Henry painted the legs and knobs yesterday and was able to put them back on by late afternoon. And that was it! DONE! (Well, except it still needs more coats of Mod Podge plus a hard coat, but I figured it looked done enough that I could put a picture on here and say it’s done and you people would believe me.) We (haha “we”) used a textured black metallic paint for the legs and knobs, but that’s also what’s in the center of the table, so the pictures have a sparkly border to them.

We make such a good team!! I just stand there, arms akimbo, lips pursed, pointing out everything he’s done wrong and then he snaps, “I’M NOT DONE YET.”

The most amazing part to me is that Henry and I made it through three weeks of  this without severely fighting or me flipping the table through the living room window! (The latter is mostly because I didn’t really have anything to do with this project other than gathering Instagram pictures and then doling them out to Henry 10 at a time to ensure they were laid down in an order I approved of. If I had to paste any of the pictures down, that would have been the end of the table, and possibly Henry’s life.)

There are pictures from cemeteries, amusement parks, fairs, the Bayernhof!!!, all of the cats, my brother, Blake, various friends, Warped Tour, Pierce the Veil, and just random moments that I’m happy to have to look at every day. Henry, however, is not amused that there are so many pictures of him, and that just makes me happier! There’s even a picture of the day we were locked out of the house because that still makes me laugh!

Look how magnificent this gold is! I begged Henry to paint our living room ceiling in the same vein, but that proposal was vetoed with a disgusted glare. The other desk-thingie that he’s working on is going to be entirely gold glitter like the drawers. But this one also has doors on it, so I want him to paint those with black, pink and gold chevron stripes, to tie that in with the coffee table. Henry was like, “….what are chevron stripes?” so I showed him a picture and he sighed wearily.

I don’t know how much this project ended up costing us, you’d have to ask Henry since I tend to black out anytime we’re in Home Depot or Lowe’s. But the table itself was literally $10 at Goodwill. I guess because there was particle board in the center and it was coming up on some of the sides and basically looked like shit. My original idea last year was to just sand it down and paint it with chalkboard paint, but now I’m glad Henry was too unmotivated to work on it, because it forced me  to think things out better. And you really have to catch Henry at the right time when it comes to these things. He’s really good at the projects I give him, but it has to be on his terms (which I hate because this is MY kingdom, but whatever). I was so annoyed that it took him so long to finish this table, but he quietly explained to me that he wanted to “not rush through it and get it done right.” Like he was deflowering it, I guess.

My favorite part is that someday, this will hopefully be in Chooch’s house (and not a landfill) and he’ll get to tell his friends and family about the different pictures and then he’ll get tired of explaining things and start directing people to my blog and then maybe my blog stats will spike. That is, if blogs still exist then.

I told Chooch that this might end up being a family heirloom someday and he gave me a look that could make Henry’s basic frown shrivel in fear.

“Dad, why do we have a picture of some weird guy yawning on our table?” future Chooch-spawn might ask.

Chooch, sighing heavily, “I don’t know. Here, just go read grandma’s blog.”

Two down, 87,154 more to go! (Seriously, I want everything in our bedrooms re-done, too. Hahahahahaha.)

I had to walk to the post office this morning to mail a Jeffrey Dahmer birthday card. It’s still summer but damn if it doesn’t feel like fall out there today! I got all giddy and actually meant it when I said good morning to people! Me! Actually delivering meaningful sentiments!

Oh, Brookline, you fancy for fall, huh?

Couldn’t come home without stopping at the bakery for some girly treats to force Henry to eat.

They didn’t have any pretty donuts, so I bought two princess cookies and decided to drag Chooch into the torture.

He clearly didn’t care though.

Then Henry shared his with the true princess of the house, Marcy. I LOVE HER SO MUCH YOU GUYS.

Some of my friends on Facebook were shocked and awed by Henry’s legit smile in this photo, so I decided since Henry’s smiles are like the Halley’s Comet of facial expressions, we should from now on call them Henry’s Comet. No one seemed to think this was a great idea, but I’m doing it and NO ONE CAN STOP ME.

A little bit later, Chooch and I had a movie date at the small independent theater down the street. As we were leaving, Chooch said to Henry, “And you better clean the house.” It was fucking awesome.

We were too early (I’m chronically early) so we stopped at the used book shop next door and bought some Goosebumps and a Choose Your Own Adventure book because apparently I’ve failed at parenting for the last seven years and Chooch had never heard of such a thing.

Rectified.

Then we saw the matinee showing of “Labyrinth” even though we have it on DVD—who wouldn’t want to see that classic flick (and David Bowie’s spandexed weener) on the big screen?

Chooch has seen it when he was younger, so he only vaguely remembered parts of it and seemed 100% captivated; he didn’t even mention Minecraft!

“Um, that almost made me cry,” he said angrily when it was over, and then GLARED at me because I obviously made that movie.

Man, how many girls from my generation weren’t totally entranced by this movie? The first time I saw it, I was at this girl Elisabeth’s house in elementary school, we were making shitty friendship bracelets or something, and this movie came on TV. We were like, “Whaaaaa?? Hold up!” And then completely fucked the bracelet project. I thought Jennifer Connelly was the SHIT and coveted that damn blouse she wore. I’d still wear that.

So, you know…this was just as much for me.

Chooch and I don’t really do things without Henry’s supervision so it was really fun and I was glad that Henry was too lame to want to see “Labyrinth.” It’s probably too high-brow for him, anyway.

Then we raced each other back to a house that Henry was NOT cleaning. And that has been my Saturday so far.

Hey guys, what do you want to talk about today? Bullshit? OK, that’s my favorite. Let’s do it in bulletpoints, though.

