You guys. Remember on Sunday when I was like “OMG TONY STEWART MURDER NASCAR AHHHHHH!!!!!”? Well, after I posted that on here, things got worse. Because you know me and taking obsessions too far.

The problem is that I have some friends who are just as asshole-y as I am, so when I was sitting there thinking, “Who do I know who would appreciate this so we can commiserate together?” my friend Bill immediately came to mind.

Now, Bill was around back in  the day when I developed an unfounded obsession with Phil Mickelson and a poker-hot hatred was formed for Payne Stewart simply because he beat him one time when I was paying attention. Bill actually just brought this up when we were visiting him and Jessi last June. So I thought, “Bill will understand this new thing for Tony Stewart.” So I texted him and he totally fired back with a string of texts, encouraging me to paddle away in my douche canoe and making me nearly pee myself with laughter.

“He might be homicidal, so that’s a plus. Not as cool as dying in a plane crash….” Bill replied when I told him that Tony is my new Payne. Bill continued to fuel my fire and I was scream-reading his texts out loud to Henry, whose mustache was writhing in frown-formation.

“He must be hardened by the sad facts of his hero Tony Stewart being a homicidal maniac,” was Bill’s reason for Henry’s non-laughter. So then it was decided that Henry REALLY LIKES Tony Stewart and I was practically bashing my head off the wall out of pure, extreme mania.

Henry left for about an hour to go grocery shopping and I was just sitting around, twiddling my thumbs, trying not to explode with giddiness, when it occurred to me to paint a portrait of Tony for Henry as a surprise gift. And that is what I did Sunday afternoon while Henry was running bitch errands at the grocery store.

Even Chooch was like, “Mommy! Calm the fuck down, OMG. It’s not funny.”

When I texted Bill the picture of the final product, he said, “I can’t see any outcome that doesn’t involve Henry dropping to his knees and sobbing tears of pure joy and appreciation.”

I KNOW RIGHT?!

WRONG:

“Seriously?” he sighed, when I produced the painting from behind my back. This was after I called him and, around outbursts of throaty giggles, asked him to please hurry home. He sounded really scared, and then he LOOKED really scared when he was getting the groceries out of the car. Probably because I was standing at the door with my hands behind my back, smiling.

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for the people who have to look at me when I get like this. I must look insane. BUT NOT THREATENING AT ALL, I’M SURE.

“This explains why you didn’t call and text me constantly when I was at the store,” he muttered. So really what he was saying is that he was already scared before I even called him to tell him to hurry home.

Later that night, Bill texted me a picture of race car-shaped chicken nuggets and said, “In honor of Tony Stewart, I’m eating these for dinner.” Bill is basically like the drug dealer to my extreme giddiness addiction.

****

Meanwhile, Henry totally didn’t want to take Tony to work with him, so I took it to my dumb work and now he resides on my desk, where Glenn makes excuses to look at him every day because he just can’t get over how fantastic it is. I told Glenn the whole back story and he was like, “Wait, do you like him because he killed a guy, or do you hate him because he killed a guy?”

GOOD QUESTION. Both? I don’t know. I’ve been really been confused lately. Help.

Then the other day, my boss was walking past and she stopped abruptly.

“Is that….Tony?” she asked hesitantly.

“OMG YES!” I cried, happy that someone recognized him. I quickly recapped the story of how I found out Henry is a secret NASCAR fan (which he is still denying, FYI) and Sue said, “Well, wait…did you paint this before what happened, or….”

“Oh, totally after the incident. That’s why I’m obsessed with him now.”

“OK….” she said slowly, and then shook her head and laughed because Oh Honestly, Erin.

Here’s Tony guarding the blueberry snickerdoodle ice cream sandwich I scored for signing up for community service at work. I actually saved that motherfucker all day (and I worked from 9am-8:30pm that day!) so that I could share it with Henry after work, because on the real, even though Henry was like “*frown frown frown*”, he is the only person I’ve been with who has ever let me just be me. It’s true! I have been thinking about that a lot this week, how painting Tony has made me remember how much I used to love to draw, how I was going to go to the Art Institute (I dropped out after orientation, lol), how I used to fucking write stories nearly every day. And then I stopped for a long time and I was thinking about why, what made that happen, and it’s because all the guys I dated before Henry kept me in the shadows. It was always about them: their band, their music, their writing, their art. And so I just kind of stopped doing everything. Not to get all Norman Rockwell Painting up in this piece, but Henry is kind of the best and he lets me grow instead of keeping me smashed down under his thumb.

So thank you, Henry and your secret Tony Stewart fandom, for making another piece of me fall back into place. Maybe one day I’ll be myself again.

