It was approximately -87 degrees last Thursday morning, which found me working from home and Chooch staying home from school.

God made this happen.

Because God wanted me to discover the greatest thing in the whole entire world: Gospel aerobics.

Let me tell you how it happened: It was approximately 3PM last Thursday and I was about to take my lunch break. (I was working late shift that day.) I had already exercised that morning, but it was bothering me that Chooch has basically been lounging around all day watching videos on his phone. So I put YouTube on the TV and announced that it was time for him to exercise. I typed in “kids exercise workouts” or something equally as generic, and one of the first ones that came up was some kids dance workout.

It looked like it was from the 90s, and it was hosted by a black man with a huge smile who definitely seemed to be having more fun than the kids behind him. Chooch and I became instantly obsessed and were falling all over each other in our feeble, giddy attempt to follow along with the routine. By the end, we were straight exhausted just from all the laughing. The host likes to make lots of thrusting motions while grunting “Uh! Uh!” and it’s just too much for assholes like us to handle.

Later that night, I looked at Chooch and asked, “Do you want to do another one?” And that is how our lust for birthday party videos on YouTube was replaced by HIP HOP WORKOUTS FOR KIDS FROM THE 90s!

We found one and Henry was not amused. Not even the sight of us lumbering through the Running Man made Henry crack a smile.

The next day at work, I was excited to talk about my new obsession.

“What makes a person purposely look for hip hop workouts from the 90s?” Glenn asked, because he is stupid and just doesn’t get it. But then I decided to Google the host of the first routine Chooch and I did to see if he has other videos out there, and what I found was something I like to call THE MOTHERFUCKING JACKPOT.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Gospel aerobics! Paul Eugene is my hero! I excitedly shared this with several co-workers and said, “Well, I know what I’m doing all weekend!”

“Poor Henry” was the general response to that.

Then I signed Glenn up for the newsletter (Paul uses MAIL CHIMP! All of my fellow Serial fanatics will appreciate that), but then a few minutes later I heard him mumble, “I’m not confirming this.”

Foiled.

A few hours later, I broke the Friday afternoon silence to giddily shout, “AND he danced on Soul Train!”

“You’re still on that guy’s website?” Glenn asked incredulously, and then almost immediately realized what a dumb question that was. I have a very low threshold for obsession resistance.

I absolutely could not wait to get home work and put on some gospel aerobics.

***********

After dinner, Chooch and I chose a workout from Paul’s YouTube channel and Henry mumbled, “Goodbye.” He was off the couch and upstairs before the CHECK WITH YOUR PHYSICIAN warning had left the screen.

And then it was just complete mayhem. Chooch puked at one point from laughing so hard (at least he cleans it up himself now) and then I accidentally stepped on his foot when we were trying to shuffle to the left. I can only imagine what it sounded like to outsiders, because we were laughing so hard, we were SCREAMING, like two drunk, mentally challenged cartoon characters who just had a piano and anvil dropped on their respective heads. Basically, we are the Toon Patrol and Henry is Eddie Valiant.

And apparently, all of these videos are from 2004-present; they only LOOK like they’re from the 90s.

Afterward, Chooch ran upstairs to weigh himself and claims that he lost a pound. Yeah, because he PUKED.

Later that night, Henry was horrified when he found out that there was a strength-training segment and that Chooch and I were unsupervised, having violent laughing attacks with weights in our hands.  Then after Chooch went to bed, I made Henry sit there while I fell down the gospel aerobics rabbit hole. I found one called Faithful Fitness but it was just a bunch of prudish white people who quite possibly had less rhythm than me and did very little to inspire me to get off my fat ass.

So I went back to PEugene. And then I made him my profile picture on Facebook.

“Do you think Kristy will do gospel aerobics when she comes over tomorrow night?” I asked Henry.

“I hope not,” he mumbled. BUT SHE DID! And by “do gospel aerobics” I mean that we sat on the couch, drinking alcohol and watching the best of Paul Eugene.

“Why does it look like he’s in Hell?” Kristy asked.

Because he’s dancing away the demons!

(This song is pretty much in my head all of the fucking time now.)

******

While Henry was making dinner on Sunday, Chooch and I mutually agreed that it was Paul Eugene time. Chooch doesn’t like the gospel ones as much as I do though (he said they scare him), so we put on several of the lame kid workouts and by the time we made it to the part where Paul forgets how to count during jumping jacks, Chooch and I simultaneously peed our pants. (Sometimes Paul holds up the wrong number of fingers when he’s counting down, too.)

These workouts make us scream with laughter….oh my god, almost like we are being EXORCISED how haven’t I made this connection before!? It’s like, literally a douche for our douchiness. The only thing missing is Paul hosing us down with Holy water at the end, making us smoke and sizzle like a Gremlin in a Jersey Shore hot tub.

Our levels of hysteria rose so high that night that Henry stormed over and turned the TV down in a huff. And when that wasn’t enough, he came back from the bedroom with HEADPHONES FOR HIS PHONE. Obviously this just made us laugh even harder.

*******

Last night, I did two more PE workouts and before I knew it, my heart rate was up like a cross-carrying Simon of Cyrene. One had a move that Chooch insisted was called “Strangle the devil” (it really did sound like that’s what Paul was saying through his gritted smile) and the second one was a riveting routine called the Victory Dance, set to an uplifting jam about a new day, and even though I tripped over my right foot and felt something snap in my back, Paul told me that I’m a winner no matter what and it occurred to me that while I started working out to gospel aerobics ironically, I THINK I HAVE BEEN AFFECTED BY ALL OF THE ECCLESIASTICAL CALISTHENICS. Paul’s positivism and exuberance for evangelical exercise has made me religious. I’m going to make a shirt this weekend that says Paul Eugene is my Co-Pilot and there is nothing that Henry can do about it, except for maybe not show me how to make a shirt that says Paul Eugene is my Co-Pilot.

Paul’s workouts are soundtracked by holy house music to give some rhythm to his churchy chacha. Somewhere during the routine, Paul will interject some liturgy while sweat drips from his temples and I have found myself actually paying attention to what he’s saying. It’s not uncommon for Paul to interrupt his own two-step preaching in order to sing, “I see the Kingdom!” in time with whatever uplifting worship tune has him toe-tapping and then remind us that it is A NEW DAY. Fuck all that bullshit that happened yesterday. It’s time to do the Sanctified Line.

The grapevine has never felt more pious, jumping jacks so Jesus-y, squats so sacrosanct. You guys. This totally started out as a joke, but now I think I RESPECT PAUL*. He makes me happy. Even today, when the trolley was late and then I sat near someone who smelled like a bagful of curly fry seasoning, I felt totally OK with life.

Oh Christ. I think I need to procure me some Pontius Pilates.

*And maybe even God.

Where Henry wines and dines me at Bob Evans and Olive Garden on our “vacation” two hours away from home. Part 1 is here.