• Today, I was walking to the trolley and the air just felt like fall and I was washed over with these obscure memories of when I moved to Brookline in 1999, like how I had this job on the street I walk up every day to catch the trolley and it was going to be so perfect because I could just walk to work everyday and my mom wouldn’t have to pay my rent anymore. I was telemarketing, basically calling people and talking to them about coupons? I can’t remember, but I only lasted a week and the manager tried to withhold my $16 paycheck because I never returned the flimsy red plastic binder she gave me. That company is obviously not there anymore and my mom spent the next 8 months paying my rent until I finally got a real job. My mom was super nice back then. Kind of.
• Today, I had the good sense to be a parent and look at Chooch’s school calendar, which is how I learned that it is black and gold day, and has apparently been so the last two Fridays as well. Oops. So this morning, I was like, “Shit, does he even have anything black and gold?” because he hates the Penguins and I won’t let him like the Steelers, and we all have non-opinions for the Pirates but hey—good job, team! Keep it up! Then I remembered it was Friday the 13th, so I tossed a pair of gold pants at Chooch and said, “Here, happy black and gold day.” Andit’s a good thing I took his picture, because that was how I continued my streak of parenting (not even good parenting, just regular parenting) and noticed that his fly was down just in time. But even I hadn’t, the Facebook Fly Police ticketed me immediately after I posted this:

• As noted above, today is Friday the 13th. I was excited to wear my Jason Voorhees hair fascinator that everyone at work thinks is SO CUTE. Of course every non-Friday the 13th, I see that sonabitchin’ thing laying around. But today when I needed it, it was AWOL. I blame Henry for not finishing the coffee table yet, because I think it’s somewhere in all of that mess. So instead, I wore Chooch’s cat bowtie, because we’re supposed to be sharing it anyway:

• Sometime after thinking it was a good idea to put that Jason shirt on Chooch and then dropping him off at school, it occured to me that maybe not everyone there would think it was a good idea for me to have put that shirt on Chooch. Yeah, I know he’s not in Catholic school anymore but it only takes one person to get all offended at a tshirt taking a small, harmless jab at Jesus. But then I reminded myself that this is why I listed Henry as the primary contact, so what the fuck do I (or Jason) (or Jesus!!) care? I just texted Henry and he said he didn’t hear anything so it’s a good thing I didn’t waste any time caring.
• Guess what I’m doing this weekend!? Well, first I’m going to the dentist, and then Chooch and I are walking to the theater down the street to see “Labryinth” while Henry stays home and finishes all of the projects I’ve been doling out, but then you guys!! Then guess what!? I’m going to practice baking! I just feel very inspired and motivated and I really want to contribute to the pie party this year. And Henry said he thinks I can do it (he’s totally afraid to commit to an answer on that one) and he’ll be there to supervise, so I’m going for it. I also want to make Mexican caramel? I don’t even know what that is. I was reading too many food blogs this week, I guess.
  • I mean, I baked a cake that one time, so I can do this! ….Right? It’s just a matter of getting past the whole “reading a recipe” part. I hate reading recipes! I can’t follow that shit!!
• This has been a really depressing week as far as produce goes. Henry promised we can go to the Asian market this weekend though. If they don’t have persimmons, I might kill something.
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  Or eat Henry’s face. But then I’d have to pick beard-straws out of my teeth.

• I lost two pounds this week! I also rolled my ankle the other day doing one of my Jillian Michaels DVDs and tears instantaneously sprung from my eyeballs. I called Henry later to whine about it and he asked if I stopped exercising after that happened, and simulataneously we said, “No” except that Henry’s “no” was in a stupid mocking tone. But when I hurt my ankle, there was only one last abs segment after that so I was able to keep going since I didn’t have to use my feet, god Papa H!
• Haunted houses.
• I made amends with someone the other day and it felt really good. Scary, but good.
• I e-met this girl who lives in the area, is a year older than me and likes the same music as me. She took her daughter to Warped Tour and Pierce the Veil is one her favorite bands!
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  She seems really cool and I want to ask her if she wants to go get coffee or something, but I feel so ruined by last year’s shitshow with Psycho Seri that I am almost crippled when it comes to meeting people now. That’s not like me and it really sucks.

• Had a wonderful phone convo with my friend Rick today about writing and the possibility of getting a writing group together, which would be really awesome considering I don’t consider myself a writer. Maybe some sort of love will be rekindled? Because most days I feel donezo with this thing.
• I had to get my photo taken yesterday for my drivers license and I unintentionally wore a Cure t-shirt, which made me smile because of CURE WEEK, HOW APROPOS.
  • I don’t know when I started abusing the Caps Lock button but now I fear that I can’t quit it. It’s become a part of me. Although, I do shout a lot of my words in real life when I’m with people I’m the most comfortable with.
• My Philly friends Terri and Christian are coming to town next weekend for a show and I’m so excited to see them! I met them in 2011 at the AP Tour in Cleveland.
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  We were guests of our mutual friend Jason (editor-in-chief of Alternative Press/Boylan’s Root Beer suckler/all-around cool dude), and when he had to leave us alone together at the after party, he was worried there would be blood because hello, hockey rivals! Penguins and Flyers! But we got along really well, even when we talked about hockey, and have kept in touch online ever since. Christian is also the one who encouraged us to take Chooch to see Pierce the Veil last March in Lancaster, because he had been to that venue before and felt that it would be fine. And it totally was! So stoked to see them! (Hopefully Henry puts our living room back together before then.)

• Hold on. I have to make coffee before I fall asleep at my desk.
• I’m back with my coffee but then I remembered I have nothing left to say. Goodbye.

Henry has been OMG so busy because of his job, which means he’s been sorely slacking on the produce tip. (If he were a real man, he’d find a way to multitask, thank you.) Thankfully, Gayle had a spare apple for me yesterday, but after prowling around the department for a little while earlier today, it was starting to look grim. Barb gave me a peach but last time I checked A PEACH IS NOT AN APPLE.

I mean, I’ll eat it though. I wound up with a small bounty thanks to my caregivers here at work:

But then my boss caught wind of my apple hunt and gifted me with a Honey Crisp, so I’m totally content right now.

Some of my co-workers were like, “WTF is up with you and apples, anyway?” and since it’s Throwback Thursday on some blogs, I decided that this would be a good time to repost the story that started it all! Dude, it’s from 10/27/2011, which means I’ve stuck to an obession for almost two years,e ven though Henry was all, “No, I’m not going to buy you an orchard considering you’ll probably hate apples after three weeks.” Well, BOOM, motherhumper! Look at me, still eating the apples after all this time.

*************************

Applegate

10/27/2011

Or: How Barb Found Another Way To Ruin My Life

Or: That Fucking Tomato, The Sequel

Before Barb left work on Monday, she had to go and fuck up my whole world by offering me an apple. I just smiled and said thanks, but what was really happening at that moment was that a vignette of cumulative botched apple-cutting situations began whirring around in my head, my inner-wrists started tingling at even the suggestion of wielding a paring knife, and my teeth were curling back inside my gums at the thought of biting into a whole apple.

Meanwhile the ghost of Johnny Appleseed openly mocked me from above my desk.

It just sat there all night, to the left of me, this glowing red/yellow orb of temptation. If I had been the original Eve, the Bible as we know it (and I don’t really know it) would be drastically altered, because I have a feeling Adam would have been too busy exploring holes with his dick to cut a fucking apple.

We might all be walking around nude right now.

Eventually, I tossed it into my purse, thinking I would just find some way to eat it at home. And by that I of course mean Henry would put a Gerber bib on me and slice the apple into Erin-appropriate wedges.