***

I just asked Glenn if he thinks Tony will be safe on my desk when I’m not here, and he very dryly said, “Yeah. I’m sure no one will take him.”

It always ended the same way.

A door cracked open after years of being padlocked. They tried to play it cool. But “how was your day?” and “have you heard this album?” always turned into “I miss us” and “why did you leave?”

They tried to be friends. But the secrets carved scars into their hearts like fault lines and repressed jealousy lashed perfidious words from their tongues like whips.

They would go years without contact. A single phone call on a birthday could be a taste of chaos. The most innocent text could be gasoline on fire. Theirs was an opiate that could only be quit cold turkey. But the psychic connection was still there. The silent “I need you” somehow heard and answered from an entire state away.

And so the cycle continued.

She says: Come here.

“I can’t” means “there’s someone else now.”

She says: There’s never been room for me in your life.

“When you’re in my life, there’s no room for anything else.”

And hey, here comes the guilt again. Dwelling on the past because they have no future.

Promises are made to “figure it out” because neither wants to say out loud that there isn’t a solution. There never was. Just blown-out stars, chest pains and a dirt trail of broken hearts. Collateral damage.

It’s Heaven & Hell. It’s thumbtacks pushed into skin and banana cream pie from Hyde’s. It’s geographical distance and cosmic closeness.

They did this over and over, like ghosts puppeteered by Venus to replay their deaths.

She says: We need to make new memories so we can stop living in the past.

But the other doesn’t respond because she’s already making new memories, with someone else.

It always ended the same way.
One of them floated away.

She says: Maybe we can be together when we’re dead.

“We already are.”

For months, I had been giddily anticipating a visit from the only Flyers fans I like. Terri and Christian got into Pittsburgh the day after my birthday (WHICH IS JULY 30, PUT IT IN YOUR BOOK THINGS) and came over to hang out that night. Terri baked me chocolate chip cookies, you guys, and they were incredible but CHOOCH somehow seemed to eat most of them because “Those are mommy’s birthday cookies” means nothing to him.

We spent most of the time talking about music (which put me on a Felix Culpa kick, so thank you guys for rejuvenating my love of that band), shows that we’ve been to, bands we’ve met (Terri fucking drove Greg Dulli to his bus one time; how do you even recover from that??) and then Chooch was like, “OK, enough. Now you will all sit here and watch me play Xbox.”

Like myself, Terri and Christian are both vegetarians, so I was happy that I’d get to eat at places that actually offer more vegetarian fare than just shitty freezer aisle veggie burgers, because most of my carnivorous friends would rather than die than throw me a (tempeh) bone and go to a vegetarian restaurant. They’d just point out that I could at least get a salad, even at the meatiest of places. And even on my birthday! Vegetarians get no love.

That being said, Christian and Terri picked me up from work the next day around noon and we went to the OTB Cafe on the Southside, where seitan ruled the menu and we all ate happily beneath a ceiling laden with bicycles. I had a veggie burger with PB&J, go fuck yourself.

Terri ordered fried pickles and seitan wings for us to share and I can’t remember the last time my belly was so happy. Goddammit.

Also? Our waitress looked like a young, bleached blond Mariel Hemingway with tattoos and gauges. And that will probably be the last time I think about Mariel Hemingway’s existence for another 20 years.

Afterward, we pissed around on Carson Street for a little while, because Henry was supposed to meet us but then his work fucked him over (or maybe that really is actually his euphemism for “Sorry, I’m banging my mistress”). Terri wanted to buy some Pittsburgh-centric magnets but we couldn’t find any and the one time I bothered to ask some I was sneered at like I was wearing orange in a city of black and gold (oh shit, I just realized that I actually was, too). When I was a kid, there was a store at the mall that sold a bunch of Pittsburgh souvenirs. It was called—wait for it—-The Pittsburgh Store. I couldn’t think of a single place comparable to that nowadays. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Time to expand my Etsy empire to include tourist-y Pittsburgh magnets.

Magnet-less, I took them to Dave’s Music Mine, where we flipped through bins of used CDs and shared our dirtiest, guiltiest pleasure albums.

If I cared  a little more, I could have gotten my Christmas shopping for Henry out of the way.

On the way out, Terri mentioned that she had the Livin’ La Vida Loca single from back in the day.

“I didn’t even have that!” I laughed mockingly, to which she cooly replied, “Oh please, after all the albums you just admitted having? I think you’re way worse.”

And she’s totally right. But I just can’t get rid of my 90210 soundtrack, OK?!

Then it was time to ride the Incline, which is a true Pittsburgh installation. It’s essentially a funicular that goes up and down Mt. Washington, which arguably provides the best view of the my fair city. Anytime someone is visiting from out of town, it’s imperative to take  them for a spin up and down a treacherous hillside. It’s just what we do ’round here and I never really think anything of it.

