Maybe some of you have been around these parts long enough to remember when I (Henry) used to make pendants featuring miniature versions of my paintings and some of my photographs.

We stopped making them because the process was a huge hassle and we would end up losing money on it.

But Henry has since found a method so much simpler, even I can make them, which is what I’ve been doing since Sunday and I’ve only had one freak-out!

I even figured out that if I lay down parchment paper, they won’t get stuck to the table when the resin is drying! I figured that out ALL ON MY OWN!

Almost all of them come with a little storycard and I’m planning on another batch of the larger ones this week with all newer photographs. I won’t be selling these on Etsy again, but probably just right here on my blog as soon as Henry sets up some sort of shopping cart action for me.

$8 for the small ones
$15 for the larger ones
Probably $1.50 shipping within the States.

If you buy one during the upcoming Law Firm Walking Challenge, I can just walk it to your house.

I realize these pictures are incredibly crappy. I’m going to take some with my real camera tomorrow!

By this point of the summer, even I was a little burnt out on amusement parks and fairs, but I couldn’t open the door for September without one last hurrah at the Westmoreland County Fair, which is my second favorite of the summer. It’s much smaller than the juggernaut of the summer fairs, Big Butler, but it gets it done. And it’s a different company that puts it on, so while the rides are fewer, they’re also ones that we don’t get anywhere else.

Like the High Roller, which sadly has not made a reappearance in the last two years and I’m pretty sad about this. That ride is one of my favorites due to its complete ridiculousness.

Seri and Pete joined us with their kids. Seri’s frown of the day is brought to you by the color brown and the letters FML:

• she had lost a high-stakes fight with Pete over what color Henry’s shirt was. (Black, not brown like she had vehemently insisted. Looks like my brother Corey will have company at the Color Blind table!)
  • Although in her defense, her sunglasses made her do it. What excuse have you got, Corey?!
• our kids had staged 4 coups and formed 23 mutinies in the first hour.

Plotting.

There was no High Roller this time around, but the Aladdin was back! I wanted to ride this so badly last year, but it was all sorts of broken. I kept doing random walk-bys during the day last year to get a status update on it, but Henry was like, “Do you seriously want to ride that after it’s been dead all day?” I guess he was sort of right. But no sputtering motor or freak death was stopping us this time around, so Chooch, Seri and I rode and I wanted to mock her children for being too short to have all of the fun with us, but they had departed for the award-winning chicken barn and didn’t seem to be bothered at all by the fact that we were getting our stomachs churned like buttermilk in an Amish cottage.

Colored chickens were the big draw, I guess. Don’t worry, there was a big sign swearing that the chickens were dyed with non-toxic shampoo. It still made me feel sad, though.

The Aladdin is similar to the Music Express, only with less cars and roofless. The platform tilts  when the ride starts and the cars swing like sleighs, or miniature flying carpets, which I guess is the point of calling it Aladdin. Thank god I blew all that money on college else I might not have been able to make that connection. It was relatively mild for a carnival ride, which is how I conned Henry into riding it with me later. That, and that there were small icicles beginning to form in Hell.  The first time I rode it, all the kids were making their cars sway wildly before the ride started, and because I take all of my cues from pre-teens, I started throwing myself into Henry’s side, rocking our car against his wish.

“Stop doing that! You’re going to get us in trouble!” Henry hissed, worried that the carny was going to turn him into their brethren at the Blue Collar Bureau.

“Everyone does it!” I shot back, pummeling my body against his shoulder like a skin-suited battering ram.

Just then, the carny barked, “HEY! STOP ROCKING THE CAR!” which made Henry drag his hand over his face in embarrassment. We were literally the only adults on the ride, and of course we’d be the ones getting chastised.

“Why do you have to do stupid shit?” Henry yelled as the ride finally started, but I was too busy trying to prevent my urine from escaping because I was laughing so hard.

I went on the swings with Pete and Seri, leaving Henry alone with all three kids. I was already irritated in line, because no one was standing in an orderly fashion and the queue snaked out into the middle of the walkway instead of against the ride, so we were smack in the middle of foot traffic. And then some little bitch in front of us started crying because she was too short to go on, and instead of finding a ditch to throw herself in, she just stood there blocking the entrance with her height deficient body so no one could get around her. My patience ran out faster than Snooki’s Vagisil.

Hey girl, sorry you’re too short to ride the Swings at the fair & that you’re crying to your mama about it, but kindly get the fuck outta my 42″+ way so I can enjoy the ride.

My heightism would come back to bite me in the ass in approximately 5 seconds.

I was unaware that the seats were raised at different levels, and I wound up on the Tall People side, which meant my squat chubby ass couldn’t get up into the seat. It was incredibly awkward, and Pete finally had to help me. No, he did not present me with a toadstool to step upon like I had hoped, but he did hold the swing steady for me so I could raise my midget body up into the seat without kickboxing the air like I had been on my solo attempts.