That night at work, I ate peanuts and Halloween candy instead. Fucking apple.

***

I forgot the apple was in my purse until the next morning and Henry had the audacity to not drop everything and come home from work wearing his produce armor to cut my fucking apple.

“Where did you get an apple?!” he asked, probably thinking I was trying to eat random growths from neighborhood trees again.

Gee, I don’t know, Henry. An old fucking lady brought it up to my cottage window while goddamn bluebirds sang Disney songs behind her.

“Barb gave it to me last night and I put it in my purse! Don’t act like you don’t go through my purse!” I answered defensively, like I was trying to deny an affair with a bait shop owner.

(This all happened via Facebook; look at me, making it appear that Henry and I have real life conversations that don’t take place via the Internet, text, and Post-It Notes!)

Seriously, when will apples shake their stigma? WE NEARLY BROKE UP OVER THIS.

I had people on twitter sending me tutorials but the first I watched said I needed a melon baller and I started to break a sweat because I was pretty sure we don’t have a melon baller and also because I think I used a melon baller as a torture device in a short story I wrote a long time ago.

I decided to just wait for Henry to come home from work.

***

Henry hadn’t yet had a chance to get both feet through the door before I was blocking his path and shoving an apple-fist in his face.

He looked tired and disgruntled.

“Give me the fucking thing,” he said, snatching the apple from my hand. As he disappeared into the kitchen, I heard him grumble, “You’re pathetic.”

Nice to know he worries about my safety and the possibility of apple-induced arterial spray.

He practically frisbee’d a plate of shoddily-cut apple wedges at me before storming out the door to pick up our son, who will have to learn how to cut his own apples if he ever so much as dreams of eating one when Henry is away from the house.

This was definitely the product of a pissed off man with a knife. I call it Henry Sliced the Apple: the shocking conclusion to How Will Erin Eat Her Apple?

***

When I got to work later that day, I regaled Barb with the horrors of what had come to be known as Applegate. I did a lot of hand-wringing to further illustrate the distress her stupid apple had put me under.

“Oh, honey,” she said in her Babying Erin Voice, which you might have figured gets a ton of use.

“You should have just used the apple corer we keep here.”

WHAT APPLE CORER.

I took a picture of Barb demonstrating, so I could look back on it for reference.

That night, Barb left me another apple, the apple corer thing, and an assignment: to try it by myself.

I waited until everybody but the late shift people had gone for the day, just in case I wound up causing a scene. You never can be too safe. My first attempt propelled the apple with great force against the kitchen wall, knocking over the paper towel holder.

(Speaking of the paper towel holder: The roll was empty the other night and I put a new one on all by myself. So now no one can say I haven’t helped out around there.) I think I didn’t have it properly centered because I might not have been paying attention.

My second attempt sent me lurching into the kitchen counter, but I did reach some low level of success. I couldn’t get the blades to split the apple the whole way through and wound up having to break it off the corer thing, but this was a win as far as Things Erin Tries To Do In The Kitchen goes.

Then I happily ate my apple, while saying, “I did this myself!” to everyone who walked by. (And by everyone, I mean just Carey.)

And that is how I learned to cut an apple at work.

(You should see me with an orange.)

My friend Natasha shared a link on my Facebook timeline just a few moments ago:

“On this day in 1990, The Cure released its “Disintegration”-era live album “Entreat” – recorded in London’s Wembley Arena in July 1989.”

I remember it being so hard to find this when I started to really really really like the Cure in the late 90s because it was released as a promotional item. Pretty sure I was still unaware of Amazon in 1999. I don’t even think I was using eBay yet? Instead of relying on the Internet, I relied on my weekend visits to Eide’s Entertainment in the Strip District, where my “Cure dealer,” as I lovingly referred to him, would see me walk in and run to pull out the latest bootlegs and imports that they had acquired, and I would in turn pull out the good old credit card. And whenever there was a new video (always on VHS), it was truly a red letter day. The last couple of times I visited Eide’s, it was obviously a very different experience. As it is with any record store in the iTunes-era.

I love the Cure. I will always love the Cure. But I hate that it is not as fun to love the Cure, as far as “collecting” goes.

Now I can just go online and download what was once considered a treasure to find. I can go on YouTube and watch live videos from Tokyo, the same videos that made people say, “Sweet find!” about my Live in Japan VHS I snagged when I was 20.

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If I can’t make it to Lollapalooza, I can live-stream the Cure’s set from my fucking living room. Technology may have made it easy to be a band’s #1 fan, but it sure as shit took a lot of the fun out of it.

On the other hand, what I think is great about Robert Smith is his lack of an Internet presence. Because not only is there a huge over-share problem with us regular plebes, celebrities in general post so much bullshit on Instagram and Twitter that there is no mystique left. I’ve seen the weeners of half of the metalcore scene thanks to Twitter and the now-defunct Is Anybody Up. But you don’t get that with Robert. There’s still that air of mystery. I can still pretend that Robert’s wife Mary never existed and that he sleeps in a coffin with my picture taped to the top.

My Robert Smith love is very different from my Jonny Craig love, that’s for sure. I would never fly to Australia for that douchebag, that’s for sure.

Anyway, unrelated to any of this, I want to close out my unofficial Cure Week with one of my favorite songs from The Head On the Door, which was the Cure album I was listening to the most during the time I was running around trying to secure travel arrangements to see the Dream Tour in Canberra. Coincidently, the week I was over there was the exact same week Henry started his job at Weiss Meats, the place I was currently employed. So his first impression of me was an empty desk and everyone telling him that I was the “crazy office manager” who flew to Australia “for some band.” Before we started dating, when we were in that awkward “Does he/she like me?” phase, Henry “randomly” made me this elaborate Cure screensaver; that’s when I knew he liked me for real. (God, that’s so dorky!)

Four years later, we were on a plane to California together, destination: Coachella, where the Cure was headlining. Thank god I found someone who could tolerate my hyper-obsessions.

Saturday was all furniture painting, parenting and “Weeds” marathoning. Nothing too exciting there.

Sunday was all ICE CREAM and SUSHI:

Stopped at Dari Delite after making Henry buy girly fabric at Joann Fabrics. Don’t think Henry was all bent out of shape having to go to a fabric store—I was ready to leave after five minutes, but we were there for OVER A HALF HOUR because of Henry’s desire to browse every single aisle. I have no idea why he’s slinging Faygo and not teaching middle school brats how to sew.