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2004 (8:36am)

Haha, Henry walked to CVS to get me a new compact (he broke the cover off of my current one so I couldn’t bring it) and he came back with the wrong color. So he dejectedly turned around and headed back out into the jungle that is Cleveland. Are you crying for him yet?

We didn’t go to the bar last night because I looked exceptionally fat and ugly. Instead, we spent the evening with Carnie Wilson and her husband Rob, and then the Golden Girls stopped by.

It’s going to be 87 degrees and humid today. I can hardly wait. It’s going to be especially comfortable in the car.

Our big plans are to go on a boat tour at 12:00, but the paper said thunderstorms for today. It looks so nice out there now though.

Uh oh, Henry J. is back. Let’s see how he fared.

Haha, he bought the wrong shade again and now he’s sitting in the chair pouting. This is after he stomped around the room on a rampage, stuffing clothes into our bags. God, he’s a hothead.

Some religious show is on the WB and the host said, “Happy Happy Jesus day to everyone!” and now a choir is singing. I feel so enlightened by God’s love, like I kind of want to herd sheep.

(9:33am)
We checked out and are on our way to find somewhere to eat outside of Cleveland and Henry called me “fucking generic.”

Downtown Cleveland has no traffic at all. Henry said it’s “on the verge of being depressed.” It’s nice when he puts his economics degree to use.

Henry’s raging because he got a tree branch stuck under the car and he was going to try and dislodge it at a red light but a mini Cooper almost ran him over. God, he’s in such a pissy mood today. His name for today will be Crappy Pants.

(10:40am)
Crappy Pants started to lighten up for a bit but then he freaked out in the parking lot of Bob Evans [ed.note: It’s nice that Henry took me to a Bob Evans while on “vacation”] because I asked him to bring in the camera bag. You never know when you’re going to need the camera.

I simply cannot wait to indulge in my fruit and yogurt plate. I don’t want to eat too much before my highly-anticipated boat tour! Which BETTER NOT BE CANCELLED.

(11:57am)
Holy shit, we just made it onto the Goodtimes III boat. I had to suffer through yet another Crappy Pants hissy fit because the lot he wanted to park in was full. We had to drive around in a tireless effort for somewhere else to park, and unknowingly got caught up in the American Idol audition shuffle. It’s being held at the Browns stadium.

Oh god, we just had to watch a lesson in lifeguard vest fastening. I really hope we don’t need to use one.

Christ, there’s this grandma on our boat with two girls. She held up the ticket line with her asinine inquiries of senior discounts. Then she told the ticket guy, “I really am sixty, I swear!” God, I wanted to gag. Then she held up the ticket taker by asking him where she could get a drink. HOW ABOUT IN THE RIVER. She’s dumb and I hate her.

Henry J. is all, “Look, there’s the captain. That’s where he steers when he’s pulling out.” (LOL pulling out.) I thought he was in the AIRFORCE not the Navy? God, being in THE SERVICE sure turned little Henry J into a well-rounded man of knowledge. I’m lucky to call him my boyfriend.

(12:18pm)
So far, this is really boring. We’re listening to some stupid guy on a recording tell us about industrial crap. We’re on the Cuyahoga River, going past the Flats, whatever that means. Henry J’s so hardcore that he moved up a seat to take pictures. I didn’t want to sit with him anyway.

Oh Christ, he’s talking while he films. Just what everyone longs for: commentary by Henry J. Way to make it boring.

(1:05pm)
Thankfully, the boring river segment of the tour is over (the only thing I learned is Cleveland has weird bridges and mediocre graffiti). Now we’re finally going into Lake Erie, my bitches.

Oh God, Henry J’s trying to be funny again. He’s so funny he should be on “Blue Collar TV.”

I asked, “Why is the boat rocking?” Now, I wanted to hear an exciting answer like, “Because Godzilla and HR Pufnstuf are battling at the bottom of the lake” but instead Henry J says, “Well, it’s because the waves are going one way and then the wind is coming in from over that side…..” and I stopped listening.

I wonder if Henry J ever did whippets when he was younger. It would explain a lot. I should ask him. I lost him to the upper deck it seems. What the fuck is he taking pictures of? Oh shit — me. I’m hunching over to shield my ugly face but there’s no camouflaging my chub. Ew, I think he’s taking pictures of other peoples kids now. How perverse.

(1:50pm)
Oh God. We’re floating past this little business airport and a plane landed. Henry J was watching it with his mouth slightly agape and I swear I’m not kidding — a tear in his eye. I SAW IT! He gets so nostalgic when he sees airplanes. Oh, memories of his days in THE SERVICE.

[Ed.Note: This must have been the tour boat version of childbirth, because I somehow forgot how excruciating the tour was and insisted that we do it again the summer of 2013, where one of the bridges broke, resulting in us getting stuck on the river for something like 4 hours and Chooch and Henry tried to disown me.]

(2:30pm)
Amazingly, we’re en route to E. 99. [Ed.Note: I was obsessed with Bone Thugs-n-Harmony and had been trying to go to Cleveland since I was in high school specifically to see the intersection of E.99 and St. Clair, because it was on the cover of one of their albums (E.99 Eternal) and they had rapped about it. It was like a yo-girl’s version of Graceland, OK?] I’m sure Crappy Pants was hoping I’d forget. I admitted to him that I was afraid his bandanna would get us into trouble. His response was, “No, what’s going to get us into trouble is the white girl with the video camera.”

I sure hope I get to see Bone! Maybe they’re home, creepin’ on ah comeup, you know?

(2:33pm)
Leave it to Henry J to take a truly blessed and sacred moment and shit his runny diarrhea all over it. Instead of being grateful to aid me in my lifelong aspiration of seeing E.99 Street and St. Clair, he instead decided to lose his temper and berate me for making him drive into the ghetto and then turn around twice to ensure a proper photographical opportunity. You would think that the awestruck smile on my sweaty face would warm his heart one thousand times over. Wrong. NOTHING can warm that frigid rock of ice in his chest, except maybe some hardcore porn and a bucket of chicken.

Driving through these ghettos makes me reminisce to the point in my life when I was knee deep in this shit. I’m lucky to be alive right now, but you wouldn’t understand. Running from the popo in the middle of the night, your glock in your waistband and crackrocks stashed in your asshole. These are times I look back on in fond reflection but would never want to repeat.

In other words: I used to listen to a lot of gangsta rap.

Holy shit — Henry J just pulled over on the curb to consult his map. I can’t help but feel he could have picked a better area for that. He “thinks [he] knows where we’re going now.”

(4:27pm)
This entire afternoon has been spent in a dire search for cheap lodging. We just drove past a Clarion. but Crappy Pants said, “No, it looks too nice in front. We need something that looks like it’s falling down.” God, I can’t wait until that man marries me.