It was a beautiful moment of people of opposing heights coming together, though I am really glad no one has it on video.

Then we enjoyed a block of Destiny’s Child songs and pretended like that never happened.

Thank god Pete stepped in before the carny got to me and hoisted me up with calloused hands dangerously close to my boobs. You can’t see it in this picture, but this particular carny had a humungous goiter-like growth perched on the side of his face, like it was preparing to jettison off into the ether at any minute. I’m sure it plays some part in his molestation games, serves as a decoy and before you realize how long you’ve been staring at it, he’s already led into you into the back of his tinted windowed carny trailer.

More later.

Carey and I were talking just now at work about geocaching, which made me kind of nostalgic for the days Henry and I used to letterbox, which were admittedly not very many days considering we’d fight so heatedly about it that our souls would become torn asunder, tiny, ragged  morsels pregnant with hate, sinking down to Hell for their turn as Satan’s murder-flavored hors d’oeuvres.

Anyway, I felt inspired to re-share our last go around with letterboxing, the pioneer people version of geocaching, and now I totally want to try this again sometime. Like maybe the weekend, unless Henry is going to be a big pussymotherfuckercooze about it.

(Also, get a load of Henry’s Sir Johan hair of 2009. Jesus, Henry.)

—————-

November 2009

Henry and I used to letterbox back in 2004. The definition of  “used to letterbox” can be loosely translated to mean: we did it 2 or 3 times in the span of a month before it made us hate each other even more.

Letterboxing is like the primordial version of geocaching, where you follow clues and natural landmarks to reach a treasure consisting of a tupperware box with a booklet and rubber stamp inside. Letterbox purists make their own rubber stamp to use as their signature inside each letterbox they find. You then scribble the date next to your marking and take the rubberstamp supplied inside the letterbox to stamp your own booklet. It’s kind of like getting a Passport stamped and using it to remember where you’ve been.

Maybe I’m making this up.

But the way Henry and I do it is this: pick a letterbox within Western Pennsylvania, print out the directions, argue the entire time about who’s right and who’s wrong and who should just get pushed into a ravine, find the letterbox and then remember how pointless it is when we:

• a. don’t have our own stamp because I justcan’t find enough time to carve that intricate design of Satan with a vagina
• b. always forget to bring a pen to write inside the booklet
• c. remember that it’s not actual treasure we’re scavenging for

And then it’s always awesome when we’re looking for a box that was planted in 2004 and almost none of the natural landmarks are still there. “Look for the gray bunny standing next to the bubbling brook.” Yeah, sorry, that bunny’s long been filleted and skinned by a serial killer in-training.

But letterboxing is a good poor man’s hobby, and since we are a house of poor (wo)men I thought that maybe it would be something fun to do with Chooch, who only vaguely cared that we were searching for “treasure” and then stopped caring altogether when we passed a playground on the way to the pathetic bounty-hiding park.

I wanted to hug this tree and say, “Don’t worry, tree. I’m po’, too. So much that I had to ask to postpone my art show because I have no money to make anything to, you know, SHOW.”

The first letterbox we found (where “we” is a pronoun for HENRY who monopolized the directions as usual) was on the side of a hill. I’m sure in the summer it’s a cake walk, but autumn’s moist leaves could make an ant hill treacherous. It’s a good thing I have an itchy (camera) trigger finger, because I totally knew Chooch would fall.

I can’t remember the name of the “park” this was at, other than it was in Shaler, PA and it was less of a park, more of a great place to get yourself raped, stabbed, and then thrown over a waterfall. It had a very ch-ch-ch-ha-ha-ha ambiance that I loved/hated. The path was swampy from the rain we got the night before and mama didn’t like that one bit. I’m such an indoorswoman that the tiniest burr on my shoe has me shrieking “GET IT OFF!” And Chooch did just that, calmly wrenching the burr from my laces, but not without giving me an annoyed scowl full of incredulity.

There was a lot of aimless trekking, in search of a path that had two fallen trees strewn across it. We never found the fallen trees. BECAUSE A SERIAL KILLER HAD ALREADY CHOPPED THEM UP TO USE AS FIREWOOD TO FUEL HIS BODY INCINERATOR.

This is my favorite picture because it details Henry abandoning his family. Apparently Chooch and I are “annoying.” I’m sorry, but when you’re deposited within an enclave of trees, you scream as loud as you can. Everyone knows that. The Girl Scouts teach you that. So SORRY if that’s ANNOYING to you.

This was the second box we found. I had to stick my hand under a crappy wooden bridge and yank it out. It was horrifying and I kept waiting for a troll to bite my hand and give me HIV. This was about the time Chooch realized that, what the fuck, letterboxing is a fucking crock.

Henry is a rubber stamp enthusiast and likes to thumb through the booklets to admire all the handiwork. It’s something he got into when he was in THE SERVICE and all his SERVICE BUDDIES were out getting laid. However, I have no idea what that is in the picture. It’s definitely not a rubber stamp, and looks like some crude sex drawing scribbled by a passing-by serial killer.