But this time, I was with rational people who value safety. The plan was to park at Station Square and ride the Incline up, but as we passed the track on the way to the parking lot, Christian piped up from the backseat and said, “THAT’S IT?! No. I’m not riding that.”

I thought he was joking at first, but then I looked out the window and tried to see the incline from his perspective, and you know what guys? That’s some fucking scary shit, for real. I still laughed at him for it, though. Terri was still partially on board, probably because she was driving and didn’t get to really take long, lingering looks at it like Christian had.

So I suggested that we just drive to the top of Mount Washington and then they could decide from there if they wanted to ride it because for some idiotic reason I thought that looking DOWN at the Incline would be so much more convincing. “Yes, you too can ride this super old-fashioned contraption clear down the side of a steep hill!”

“Is that it?!” Terri asked on t he drive up the hill as her car passed beneath the track. “Oh, well now that I’ve seen the underneath it, I’m definitely not going on.” And this prompted Christian to start muttering once again about how terrible of an idea Inclines are and how he can’t believe President Obama hasn’t put an end to this yet and why don’t we just skateboard down the hill, that would be safer.

Alas, being at the top didn’t change their minds. It only solidified to them the fact that Pittsburghers are Sidney Crosby-loving reckless hillside travelers. Oh, how I laughed at them! But then my stomach flopped around like a fish chased out of water by shitty Katy Perry music blaring from a submarine. You know, just like that.

But we stayed on one of the overlooks long enough for me to take a touristy photo of them:

Fuck yeah, Pittsburgh!

After getting some iced coffee at Grand Brew, Terri and Christian went back to their hotel, presumably to “rest” but really they just wanted privacy to watch a bunch of videos of the Incline doing terrible things.

Later that night, we all met up at Page’s Dairy for ice cream, which is just as much of a Pittsburgh-y institution as anything else, so suck it, Incline. I apparently hate the Incline now. PEER PRESSURE.

ESPN woke me up at 4:30AM with this breaking news, and then again later in the morning to tell me that this guy is still going to drive in a race today, hours after committing vehicular manslaughter. So now I’m obsessed with all of this and have been watching news reports on it all day, which is irritating Henry. (Have you seen the video? WHY DID THIS GUY EVEN GET OUT OF HIS CAR??!! Ugh.)

“I’ve never even heard of this guy,” I said.

“That’s because you don’t follow NASCAR,” Henry reasoned.

“Well, YOU knew who he was, so are you a secret NASCAR fan?!” I cried my accusations.

“What? No!” Henry spat, clearly flustered.

“Oh I’m sure. All those times you’re like ‘I have to work late, the drivers aren’t back yet,’ you’re really sitting in your office watching NASCAR!” I yelled, cramping my fingers from all the excessive air quotes I was throwing out.

“NASCAR’s on Sunday, asshole,” Henry sighed.

“Ok, so then you’re watching NASCAR highlight reels on YouTube!”

And then ESPN showed a tweet from Dale Earnhardt Jr., in which he expressed his condolences on the whole sitch.

“Wow, I’m surprised he spelled ‘lose’ correctly, and not like, you know, ‘loose’,” I laughed, but honestly I was being serious.

“Why, because he’s a race car driver? He’s not a dumb kid!” Henry said defensively. “He owns his own business!” Then he tried to call me out for “stereotyping.” OH OK, Henry.

“Eh, his PR person probably wrote that tweet anyway,” I said, and Henry’s head exploded.

He’s not talking to me now.

THIS JUST IN: Tony Stewart has ultimately decided not to race today after all, and I would like to think me posting about him on Instagram and Twitter was the deciding factor. I mean, according to Klout, I have lots of influence.

Some things happened over the last week, and I took photos of some of those things, so let’s look at the photos and talk about the things, bullet-point style.