(6:24pm)
We’ve embarked on a journey for dinner. I’m sure I’ll pick this book back up at 8:00 to write of our progress and we will STILL be driving.

So, I was taking a shower (after we checked into our palatial Super 8 suite) and I somehow got conditioner up my nose and subsequently sneezed FOURTEEN TIMES in a row. It was orgasmic.

Then, with a towel securely wrapped around my wet head, I began my search for the ice machine. I walked all the way to the end of the hall, but there was NOTHING. Just a barren stairwell. Luckily, two Mexican boys just happened to emerge from their rooms and were quite efficient with their offers to help me in my quest. I walked down the remaining length of the hall with the older of the two while he informed me apologetically of his poor English skills. He even squeezed my shoulder at one point and I blushed.

He led me down the opposite stairwell and said, “There. In there.” He pointed to a door at the bottom of the steps and I immediately thought it was a trap. that I was getting raped and turned into a milkmaid.

It ended up being OK though. He opened the door for me and gestured excitedly toward the ice machine. I thanked him by slipping my tongue down his throat and we bid each other adieu. [Ed.Note: I read this out loud to Henry and said, “Wait…did this really happen?” and he mumbled, “Who knows with you.”]

(8:30pm)

We’re at Olive Garden. A brief rundown on what has transpired in the past two hours: Henry J drove us to Coventry. It’s like our Southside and home to the famous Grog Shop. Anyhow, our visit was not in the itinerary and this was a bit overwhelming for me, as I had not planned on walking since my foot is broken (it is, but Henry J doesn’t believe me). Then, Henry was mad at me because I didn’t want to visit any of the eateries that Coventry had to offer. He EXPLODED. It was tres embarrassing. He was all, “We’re going home!” Ooh, big words for a little man. Then he had the audacity to put the weight of this Hell Trip on ME!

We got back to the hotel at which point I’m subjected to more of Henry’s theatrics. “I’m going out by myself to find a bar!” I was like, “Good luck with that” and then he spazzed out because I didn’t cling to his ankles, begging him to stay. He blurted out, “Then you don’t love me!” through a stream of big gay tears. Meanwhile, he only walked next to our hotel to Olive Garden to get a menu for me.

Boy is he a sucker.

Now I’m enjoying a peach sangria and flagrant flirtations from our waiter. And Henry is trying to put two hours worth of tears behind him.

Oh goody, I just ate a stuffed mushroom with secret crabmeat. There’s nine years of vegetarianism down the drain.

Samuel. Our waiter’s name is Samuel.

I can’t stand the white asscake seated across from us with his friend. He’s attempting to design business cards for the friend (Shawn, to those who know him) and he’s being so obnoxious about it. Then he told some lame ass joke about Jeb Bush and unfair elections and it wasn’t even a joke!  When their meal was served, the waiter asked if he wanted any cheese on his pasta and he said, ” Yeah, a lot.” And he was hitting on the Asian hostess by telling her he adopts kids of other nationalities. He was like, “I have a black and I’m looking for an Asian” and the black woman in the next booth whipped her head back to look at him. He was a WEIRDO. He was talking about Jews, Ukranians, and Russians later, too.

(9:50pm)

OK so we finally got to eat after 3 hours of Hell, most of it from Erin. Needless to say dinner was interesting. I must admit the most annoying man I have ever the pleasure of sitting near was there. I think he mentioned every ethnicity there is in his conversation. For once, we had a good waiter. except for the mushroom episode, everything else was good. I feel bad she ate the little clam, I hope she doesn’t DIE! Well, I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings. I’m sure it will be another “Happy Happy Jesus Day” because I can sure use another one. I’m not sure my heart (old heart) can take it. So it’s off to watch the Amazing Race and explain all of the confusing things to her.

(10:48pm)

“Amazing Race” is pretty fascinating.

Anyway, I need to write about all the food that Crappy Pants shoved into his fat face: Three and a half breadsticks, a huge salad, the entire stuffed mushroom plate (after I found out about the crab), and three gigantic meat ravioli. ROAR.

OH! There’s some midget on Amazing Race and she just said, “Another one of my dreams came true!” because she got to see the pyramids and Henry said, “Another of her dreams is to have normal-sized legs.” I hope he goes to Hell. Midgets are people too.

I asked Crappy Pants what his favorite memory of me is, and he slapped me on the side of my head and said, “That.”

Asshole.

——————————–

Oh yes. There is a companion video. It’s called “How Are They Still Together?” P.S. The part where I call Henry “uneducated”? Don’t go crying rivers of pity for him just yet. That was my tip of the hat in reference to the time he and I had a political argument and he told me I was uneducated. I responded by breaking his glasses.

How happy are you  that I don’t vlog?

My nostalgia over this past week rubbed off on Corey and he started rummaging around our childhood home (our mom still lives there; he waited for her to leave so she wouldn’t freak out because God forbid her kids might be curious about their family heritage). He texted some of these old photos to me the other night and they really made me smile so much.

A rare photo of my mom and me seemingly having a nice time together. This was either in Wildwood or at Kennywood, I’m not sure.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression: things weren’t really that terrible between the two of us back then. But she was always really weird about having her picture taken—way weirder than I am even, but this is certainly where I get my camera phobia. Most pictures of my mom, she looks like she’s frightened or she is trying to hide behind her thick flaxen hair curtain.

I always thought it was such a shame, because my mom was so pretty back then.

It’s scary how drastically unhappiness can change a person’s appearance.

Some of the greatest memories of my life took place on Sylvania Drive. (Also some of the scary flashbacks involving my birth dad, but gotta focus on the good or the bad will just eat away at you, right?). This photo is my friend Christy and me sitting on the back of my stepdad’s truck with my brother Ryan. When Ryan was born, I was the biggest brat about it. I didn’t want to not be an only child anymore, but mostly I didn’t want to share my Pappap! I was still in my I HATE RYAN phase when this photo was taken but don’t worry—we ended up being pretty cool with each other after awhile. (Even though I was accused of pushing him down the attic steps when we moved into our new house in Jefferson Hills, and to this day, I promise you that’s a lie. Unless I was having a rage blackout. Then it’s entirely possible.)

The first girl in this picture was a younger girl who lived across the street and Christy and I would always try to hide from her because she was so annoying and I feel like her mom used to yell at us a lot. Her last name was Mellon but Christy convinced me it was Watermelon.

And then this picture. The holy grail! I had never before in my life seen this, and Corey said Val (a/k/a our mom) had it stuffed in a drawer with a bunch of papers.

The man in the hat is my Pappap, and the woman behind him and to the left is my grandma. I think this was taken in the Bahamas, because I know they used to go there a lot when my mom was a kid. (I feel like there’s a story about Susie bringing home a boy from there when she was a teenager, so now I think Corey and I need to hound her for details.)