We were originally going to stop at some place that has gelato, which I’m a whore for, but I gotta tell you, I’m really into soft-serve these days. Dari Delite’s was good, but I did not approve of their sprinkles. They tasted waxy or something, I don’t know. But it’s not like it was so bad that I scraped them off on the edge of the picnic table. I mean, sprinkles are sprinkles. (I will never call them jimmies.

)

“I was going to get the Monkey in the Middle,” Henry mumbled dejectedly after joining Chooch and me at a table behind the building. We always ditch him at the ordering window because we want him to serve us, you know? I asked him why he didn’t get it and he said because too many people were standing behind him and he got nervous. God, I’m dating an ice cream wuss.

I guess Chooch is really into chocolate milkshakes now or something.

I don’t know what we’re going to do for my weekend splurge once it starts getting colder (yes, “mine.” Those assholes eat whatever they want 7 days a week). I’d say cupcakes, but this is Pittsburgh and good cupcakes are A LOT harder to champion than ice cream, that’s for sure. I’ve had a ton of bad cupcakes in this city (*cough*DOZEN*cough*). Donuts, maybe? I used to not give a shit about donuts, but that’s the beauty of Weight Watchers: pretty much anything made with sugar is something I’d like to eat. Cronut road trip, maybe.

Plus, I could still get my sprinkle fix….

?

It’s just nice to have something to look forward to, OK?!

Sunday evening, Laura and I had sushi and fiery drinks at Yamato.

OBLIGATORY SUSHI PHOTO, OMG. I didn’t post it on Instagram though, so I just lost hipster cred that I didn’t even have.

That’s Laura in the background, bagging up molly.

Went back to Laura’s place to basically sit on the couch with Mike while Laura packed up boxes of books and kept trying to give me things that I don’t need. She DID give me this hot ass rabbit mask though, which she bought for me while she was in Seattle. My old rabbit mask has seen much better days, so I’m happy to have a new one! I LOVE IT.

And then I got new TOMS. The end!

I had just arrived to work yesterday and was loitering around Barb’s desk like I’m wont to do until it’s officially my start time, because god forbid I should be in my office-thing prior to 1:30 and have to answer the phone or something. While I was standing there, an office-wide email went out announcing that one of the Pittsburgh Penguins had arrived at the Firm to deliver the season tickets and have his picture taken with the winner of last week’s raffle, which I didn’t enter because it required me to have to leave my department and venture onto another floor alone, and we all know how awful I am at that. I’m a firm believer in the Buddy System.

The email went on to say that if anyone wanted to check out a Penguin in the flesh, just mosey on up to the reception area on the 28th floor. Maybe you know that I’m a pretty big hockey fanatic. I scarred Chooch for life when the Penguins won the Stanley Cup in 2009 and I was holding him and screaming and he was CRYING. I mean, CRYING HIS STUPID THREE-YEAR-OLD HEAD OFF. He was like, “Put me down, Crazy Lady!” and has hated hockey ever since.

“Do you want to go?” Barb asked, and I was like, “Um, if I don’t have to go alone, then yes!”  So I was running back to my office-thing to get my badge-thing, when Amber2 and Girl-Chris (she’s new and likes weird fruit and owls and My Chemical Romance and has gone to Warped Tour and she feeds me, so we’re basically best work-sisters now) were all, “Hey, do you want to go up with us to see who it is?” And that is how we wound up with a real life stalking posse.

I was so frantic about this though that first I almost forgot to grab my phone and THEN I almost fell when I was running around the corner because my shoe was untied. Barb made me tie it in the elevator.

To get to the 28th floor, we have to take the elevator down to the lobby and go to a different elevator bank on the other side of the building. As we were walking over to that side, we saw some old broad holding her phone up to take a picture. We entered the elevator bank JUST IN TIME TO SEE ONE OF THE ELEVATOR DOORS CLOSING ON MOTHERFUCKING JAMES “ERIN’S PROM DATE” NEAL OMFG. We were joking on the way down that they were probably going to send a 4th liner, and Amber2, who loves James as much as me, jokingly wished for it to be James Neal. And then we laughed because why would James Neal want to come to a law firm. BUT THANK YOU AMBER FOR WISHING IT TRUE!!

So we get into another elevator and proceed to freak out while some random woman stood in the corner trying to pretend she didn’t think we were idiots. When we arrived at reception, I was bracing myself to have to elbow-chop my way though a throng of excited law firm workers, but there were like, 10 of us. When we walked in, James was on the upper level with his cameraman in tow, getting ready to be escorted to a private room somewhere down the hall.

I sent this picture to Henry and he was like, “Nice. Who is it?”

“PROM DATE!!!” I replied, and he was all, “lol.”

It wasn’t the best photo-op, but it was better than nothing! I haven’t been that close to a real life hockey player since 1992! I figured we were going to go back to work after that, but Barb shouted, “Well, he has to come back out sometime!” So we hung around for a few minutes while Barb made us look at these disgusting spiders hanging outside the window and then tried to make up some story about why they like the 28th floor, but thank god JAMES NEAL came back and saved us from Barb’s Nature Hour! We all clapped for him and he smiled and waved and we prepared for him to walk down the steps to our level but sonofabitch if he wasn’t escorted to the elevators on that level.

Barb started running. “Maybe we can get on the same elevator!” she gasped, jabbing at the down button. The door started to open and we all held our breath. But it was empty. I was kind of relieved because I’m not sure I could handle being on an ELEVATOR with the guy. Elevators are pretty much in my Top 5 Most Awkward Locations.

Barb tried one more time before conceding. “They probably have one of those keys so that the elevator will just go all the way down without stopping,” she said, and we all stepped into the empty elevator, accepting that our brush with greatness was just that: a tiny, brief brush from a distance.

The elevator spilled us out into the lobby and there he was, just about to leave through the revolving doors with his cameraman, surrounded by NO ONE. The four us just stood there in a huddle next to the security desk, giggling and acting like basic puck bunnies, which is really so not like me! I love hockey terribly, but I am not the type of person to stalk the players after a game. But it was JAMES NEAL and he is so great, you guys. Just so goddamn great. (And his face is pretty goddamn great too, OMFG.)

I guess his stalker senses began to prickle, because he turned around right before leaving and made eye contact with all of us. Good lord, I can only imagine what we must have looked like to him. A bunch of cats in heat, is my guess.

He smiled at us and I vaguely remember kind of waving back. IT’S ALL A BLUR, OK?

“Do you want a picture?” he asked, and then slowly and cautiously approached us. I don’t know where I got the balls to be the first one to step forward, I think I was operating on pure hockey adrenaline at that point, but then I just stood there in front of him, holding up my phone, forgetting how to even use it.

