buddies, but it’s still extremely disorienting and I HATE CHANGE. Oh, I thought I was going to have a heart attack over it on my way up in the elevator today.

This was my old desk right before I left last night. GOODBYE, OLD FRIEND.

Barb has only been at her new desk for a day, and this is what it looked like before she left. It’s actually much worse, but that’s all I could fit in the frame. So at least there was a modicum of normalcy over here.

This is who sits behind me now.

An upside is that I’m close enough to Carey’s office so that when she opens her door (like right now), I can see everything on her computer screen. The downside is that it’s all work stuff.

AND! I just sneezed THREE TIMES which leads me to believe that I am clearly allergic to this new quadrant. And I think my desk is smaller.

Oh well, at least I still have Jonny and St. Rita. And the comforting din of Carey singing in her office.

*(Because these aren’t getting old at all.)

You know what I think is interesting? Henry rarely declines when I say, “Let’s go to [insert city] to see [insert band].” As long as the driving distance is within reason, he will usually oblige, so you know what I think? I think that Henry ENJOYS it. You know what else he enjoys? Answering my questions. So let’s just get right into it.

Me: What style are you going for when you go to shows – Urban Lumberjack, Megan’s Law leisure or Amber Alert athletic?

Henry, looking up from Bakery Story on his phone and twisting that mustache into a snarl: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: Do you mean you’re denying pulling clothes from the Child Predator rack?

Henry: [*crickets*]

Me: What are your thoughts on Craig Owens?

Henry, mumbling and making put-out faces: Same as they were before.

Me, pressing the issue: Did you approve of his hair this time? You seemed concerned about the darkened hue when he was on Warped Tour.

Henry, annoyed that I’m making him think and string words together: It was a little better, I guess. I don’t know. It looked blond. What the fuck do you want from me?

Me, changing the subject so he wouldn’t completely shut down: Let’s talk about your caesar salad. What kind of man orders a salad?

Henry, smirking indignantly: One that wants a salad to eat.

[When asked if it was better/worse than tossed salad, he said better, which leads me to believe that he didn’t understand the question.]

Me: If you actually had a say in what we listened to in the car on the way to Cleveland, what would it have been?

Henry, cutting me off before I had a chance to add “And don’t say anything but Jonny Craig”: Anything but Jonny Craig.

Me: Why didn’t you propose to me during Craig’s set?

Henry, my questions now wearing his face into the visage of a wild Appalachian man: What?! Because I was in the bathroom at the Mongolian BBQ!

[Henry went next door to the Grog Shop and went through the motions of getting a table at the Mongolian BBQ joint just so he could shit on their toilets. He quite literally missed half of the show and I didn’t even notice. And also, nice try Henry. We all know it’s because you don’t even have a ring!]

Me, brushing off the bitterness: Yeah, speaking of, let’s talk about your gastrointestinal hiccups of the night.

Henry: What about it? And why do we have to talk about my gastro—[gives up because he can’t pronounce it]?

Me, trying to get this over with so I could stare longingly at my Jonny Craig Christmas tree topper: Because some people might daydream about your bowel movements. YOU DON’T KNOW.

Henry: WHAT? People don’t…what the fuck are you talking about? You’re so…[goes back to playing on his phone]

Me: When you were young—-

Henry: No.

Me: —did you ever roadtrip for a show?

Henry, disinterestedly: No.

Me, pressing the issue: Not even for Judas Priest or Tone Loc?

Henry, all emphatically: NO. [And then repeated “Tone Loc” to himself and shook his head.]

Me, determined to dig deep beneath the non-descript t-shirts (worn over top of non-descript Henleys now that it’s winter!) for real answers: In your own words, describe the trip to Cleveland.

Henry, looking around confusedly. (Sorry, your mommy’s not here to hold up cue cards for you.): I don’t know. The trip was OK until we hit the snow that you didn’t tell me about. [Ed.note: maybe if he would use his phone for more than playing games and watching porn, he would have been privy to the weather forecast.] Then it became annoying. That was about it until the show and then the trip home which was not fun because I had to drive with a drunk girl next to me.

[Imagine how riveting it would be if Henry had his own blog.]

Me: That’s it?

Henry: Yeah. What else do you want?!

Me: Sentimental stuff.

Henry, repeating my request in a tired tone: My stomach was upset 90% of the time. Sentimental stuff went out the window.

[Or down the commode, as it were.]