This picture is so surreal to me, like a still from some old French film. My Pappap looks so badass. I need a copy of this photo in the worst way, but that seems like an impossible task at this point in the family relations game. UNLESS COREY CAN “BORROW” IT LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO GET A GOOD SCAN.

I don’t know who the other people are, but I bet my mom and her sisters do and I really wish we could all get together sometime and look at pictures together and you know, keep our family history alive. There is so much I don’t know and, as a compulsive memory chronicler (or, you know, HOARDER), it makes me absolutely twitchy.

I had a much better story that I was going to write about today but CHOOCH is monopolizing the computer (he’s getting interviewed on some game he’s playing? I have no idea what he’s talking about) and I didn’t feel like doing any actual word-fashioning via my iPhone. Such blogging woes.

Coming tomorrow: more scintillating snippets of the Cleveland 2004 trip via my paper travel journal. TRY TO TONE DOWN THE ENTHUSIASM.

Right before Christmas, Henry had a bunch of my old 8mm tapes transferred to DVDs. It was pretty much the greatest/worst thing he could have done, because I am a sucker for nostalgia. And once it baits me, I’m tough to reel back in. He picked ten tapes at random, because he had a Groupon. One of those tapes happened to be the oldest one in the box, and it started with one of the Christmases from when I was in middle school. So, maybe 1991? 1992? Henry was dying because even with my back to the camera, my body language was a neon sign for This Girl is Pouting. “Oh good lord, were you kids spoiled,” he muttered while I smiled sweetly at the memories of these past Christmases. But then the video switched from my family’s house to my grandparent’s house, and for the first time in 15 years, I heard my Pappap’s voice and tears simultaneously sprung forth. Just seeing my parents, Susie and her then-husband Mark, my grandparents and my great-grandma sitting around the table, while Sharon supervised us kids opening more presents, and hearing everyone laugh at whatever hilarious joke my Pappap had made….it started out like a kick to the gut, but then, surprisingly, I was able to watch it without tears in my eyes, while making fun of my pre-teen self. For years and years, I clung to the past in a really unhealthy way, wishing that my Pappap hadn’t died (OK, I obviously still wish that; that hasn’t changed) and that our family hadn’t broken apart like Pangea, that we still all got together for holidays and I hadn’t been basically banned from my grandparent’s house.

So we’re watching these videos and Chooch is getting super pissed.

“I bet your Pappap gave you like, a lot of money for your birthday, didn’t he?” he asked angrily.

“Not really,” I answered casually. “But, we were usually in Europe for my birthday….”

“Oh my god, I hate you,” Chooch cried. “Like, really hate you.”

I’m not going to lie. While there was certainly dysfunction under my own roof, and my relationship with my grandma was strained at best, my Pappap did everything in his power to make sure that I had a charmed childhood. And I love him so much for that. He’s the reason why I try to give Chooch interesting/weird/cool experiences. I might not have a lot of money, and I certainly can’t take him to Europe every year for his birthday, but I will still do whatever I can to give him good memories.  My Pappap kept me from turning into a spoiled brat (OK, I have my snobby moments even as a poor person) by being a kind, humble man.

This was taken one of the last times I was over there, in 2010.

*****

Once my grandma’s health began to decline about 10 years ago, so did the house. It was just her and my aunt Sharon living there, in this house that could comfortably shelter multiple families, and they just couldn’t keep up. Occasionally, they would call Henry over to make minor repairs, but there were larger issues that weren’t being addressed, landscaping that had been overlooked for years, a pool that hadn’t been maintained since the late 90s. You get the picture. Just like our family, it was falling apart.

When my grandma died in 2011, we thought for sure the house was going to be taken. My mom and Sharon have been in a world of financial struggle for more than a decade, and I couldn’t imagine how they were going to afford to keep the house. But Sharon continued living there, alone, and it just seemed like they kept dodging bullet after bullet that the bank was firing at them. And even though I am so removed from them and the situation these days, I was secretly glad that they were somehow stealing more time. Because this house was all we had left of my grandparents and the memories of The Good Days. The BBQs and pool parties and sleepovers and Christmases on the porch where there was usually one person mad at another person, but it was still so much better than this, how it is now, this nothingness, where we’re no longer a family but basically just a bunch of strangers with chunks of matching DNA.

*****

Two days ago, I was at work when Corey texted me a Realtor.com listing.

Sharon finally did it. She put the house on the market.

I could taste the bile rising as I scrolled through the pictures of peeling wallpaper and dust-coated glass tables. I sat at my desk, willing myself not to cry. I will never be able to put into words how much this house means to me, how all of the best memories of my childhood were born under that roof, in that pool, among the woods in the backyard. It was my happy place. It was where I sought refuge in my teen years when my dad and I hated each other. It was where I would stop on my way home from school to sit at the kitchen counter and help my grandma with her puzzle while the Guiding Light theme song bleated out of the small kitchen television set. It was where my friends and I would hang out in high school, watching the hockey game and horror movies on that huge wraparound couch in the game room. Sometimes I think, if my memories of that house are this beautiful, it must be like looking at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for my mom and aunts.

I know. It’s a house. It’s just a house. No one died.

But…the memories. The nostalgia. The scents and the feels and the sights of that crazy velvet wallpaper and the gaudy opulence of the clown room — it’s not just a time capsule of my childhood, but also a veritable set design for the strange aesthetics of the 60s and 70s, like if you could walk into the word “Groovy” and pop a squat. Their interior decorator (yes, they had one; his name was Herbie) definitely went for Liberace Lite.

When I show people pictures of the house now, they’re like, “Are you fucking kidding?” But this was normal to me. This was real life. This was what I grew up in. I thought every house had hidden rooms under the steps where Pappaps kept a collection of Cameos brought back from the War, a house-wide intercom system, a master bathroom with Roman-esque pillars, a basement with three separate game rooms: one with a bar, one with a pool table and arcade games, one with a poker table and furniture made from barrels.

Corey said that he spoke with Sharon that day and that she seemed OK, like she had finally come back down  to earth and understood that this is what she needs to do, that it’s time. And even though it hurts so bad, like an entire limb is being taken from me, I know it’s the right thing, too. And I hope that once Sharon is out of there, she can finally let go and start living life again. Maybe this is what she needs to do to finally start healing. Because she hasn’t been the Sharon I used to know, not since that traumatic night in 1996.

******

Corey and I are trying to gently convince Sharon to let us come over for one last time. We just want to look around, run our fingers over the curios and crystals, take some pictures. I just want to breathe it in one last time before some asshole buys it and completely remodels it.

A few years ago, I posted the only pictures here I could find, taken from 2007-2008. It’s mind-blowing to me how a house that was once so open and inviting (it was surprisingly warm and cozy in there, like a sanctuary) turned into a bolted-up, secretive fortress. I haven’t been inside there since 2010, and that was for about 30 minutes before Sharon was shooing me out.