“Do YOU want to be in the picture?” he asked and I stupidly said, “Oh. OK.” So Girl-Chris tool this picture of me forgetting how to stand next to another human being:

This photo makes me look like I’ve lost zero pounds since January but I don’t even care because JAMES NEAL. I really need to learn how to stand.

I remember instantly perspiring the moment he placed his hand on my back and almost blurting out: I TWEET ABOUT YOU BEING MY PROM DATE LIKE ALL OF THE TIME!!! But to myself I was saying, “Just keep your fucking mouth shut. DON’T RUIN THIS MOMENT WITH YOUR UNINTELLIBLE WORDS.”

It was the longest MOST ROMANTIC 5 seconds of my life, after which I slid into the background and proceeded to have full-body shakes while Amber2 and Girl-Chris had their turns (Barb politely declined the photo op and said she was happy just watching us completely unravel into a giggly puddle of estrogen and pheromones). Then one of our other co-workers walked into the lobby on her way back from getting lunch and was all, “What’s going on? I want in on this, too” and then made me hold her half-eaten foil-wrapped burger while she jumped in for a picture. Yes please, let’s add to Erin’s awkwardness by forcing her to hold a hot clump of meat far away from her body like it’s a bomb.

My face probably bore a striking resemblance to that mound of beef in my hand: one blushing, sebaceous hot mess.

I can’t even remember going back to our floor after that. HOW DID WE GET BACK UP THERE?!

Those ten minutes pretty much rendered Amber2 and me useless for the rest of the day. God, what a great day to work at the law firm!! And then it occurred to me that the goddamn cameraman was all up in our grills, so that was a slight urination on my excitement. I hope that shit doesn’t surface anywhere.

I sent Henry this picture and it took him TWO HOURS to reply. Because now he’s afraid that James Neal is going to come back for me, THAT’S WHY. Yeah Henry, you better be fucking afraid. I heard he’s really into nervously frumpy girls who don’t talk.

(Here, go to this post and watch this 30 second video to know how awesome James Neal is. Oh, and have a good day.)

When I was really little, maybe 5 or 6, I remember my stepdad having parties where there was always a David Bowie record spinning, or Duran Duran, or The Cure, or…Hall & Oats (and I still like them because of this!). My dad wasn’t necessarily a huge fan of the Cure that I know of, but he is definitely how I first heard of them. It wasn’t love at first listen, though. I wasn’t wearing Head on the Door t-shirts to Kindergarten with my hair all teased out. I was still primarily a radio-happy kid who loved Madonna and Michael Jackson and Toto’s “Africa.”

I didn’t own any of the Cure’s music myself until I was 12, when I bought the “Friday I’m In Love” cassette single at National Record Mart. I used to watch a lot of late night MTV in my room then. I can’t even pretend to be cool and talk about all the actual records of theirs that I owned, because by the time I was really starting to get into music, CDs had already hit the scene. Up until then, the only records I owned were T’Pau, Steve Winwood, Flashbeagle and that terrible Julio Iglesias/Wilile Nelson duet. So believe me, even though I was making mix tapes with my little Fisher Price tape recorder, I wasn’t half the audiophile that Chooch is already at age 7.

So even though I owned that cassette single from the Wish album, it wasn’t until I was in my late teens when I actually heard anything else from it (I had to let the gangsta rap stage run its course, OK??); I was immediately taken with “Open” and how, even apart from the lyrics, it’s like listening to someone’s sanity completely derailing.

and the way the rain comes down hard

that’s how I feel inside…

God, yes! That’s how I feel even without the assistance of drugs or alcohol. How relatable are Cure songs to us sad sacks? So on point!

The whole Wish album is amazing, really. Even the oft-skipped over “Wendy Time” lights a spark in me, and obviously “From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea,” during which I have had to force Henry’s hands into the sky the two times we saw the Cure together. He’s so stubborn!

Henry and I went to Cleveland in 2005 to see Circa Survive and I bought this cheap plastic ring at the greatest store ever (Big Fun) because the design on it reminded me of the Wish album cover. It’s cracked now, on the part that goes around the back of my finger, and I barely wear it anymore because I don’t want it to break.

One more video! This one is from Wild Mood Swings, which is actually in my bottom 3 favorite Cure albums, but I lovelovelove this song because there’s a line that goes “It kind of wasn’t quite what I hoped for, you know” which basically sums up how I feel about most everything.

Thanks to all who have been following along and contributing Cure stories and favorites of your own! This has been so much fun, but tomorrow will be the 7th post already! :(

My childhood bedroom was amazing. Deep purple carpet; purple and silver foil wallpaper; furniture set painted by my mom in alternating yellow and purple textured spray paint. I even painted my windowsill and frame in colored stripes. My room was the shit and so bursting with color that, even apart from the typical teenaged angst factor, it was my favorite place to be.

But the house I’ve been renting since 1999 (NINETEEN-NINETY-NINE WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK!?) is blah. White walls. Shitty hardwood floors that were never sealed. Plain furniture. BLAH. And Henry is one of those people who refuses to paint the walls of a house he doesn’t own any color but white. And since god knows when we’ll be able to realistically start looking for a house to buy (although things are looking up now that my student loans are out of default!), the compromise has been to give our furniture a makeover. And Henry is surprisingly doing it without too much bitching.

So, I already posted last week about the $10 coffee table we got last year from Goodwill. Talk about a labor of love with that thing. It still isn’t finished, though it’s really coming along. Henry finally started gluing down the photos on Saturday. It’s not the kind of project that can be rushed, because I don’t want to set my coffee down on a table and find another bubbled area I hadn’t noticed before.

I hope he hurries up though because that green tape is really growing on me and I might change my mind and have him paint a green border. I know you don’t want more work Henry, so chop chop.

We (haha “we”) sprayed sparkly black paint in the center of the table so it looks like all of the pictures have glittery borders and it is goddamn adorable. (Henry’s words, not mine.)

The drawers are all gold and glittery AND I LOVE THEM SO MUCH. But Henry’s all, “NO. IT IS NOT TIME TO BRING THE DRAWERS IN THE HOUSE. LEAVE THEM!!”

The knobs are going to be finished with the same black shimmery paint as we used in the center of the table, and the table legs will match as well.

I was over Laura’s last night and I texted Henry to see how the table was coming along, but he was all, “Yeah right, I’m not gluing a single picture on this without you here.” Because he KNOWS, you guys. I’m very particular when it comes to the order of things.

Meanwhile, we’ve also been working on our beaten up TV stand, which was originally dingy white and made out of fake wood from the Ikea forest. I’ve had this piece of shit table since I moved into this house in 1999 and it is Fug City. So I picked out some lively green paint to give it new life.