• Something terrible almost happened yesterday! Henry made me take the stupid trolley to work and while I was waiting on the platform, an announcement rang out about how, due to an accident, we could expect to experience a 20-minute delay! THAT MEANT I WAS GOING TO BE LATE. But right after that, my trolley came and I was like “Oh OK, maybe that announcement was meant for the trolleys going the other direction.” But as soon as I sat down, Mean Amber texted me and Lauren to tell us that an accident happened right in front of the trolley she was on and that they hadn’t moved in awhile. She must have been two or three trolleys ahead of us. She said she called Glenn and told him that we were all going to be late and I don’t trust so I emailed my supervisor too and told her what was going on. Anyway, the delay was a lot less time than anticipated, but I still had to RUN super fast and elbow my way past people because Pittsburghers walk SO SLOW, and then I got stuck talking to one of the travel department ladies in the elevator and literally ran away from her as soon as the doors slid open, while she was still talking, and burst through the doors of the department at EXACTLY 9:00AM. I punched the air above me and cried, “I’M NOT LATE! MY STREAK CONTINUES!” And absolutely no one cared.
  • In other trolley news: I was sitting behind a broad who was feeding her baby a few weeks ago and it was fine until the baby was done eating because that’s when I found out that the mom was the most obnoxiously affectionate hag of all time and basically was the grand marshall of the PDA Parade all the way into town. And it wasn’t just me! Other people were gawking at her too, probably sharing my same wonderment of, “IS THIS BITCH GOING TO ACTUALLY EAT HER BABY?!” Because that’s what it seemed like. Ugh, it was nauseating. And then I sat behind her again the other day, but this time she was alone. Don’t worry, she spent the entire ride looking at pictures of her dumb baby on her phone. GAG. (It’s hard to believe I was once the mom of a baby, isn’t it?)
• In Marcy news: she continues to be adorable and I OMGLOVEHER.

• Right before I fell asleep Sunday night, I started thinking of Halloween and how, maybe now that I’m not stowed away in the Forgotten Hallway, I don’t have to be on strike again when it comes to decorating for Halloween at work. And then the theme of this year’s haunted desk wafted down from the rafters of my cobwebbed brain and I shook Henry awake to tell him what I was going to do. He didn’t care, obviously. I posted something about it the next morning on Facebook, without giving away what I’m doing. Mean Amber was like, “Great. I can’t wait to have to look at that every day.” BECAUSE I SIT RIGHT BEHIND HER NOW, HAHAHA. I hope that this year’s idea will be as successful as 2011’s Murder Desk and 2012’s Conflict Carnival. My favorite part is that there are so many people here now who weren’t here for the previous decorations, so they have no idea.
• Motherfucking polo shirts.
• Went to Mad Mex last night with my pals Gina and Elissa, where I almost expired by choking on a black cherry margarita, which I totally deserve for all of the times I’ve openly mocked my co-workers when they choke. Anyway, Gina reminded me of the time a few years when the three of us went to Mad Mex and had a waitress who apparently was confused and thought she was actually a guardian angel. WELL WHERE WAS SHE WHEN I ALMOST DROWNED ON TEQUILA!?

• A few days ago at work, Chris mentioned that she inadvertently found out that Glenn usedto be A BEE KEEPER ARE YOU KIDDING ME. And then of course, I completely forgot to hound him about it until earlier today, when he mentioned honey (we were having a strained conversation about vegans) and I said SPEAKING OF HONEY…I wish you guys could have seen his face when I asked him if it was true, likeall of these fond memories of wearing one of those weird masks came flooding back and he was so happy about it but also trying to act like he wasn’t experiencing Feelings at the same time. Kind of like when anyone asks Henry about THE SERVICE or TEDNUGENT. So I said, “Let’s talk about this” and Glenn said “OK” and then we just sat there and looked at each other in silence, until I went first and said, “Oh…am I supposed to ask you questions?” So I asked him if he was ever attacked (this is how I asked him:WEREYOUEVERATTACKED!??!?!?!?! while gagging on laughter. And he said, “No! It’s not like aSciFi movie!” And then I said, “Why did you stop?” and he said, “Because they all died” and then I felt sad about that, but he ruined it by telling me some boring story about how honey bees are dying and pesticide andblah blah blah so then I said, “OK, well I guess I don’t have any other questions” and then turned my back on him. A few seconds later, he mumbled, “That was some damn good honey, though.”
  • Obviously, I’ll be making a Beekeeper Glenn for the collection.
    • Oh snap:

  

  • Also, right after I got here today, he said “Cool story, bro” to me and I was like “Wow, you’re so hip. Do you have a shirt that says that, too?”
  • I grew a beard since we last talked.

  

   

  • We met our friends Chris and Monica for ice cream the other night, because Chris is always going on about how Bruester’s makes really good sea salt caramel ice cream and that was the flavor of the day so of course I was like, “What? Ice cream date, you say?” even though she totally didn’t say that but that’s what I turned it into. While we were eating our ice cream, Henry said something to Chooch about me and referred to me as “your mother” and I made the mistake of announcing to everyone how much I hate that because it makes me feel like I should be wearing a bonnet, so of course MONICA took that and ran with it and referred to me as “Chooch’s mother” for the rest of the night! Anyway, here are some pictures from Getting Ice Cream:

  

   

  Chooch, pre-gaming with mini Rolos. Like you do.

  

   

  It was perfectly salty and sea-y and caramel-y! Good call, Chris.

  

   

  Here’s where we all got our ice cream and then left Henry alone.