OVER IT.

This time, I at least had the foresight to bring some of my art cards with me, so I stuffed those in the Ziplock bags. Henry didn’t think it was a good idea, but whatever. He also didn’t like the way I jammed everything back into the baggie, left it unsealed, and then attempted to punch it all back into the letterbox.

So then he would have to yank it off me, take everything out and start from scratch.

I wish he were that precise and anal about HOUSECLEANING and peeing INTO the toilet.

There were a lot of little bridges there. I think maybe that’s why this particular Letterbox locale was called Little Bridge something or other.

Maybe? Yeah? Chooch almost fell off this bridge while I was snapping away. Don’t worry, he probably wouldn’t have died.

On the way back to the car, I was trailing back slightly and kept tapping Chooch on the head. He’s like Henry and has a strong threshhold for ignoring me, but eventually he cracked, spun around and yelled, “Would you stop doing that??

”

“It’s not me, it was the man who was walking next to me,” I shrugged, like it was natural for a strange man to fall into cadence next to me without me screaming my face off.

“Oh, Chooch, we know that’s a lie, because if there was some man walking next to mommy—”

“I’d have run off with him by now,” I finished for Henry.

There was a moment of silence as Henry considered this. “Yeah. I guess it could go that way, too.”

I’m determined to plant my own letterbox someday, probably just in my backyard so I can sit on the porch and wait for idiots to come digging. The directions will be so simple:

• Start at Robin’s Meth Lab
• Walk approx. 100 feet
• When you hear what sounds unmistakably like a murder between brick walls, turn right down the driveway
• Pass the carelessly strewn hypodermic needle
• If you stumble upon a pretentious kerchiefed hipster wearing peddle-pushers and planting carrots in her trendy Devendra Banhart-soundtracked garden, you’ve clearly gone too far. (I really hate the girl two houses up from me, FYI. She is single handedly spearheading a movement to bring back the Donna Reed mentality in women and I’m just not down with that bullshit at all. I hope she rides her fucking vintage wicker-basketed bicycle into a goddamn cyclone that’s en route to 1959 where she can cook a meatloaf for someone who cares and let me stew in my anti-domestic bliss. FUCK GODDAMN SHIT.)

This is in my Top 10 all time favorite songs, easily; I still get chills when I hear it. Henry suffered through many nights of me crying inconsolably every time COLD played this song live. There were times when I considered not going to their concerts because I wasn’t sure if I was emotionally stable enough to handle it.

I can’t explain it! Most people would just write them off as a nu-metal band and be done with it, but ever since the very first time I saw them in 2000, playing on the smallest stage to a crowd of about 50 at Pittsburgh’s X-Fest, I had the air ripped right out of my lungs and they have been like an aural security blanket to me ever since — every so often I just really need to revisit their music to feel like myself again.

But this song. It was never one of their hits (see: “Just Got Wicked” and “No One.” Ignore: “Stupid Girl.”), and it never even really stuck out to me when I’d play their CD, but then I heard Scooter Ward sing the words live at Nick’s Fat City that same summer of 2000, and I remember looking at my friend Shawn and mouthing the words, “I think I might die.”

2:47 – 3:21 is where I usually hold my breath.

“Gave all the vampires back to God [that day]” is the tag line on the checks for my checking account (“Whoa, Wolfman’s got nards” is on the ones I share with Henry – props if you get that reference without asking the good neighbor Google). I have always been utterly fascinated with that line, and Scooter Ward, who happens to be one of the nicest, modest and sharing frontmen I have ever encountered. Twelve years ago, he gave me a Starburst outside of a venue in Hershey, PA and I still have it; I keep it in the freezer every summer so it won’t melt. Scooter Ward is the absolute antithesis of Jonny Craig – he bleeds on that stage.

And besides, how could I not love a band that used to take the stage to the Halloween theme, their guitarist Terry Balsamo behind a Michael Myers mask?

No joke, I went in the kitchen and hugged Henry while playing this song a few minutes ago. Now I’m going to listen to it 87 more times before passing out in a Puddle of Mud. Just kidding — tears.

Here is a new blog series about Henry eating cole slaw.

Episode 1: Eating Slaw at Smoke BBQ Taqueria.

Seriously, when I suggested that this be a series, he frowned (no evidence was captured) and said, “Don’t be stupid.

”

In addition to our tacos, we also shared a side of mac n cheese. “This is almost as good as mine,” I said all dreamily and Henry almost vomited from laughing so hard.

It was actually jalapeño apple slaw, i.

e. the only kind of cole slaw I will be eating for the rest of my life.

Dare I say I had a nice Sunday afternoon with Henry?

I came home from shopping (and touring my old childhood haunts) with Seri* a little while ago to find that Chooch had made me a paper zombie doll and a little note that said “I <3 u Mom.”

And then he made Henry’s tombstone.