This painting was supposed to be mine. This was all I wanted, plus all the old photo albums. I don’t care about the money. I would rather continue living in pseudo-squalor than taking their handouts.

Chooch in the Clown Room, standing near a sharp-edged glass table, wooo parenting!

Master bathroom, one of my favorite rooms as a kid.

Someday I hope to have a house to cover in strange wallpaper.

Sharon wasn’t home one day so my grandma let us take pictures of Chooch in the gameroom. Sharon is real weird about me being in the house, like she expects me to start pocketing the Lalique and Lladro. (Not gonna lie, I wouldn’t mind giving all of those clowns a new home.)

His shoes were on the wrong feet—parental duties on lock.

My friend Evan always liked to play chess at this table back when we were in high school.

My grandma let Corey and I have a photoshoot in there one day until Sharon caught wind and made us feel so tense and nervous that we eventually just left.

Someday, before the house is gone, I want to break in and take more pictures and just get one good, long look at what seemed so normal to me as a kid. I spent some of the best days of my life at that house, watching “Golden Girls”, “Empty Nest” and “Hunter” during Saturday night sleepovers, eating grilled cheese, and playing PacMan in the game room while “She Bop” blared out of the jukebox. Until I convince Sharon to let me in, I’m going to tear through every last photo album I have for more pictures. I feel absolutely panicked about this.

Spending so much of my youth in that house stimulated my imagination and cultivated my eclectic tastes.  I owe so much of who I am today to that strange, magical place on Gillcrest. It was my refuge.

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

I came home from work the Day the House Was Put on the Market and was looking through an old tin of mixtapes, in hopes of finding the one I had just written about the other day. It’s been a good 10 years since I had rooted around through this tin, and  the first thing I saw when I removed the lid was this picture of my grandparents from 1991 and my heart split in two:

Sometimes I believe in signs, and this was one of those times. I feel like this was their way of saying it’s OK. That we don’t have to keep that house in the family to keep their memory alive.

Henry and I pretty much spent most of Saturday arguing. Or, if you ask Henry, I spent most of the day arguing. I can’t help it. Sometimes I just wake up in the mood to feud, you know?

At one point that afternoon, he fell asleep on my shoulder and I was really offended about this. I AM NO ONE’S PILLOW.

We were on the mend by later in the evening though. I guess. I had mostly forgiven him for taking too long in Target when he knew I was in the car waiting, and for not reading my psychic hunger pangs that were moaning, “BUYYYY ERINNNN A SNACKKKK” so then he went to Rite Aid and basically chucked a granola bar at my face. And then I bitched because it was apple cinnamon and I wasn’t in the MOOD for apple cinnamon.

But then I needed a distraction during the terrible Pens game that night, so I forced Henry to pretend like he liked me long enough for me to take stupid pictures using a photobooth app and he was like, “This is really dumb.” And it was pretty dumb. Especially when I was like, “NOW I’M GOING TO PRETEND TO TELL YOU A SECRET” and he was like, “That’s not my ear.”

I was mad at him again yesterday. Chooch had a 2-hour delay because of Winter, so I worked from home in the morning and then begged Henry to drive me to work once I pushed Chooch out the door for school, but Henry was all, “Work excuses, etc” so I had to walk in miserable snow and cold to the trolley stop and apparently the only people who use the trolley at 11am are cash paying motherfuckers so the trolley spent FOREVER at every stop while I was being pinned against the wall of the trolley by some bitch’s baby stroller. It was just awful, so I texted Henry and told him that I fell on my walk to the trolley because I wanted him to feel terrible.

He was all, “ARE YOU OK?!?!” and I waited a full hour before replying, “Not really.” I told him I hurt my hip, and then to make sure my bases were covered, I prepped Barb and Wendy just in case Henry decided to check in with them, which he sometimes threatens to do.

“Tell him that you saw me and I was dragging my leg behind me,” I urged Barb, who excitedly said, “OK BOSS! SURE BOSS!” because Barb loves deception.

And then today we were laughing because Henry was all concerned about my fake fall when he actually DID fall on Saturday. Did I tell you this story? No? WELL IT’S A GOOD ONE.

(It’s not that good.)

Henry got up early on Saturday to cheat on me, I mean, “to go to work for a little bit.” He thought the sidewalk was just wet from rain but it was FROZEN. So he slipped and fell on our sidewalk and came right back in the house and went back to bed. When we woke up later on, he very casually told me what happened, and then I proceeded to not give a fuck. Henry spent the rest of the day functioning like a normal person who hadn’t just bit it on ice, so it was easy for me to continue my streak of not being a concerned and sympathetic girlfriend. But then I’d jovially punch him, because that is how I show LOVE, and he would moan, “OW MY ELBOW. I HURT MY ELBOW WHEN I FELL.” And that’s all boo-hoo, so sad too bad, and whatever, but I think it’s awfully convenient that he just happened to “fall” on “ice” when he had a few pages of chores lined up for the weekend. I was pretty incensed about that. AND I DON’T MEAN THAT I STUNK OF NAG CHAMPA.

I never have any pity on him when he’s sick or gets hurt.  Remember when his co-worker ran over his foot with a pallet jack? No? Well, it happened and it was hilarious because he literally said nothing about it all day, until he came to pick me up from work that night, got out of the car and said, “I think my foot is broken, can you drive?” Fuck, people—if that had been my foot getting pancaked by a pallet jack, you best believe I’d have hollered about it from the hills of every last social media platform. 140 vulgar yells on Twitter. Pictures of the bruises and swelling on Instagram.  A vague and mysterious musing on Facebook to bait people into fishing for details. A whiny, TLDR blog post further martyring myself while turning off even more blog readers. A DIY tutorial for a rustic pallet jack murder weapon, with a mason jar holder and decorative Pom-Pom fringe, pinned on Pinterest. Yearly reshares of Timehop from that day, prefaced with “That time when I lost my foot in The War.” Sometimes Henry’ll wince all these years later when he steps down wrong and I’ll cry, “WHAT’S THE MATTER? PALLET FOOT?!” And he gets so mad.) So I kept manhandling him and making (un)reasonable demands of him all weekend, and finally he snapped and said, “YOU KNOW, THANK GOD I DIDN’T GET SERIOUSLY INJURED WHEN I FELL. I WOULD PROBABLY STILL BE LAYING OUT THERE BECAUSE YOU AND CHOOCH ARE USELESS.”

And then I couldn’t stop laughing while picturing him, lying prostrate and crippled on the sidewalk, with crows picking away at him. I’m sure Chooch and I would have discovered him eventually, once it was time for our first feeding.

On the way home from Chooch’s piano lesson on Saturday, some Queen song came on the radio (it was probably “Another One Bites the Dust,” but I can’t remember exactly right now).

Chooch is oddly interested in Queen. Not in a “LET’S BUY THEIR WHOLE DISCOGRAPHY!