  

  Almost smiling a little bit over his manly ice cream.

  • I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that The Killing is over.
  • The other night, Henry had left to take his mom home and Chooch got super demanding. It was all, “I WANT I WANT I WANT!” Apparently he was hungry? So I made him noodles which is one of the few things I’m able to do adequately (mostly) and it was just so exhausting because hello, I was hungry too! Henry finally came home and I was like, “OMG Chooch is being so annoying and demanding! It’s like, ‘Do all of these things for me!’ Ugh!” and Henry just stood there and stared at me and then finally I realized it was because:
    • Chooch : Erin as Erin : Henry

  

   

  • Chooch and I were hiding from Henry outside of CVS last week and I was acutely aware of everyone in the parking lot observing us. “We look like creeps,” I whispered as we stood flush against a brick pillar. “No,” Chooch corrected. “We look like SNIPERS.” Yeah, snipers!
  • Remember last week when I almost was blown up by a bomber? I SAW HIM AGAIN YESTERDAY! ON THE SAME STREET! This time, he was holding a cigarette in one hand and the other hand was pointing at a garbage can. Of course, I immediately took his picture and then proceeded to call Henry 15 times, while Henry proceeded to ignore my calls 15 times. I can’t believe he didn’t care. Actually, scratch that–I can.

  

   

  • I woke up this morning inspired to paint and write like I used to back in 2008. That feels pretty good.
  • Pat Sajak is definitely not sorry when the wheel lands on “bankrupt” and I wish he would stop lying about it.
  • Before I went to bed on my birthday last week, I received an unexpected, albeit furiously wished-for, phone call. The next day, Emarosa released a new song. This is not a coincidence.
  • That fucking awful Wendy’s spokesginger and the Progressive cow can kindly go fall off a cliff, seriously. Shouldn’t Flo be retiring by now? Hasn’t she been the Progressive cow for like 20 years at this point? I WILL NEVER GET PROGRESSIVE INSURANCE. HENRY! DON’T EVER GET US PROGRESSIVE INSURANCE. And I was ‘meh’ about the Wendy’s spokesginger until these new ads started to run which feature her singing burgerfied renditions of “All By Myself” and MR. BIG ARE YOU KIDDING?! That pushed me over the fucking edge. Fuck you, Wendy’s.

  Um, I think that’s all. K, bye!

Listening to these two songs over and over is not going to snap me out of my melancholic funk. BUT I CAN’T STOP.

Let’s keep telling ourselves that.

The new Emarosa album is coming out on September 9.

I already pre-ordered it (the bundle I got comes with a fox ring!!

), I get to see them play at Riot Fest a week later, and then two weeks after that, Icarus the Owl is playing here at Smiling Moose. September is going to murder my heart.

Man, I was making some new RIP Glenns today at work when I realized it’s been awhile since I did a nice, big, satisfying RIP Glenn dump up in here. So, here’s all the dead celebs I’ve used to deface Glenn since…April? I think April. I’m really tired.

This was supposed to be H.R. Giger’s famous work from the movie Alien. “Supposed to be.” My apologies for desecrating your work, Mister Giger.

I legit cried over this one! And then a week later, “The Brady Girls Get Married” was on TV and I cried all over again.

I looooooved The Young Ones (bought the whole series on VHS from Columbia House in the 90s!), but opted to go for Rik Mahall’s portrayal of Drop Dead Fred instead because that’s more recognizable. Otherwise, it would be like trying to explain my Sidney Crosby/Sid Vicious shirt all over again.

That’s supposed to be a raisin in the sun. Get it? Because Ruby Dee was in the movie “Raisin in the Sun”? I know, these get worse and worse. And then worser and worser.

FUNNY STORY: When Casey Kasem died, I mused out loud, “I don’t know if I want to turn a Glenn into Shaggy, or have a ball dropping behind him.” Henry was like, “WTF are you talking about? What ball?” and I was like, “THE NEW YEAR’S EVE TIMES SQUARE BALL, IDIOT.” And Henry was like, “THAT’S DICK CLARK NOT CASEY KASEM.” And I totally knew that too, but somehow I combined them into one person and thank god Henry corrected me or else everyone at work (I mean, everyone who gives a fuck about the RIP Glenns, anyway) would have ridiculed me for some time. Especially BARB. That would have been sweet, delicious payback for her after all the times I’ve called her out for being WRONG.

Really sad about this one too! I loved Designing Women when I was a kid.

FUNNY STORY: I needed some Wite Out for this one and when I went to open it, the brush was stuck and I yanked it entirely too hard and wound up with Wite Out on my face, in my hair, on my keyboard, on my computer screen and worst of all, on my black shirt. :( I forget who, but someone at work was like, “Who uses Wite Out anymore, anyway!?” because everyone loves those correction tape strip things. I was like, “ARTISTS WHO ARE TRAPPED IN OFFICES, OK?!” Seriously, that shit is the closest thing to white paint I have at my desk. I have made many a Glenn with it.