Apparently, Henry died from putting on an electric party hat, which blasted off his glasses and the bottom half of his face. What a way to go.

***

I am so exhausted you guys. I really want to just lay down and listen to the new Circa Survive album all night, but I have all these things that I need to work on and plan out and for what? It’s not like it’s my job, but then Henry randomly went out and bought new supplies and said, “Hey, look. I want to make those pendants again.” (Yeah. Remember that pendant bullshit?) So now instead of resting like I really should be doing because my body is screaming, “HELLO, IT FEELS LIKE YOU HAVE MONO AGAIN, DUMMY. HOW ABOUT POPPING A FUCKING SQUAT FOR THE NIGHT?” all I can think about is getting together all the pictures I want to use for new pendants.

So, I guess I will just rest when I’m dead.

But I am still going to listen to Circa Survive all night, too. FYI.

(*Seri told me today in the car that she likes Pierce the Veil now and asked me to bring their CDs over when we she makes paper lanterns for the pie party. She can be my best friend now.)

Yesterday at work, Barb was going through a box of holiday decorating junk that she keeps on her desk for no good reason other than to make people speculate if she’s a hoarder. She started pulling out random Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindoor sundry and admitted to no one and everyone at once that she has a huge collection of this shit in her closet at home.

“What, are you trying to be the next roadside attraction?” I asked. She laughed, but all the while her eyes had this thoughtful, faraway glaze to them like she was actually considering this.

This, among other odd and mysterious cogs in her psyche, made me think that she would make an excellent interview subject.

“Let me shadow you for a day!” I pleaded, but she tried to dissuade me by stressing that if it was on a non-workday, I’d mostly be watching her sleep. “Well then, let me do it on a day you go to the grocery store or something!” I suggested, even though that would be just as boring as watching her sleep, unless she “accidentally” fell into the meat slicer.

She hasn’t agreed yet but she also hasn’t flat out said no, and I do have her address so stalking is always an option.

Anyway, who out there would be interested in reading about what Barb does during the day, how many kitten videos she watches per week on YouTube, and what happened to her as a child to make her hate Bill Paxton so much? I even promise not to call it “The Life of (Barb) Riley.”

***
A little while later, Barb was watching some video on her computer and I got all excited, thinking it was a tutorial on display cases for her Rudolph museum, but it was really just some boring-sounding guy droning on about the screen on the new Kindle.

Who watches shit like that? Perhaps Barb can tell us when I interview her.

Glenn stopped by my desk to spray me with sarcasm.

“I’ll try to work on saying that without laughing,” he said to me, in continuation to a previous conversation.

Barb, who hadn’t caught what he initially said, piped up behind me.

“Say what without laughing?” she asked.

“‘Nice to see you’,” Glenn replied drolly.

I think Glenn would make a wonderful Guest Frown of the Day.

I’ve been trying to give myself a bit of a blogging rest, which is why the last few posts have been mostly photos. It is good to rest the brain here and there, or so I’m told; this isn’t something I do often, but when I start catching myself staring off into space, in complete subliminal shut-down mode, I know that it’s time. This break combined with Chooch being back in school means that I’ve even had time to READ A BOOK.

• I made Henry stop and get me an iced pumpkin latte at Starbucks on the way to work today. “You have one in your building!” he cried in defiance. Um yeah, but it tastes better when Henry gets it for me. His attempt at dissension prompted me to remind him that I don’t ask for much. “I know,” he sighed. And then, “Wait, what do you mean?? You ask for EVERYTHING.”
• There is going to be another Walking Challenge! It’s starts near the end of September and this time it is the ENTIRE Firm, not just our Pittsburgh office. (There are 30-some offices worldwide; so many new ones have sprung up in the two and a half years I’ve been there that I’ve lost count.) My team is almost the same as last time, except Barb replaced Amber². Barb and Carey were the only ones who flat out asked to join my team, which I think is outrageous considering I was #1 in our department (#7 in the whole Pittsburgh office) last time. Barb even caught me screening people on the phone. “Exactly how well did you do last time?” I asked Regina. “Um, I was average,” she admitted. Average? Forget it!
  • Henry said that he and Chooch are going to live down the street at the Comfort Inn until the Challenge is over. Seri claims she is not mentally prepared for this, but it’s not her “mental” that needs preparing, it’s her feet because she’s going to be walking half of this along with me.
• I’m going to see Barry Manilow next week! (Yes, I like Barry Manilow!) Pretty stoked about this, to be honest. Will probably be pulling out my old Manilow Greatest Hits CDs this weekend. Hopefully Henry’s mom will let me borrow something to wear to this.
• All I have been able to focus on lately is the upcoming 3rd annual Pie Party: Third Coming of Crust and this god forsaken 2nd annual Halloween decorating contest at work. I have had that all planned out in my head before last year’s competition was even judged (if you have so rudely forgotten, I owned that bitch last year), but over the last week it has really started to come together and I just can’t wait to get started! It’s going to be a big departure from last year’s installment.
  • If you’re local and want to come to the Pie Party, hit me up for details! It’s always a fun day in the park, porking out on pies.
• In the car tonight, Chooch said, “I always know when a song is Robert Smith* because the voice always sounds sad.” (*It’s always Robert Smith to him, never the Cure.)
• Today at work, Amber² told me she liked my nails. “Thanks!” I said. “I painted them while I was watching The Real World.” I have a really tough life.
• I know I’m supposed to be not caring about blogging right now, but we went to the Westmoreland County Fair two weeks ago and I still haven’t written about it yet and it’s pretty much driving me nutso.
• My brother Corey got a temp job at a law firm across the street from my Law Firm, so he stopped by the other night on his way home to say hello and see my desk in all of its Jonny Craig splendor.
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  One of my co-workers saw him and asked me, “Is this your lover?” That was almost as awkward as the time I was at Warped Tour with Blake and Henry, and some dude asked if Blake was my boyfriend, and then when he found out it was actually Blake’s DAD who is my boyfriend, asked, “Oh. Do you guys ever have threesomes?” That’s not Awkward City; THAT is Awkward Megalopolis.