” sense. But, he does like to ask questions about them. Once, I played him the “Radio Gaga” video, because I was OBSESSED with that song when I was around his age (there’s even a video of me dancing to with curlers in my hair years later—I think jerk Lisa filmed it in my mom’s family room when I wasn’t paying attention) and he was fascinated.

This time, he started asking us questions about Queen’s popularity and seemed kind of surprised when Henry and I told him that they had lots of big radio hits. We started naming some of them and I had a quick audio flashback of senior year of high school. I had never been a super big Queen fan, so I never really sunk into their deep cuts. But then I started dating Psycho Mike, and the one good quality about Psycho Mike among the layers of shitty attitude, rage disorders, and fiery jealousy was that he really loved music. None of my prior boyfriends really seemed to give a shit about music, let alone that all-important relationship token: The Mixtape. I would make them for people all the time: friends, penpals, unworthy boyfriends—but it wasn’t until I started dating Mike that I ever got one back from a boy.

And it was fucking legit.

It was through Mike that I learned about Billy Bragg (whom I finally got to see live at Riot Fest last September!), Neutral Milk Hotel, Syd Barrett, and Radiohead (Mike was going to see them back when they were opening for bands at tiny Pittsburgh clubs like Metropol), some of which were included on the mixtape he made for me during the winter of 1997. I spent so many nights laying on the beanbag in my bedroom, lit only by a ridiculous collection of neon water sculptures and Christmas lights bouncing off of my foiled wallpaper…it was just a few nudie posters short of being a home-version of Spencer’s, a headshop without the bongs and nose-pinching stench of patchouli. And this is how Mike’s mixtape was best experienced: half-devoured by a giant bag of beans, awash in psychedelic lights, absolutely nothing distracting from the words and music seeping into the system like some supreme cocktail of opiates.

During our Queen conversation on Saturday, I pulled up “You Don’t Fool Me” on my phone and, before it started playing, I explained that it was my favorite Queen song of all time.

“It was on this mixtape that Psycho Mike made me,” I mumbled.

I hadn’t listened to this song in at least 15 years, and as soon as I heard those opening notes, I was back in my old bedroom again, and I felt so calm and peaceful, even with Chooch’s mouth chattering away in the backseat of the car. Over the weekend, I listened to some more songs that I remembered from that tape, “Marooned” by Pink Floyd, “Bad As They Seem” by Hayden, even Pachelbel’s “Canon” was on there. Side B ended with a 10-second recording of one of our phone calls, unbeknownst to me at the time; I thought was incredibly adorable and romantic back then, me sounding all sleepy and him teasing me with a deranged lilt to his voice.

Listening to these songs made me feel warm, safe, comfortable: none of the things Psycho Mike ever made me feel.

Some years ago, a crazy lady started a fight with me on Twitter because I wasn’t paying enough attention to her. One of the only slams she had on me was that I ONLY WRITE ABOUT MYSELF OMG. Writing about myself on my own personal blog, such nerve. Much audacity.

I mean, if people would stop taking out restraining orders on me, I’d have way more random lives to write about.

That broad was whack, but I have been thinking about switching shit up on here. Spritz it with some literary Febreze. Mask my own typo-riddled solipsism with the occasional guest post. WHO DOESN’T LOVE A SPECIAL GUEST STAR?!

As such, I’ve decided to do a monthly/bi-monthly/whenever I fucking feel like it travel-themed post where my friends—or anyone who happens to read this and becomes possessed with the spirit of Fodor’s—can submit a travel piece about their hometown! It doesn’t have to be some sprawling metro, either—I don’t discriminate against the rural demographic. Tell us where we can find the best hay bales to get high behind or where you go to use a rotary payphone in your Appalachian holler. I’m looking for YOUR favorite things about your hometown, cemeteries you’d take out-of-town friends for a walk, have the best ice cream, buy wheelchairs. OK fine–places you’d take me if I was visiting. BECAUSE THIS BLOG IS ALL ABOUT ME.

This is perfect for people who have a minimal desire to blog but are too ADD to maintain one of their own; have an upcoming typing test and need the practice; get off on the Internet to know intimate details, such as which drug store they get prescriptions filled and buy pregnancy tests to resell behind high schools.

Are you interested? You would have free reign–I don’t have a rigid format in mind, you won’t be censored (UNLESS YOU HAVE DIFFERENT OPINIONS THAN MINE. j/k.), you can include pictures. Take us on a tour!

Email me your travelogue (or questions) here: butgavincantdance [at] gmail.com. Don’t forget to include a short bio with any social media contact info you want me to post!

Guys. When “we” were cleaning the house last month, I found one of my old vacation journals; specifically, there is a written account of when Henry and I went to Cleveland in 2004 to see the Cure (and also E.99 & St.Clair, an intersection made famous by the BEST RAP GROUP EVER: Bone Thugs-n-Harmony)  and I decided that I am going to transcribe it because somehow I was able to charm Henry into writing a few times and also because I have no idea how we are still together because I was way bitchier and he was way less tolerant. So here is part one.

———————————————————

Monday, August 2, 2004

(10:06am)

I’m sitting in the parking lot of PNC Bank while Henry is inside, dutifully cashing in $243 worth of rolled change. Otherwise, this trip would not be possible.

Originally, we were supposed to go to Chicago (how my heart bleeds for that City of Wind), but Henry threw a hissy fit yesterday about how it’s not worth a ten hour trip for me to find happiness. Oh OK.

(10:34am)

We’re on McKnight Road. My stomach feels acidic. I briefed Henry on my situation, explaining that vomiting is a possible conclusion. He said, “You’ll be OK” and continued reading his map. He’s such a big shot driver that he’s using a BOB EVANS map, no less.

We stopped at the Sky Bank in Northway Mall so I could continue sucking my savings account dry (Henry makes me do it). There was this big crane there because they’re working on the mall’s roof. Three ladies were standing in the middle of the road, gawking at it, and Henry had to drive around them. We parked and got to walk past them, so I said loudly, “WOW I’VE NEVER SEEN A CRANE BEFORE!” Henry said, “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

I should note that a lot of times I re-word Henry’s quotes to either make it funnier or add some sense to it. Normally he only speaks gibberish and them I’m left to my own devices, trying in vain to translate. It’s a tedious job.

(11:06am)

We stopped at Sheetz in Wexford. Henry proclaimed that it was the same Sheetz he calls me from everyday during work, and that he’d make love to it if he could. It was touching until my first sip of their cheap, watered-down coffee. That, my friend’s, is poor man’s coffee.

I told Henry that I’m hungry and he’s turning it into a game. “Oh, I know! Let’s only eat at uncommercialized [sic] restaurants!” Meanwhile, we’re driving through a veritable oasis of eating establishments that don’t follow his moronic guidelines. What’s worse is that he’s singing along to A Perfect Circle and this coffee is completely unsatisfying! I can’t believe saving a few bucks is more important to him than satiating my hunger! I’m a growing girl! My anemia can grow worse any second now! But no, I have to sit here and wait until we enter a trailer park community and pray there’s a diner nearby. He’ll be sorry. Son of a bitch.