We managed to get this project done in less than 24 hours because there was no humidity this weekend and the paint dried amazingly fast. While the second coat was drying, we went to Joann Fabrics (on par with GROCERY STORES to me; god, I hate that place) and I picked out the most Brady Bunch-esque fabric I could find, much to Henry’s chagrin.

Henry opted to not sand out the scratches on the legs of the table, since they were made by the cats. At first I thought he was just using that as an excuse to do less work, but I think he was really sincere and it warmed my stupid heart.

The fabric makes it look pretty, but it’s also functional because it hides all of our cocaine bricks. I mean, electronics.

It doesn’t hide all the shit underneath it though so I guess I’ll still have to actually clean at some point. Gross.

Sorry for the poor quality photos. I was using my phone.

****

The other in-progress project is an old desk thingie that Henry had stashed in the garage, which is going to be solid gold with gold glitter. (I have other plans for the doors on it, though.) Henry was working on that this weekend too, so now every time light hits his face, he sparkles. Gold glitter in his beard, his moustache, his big bushy eyebrows. He’s really looking majestic, you guys.

He said he hopes that when he goes to work today, everyone thinks he did a cabaret show over the weekend. But I hope they think something worse, like that he went to a Ke$ha concert.

Anyway, this is not one of those Pinterest-y DIY blogs, so I won’t be doing product placement or telling you what tools we used. Mostly because I don’t know. These ideas came from my head, yo.

In the early 80s, the Cure found itself with just two members: Robert Smith and Lol Tolhurst. (Lol is the subject of an inside joke I’ve shared with my friend Alyson for years, so I immediately get giggly even typing his name.) Lol moved to keyboards for the series of singles that would become the Japanese Whispers EP, veering the Cure toward a more synthpop/new wave sound which has always appealed to me because I LOVE SYNTHPOP. A Different Drum 4 lyfe!

Because my other Cure posts have been so fucking depressing, I wanted to definitely feature my favorite song from this particular Cure era to kind of lighten the mood. (Even though it’s Sunday and I’m historically miserable and depressed on Sundays.) “Let’s Go To Bed” was intended to be a tongue-in-cheek response to how hyper-sexual pop music was at the time (and three decades later, the joke is even more relevant). I only wish that I could find the original video, because it’s fantastic and Robert is so young and adorable and OMG. But, short of me dusting off my VHS copy in the attic and making Henry find a way to get it on the computer, this generic YouTube video will have to do. HAPPY FUCKING SUNDAY.

(There was no Cure post yesterday because god forbid some jerk 7-year-old should give his mom 5 minutes on the computer.)

My commute to work has definitely gotten noisier since Trolley Driver came back from vacation last week, though the first two days were pretty quiet. So quiet, that I began to wonder if perhaps he was scolded for too generously doling out honks. Then one day, he began hyper-beeping and I thought, “OK, maybe the horn was just broke for awhile.” But then I realized he was beeping at a truck who had ignored the trolley crossing sign and nearly got T-boned by us. That was pretty damn exciting.

But by the end of the week, he was back on track, so to speak. Please, enjoy a video I compiled of my shitty trolley ride to work:

That last part is only a tiny snippet at the maniacal beeping that goes on. For instance, there is some work being done on the tracks right after the stop I get on at, so there have been clumps of port authority workers doing their thing. As Trolley Driver passes them, he beeps—once for every single person. And then he slows to a halt and begins to jovially chide the guys in their fluorescent yellow and orange vests and they look like they’re so fucking exhausted of this charade. Man, I really love Trolley Driver!

But guess what!? There is some stupid broad who is sometimes waiting on one of the platforms downtown and he will idle there with the door open, having a conversation with her, even though she’s not getting on the trolley. This has happened numerous times since I’ve been a regular on this particular trolley, and usually the passengers will start to get vocal because hello, we have places to go! So then they say goodbye and he jingles his little trolley bell (and I don’t mean his weener, but maybe I do) and gives one last little TOOTTOOT before continuing on his way.

This happened yesterday and I realized THAT I AM JEALOUS OF THIS BROAD. Does he like her more than me!?!?

Henry pointed out that he* would probably do the same thing to me if he saw me standing on a different trolley platform. I guess he’s right. I mean, he did shout at me from the backseat of a car while he was on vacation.

*(Trolley Driver, not Henry. God, Henry would probably do a rain dance just so he could splash me upon passing.)

“It’s a Trolley Triangle,” was Henry’s response when I texted him the picture of The Platform Harlot.

I NEED TO MAKE HIM LIKE ME MORE THAN HER.

Should I (have Henry) bake him cookies?! Buy him an airhorn? Get him a Best Beepin’ Trolley Driver mug? Ugh, I’ll think of something.

You know I’m going to be obsessing over this now. I should probably find out his name at some point.

I’m afraid that this is going to be another two-video post. But there is just so much I want to share and I’m having a lot of fun doing so!

Not to come across as some sickeningly depressive sad sack, but today let’s talk about the two songs from the beloved Disintegration album that can make me drop tears faster than Snooki drops her baby.

When I first moved into my current house back in 1999, I was really lonely. Yes, I almost always had people in my house, but in my heart, you guys. In my heart, I was lonely. I was still a year away from meeting Henry, and almost two more away from officially dating him, so I had that sadness that sometimes creeps in when you’re with all of the wrong people for the wrong reasons, like stuffing a bourbon-soaked cotton ball into a cavity-filled molar. So when I was alone, I would spend A LOT of time curled up on these two giant pillows I had on the floor, drinking Manischevitz from a blood-red goblet from Pier 1, and sobbing my dumb fucking eyes out to “Prayers For Rain.” Usually on repeat. But goddamn, did I feel great afterward! Like my heart was all scrubbed out and cleansed.

The drums always reminded me of when Atreyu was approaching the Riddle Gate in “The Neverending Story.”

The next summer, for my 21st birthday, my incredibly thoughtful friend Shawn (aka Mr. Wonka) built the most personal gift ever for me:

I had no idea what the hell it was when he presented it to me. He’s really into smart people things, so I was thinking to myself, “Oh great. A pyramid. Is this some geometric prank on me?” But then when I opened it, a small pot inside the pyramid began slowly revolving while “Prayers For Rain” played. He made that. FOR ME! It doesn’t play anymore, the batteries died I guess, but I will NEVER EVER EVER PART WITH THIS. It has a special place inside my curio cabinet. One of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.