• Yesterday at work, I totally lost my mind thinking about my old Mexican deaf persona, Manuel. I was laughing alone at my desk so violently, that I couldn’t speak to anyone when they approached me, and one co-worker mistook my laughter for asphyxiation and seemed genuinely concerned. Thank god the Paper Clip Monitor is teaching himself CPR. However, I began thinking about this and my nonsensical obsession with wheelchairs and said to Barb, “You know, I probably sealed my fate. I’m going to wind up deaf and in a wheelchair one day.
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  “

• The zipper was broken on the brand new pair of pants I wore to work yesterday. (Or “slacks,” as the Barry Manilow demographic might say.
  buy dapoxetine online https://myhst.com/wp-includes/SimplePie/Content/Type/php/dapoxetine.html no prescription

  ) Barb thought this was just the greatest thing, because for once, misfortune had shifted from her to me. At one point, I leaned all the way back in my chair at my desk and shamelessly yanked the zipper up like a fat old man. Deaf and in a wheelchair with broken pants. This is my future.

  • My suggestion of Wheelchairs and Hearing Aids as our walking team name was vetoed. So was Praise Ginger Jesus.
    • I don’t even care that Jonny Craig is getting married anymore. He sucks even more now that he’s sober, if that’s even possible.
• IT’S ALMOST OCTOBER. HAUNTED HOUSES. HALLOWEEN. PUMPKIN THINGS. FALL SMELLS. APPLEMANIA!

Today on the way to work, I hosted a dance party in the car to Xiu Xiu’s slaphappy hit song “Hi.” I encouraged Henry to join me in chest-popping, but he opted instead to frown while attempting to merge lanes. Then he tried to camouflage his frown with his lower-middle-class American meatfist, as if you guys don’t know by now what his unhappy mouth hole looks like.

Anyway, listening to that song over and over in the car made me super-pumped to come to work! I even yelled through my giggles, “HOW CAN YOU NOT BE HAPPY WHEN THIS SONG IS ON!?” which Henry replied with a twisted smirk of disapproval.

Today is good.

Tomorrow will be too, because I think I am going to listen to this song and “Call Me, Maybe” back-to-back for at least two hours.

Here is some shit from an old notebook-cum-scrapbook from 1996.

I have no memory of a Steve that I loved. If we went to high school together and you know of this Steve who inspired such block-lettered proclamations, please enlighten me. (Or if you ARE Steve, then heyyyyy buddy, hit a bitch up.)

I REALLY liked Bone Thugs n Harmony.

And Luniz. (My mom had 5 on it, apparently.

)

Lisa and I pretty much kept the Pleasant Hills Denny’s in business. I ate a lifetime worth of caesar salads there and have absolutely no taste for them now.

Lisa probably looked so sad because we weren’t currently listening to one of my famous sex song- and rap-laden mix tapes. I get it, Lisa.

God, I simultaneously hate and miss those days.

As of September 2012, our Chooch is a 6-year-old 1st grader on the fast track to becoming Corey Feldman’s Mouth character in “Goonies.” His rapier wit is practically parallel to most adults I know, which is oft amusing, but mostly mildly worrisome and endlessly irritating.

“I totally don’t remember being this ridiculous when I was your age,” I yelled in defeat Saturday night.

“You probably weren’t,” Chooch answered from the backseat of the car in his patented infuriatingly smug tone.

I now have to bribe him with real American dollars just to take his damn picture. I miss the days of him being 100% at my mercy.

But let’s face it, those days didn’t last very long.

But he sure is good at pulling off an angelic face, that’s for sure. Little jerk.

Surprisingly, this rock was chucked into the river and not at my face. We’re making progress. (Baby steps.)

(And then Henry reminds me that he learned everything from watching me, anyway.)