(11:50am)

We’re at Brown’s Country Kitchen in Portersville, being serenaded by Enrique Iglesias and sitting in a hard wooden booth. Henry likes it. He said he likes hard things pressing up against his ass.

Hopefully, sometime today we’ll make it out of Pennsylvania.

Holy Christ, he just ate coleslaw off the table. Do you know how many people masturbate while sacrificing livestock to the demon lord and then put their unwashed. seminated hands all over the table? Nasty.

It occurs to me that Henry didn’t want to go to Chicago because he doesn’t want to be too far away from his mommy.

There’s this really ugly boy that just came in. He has red hair. I started laughing and when I turned around to get a better look, I snorted. Henry said, “Don’t start. We’re still really close to home.” Ooh, a threat, and so early in the trip. But come on, this boy is repulsive!

(12:37pm)

The Bastard Redhead left the restaurant just as we got in the car. I excitedly readied the camera and had just gotten it to focus when Henry decided I’d had enough fun and pulled out of the parking lot! That picture could have been spectacular. It could have been all I’ve ever wanted. But HENRY fucked it up and he didn’t even apologize. He said he DOESN’T CARE and that it was “just a picture.” How will I remember that fucker now? The memory is so fleeting. This trip is officially ruined.

And our waitress was lazy. I don’t care t hat she was old.

(2:12pm)

We’re currently in the business district of Jefferson, OH. It’s  truly the working man’s town. I can see Henry living here. He looks like a lot of the men I see milling about: dirty, toothless, and tattooed.

(3:47pm)

I’m going to die in this goddamn un-air-conditioned car. I swear, I’m sweating to death and my skin feels like it’s burning. I’ve asked him countless times to please stop somewhere so we can get out of this sweatbox, yet he’s STILL driving along aimlessly.

We went to Geneva-on-the-Lake, which was a joke and drove for like 45 minutes after seeing a sign that said “Lake Erie Circle Tour.” Henry insists that the tour is really just the road that we’re on, but I know it’s not true and that he must have missed a turn somewhere.

God, I just want to go home.

(4:45pm)

Typical. Henry J is being all mushy now. “Oh, I am so sorry. I love you more than you’ll ever know and I just want to kill myself knowing that I’ve upset you.” I haven’t forgiven him, but we’re in Cleveland now. I can’t wait to find E.99 and St. Clair. Maybe Bone Thugs-n-Harmony will be there.

So we drove past the Marriott (on St. Clair) and the hotel looked like it was being evacuated. There were sheriffs that stopped traffic for all these kids to cross the street. The ATF and these news crews were there. The American Idol auditions are being held here on Wednesday, but something else is going on and I need to know. So I’m sending Henry back around.

Right now, the “E.” streets are in the low numbers. I said, “Wow, E.99 must be really far down there” and Henry J. said, “In the good part of town, I”m sure.” He’s SO FUNNY. He should go on “Last Comic Standing” and make us all proud.

I had a major realization that Henry J. confirmed: Cleveland hates people from Pittsburgh. Henry J. said, “So I”m from Harrisburg and you’re from Pittsburgh.” See? He’s so piss-your-pants funny.

Wow, Henry J. is actually inside a Holiday Inn inquiring about room availability. We never stay in real hotels. He left me in the car with the windows down because he hopes someone steals me.

(6:15pm) 

We scored a room at the Holiday Inn. Right now, we’re sitting in Willard Park. We’re walking around because if we take the car, we risk losing our free parking spot and then we’ll have to pay $15 to park in the hotel’s garage. That’s a crime!

So Henry J. confirmed that all the commotion was for the International Childrens Games. I said it’s stupid and Henry J. snapped, “No, it’s not! It’s for kids of different nationalities to meet so they won’t grow up like you, hating the world!” Oh snap.

(7:00pm)

We’re at the Winking Lizard Tavern after walking FOREVER because Henry J. is directionally WRONG. And lucky for us, Laura Ashley is sitting across from us.

And Henry J. is drinking a Coors Lite! Oh no, folks—an evening of drunken debauchery is surely in store for us! Or domestic violence. But really, isn’t it all the same?

(7:25pm)

I’m so happy! Not only did I have the best veggie burger (and it was HOMEMADE) I just saw CNBC that Kerry/Edwards are leading Bush/Cheney 49% to 42%! Of course, Henry Dubya Robbins is being a naysayer. “It’s not because of the convention <eye roll while gnawing on toothpicks>!”

(8:00pm)

We’re sitting near the lake now and Henry J. is wasting pictures. On our walk here, we encountered a homeless man who smelled so bad that people were crossing the street (I have a bad sense of smell though), a fat dude with an eye patch trying to give away a newspaper, a crazy guy rocking back and forth in front of the Catholic Diocese (he looked at me and said, “Heeeeeeeeheeeeee”) and a possible American Idol hopeful singing to a black homeless man.

I LOVE CLEVELAND! I want to move here and work for Alternative Press.

Oh, did I mention that Henry’s using a tan leather Puma “gym bag” that’s a “souvenir of the 70s”? It’s really a bowling bag from when he was in a league, OMG. They’d bowl and then go to the disco. Ooooh, disco delight!

(9:00pm)

Well, it’s my turn to tell the truth about the trip so far. I think this trip is a record to see how fast she could piss me off. I think it happened around 2pm. Almost came home. But as usual, she begged to stay. So the first 6 hours of the trip were not the best. So we are staying in the Holiday Inn, small room for a big price. But anything for my “sweetie.” Dinner was OK. Got lucky finding it, but seeing as how I’m the master of directions, I had no problem finding it. After dinner we walked down to the pier (so to speak). Got to see two lesbians kissing (Erin got excited). So now we’re gonna head down to the hotel bar and throw down some juice. Hopefully next time I write I’ll have more fun things to write about.

Wow. It took him nearly 15 minutes to write that. What an incredibly stimulating read.

On our walk back to the hotel, Henry J. told me a story about the last time he drank at a hotel bar. Apparently, he had such a wild time that he was too hungover to wake up for the maid the next morning. Oh my god, how exciting is that. And oh my god, it was when he was in THE SERVICE!! That was truly a story I’ll treasure always.

Yeah, so I want to hang out in the hotel bar and you know, meet some people, go home with a hot tourist, the usual.

————————————————-

OMG MORE NEXT SUNDAY CAN YOU STAND THE WAIT.

If one thing got me through last winter, it was furiously painting. So I plan on utilizing this same defense mechanism to claw my way through the early, dreary months of 2015. Right now I’m working on a Pittsburgh series. I just finished Rick Sebak (if you live in Pittsburgh and don’t know who that is, shame on you!) I have Warhol and Mister Rogers waiting in the wings. Mario Lemieux is in line back there, too.