Conversely, the only time Wonka and I have ever fought was on the way back from a haunted hayride in Somerset, PA that same year when he had the audacity to say that Morrissey can sing circles around Robert Smith and I swear to you, I almost cut him. His then-girlfriend tried to change the subject by talking about Fiona Apple, like I give a shit about Fiona Apple, but at least she wasn’t trying to say she sang better than Robert fucking Smith!

I am clearly still fuming about this.

*****

It’s nearly impossible to have a favorite song by the Cure, but I’m pretty sure if I was forced to choose, it would have to be “Same Deep Water As You.” From the opening peal of thunder to Robert’s breathy “and we shall be together,” this song puts me in the most beautiful trance.

This was playing in our house last Saturday night, and I held my arm up to Chooch and said, “Look at the goosebumps.” He looked and then nodded solemnly. He gets it.

But then he walked away because he said I was making him want to cry.

For years and years and years, I have wanted this to be what plays while I walk down the aisle, but at this rate, I guess just use it for my funeral. (You know, followed by “Funeral Party.”)

One of my most treasured hobbies used to be scouring eBay for Cure artifacts. (OK, I still do this sometimes, but it’s not as much fun now that I don’t have Mommy’s AmEx card to pay for my bounty.) Some girl painted the above portrait of Robert for an art class and I had to have it. Henry and I were at King’s Island in Cincinnati the day that the auction was ending, and this was in 2005 so I didn’thave the luxury of hawkeyeing my iPhone every 3 seconds, watching the auction countdown.

So I did it the old-fashioned way: I wrote “DON’T FORGET THE CURE” on my wrist and left the amusement park early enough to get back to Christina’s house so I could place my winning bid. I love the fuck out of this painting and hopefully one day I’ll find a suitable (read: gaudy) frame for it.

I think I won this on eBay in 1999? It was actually delivered to my house on Christmas Day, that much I do remember. It was the best Christmas present ever.

Yes, before I had a Jonny Craig doll, I had a Robert Smith doll. I’m certain I (see also: my mom) paid a small fortune for this.

But my favorite piece in my collection is probably this limited edition print of a self-portrait Robert painted in 1990. At the bottom is a verse from the yet-to-be-released “Letter to Elise.” This print has been hanging over my couch for as long as I can remember and I refuse to replace it with anything else, not even a picture of my kid.

I remember this one time, a journal that Robert Smith and Lydia Lunch had shared together was up for auction. Of course, the reserve on it was something astronomical. I drove to my mom’s house to beg her to help me get it, I pulled my hair in desperation, I rolled around on her kitchen floor in anguish. At the pinnacle of my frenzy, I even suggested that I sell my car.

You guys, I was pretty obsessed. I have really calmed down a lot since then (I mean, mostly) but there is not a day that goes by that I regret a single cent I spent on any of this memorabilia. The Cure was such a huge coming-of-age influence on me and helped me really discover who I was behind that yo-girl, gangsta rap-spouting front I always had up.

I never really considered myself to be Goth, but being on the periphery of that scene was really where I started to find myself. I was even inspired to not only start writing again, but to share my writing with strangers. I stopped being the fake-happy person I thought everyone else wanted me to be and started being myself. In a way, the Cure kind of helped me to grow some fucking balls.

And now I’ll leave you with the song that reminds me of driving down dark country roads to haunted hayrides; roomfuls of apple cider candles; and sitting cross-legged on the floor, making mixtapes.

I feel like the popular answer for the whole “you can only take one Cure album with you to the deserted island” question would probably be Disintegration. And that is a really fucking great album, don’t get me wrong. But my choice would be “Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me” for the sheer variety.

There’s moody, there’s upbeat and happy, there’s downright schizophrenic aching. It’s like an instrumental journey around the world. And that’s what I love.

But I have two favorites and they both remind me of stabbing the shit out someone mid-coitus on balmy summer nights.

First up is “The Kiss.” This song makes me want to simultaneously rage out and make a baby. (Pretty much how Chooch was conceived?) The instrumental intro is intense, passionate, HOT.

And when Robert’s anguished wail bursts through the speakers, climaxing with his urgent desire to “get your fucking voice out of [his] head,” it’s like THE ORIGINAL SCREAMO.

Second is “If Only Tonight We Could Sleep” (with “Like Cockatoos” coming in a super close third). This is the song I want to hear as I’m dying.

When I saw the Cure at the Royal Theater in Canberra 13 years ago this October, they played all three of those songs in a row and it brought me to my knees; I remember briefly feeling alone in that moment, mostly because, well, I had gone to Australia for this concert alone. And I wished I had someone there with me to share this moment, but then I realized that I wasn’t alone: I was surrounded by a thousand people who felt the same way as I did, and who fully appreciated this moment more than most anybody. How could I think I was alone? I promise you that this was one of the Top 5 best moments I’ve had to date. October 19th, 2000, baby. Goddamn.

Never has music relaxed me so much, yet wound me up at the same time. It’s like being in a foreign place yet somehow feeling comfortable.

The Cure is so good at that.

SATURDAY!

Dear Blog,

I will start with Saturday, because that is typically what one does when recounting their weekend. On Saturday, Henry and I went to a co-ed baby shower for my friend Lisa and her husband Matt. They’re expecting their first baby and I’m so stoked for them! Way more stoked than Henry was to be there! I was really hoping he would decorate a onesie, but he totally pussed out.

I drew a mustache on mine and wrote “I [mustache] you to change me.” A total cop-out I thought, given the popularity of the “I Mustache You a Question” phrase these days, but no one seemed to get it, as it hung there shamefully on a clothesline in the kitchen, so then I was just pretty embarrassed. But, that’s what I am 75% of the time, so it was OK. I ate some damn good cookies and moved on.

I’m always thoroughly awkward at these things, especially because it’s mostly Lisa’s friends from college and church, and I know her from high school. I for real cannot make small talk with a person to save my life. I know that there’s a formula, and it goes something like this:

person asks <x> question.

you answer <x> question.

you ask person <y> question.

person answers <y> question.

repeat until some type of conversational flow is established.

But when I’m involved, it goes like this:

person asks <x> question.

I stutter a lot before attempting to say something witty in a monotone slur which may or not satisfy <x> question.

attempt at wit falls flat. crickets.

but one thing’s for certain: she has the best damn food at her get-togethers. I mean, I’m sure I maxed out my Weight Watchers anytime points for the week on the potato salad alone!

Lisa and Matt’s friends Carrie and Wes were there, and it was nice to see familiar faces. Henry and I met them last year at the Rib Fest (I was only there to see .38 Special, obvi) and then again a few weeks later at Matt’s surprise graduation party. I was super happy the next day when Carrie sent me a friend request on Facebook because that means she doesn’t think I’m 100% boring like I always feel that I am at social events!