As much as Henry hates these pants, he was even more relieved that the red ones didn’t come in Chooch’s size. (I only checked one store though, Henry!)

Everyone’s always going on and on about how much Chooch looks just like Henry. OK, whatever. I get it. However, he is otherwise so much like me, it’s almost like a horror movie. Yesterday morning, in the Murder House, he and Henry were arguing about something ridiculous and it just kept getting more and more heated (on Chooch’s end only; Henry continued to calmly make breakfast through all of the huffing and puffing and door-slamming). Finally, at the threat of not getting the Regular Show DVD he had been eying up over the weekend, he decided it would behoove himself to apologize; so he did, but it came out in a “Please call Father Karras and have me the fuck exorcized” snarl, at which point he became even more agitated because he didn’t like the way Henry said, “OK.”

So this started a new sub-fight.

Chooch wailed, “You didn’t say that right!

No wonder why Mommy always fights with you!”

An innocent by-stander up until this point, I piped up and said, “Well, he’s not wrong, Henry.”

“Thanks, Erin,” Henry sighed, sliding a plate of eggs in front of me. I love how he multi-tasks.

FUN FACT: This is actually Chooch’s bed.

Knock, knock Toboggan. Mama’s home.

Henry and I took the day off work two weeks ago with the intent of going to Idlewild. I was unnaturally stoked about this, even going so far as to make Chooch sit here with me and watch YouTube videos of various Idlewild rides. But then, the Monday before this was supposed to happen, Henry happened to go to their website and saw that it was closed on the day we were going.

What the fuck kind of amusement park closes on a Thursday in August.

I was devastated. Of course, this became Henry’s problem.  I’m not the kind of person who is going to sit at home doing fuck-all on her day off.  It was Blame Henry all week long, until I finally got him to agree to just take us to crappy old Lakemont instead. Didn’t want to go to Kennywood again, having already been there once this summer, same with DelGrosso’s. Lakemont just seemed logical.

(And I always forget that two hours is a long way to drive for a park that small, but I digress.)

God, I’m on a ride for two minutes and Henry is already practically sticking his dick in some other broad. Yeah, Henry. I KNOW you were ogling White Tank Top tits out of your side eyes.

Going up the Toboggan tube.

Half-senile guy who sells tickets for the OLDEST ROLLER COASTER IN THE WORLD, YOU GUYS. It costs an extra $2 to ride Leap the Dips, but that money goes to keeping it restored so I’m OK with paying it. It’s worth it to ride it at least once….

…even though I totally broke my back on one of the dips, when I was tossed into the air and landed with a sickening crunch as my spine was accordianed.

Chooch and I had a pretty choleric argument on the bumper cars, because he kept turning the wheel the wrong way which made us go in reverse. I kept trying to rench it out of his hands to properly right us, which made him extremely cross.

“Stop doing that!” he cried.

“Then stop turning it the wrong way! You’re making everyone slam into us!”

“THAT’S THE POINT! THAT’S WHY IT’S CALLED BUMPER CARS! OH MY GOD!” he snarled.

“Yeah, but not by GOING IN REVERSE!

” I countered, yanking the wheel from his hands once more.

By the time the ride was over, Henry walked toward the exit looking like he just had the best hand job of his life while Chooch and I continued to shove each other and bicker the entire way off the ride. Totally frustrating and embarrassing. The whole point was that we were supposed to gang up on Henry, NOT EACH OTHER.

Henry was absolutely miserable all day until this became his view.

It was super-crowded that day.

We took a break from the sun beneath a pavilion for a few minutes, which happened to be just long enough for us to witness the  meltdown of a little boy. Chooch was watching this with wide-eyes, and then said, “WOW.” Yeah, like he’s never done anything like that before.

Chooch is finally tall enough to ride the Round-Up. He kept balking in its presence, but I finally wheedled his masculinity enough for him to finally snap and say, “FINE I’LL RIDE IT! GOD!” Of course, he absolutely loved it and giggled uncontrollably as centrifugal force plastered him against the cage. So then we had to ride it two more times.

I mostly didn’t mind because I was exchanging flirty banter with the ride operator like I was still a slutty 18-year-old at the goddamn fair and not in fact there with my 6-year-old son while our old man sat his hemorrhoids down on a bench and waited.

We left after three hours, which is more than enough time to ride the whopping eight rides that Lakemont houses. The whole way back to the car, Chooch had one of those temper tantrums that he seemed to think was so ridiculous coming from some other kid. Thank god he slept nearly the whole way home so Henry and I got to listen to all of my music in peace.

Prologue:

***

NOW:

Lisa texted me late Friday night and said, “Did you know .38 Special is playing at the Rib Fest this Sunday night for FREE!?” No, I did not know this! And just like that, I now had plans for Sunday night. You’ll never get me to go to something like this unless some relic of the 1980s music scene is going to be spitting forth free jams, like Eddie Money (where I got busted for videotaping, are you kidding me) and Bad Company.

BAD COMPANY!