Me, poking the bear one last time before we went to bed: Did you see any shows in the SERVICE? Like Bette Midler or Gloria Estefan.

Henry: What? No! You mean USO concerts? No. I did see Cheap Trick though when I was stationed in Texas.

Me, getting unnecessarily worked up: YOU DID? WHERE WAS IT?

Henry, looking at me suspiciously and clearly debating whether or not to answer: In a bar.

Me: [Dying of laughter, smothering myself with a pillow.]

Henry: [Ignoring me and trying to remember what album Cheap Trick had just released at the time of this show.]

Me: [Crying at this point.]

Henry, snapping out of his Cheap Trick glory: IT’S NOT THAT FUNNY. Really, it’s not that funny.

Me: Was that the show where you pushed over someone in a wheelchair?

Henry: What, no. That was Ted Nugent, and that’s not what happened.

Me: [Losing it all over again.]

This is what Henry looked like during most of our interview.

I’m going to try and really hone my investigative reporter skills by getting him to reveal what REALLY happened at that Ted Nugent show.

In addition to the Henry pins, I’m making these little promo card things for my blog. It’s 2012 and while I don’t do resolutions (that’s the fast-track to failure, if you ask me), I decided that I want to focus more on the blog this year. No, I don’t want to be “famous,” but isn’t getting people to read this shit the whole point of having a blog? That’s what I thought, anyway, so I’m going to try and do a better job of promoting myself and whatever you call this crap I throw down on here.

I figured people might be more compelled to visit my blog if there were actual reader reviews for them to read. So I made some up. (Although, there are some real ones floating amongst the lies!)

I spelled Cheboygan wrong, I KNOW. GOD.

And here is this one that I didn’t get to print yet. The front is one of the Goofus & Gallant: Oh Honestly Erin-style comics that I was doing for awhile over the summer.

I’m going to be making a shitload of these, each one will be different. If you want a handful, holla at me! And, as always, if you read this, say hello every now and then. That kind of stuff makes my day, really.

***

And while I’m at it, let me go ahead and remind everyone reading this that this is my blog and I have the right to state my own opinions on here. So if you’re some scene-famous singer who didn’t happen to like the review I gave your show, please note for the record that this is a personal blog, not Spin; I’m writing from the point-of-view of a disappointed fan, not a music journalist. Maybe you shouldn’t be trolling Twitter, looking for negative things about yourself. And also, trying to mask your whiny disapproval with New Age advice, “less-than-threes” and smiley faces only makes you look like a desperate doucher with self-esteem issues. And to insinuate that I need to find happiness? Because I didn’t enjoy your solo show? Bitch, I’m not the one who tried to OD.

I’m sorry that I originally felt bad for you, and I’m sorry that I have a painting of you in my house; it will be listed on eBay within the next 24 hours. But hey, thanks for giving me a lot to think about and making me realize that I’m only going to be more ballsy from here on out. Playing it safe is for pussies. I’m glad you found my review and that I obviously evoked a strong reaction from you.

Otherwise, what’s the point of continuing this song and dance?

Chiodos FTW.

I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER NOW.

On December 17th, Henry and I were Cleveland-bound again, this time for the Craig Owens solo show at the Grog Shop. You might know that I have had a long-standing love affair with Craig Owens’ music ever since he was in Chiodos, even though I feel that I’m starting to out-grow him a little bit at a time. (I love his new band, but there is this braggadocian cloud he’s been riding lately that I’m just not a fan of. It’s really hard to explain, because he acts all Kumbaya at his solo shows, but when he’s on stage with his band D.R.U.G.S., I kind of want to vomit into a hobo boot.) Regardless, Craig still has a way of warming my soul so I thought it would do wonders considering the depressed state I had been floundering in.

Plus, all that time to irritate Henry while he’s trapped in the car with me and the constant rotation of Jonny Craig projects oozing from the speakers, making me fan my face? You can’t get that kind of joy in regular therapy.

Henry’s favorite part of the trip was all the piles and piles of snow that began to appear as we drew nearer to Cleveland. He knew that it was supposed to snow later that night, but didn’t know that it had already previously snowed the night before. I did know this and made the mistake of casually saying that I had seen snow pictures from some Cleveland people on Twitter and Henry was all, “YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?” like the fallen snow was code for me taking his mom to get a clandestine piercing.

Apparently now on top of sitting around looking pretty, I have to keep tabs on the weather. I’m so overworked in this relationship.

Getting lost, sliding in snow, PISSED.

