I’ve decided to declare this week as Cure Week on my blog, mostly because I can. I realize that today is Tuesday and most “[x] Weeks” would probably start on a Monday, but you know how it is over here: completely unorganized and scattered.

You might know that the Cure is my all-time favoritest band in all of the world. Yes, Robert Smith has way more of my heart than Jonny Craig. And if you didn’t know that, just come to my house, where framed portraits of Robert abound. (And dozens of others are rolled up in my bedroom, waiting to be framed.)

I was in the cemetery on Saturday (obviously), listening to the Cure (how cliché), when I started thinking about how much they’ve impacted my life, how I literally can’t listen to a single song of theirs without being transported back to certain times, and how thankfully I don’t associate them with any of the shitty people from my 20s.

Maybe you don’t know anything about the Cure, or maybe you only know the big radio singles (“Friday, I’m In Love” / “Lovesong” (NOT THE 311 VERSION, UGH UGH UGH) / “Close To Me” / “Just Like Heaven” / “Boys Don’t Cry”), and if even one person out there realizes that they like the Cure, I will consider this a success. BECAUSE THE CURE IS AMAZING and it makes me sad the amount of times I’m met with a blank look when I tell someone that the Cure is my favorite band. I guess I just assume that a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame-nominated band is well-known.

For Day One of Cure Week, and in honor of Chooch’s newfound fear of butterflies, let’s start with the classic “The Caterpillar” from the Top album, which I always consider to be one of their sleeper hits. It’s full of all kinds of weird shit, which is my favorite music genre. (The piano in the beginning of “The Caterpillar” sounds uncannily akin to the frenetic noise my brain makes when I’m writing in this blog, by the way.) I used to make my friend Brian watch this video over and over every time he came to my house, which probably factored into him eventually moving to Nebraska.

So, instead of going away this weekend, I declared that we stay home (Henry cheered) and refinish furniture (Henry sighed).

Ugh, Home Depot. The very stench of that place fills me with a sadness & despondency normally reserved for your basic orphan.

We bought this coffee table last winter at Goodwill for TEN DOLLARS. I finally got Henry to bring it outside yesterday to sand it down and prime it (so now we have a bunch of junk mail, remotes* and other assorted shit strewn about the floor) and today he started spray painting it for real. (Pink and gold glitter. Henry sighed and asked, “Can you make the house any MORE like Liberace’s?”)

*(Why do we have so many remotes? OMG.)

The center is going to be filled with Instagram photos. That was my big job, putting pictures I want to use into a folder on the desktop.

“I’m really excited about one picture in particular,” I giggled on one of my visits outside to Henry’s Paint Studio. “You’ll never guess what it is!”

Henry groaned. “What? It BETTER not be JONNY CRAIG!”

“It’s not…but I think I might have one of the Jonny doll. Anyway, it’s something to remind us about one of me and Chooch’s favorite day of last summer,” I blurted out through my weird, throaty giggle that I do when I’m reaching the height of giddiness.

“I can only imagine…” Henry said wearily.

“IT’S ROSS ENGLISH’S BLACKBERRY!” I cried.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Henry sighed before returning to priming some random desk I never knew we had in the garage because that is where all of Henry’s crap is, so why would I ever go into the garage? Besides, I can’t lift the garage door.

I was a little buzzed last night and couldn’t stop taking pictures. Be lucky I’m only making you look at two of them.