[A few summers ago, my old neighbor Robin (she’s since moved and life in Brookline just hasn’t been the same) was slinking around her front yard in one of her standard terry cloth tube clothes, to the tune of Bad Company’s Greatest Hits. That was a good day.]

Since Lisa’s husband Matt was going too (an attendance for which he said she owed him), Henry said he would go too so his mom came over to babysit and we actually had one of those date things. Lisa’s friends Carrie and Wes met us down there too, so we had a legit posse which made me feel safe against all of the Steelers propaganda. (It was at Heinz Field, probably the closest I’ll ever get to that place considering my extreme dislike of football.)

At one point, I realized I had meat sweats, which was impressive considering I don’t eat meat.

But if anything was going to convert me, it was going to be the goddamn Rib Fest.

OMG, it smelled so good.

OMG and so many trophies! How can you argue with trophies?!

And then Henry spend $5 on a black cherry old-fashioned soda for me, can you even believe it? I only had to beg him for 10 minutes and then point out all of the other men who supplied their ladies with flavored wets in a tin cup.

Wow, it really was a date, you guys.

And since Henry was surrounded by barbequed flesh, about to see an age-appropriate band, he couldn’t even PRETEND to frown.

Pork samples keep my man placated.

The King of Meat! He was my favorite person there, even after he creepily demanded that Lisa take his picture with me after this. I was like, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly—” but then his meat-hand was around my waist and I was all, “Oh! Ok…”

He made me feel like my cleavage was on point, so I made Henry go back and patronize his booth for some mac n cheese and cornbread.

I just don’t eat enough cornbread, and that’s a goddamn shame.

We soon realized that .38 Special wasn’t coming on until 9:00, two hours later than we thought. So we walked down to Rivertown, where Lisa, Matt, Henry and our waiter Mike held my hand as I took babysteps into beer-liking.

In my 33 years, I have not once been able to drink beer without clamping shut my nose. But a co-worker suggested Summer Shandy, which I just had Saturday night (along with a Lemon Berry Shandy), and while it took me 2.5 hours to drink it, I DRANK IT GODDAMMIT. And it was not too bad.

Mike kept pushing me to get the Woodchuck Fall, but hard cider is always my fall-back when I go to bars and all my normal friends are drinking beer like it’s water. So I got some Belgian white thing which wasn’t very bad but I still had to drink it slowly, and then I eventually just gave it to Henry (after drinking more than a third of it!!).

With Matt and Henry shaking their heads in the background, Lisa let me try her IPA; my tastebuds promptly curled up and died, reanimated and gnawed off the back of my throat.

(I am open to your beer-sampling suggestions, my friends. Just remember that I have a very weak and girly ale palate.)

Since I’m not a beer-drinker, that was enough to get me a little buzzed, so I was even more stoked for .38 Special. Plus, this enabled me to better fit in with my beer-breath brethren.

“We’re going to see .38 Special now, aren’t you jealous?” Lisa said mockingly to Mike the Waiter.

“Actually, I kind of am!” Mike said. “‘I Want You To Want Me’, right?” he offered as proof that he knew who we were talking about.

No, Mike. That’s Cheap Trick.

.38 SPECIAL!!! Oh my god, it was so much fun! The crowd was a perfect cross-section of middle-aged couples reliving their youth, from aging biker-babes now with literal saddle bags to 50-year-old men in polo shirts and khaki shorts clinging to their yuppie-youth. Before the show started, Lisa and I were talking about the last time we them in 1998, and how long ago that was.

“The last time I saw them was in 1980,” Henry said dourly, and we all got a good laugh at his age. Oh god, I hope he wore a Confederate flag belt buckle with his bitchin’ Adidas shirt.

(To give you some perspective, Lisa and I would have been 1.)

Lisa and I were so amped for the first 30-45 minutes, even during the medley of songs we didn’t know. Three songs in, I turned to her and shouted, “I don’t remember there being two singers!”

She just shrugged.

Henry even made physical contact with me numerous times, like we were a real couple or something. It was amazing, but then I realized he probably felt more comfortable doing so at a show where he was part of his own generation.

Then a mid-40s drunk couple drunkenly pushed past us and began drunkenly dancing and copulating through their Coors Light-sloshed boat clothes. I guess Southern Rock is the next best thing when there’s no yacht rock shows going on in town. The woman was unattractive, squat like a troll, and dressed like a nondescript mom. The man had on a white polo and jean shorts and looked like he probably worked for an insurance company or sold swimming pools. They were extremely amusing to watch as they staggeredly gyrated against each others’ clothed genitals, and the woman kept doing these washed-up stripper body rolls which was vomit-inducing in and of itself, but when she dragged one sultry hand down the man’s back, across his ass and then IN BETWEEN HIS LEGS, I had to look away. The look in her eyes was crying out, “PORN DIRECTORS! LOOK AT ME! OVER HERE!” and I felt sleaz(ier) by association.