On New Year’s Day, I painted some of the main players of the OJ Simpson trial. I call it “Simpson Trial Recess.” Glenn said it was “real special” and Henry was like, “I was too busy knocking back cases of Coors Lite while crying over my failing marriage to pay attention to what OJ Simpson was doing in 1995, so I do not recognize any of these people you literally spent the entire day painting, congratulations.”

I, on the other hand, was OBSESSED with the trial. So I’m pretty giddy about this and can’t wait to find a gaudy frame for it!

This is my aunt Susie’s dog, Tess!

“Sweet Teeth” – I painted this one last year and forgot that I stashed it in a drawer one day when I was “cleaning.” Because I’m a real “artist.”

In between a few customs I have on tap, I’m working on a big Twin Peaks group portrait thing. I love Twin Peaks.
*********
In other news, Henry ate a seitan hoagie today because OMG vegetarian food isn’t all that bad after all.

It was Christmas, and I opened presents and spent time with my family. I will tell the most important things that I got . A camcorder, singing machine classic, and a Gunther CD (Gunther is this thing I found out on the internet and he made a song “Ding Dong Song”).

I looked in my stocking and I just a bunch of candy and a Simpsons LEGO mini figs blind bag. I got Ralph Wiggum. I really wish I got a Shopkin Blind Box. I really want a Shopkin.  OK back to the story, I got sprees and reeses cups.

I got a Pet Talk Cat and Dog pillow it has a little recorder and you press the button and talk into it and save it and put in the pillow. Press the ear and it says what you said in the recorder.
I hadn’t used it yet. I hadn’t slept on it.  It isn’t that fluffy its pretty cold.

I was having fun opening presents and spending time with my family. I got a lot of stuff. And a lot of candy. I love Christmas!

Daddy’s being a nerd while watching me open presents or looking at my camera. He’s so dumb. LOL. He is a creep. Just standing there watching me *shivers* open presents *screams*! I get nightmares sometimes. *shivers*.

I got a bunch of cool books. Right now I’m reading The Fourteenth Goldfish. I didn’t finish it though. I got a Kareoke Machine and sang a bunch of songs lime the Party rock Anthem. I love everything I got!

Christmas is so fun, I got games like Cat games, Tetris Namo, and Story Cubes. Blake came over and we played Kitten Caboodle. I won and I adopted the most cats.

I got a camcorder and I recorded everything I saw like Daddy’s face. I went crazy with it. It was from the Shaytards. I got so I can be a youtuber and play games and record stuff. I said I would call my 0 subscribers Demon Cakes. I would be a better youtuber than PewDiePie. I would have 1 billion subscribers. I would get 1000 dollars per video. I would be RICH. Youtube knowledge.

I got Kitten Caboodle where you have to adopt the most cats when there are only 7 cats. So get four and you win instantly. I played against Blake and I won because I got the cat that looks like Speck. Her / His name was Fergie. The way to get a cat is you ask for something when you only have 2 cards ask for something you need like if you  have a yarn ball and a bed ask for a milk bowl so you can get Fergie.

I got Gunther I saw that it had Ding Dong Song on it so I started to say Ohh you touched my tra la la. I laughed too. I listened to it and sang it on my Kareoke Machine and all I knew was Ohh  you touched my tra la la. No lyrics were on the screen like there should be but I just changed the song to Charli XCX. It had no lyrics either. So I just sticked with the ones it came with.

I had a fun time doing stuff and listening to music while opening presents. I got a bunch of awesome stuff.

If you hadn’t heard of the MommyAndGracieShow you would laugh. I got a
#CookiePizza picture with CBG (CreepyBasementGrandma) LOL. Me and mommy were watching Birthday Party videos and we came across Mommy And Gracie Show. They live in New Jersey or something because they have that New Jersey accent.

We were going to Corey’s house and we went to Pan Asia for dinner or Chinese food. I recorded mommy with the camera while it was just resting on the wall and it recorded mommy drinking tea. LOL! My Christmas was fun!

If you don’t blog on the first day of the new year, you’re not a real blogger right? Sike. Who cares. But I do want to check in quickly to officially say HAPPY NEW YEAR! to that one lady who reads my blog from the phone of the milkman she kidnapped and wakes up occasionally with smelling salts. This one’s for you, random blog reader.

Typically, we don’t make plans for NYE. Frankly, it scares me to be out with all the drunks and belligerent people waiting to see some dumb ball drop. But then Barb was all, “Here have tickets to the Penguins game” and so that is how I spent my NYE: with Henry at the Pens game. I was done with work early, so he took the trolley downtown and we walked around for a little so I could introduce him to all of the crazies that I encounter every day, like this one man who was either homeless or the ghost of a sea captain, who barked “I SEE THAT SMILE” to me, but it was kind of threatening. And then there was a lady on a fake phone call who was screaming about people ODing and getting abortions while people went out of their way to cross the street in order to get away from her. Happy new year to YOU, Yinzer Schizophrenic.

We had pizza and drinks at Villa Reale before walking to Consol and Henry was in A REALLY GREAT MOOD, no sarcasm intended. Like, he was even holding my hand and only acting mildly annoyed when I was repeating overheard conversations in a demon voice. Too bad his joy and happiness never translates on photo.

This old man was sitting near me, acting 100% disinterested in the game and even started reading the comics at one point while shouting, “YOU’RE BORING US” and making occasional armchair coach assessments. I was obsessed with him because somehow he was carrying on without being annoying. Actually, no one there was annoying last night. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE. Maybe I just drank enough to not notice.

I was a nervous wreck through the whole game because the Pens had been on a losing streak (#mumpcity), but Sutter ended up winning the game for us right at the end, eliminating the need for overtime, which made Comic-reading happy. Moments before he was hollering about how they needed to speed it up and win because some people has NYE parties to go to. Oh, that man. God love him.

After awhile though, I think my demon voice had gone from mildly annoying to STFU YOU DUMB BITCH. It’s OK. I get it. Not everyone has a high Erin threshold.

***
Today was a chill day except that I exercised approximately 87 times because FOREVER FAT. I also painted a lot of things and played Call of Duty and just acted like a basic bitch all over the house. It was good. Now the holidays are officially over and it’s back to reality and also: THOSE ENDLESS WINTER MONTHS. I’m trying to fill up the days with hilarity and weird adventures so hit me up if you’re down for shenanigans, a/k/a touring places while trying to pee from laughter.

P.S. Malkin reminded me so much of my deceased cat Don last night, even more than usual, that I actually blinked back tears numerous times. Every time someone would manically scream “GENOOOO!!” I would look at Henry and wistfully murmur, “Don-Don.” Henry looked concerned at one point. Maybe I should add “go back to therapy” to my list of 2015 hilarity and shenanigans.