By the time we made it to Coventry, we were starving and running out of pre-show time. There’s a Winking Lizard near the Grog Shop and we settled on that, because we had eaten there before and I was reaching that point where I was so hungry that I honestly didn’t know what I wanted and we were about to come to blows. Henry ordered a chicken caesar salad and I honestly did a spit-take. I mean, it’s unusual for men to order a salad to begin with, but Henry? HENRY? BLUE-COLLAR HENRY? I have not once in my life seen this man eat a salad unless it was atop a blood-dripping burger.

“What are you suddenly watching your girlish figure?” I asked him.

“No, my stomach is still messed up*,” he mumbled. So what does he do? He orders a salad and a side of wings. He threatened to make me cry if I took a picture of him and his salad.

*(I still think I brought home some kind of Bavarian virus from the music box museum.)

I felt like living large so I ordered some gingerbread cocktail in spite of Henry’s pursed lips and shaking head. It was pretty much the worst thing I have ever imbibed this side of an egg cream, which made Henry go on a tirade about how I just wasted $6 and I was like, “Jesus, I’ll offer to wash the dishes if your piddly Faygo salary can’t afford a $6 cocktail, go cry in your pussy caesar salad.” It’s just a matter of time before one of us tries to stab the other at a restaurant.

We had just enough time to run down to Big Fun after dinner, which is one of my favorite places to shop in Cleveland. I was hoping to grab some last minute Christmas bullshit for Chooch, but the most annoying people in the world were in there (most of them were probably en route to the Craig show, I’m sure) so I got fed up. I was also going to buy a pair of reindeer ears, because Craig had tweeted earlier that he wanted all the boys at the show to wear Santa hats and all the girls to wear reindeer ears, but then you know what? I got this sudden jolt of self-righteousness and said, “Fuck this, I’m too old to be playing sheep.” So I put it back and got some giant rubber mustache for Tommy and Jessy’s dogs. Next time Craig does something I tell him to do in a tweet, we’ll talk.

Besides, I hate being like other people. I enjoy being the plain old lady at the back of the show. Reindeer ears would only distract from that.

We got to the Grog Shop just as the first opening band was starting. I grabbed us a spot at the bar and immediately began chugging Strongbow. It was either get drunk or be emotionally vulnerable and cry through the whole show. It was bad enough there was one acoustic emo band after the next playing all kinds of wrist-cutting melancholy.

I don’t remember much about the opening band. They were local and their name had something do with Wolves. But the second band, Envoi, came out and I was immediately taken by the singer.

“He is so fucking hot and totally my type,” I hissed at Henry. By this point, Henry likely could have achieved a buzz off my breath alone. I like to slam back some Strongbow, ok?

Henry didn’t respond, so I repeated myself.

“He’s not that hot,” he muttered. At first I thought maybe he was just sulking, but he’s typically a pretty decent wingman so I was confused. That didn’t stop me from tweeting things like, “I can’t wait to date rape this singer after the show, just as soon as I chuck my kid’s carseat out of the backseat.” I mean, I had it so bad that I kept latching on to Henry’s bicep and squeezing, while making purring sounds that probably made everyone around me uncomfortable.

After their set, I kept my eyes on him, willing him to come over to the bar. He had huge gauges and was wearing a slouchy beanie and scene glasses – TOTALLY MY TYPE, RIGHT GUYS? Henry was still frowning over my latest conquest.

Finally, he did end up coming over to the bar, and squeezed in right next to where I was sitting. I was so stunned that I swiveled by seat away from him and mouthed to Henry, “WELL IS HE HOT OR WHAT?” Henry was firm in his stance and said, “No, not at all.”

I quickly spun my head around, letting my eyes scan him just long enough to determine that, oh fuck, Henry was right. This guy was so not hot at all. Not even his sex-voice would have been enough to win me over after finally seeing him close up.

“My eyes are really bad,” I said, returning to my can of Strongbow. At least I know I can still trust Henry as my wingman, even when he wears my pink Delia’s scarf.

Then we were totally making fun of this flapper-wannabe with an angel halo head topper and she totally ended up being with Craig’s “band.” I think she just stood there playing the tambourine. I was not impressed. But before I could find that out, we had to get through two more bands, one of which was My Arcadia, a female-fronted band we recently saw at Warped Tour. I liked them better this time, though I did admit to Henry that I wished the singer was just a smidge hotter. She had good stage presence at least.