I started to record this lascivious display, but then they moved on, becoming engulfed by the crowd. I thought it was because she caught me taping them with my phone, but I think they just felt it was time to unleash their classic rock burlesque show on fresh eyes.

This sums up the set list:

WOOOOO ROCKIN’ INTO THE NIGHT!

WAIT, THIS ISN’T STILL ROCKIN’ INTO THE NIGHT? OH, THIS IS ROUGH-HOUSING? WHY DOES IT SOUND JUST LIKE ROCKIN’ INTO THE NIGHT?

WOOOOO I HAVEN’T RECOGNIZED THE LAST 4 SONGS THEY JUST PLAYED!

YESSSS, FANTASY GIRL!!!

OMG, PLAY CAUGHT UP IN YOU, ALREADY.

I DON’T KNOW THIS SONG. That’s because it’s Lynyrd Skynyrd. I STILL DON’T KNOW THIS SONG.

OMFG CAUGHT UP IN YOU!

I WONDER WHICH OF THESE SONGS HENRY LOST HIS VIRGINITY TO?!!?

OMFG HOLD ON LOOSELY!

I also learned that Henry knows A LOT about .38 Special and was answering all sorts of questions for us. Like when there was this somber moment in between songs while the one singer was talking about his brother and then we realized, “Wait…his brother was Ronnie Van Zant?!?” and Henry was like, “Um, yeah!” And then when they sang, “Second Chance” and Lisa and I exchanged confused looks and shouted to Henry, “Wait, this is .38 SPECIAL!?” He said yes, but we didn’t believe him. Lisa was even trying to Shazam it at one point, when Henry sighed and showed us his phone. If GOOGLE says it’s so…

I always thought it was a Steve Perry song. I guess I shouldn’t have made fun of the 21-year-old girl in front of me who said, “And ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’!” when John Burnett from KDKA got on stage and rattled off a number of their big hits when introducing the band.

(I’m still dwelling on this a day later. “But it doesn’t even SOUND like them!” I cried just now to Henry. “That’s because it was sung by their keyboardist!” he shouted irritably, ready to close this chapter.)

Then we were subjected to a five-minute drum solo in a song that was written for the Super Troopers soundtrack, and Lisa and I both started to taper off. But they hadn’t played “Hold On Loosely” or “Caught Up In You” yet, so I remained firmly planted in my spot.

Does a song on the Super Troopers soundtrack (appropriately named “Trooper with an Attitude”) really need a drum solo?

Of course, they saved their two biggest songs for the end. When they sang, “Caught Up In You,” I thought I was going to die. Memories of driving around, waiting for the classic rock radio station to fulfill my request.

(I used to call CONSTANTLY asking for it; one time they played “Hold On Loosely” and I was supremely disappointed, but let’s face it, that song is pretty fucking great too.)

Lisa whipped out her hair brush and serenaded me and all of a sudden I was 18 again, with a 47-year-old man pressed up against me. Yep, sounds about right.

The company was quality, the music was fun and nostalgic, and the people-watching was prime. I really needed that night. After Henry came back from taking his babysitting mom home, he admitted on his accord that he had a lot of fun, and even THANKED me for forcing him to go.

You guys: HENRY HAD FUN.

I mean, of course he did. He was surrounded by smoked meat, Southern Rock, and had a girlfriend who was STILL younger (and with better, less reptilian skin) than most of the other women around that stage. What could have possibly been bad about that? Clearly, we need to add .38 Special to the imaginary set list for our Never-Wedding.

Henry’s heyday, reflected upon his eyeglasses. I get the biggest kick out of seeing him in his own scene.

***

I wondered out loud why it was taking Henry forever to wake up this morning.

Chooch said, “Um, he’s probably TIRED. He was with you for a LONG TIME last night, probably somewhere he didn’t want to be.”

For once, son, you are wrong!

Currently en route to the flea market, listening to the Weeknd, having a mild “Summer’s almost over!” panic attack. Haven’t had the mental energy to write in here the last few days. Nothing major, just trying to enjoy the last of these days before it’s time to pull out the hoodies. (Not that I mind hoodie weather!) So here are some photos from the past week.

Chooch bought me flowers for no good reason (which ends up being the best reason); I decided they’d look best in a vase filled with tops.

As much as I adore autumn afternoons in the cemetery, I’m going to miss how lush it looks in the summer. God, I love the cemetery. I jogged to the Wonder Years there yesterday and even though it was humid as shit, I smiled the whole time. It even smelled like magic.

Chooch has been illustrating a zombie book. This page features a zombie volcano, but don’t get it twisted—that’s blood, not lava.

And lastly, I had this ring made for me and it is the best thumb ornament of all time. So pleased with it.

****
If it doesn’t rain tonight, we are going to the Rib Fest with my friend Lisa and her husband Matt, where we will act like assholes to .38 Special. I hope it happens because I could really use a little throwback right about now.

Hope you’re all enjoying your Labor Day weekend!