James Garner was also in  the Rockford Files and Henry and I had a big fight about that once when we were in Rockford, IL and I was like, “Is this where the Rockford Files was supposed to take place?” and Henry was like, “No, it was called the Rockford Files because that was the guy’s last name” and I was mad because I wanted to be right so we fought about it. Which, you know, typical. Henry wanted me to make a Rockford Files Glenn but I was like “FUCK YOU! MAVERICK GLENN FTW.”

I forgot that Johnny Winter died mid-July but I was reminded of that on Friday when I was at Dave’s Music Mine with Terri and Christian (whose visit I still have to write about but I am so lazy this week!). Glenn was like “Who is that?” and I said “SHUT UP, GLENN.” But then I told him, because I love schooling people.

“I was going to email you about that one,” Glenn mumbled disinterestedly as he walked by my desk and saw me furiously working on the Marilyn Burns masterpiece. I think he was secretly excited about it, so I used that as my chance to ask him which RIP Glenn is his favorite.

“Oh gee, there are just so many to choose from. I don’t think I can pick a favorite,” he said in his patented monotone, BUT I think I detected just the tiniest spark of glee.

All the way back in March, possibly even February, Henry agreed to help me make a marquee sign. And by help, I mean that I picked out the slogan and sent him off to do the rest. He got as far as buying all of the supplies and spray-painting the letters, and finally putting all of the bulbs in…when he realized he was one bulb short.

He was so pissed off that he abandoned the project. Until Sunday. I finally got him to pick it back up again and he restrung all of the bulbs and then glued down the letters and then I was like CAN WE HANG IT NOW?! And he was like NO THE GLUE IS DRYING, IDIOT. (I am really hyper right now.)

Finally tonight, he performed the final steps which included messing around with the wires in the back and IT TURNED ME ON, OK. I like it when Henry does masculine things with electricity and tools. (Preferably while wearing nubby gloves.)

YEAH, DRILL THAT SHIT.

Yay it worked! I was like “HURRY LET’S GO HANG IT!” but then it took like another hour because he had to go all Ty Pennington with a level and pencil markings on the wall.

I think it’s safe to say that this is the last marquee sign Henry will be making in this lifetime. I got on his nerves big time. Even more than usual. Breathing down his neck, texting him “TODAY CAN WE HANG IT?!” and constantly asking, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Men REALLY love hearing that.

I was completely impatient, but it was so worth it. Now I get to have my favorite motivational slogan all lit up Broadway-style in my dining room and what a great way to shake the sads. Now I can think of Warped Tour and amusement parks every time I flip that switch.

(I just hugged myself.)

Also? This motherfucker radiates some HEAT.

We might not have to turn on the furnace at all this winter.

Marciples  von “Could Give a Shit” Schlugenhusen.

#getstoked #blessed

Um, please don’t ask me how to make this. Because I honestly don’t know! Henry knows electrician-y things so he made sure it won’t burn down our house. If I had made it, I’d probably have just pasted a parade of tea lights up in the bitch and then set it on fire.

OK, goodbye. I’m going to roast some marshmallows on the lightbulbs now. GET STOKED, BITCHES.

It rained most of the morning and afternoon here in Pittsburgh, so I treated myself to a binge-session of the new (and final) season of The Killing. (This TV series has seriously affected me in some mysterious ways and I am so happy that Netflix revived it long enough for the series to get a proper wrap-up, but also devastated that it’s donezo.)

Then the rain broke, so I made Chooch go for a walk with me to try to balance things out. I hate being even a little sloth-like. This is why, even when I’m sick, I don’t rest. I brought my camera because I’m trying to get back into the habit of taking pictures of Chooch. I’ve been L-Z when it comes to using my camera lately, and then when I’m like, “Henry I want a new camera, buy me a new camera, Henry” he’s like “Why? You barely use the one you have.” True story. So if you’re ever thinking, “Why is she getting worse at this instead of better?”, well, that’s why.

But at least I’m getting a little better at remembering to bring the camera with me. Baby steps!

We walked to the abandoned Bradley School, which used to be a school for deaf kids. (Or blind? I’ve been there often enough, kicking around shards of broken glass, that you would think I would know this.)

This was Chooch’s idea. “Take a picture of me looking evil, and then photoshop a dead girl behind me.”

Chooch wants me to call this one “I’m Beautiful and Fabulous.” Done.