Sometime before Craig took the stage, our friend Jason arrived and Henry immediately turned into a sycophant. He’s so ridiculous when it comes to bromances. He practically clotheslined himself against the bar, trying to get the bartender to put Jason’s Boylan’s on our tab.

“Can we go now?”

Craig came out and chose to cover Bieber’s “Under the Mistletoe” as his opening song. I thought it was a joke at first; who wouldn’t? He slowed it down and made it all breathy and serious; I kept waiting for him to stop abruptly and say, “Sike, naw!”

But no. He was serious. This was unironic. I seemed to be in the minority, considering that all the kids in the crowd were going ape nuts over this. I kept frowning at Henry and rubbing my chin, like this was going to help me suddenly make sense of things. It just sounded absolutely ridiculous.

At least the next song was “Lindsay Quit Lollygagging”, and I adore that song so much, you guys. It takes me back to a pre-pregnancy time. But for some reason, I kept finding ways to make everything about Speck, so I started crying, and since I was drunk, it was that stupid half-sobbing/half-laughing psychotic meltdown which usually leaves me wanting to punch people and there just happened to be a group of 4 or 5 asshole chicks next to me who I always see at Craig/Chiodos shows and I’m pretty sure they’re from Pittsburgh and I just really hate them. They do all these horrible exaggerated Glee-movements while drunkenly singing along with flipped-back heads, but this is just when they’re not SCREAM-CONVERSING with each other over top all of the songs.

The last time I felt like fighting while drinking Strongbow was at a Chiodos show in Columbus, only this time it was two jocks standing behind me, talking shit on the Penguins (too bad they won the Stanley Cup a month later, motherfuckers).

Anyway, I think I lost some love for Craig that night. He talked too much and there were times when he was borderline cult-leader up there on that stage. And he’s all “OMG I LOVE MY FANS” to such an extreme degree that it’s almost hard to believe his sincerity. I really don’t like feeling this way! But he leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth now. And also, I paid to hear him sing his fucking songs, not all the kids in the audience. I really dislike that he only sings three words and then gives away the mic.

Meanwhile, Henry’s caesar salad began knocking on the exit door, so he took off for the nearest bathroom, after refusing to poop on the prison-like Grog Shop commodes. I didn’t see him for at least four songs. Which ended up being most of the set, since the Grog Shop double-booked and Craig had to be off the stage around 9. Totally fucking weak. I knew this ahead of time, but I guess I assumed all the other bands would have cut their sets short to give Craig more time. And I also feel like Craig wasted so much of his set on stupid songs.

I really wanted to hear “Bibles and Badges” and we all know it’s all about me.

He did a few D.R.U.G.S. songs (none I particularly care for), “Intensity in Ten Cities” (not my favorite but at least it’s Chiodos), a Cinematic Sunrise joint and a song off the mediocre solo EP he put out a few years ago. Pretty disappointing show, but I was still happy to be out of the house, drunk, and having some quality time with Henry. (I know, right?) And it’s always a treat to see Jason.

At one point, he brought his puppy Charlie out so everyone could say hello and all that did was make me sad again. “SHE’S GONNA DIE SOMEDAY!” I was screaming in my head. I miss my fucking cat so bad.

The last song he sang was “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek,” one of my all-time favorite Chiodos songs. He left the stage and had a bunch of guys hold him up which was cool, but that just made it easier for him to give the mic to the crowd. HI CRAIG, CAN YOU SING ONE SONG IN ITS ENTIRETY? At least let me get a quarter of my money’s worth? Cut the summer camp bullshit, please. He kept stopping during every song, putting his hand behind his ear and screaming “WHAT?” while holding the mic out to the crowd. I cringed every time.

I get that he wants it to be all intimate and shit, but then go for more of a Storyteller’s vibe and DON’T STOP SINGING.

Still, when he left the stage, I turned and walked back to Henry and Jason with my lip all protruding like a TV tray. Jason pantomimed straining to lift it up from the floor while Henry gave me that “Please don’t embarrass me by crying” mustache bristle. Afterward, we hung around and talked to Jason for a little bit before heading back to Pittsburgh, where Henry thankfully only needed to stop twice to tend to his explosive diarrhea.

(I also asked Henry some questions about his night at the show, which I will type up here tomorrow! And hey, don’t forget to tell me if you’re Team Poor Henry or Team Blame Henry!)