Anyway, Lisa looks absolutely radiant for a pregnant lady and I’m a little jealous about that. I allowed one photo of myself to be taken during my baby shower and I looked haggard and beached. I did not have that “glow” that all the women speak of.

Now I’m just rambling. I’m on my 4th cup of coffee.

SUNDAY!

Sunday, as previously mentioned on this blog, was a day full of DIY bullshit. It started first thing in the morning with a trip to the flea market. We’re making pie stands for the pie party so we were on the lookout for things that could be suitably fastened together to form somewhat of an aesthetic Atlas for pies. Dude you guys, this pie party is going to be the best one yet, I promise! The pies might taste like rotten ass, but boy is the décor going to be pleasant to look at. I’m excited to show a little bit of my pretty side for once, which actually does exist. (i.e. no bloody fingers or clown heads on the table.)

“Mommy, look!” Chooch cried. “Lizzie Borden’s hatchet!” This was met with some winning gawks.

We walked past the right table at the right time and got to witness an angry old man who had recently found out that the GOLD COINS he bought from WEIRD OLD PEOPLE at a FLEA MARKET were COUNTERFEIT. (Please see: last part of the above video.)

YOU DON’T SAY!!!

While he was angrily pacing back and forth, shouting at them, the old man coin swindler never stopped playing his harmonica and his old lady cohort just kept laughing and waving it off.

“WHAT’S THE NUMBER ON THIS!?” the coin chump barked, examining the number painted on the ground beneath the table so he knew officially who to narc on once he GOT TO THE FLEA MARKET OFFICE!! Because that’s where he was headed! I know this because we followed him from a parallel aisle. I wanted to REALLY follow him, but Henry was all, “This might get dangerous” so I never got to see if anyone was taken down by the flea market popo.

And then Henry kept purposely walking real fast by any table that might have held something he thought I would like, so I got all bitch-pouty and stormed back to the car.

But at least we worked on the coffee table when we got home.

Ha-ha, “we.”

Later that night, we drove all over the South Hills until I settled on a suitable establishment for ice cream. I just didn’t like the first two Henry picked and then the third place was closed and Henry was seriously wishing he had purchased that $5 hatchet at the flea market.

But we settled on Tasty-Crème and I was happy with it, except that ice cream places always give me ordering anxiety because they all look like this at the window:

Too many choices! And of course after I ordered my vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles, Henry noted that they had TOASTED COCONUT TOPPING, WTF. I totally would have gotten that instead.

This was some really good soft serve. When I mentioned that out loud, Henry gave me a weird look but I’m sorry — not all soft serve tastes the same, jackass. Try refining your palate.

There was some vacant-eyed pod family sitting at the picnic table, so we opted to just loiter near our car, lest they suck off some of our life force with their milkshake straws.

LABOR DAY:

Man, did I have some big plans for Labor Day. I wanted to get up early and go have breakfast, which is one meal we rarely go out for together anymore. That doesn’t seem so lofty of a want, until you get to the part where I add, “And also, let’s drive for an hour to accomplish this.”  All weekend, Henry hemmed and hawed, until finally I modified plans so that we could leave later, after working on the furniture refinishing project some more, which, by the way, is taking FOREVER. It was so humid all weekend, and apparently paint doesn’t respond well to that? I don’t know. So everything is taking way longer than I had thought it would, and then I had a can of gold glitter spray paint in my hand for five seconds and completely fucked up a drawer, so now Henry will have to sand it down and start over. Ugh, this is why I hate “projects”!!! I want to be able to come up with ideas and then, wow, look at that, it’s done.

For some reason, that never happens. God, being a muggle sucks.

But that’s another blog entry.

We ended up leaving the house around 10:30 and set off toward Uniontown, which is…south of Pittsburgh? I don’t know. But we hadn’t been in that area since last summer when we went to Laurel Caverns, so I thought it would be fun to eat at some towny diner and then go into the wilderness.

Henry overshot Uniontown and continued on up into the Laurel Highlands, which was OK but not WHAT I WANTED. So then it was all, “Where do you want to eat?” and I’m like, “One of the many places we past miles ago, duh” but he just kept driving and driving until we ended up Lone Star which was a real shit hole.

Chooch was in a really bad mood for god only knows why. I’m guessing it was because I wouldn’t let him play on my phone when we got there. So he “punished” us by not ordering food. His excuse was that he wanted pancakes but the shitty Lone Star only serves breakfast until 11AM because they SUCK AS A RESTAURANT.

And then he started crying about something Minecraft-related and I just sat there thinking about how my good intentions for a Labor Day spent with my dumb family was totally RUINED.

Apparently, we arrived at the Lone Star right on the heels of a hunting party, so it took us an hour to get our stupid lunch. I ordered a grilled cheese, you guys. A grilled cheese. It ranked in the Top 5 Worst Grilled Cheeses I’ve ever eaten (and two of those were made by me) and I actually passed it over to Chooch, but he wouldn’t eat it either, so hooray for Henry ending up with two lunches! That doesn’t necessarily mean that he won at lunch, though. Trust me.

The grilled cheese tasted like it had been boiled in water and then microwaved and then possibly smashed with a hot iron long enough to burn one side. And it possibly only had a half slice of cheese in between the wrecked bread. I didn’t even have the will to complain. It was so disappointing and I just wanted to get out of that grimy establishment before any parasites had a chance to crawl into me. I had to pee so bad but the bathroom door was being blocked by some mountain hick in a messy bun so I decided to be stubborn and just hold it. I SURE SHOWED THEM!

Afterward, Henry drove us toward nature things and then turned around because I guess he felt that looking at trees and signs for Ohio Pyle and the Deer Lakes from the car window was what I meant when I said, “And then I want to go and do nature things.”

Obviously I was a huge bitch baby after that. Henry kept trying to hold my hand from across the console and I would shrug my arm away from him and shift my position so I was practically curling up against the car door.

But at least Henry was wise enough to make up for Lone Star (it was his fault!!) by taking us to Gene and Boots for ice cream, which ended up being my lunch since I refused to eat that gnarly grilled cheese.

Um, I don’t really know when photographing raised ice cream cones became my “thing,” but I suppose it’s better than some other things I could be photographing. (Depending on who you ask.)

At the very least, I could now probably put together one really tasty summer montage.

Seriously, Chooch needs to stop making such a disgusting mess with ice cream cones or he’s going to have to start getting his scoops in a goddamn bowl. Ugh! I can’t even look at him when he’s cone-in-hand.

How does someone manage to look so angry while eating ice cream? I know this picture wants you to think I’m a liar, but Henry was actually the only one of us who was in a good mood all day.