It occurred to me, halfway through our fauxtoshoot, that no one knew where we were. So I texted Henry and told him “you know, in case something happens to us.” And all he said was “ok.” No “good luck” or “please be careful” or “OMG I”m so afraid for you” or “PLEASE DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS.”

Not even a reminder to be mindful of the “CAUTION: ASBESTOS” signs posted all over the property.

Don’t worry: we kept out.

Spoiler alert: we made it home safe and sound and Henry was like “ok.” Then I watched the series finale of The Killing and bawled my little bitchy eyes out. I’ll miss you, Linden and Holder. :(

Sometime back in May, my friend Kristy needed someone to go see Jenny Lewis with her on July 27th. I volunteered right away, not because I particularly love Jenny Lewis, but because sometimes it’s nice to go to a show as a casual fan and experience things from a different perspective.

That makes sense to me.

My familiarity with Jenny Lewis is definitely way more than the average person, but I haven’t really followed her solo career much after the first album. There was a time in my life (early 20s) when I REALLY liked her band, Rilo Kiley. The Execution of All Things got a lot of rotation in my house, but that was also back when I was really into indie rock, hipster folk, twee, and basically anything that Barsuk, Saddle Creek, Kill Rock Stars and Matador Records was releasing. If it was something that the Pitchfork critics splooged onto their polyester shirts over, I would listen to it. It was a sonically confusing and cold time in my life where I wasn’t really listening to music that I was emotionally connecting with. But Rilo Kiley was the exception because they made me feel happy, and I will always associate good things with them because this was back when I still had a decent relationship with my family, I hadn’t met Christina yet, and my job at the Meat Place hadn’t yet fractured my psyche. OMG, 2002, I miss you. Sometimes.

I’d never gotten the chance to see them though, so seeing Jenny Lewis was the obvious next best thing.

Jenny is to Kristy what Jonny Craig was to me. Jenny is her ginger crush, the one who makes her swoon and fan-girl and I REALLY WANTED TO SEE THIS HAPPEN.

We started off the night at Grist House Brewing down the street from Mr. Small’s. Luckily, I am starting to be OK with some beers, so I was able to order a wheat beer thing without looking like frightened lamb. I think. Kristy likes to drink those really dark beers. I don’t think I will ever be on her level. It doesn’t matter how many times she says, “Bitch, get on my level.” I’m on Basic Beer Bitch levels forever, I think.

Finally, it was time to get in line at Mr. Small’s, where this majestic moment happened:

ADORABLE.

There were lots of older people in line with us, so I made sure to take pictures of them to text to Henry, who was probably like, “Figures. The one show I don’t go to, my People are there.”

Once we got inside, there was a really scary, tense moment where Kristy thought she lost her ticket, which would have been pretty crazy considering I actually DID lose my ticket. (Luckily, I realized this the night before, and Kristy had an extra one for me.)

We were one of the first people inside, so we got a good spot right in front of the stage, which almost never happens because the shows I typically go to are too dangerous for little old ladies like me. But mostly because Henry is always with me and he is like FUCK TO THE NO when it comes to getting up close. I remember one of the first festivals I went to with Henry, I pulled him up really close to the stage for Sugarcult and he tried to assault some teenage boy.

“What?!” Henry shouted in defense. “He pushed me!”

“Because that’s what people do near the stage! You can’t push him back, he’s a kid!” I yelled. Fuck, it was hilarious. Now I feel like Henry would let a body drop on my neck just out of spite.

“What? This is just what people do near the stage,” I can hear him saying smugly.

Anyway, I’m much less afraid of the stage at outdoor shows than ones in small venues.

The opening band was the Apache Relay. I was really into half of their set, but the other half had my mind drifting off into the ethers. This is not to say that I didn’t enjoy them! I liked the heavier songs. The singer reminded me of my friend Wonka and I appreciated that he punctuated certain words with hand motions. And the guitarist in front of me reminded me of Janna with a beard, so that was entertaining in and of itself.

After their set, Kristy and I were entertained by two guys behind us who embroiled in some heavy MIT-caliber discourse which evolved into the possibility of attaching babies to remote-controlled helicopters and how they’re surprised it hasn’t already happened yet and maybe I’m just really that dumb, but I was like WTF would be the scientific purpose of that?! Maybe I missed a key component of the conversation because you know me and the drifting off into aforementioned ethers.

Shortly after 9:20, Jenny came out with a glass of red wine in her hand, and how can you not love that!?

FUN FACT: When Chooch was born, I gave him Henry’s last name instead of mine because I thought Riley Kelly sounded too much like Rilo Kiley and I’ve always kind of had a hard time saying it because my tongue turns lame, so I couldn’t imagine a lifetime of having to announce “Here is my son, Riley Kelly!” I just said it in my head and it took me two tries because I kept wanting to say Riley Kiley.