New Year’s Eve started off by me coming home Saturday afternoon to a beautiful picture of Speck drawn by my friend Julie. I had no idea she was doing this and I was so touched that I cried. But these were good tears for once. I all but ripped the current picture out of that frame so Speck could have her own home on the wall. I can’t even adequately express my gratitude. Julie, you are wonderful!

Later, my babe and I watched the hockey game together while Henry and Chooch went to the store to get party food. Then Henry came back and walked around, moving all the candles I had just lit because I failed the Flammable course in the School of Life. “You can’t put a flame this close to PAPER!” Fuck, he’s so critical.

I’m not a big New Year’s Eve person; in my history, I have had more disastrous, tear- and drama-filled New Year’s Eve than not, so I’m usually content to just stay home with Henry, doing nothing but making fun of the various NYE bullshit on TV. This year, though, we had a small get-together with Tommy, Jessy, Laura and Mike. It was laid back, devoid of drama and tears, and just nice to spend an evening with some of my favorites.

It wouldn’t have felt right if Tommy hadn’t made Chooch cry eight times in a 30-minute span.

Tommy molded a pink penis out of what remained of the Play-Doh that Janna bought Chooch last week. Chooch NEVER puts the lids on and I wind up sweeping up colored rocks within a week. I hate Play-Doh more than any other toy, except maybe all those Tickle Me Elmo fuckers.

Weener cleavage.

Chooch couldn’t wait for Laura to get there so she could help him with the science project kit she got him for Christmas. You might think having the sweat of strangers rubbed on you in the club is the only way to spend New Year’s Eve, but we made volcanoes and some kind of disgusting yet addicting pink goo that I absolutely could not stop dunking my fingertips in even after it wigged me out to the point of yelping like a girl seeing her first weener on accident.

Earlier in the day, Chooch was being a total fucker so I uninvited him to the party, which made him cry, and this in turn made Henry sigh exasperatedly and say, “You can’t say things like that to him; you’re his mother.” So for 2012, I’m going to buy some Mom Manuals.

After a few minutes of me sitting there, staring at my pink-stained fingertips in some kind of bizarre googly-eyed awe, Henry sneered, “If I had known you’d get this excited, I’d have given you a bowl of cornstarch and water a long time ago.” When Laura first arrived, she asked for a “Blame Henry” pin, but after about a half hour of my antics, she mumbled, “I think I’ll take that Poor Henry pin now.” Turncoat!

Jessy got me an APPLE RING, motherfuckers! A GODDAMN SPARKLING APPLE RING, OH I CAN HARDLY STAND IT! I spent most of the night admiring it; in fact, I even missed most of the countdown because I was so distracted by the glorious rays of crimson light emitting from my thumb. This could have been the perfect engagement ring if someone had been more proactive, just saying. (Operation: Propose or GTFO 2011 was clearly a shining success.)

I drank so much that I was sweating wine. Malachi imbibed his fair share, as well.

At the stoke of midnight, I tore off outside, down the front steps, and embarked on a shortbus journey to the land of inebriated celebrations. I have a vague recollection of Laura, Mike and Henry watching with moderate interest from inside the house. “Good thing there wasn’t any ICE out there,” Henry remarked when I came back inside after realizing I was the only one outside screaming and engaging in some sort of sad jumping jack mutation. Henry is always in Dad Mode, even after drinking vodka all night.

Later, I learned who my real friends were when I drunkenly got a pillow STUCK TO MY HEAD and no one helped save me.

It was a great way to say goodbye to 2011, which was a mostly wonderful year full of new friendships; rekindling old friendships; getting to finally meet my friend Andrea in person; fun trips; JONNY CRAIG; incredible shows; getting to hang out at the Alternative Press offices (this is destined to be one of my favorite memories); amusement parks and county fairs; having my birthday party at a roller rink; and Henry finally dropping some plus-sized, shit-filled baggage. It just sucks that now, whenever I think of 2011, I’m always going to think of Speck dying. But then I just remember all the wonderful friends who helped me through it, and that’s enough to make me smile again. Stoked for all the things I want to accomplish and experience in 2012! Happy New Year, you guys.

(Sorry to get all sappy and introspective. I’ll start being a petulant asshole again tomorrow.)

Me, about Taio Cruz: “Oh, I always thought that was Akon.

”

Mike: “Not quite as high-pitched.”

Laura: “I’m surprised you even know that.”

Mike: “I watched a biography.”

Laura: “No more winter breaks for you.”

Meanwhile, Henry was bristling his ‘stache.