Literally no one has ever understood this except for Kristy and my other Jenny Lewis-loving friend, Gina (WHO WAS THERE THAT NIGHT BUT I DIDN’T SEE HER!!). Because I almost always have to say, “You know. The band. Rilo Kiley. RILO KILEY? The girl from Troop Beverly Hills? Her band? Also, one of the kids from Salute Your Shorts? HAVE YOU BEEN IN A COMA!?”

Friends, this is what happens when you only listen to the radio. You don’t understand 85% of my dumb music references. (Maybe that’s a good thing?)

This crowd was calm as FUCK. Aside from the one lesbian to my right who would periodically hemorrhage “JENNY, YOU’RE HAAAAAWT!” and then resume swing-dancing with her girlfriend, there was no pushing, shoving, no circle pits, no walls of death. It was a nice change of pace for me! And even standing three heads back from the stage, I wasn’t sweating because people were actually giving each other personal space, and this was unfathomable to me. It has clearly been a LONG time since I’d gone to an “adult” concert.

Even from just a casual fan’s perspective, Jenny Lewis killed it. How refreshing to see a female performer who doesn’t have to rely on twerking, costume changes or being suspended in the air to hold people’s attention. Jenny kept everyone captivated with just her presence and flawless voice.

Literally, this drunk couple was the only bad part of the whole night. Thankfully, they waited until the last two songs before shoving and trampling their way to the front, where they proceeded to chug their cans of cheap beer, block everyone’s view with their Wall of Douche, and CHAT LOUDLY. That is my BIGGEST PET PEEVE at shows. OK, I get that everyone wants to be close, everyone wants the best view, everyone is the #1 fan. Whatever. That’s normal. I get it. But if you’re just at a show to get drunk and talk with your friends, stay the fuck at the bar. Everyone around us was visibly annoyed and bristled at these assholes, who honest-to-god kept looking around and smirking at everyone. Like, “Oh, are we in the way? HAHAHAHAHA.”

Fucking assholes.

But, they didn’t deter Kristy from having her heart pumped full of ginger beauty. These are important moments in life, and I was so honored to get to be there while Kristy experienced pure music nirvana. And Jenny played some songs that I knew in spite of me not following her solo career, so it was a win for all!

Now I’m going to make her see Emarosa with me. <3

******

Did I mention that Kristy made me a motivational poster with adjustable lips for Henry? SHE IS AWESOME.

You guys. My friends Terri and Christian are here visiting, so I’m going to take advantage of Flashback Friday and post an older painting, which is available as a print, oh boy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started out simply. Two old friends, meeting up in the city for some Milwaukee’s Best and beer nuts.

Paul talked ad nauseum about his new bride, Pricilla. Talked about how she picked up his dirty socks with a broad smile on her face and even wore a skimpy apron while cooking his meatloaf. If he brought her roses and Vodka, she would even make love to his anus.

Samuel, having been single for the last eight years, sulked a bit. He hated hearing about his friends’ good fortune with the ladies, while he was left to sleep alone, with nothing more than his pit bull to spoon. Though it was a step up from the iguana he tried to recruit as a temporary bedmate.

Paul didn’t like to see his friend look so sullen. He thought Samuel had some great qualities that many women would be attracted to. For example, the fact that he was the quietest farter Paul had ever met. (Though, were silent-but-deadlies any better?) And that he didn’t live with his mother. (Mostly that’s attributed to the fact that she’s dead.) And that he had a large weapons collection, with which to keep any woman feeling safe and protected. (Paul still wasn’t entirely sure why Samuel needed a bazooka just for fox hunting, though.)

But still, Paul couldn’t see any reason for Samuel to continue his dry spell any longer and became determined to find him a girlfriend. Or at the very least, a mute with a clean vagina upon which Samuel could practice, maybe get his groove back. So when they left the bar in favor for some totally non-gay window shopping, Paul broached the subject.

“Say, Samuel, what types of broads do you like?” Paul asked as the ducked into an Army Navy store, where Samuel darted straight to a counter displaying knives.

“Well, like I always say: I like my women like I like my ice cubes,” Samuel murmured absently, running a calloused thumb over the blade of a Bowie.

Paul laughed. “Frosty exterior with a piece of fruit in the center?” he asked, curling his fingers into exaggerated air quotes when he said “center,” and recalling that Samuel was really into freezing tiny pieces of nectarines in his ice cubes, which added pizazz to his signature summer Sangria.

“No,” Samuel replied, with a slight scoff. “Frozen in a tray,” he answered, sliding his credit card over to the cashier. “By the dozen.”
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This is a print of my original painting The Conversation. It measures 8×10 and does not come framed.