I must be getting at going to shows alone because as soon as I saw that Better Off was coming to town with Pentimento, I just bought one ticket and assumed that Henry wouldn’t be joining me. My assumption was correct!

The show was at Smiling Moose, and those shows always have early start times because the Moose always has late night shit going on. Knowing I would have to go there right after work, I brought clothes to change into. My boss-person Rachel passed me on the way out of the bathroom after I changed and commented on my band shirt, which opened up my favorite can in the world: Cure worms. Turns out, Rachel’s brother-in-law grew up across the street from Robert Smith in England. MIND = BLOWN. And she said it so casually, too! I can’t believe we have worked together for over five years and this is the first I’m hearing about it.

I WORK WITH SOMEONE IS RELATED THROUGH MARRIAGE TO SOMEONE WHO PROBABLY SAW ROBERT SMITH CUTTING THE GRASS OR TAKING OUT THE GARBAGE AT SOME POINT.

Remember to breathe, Erin.

My personal Lyft driver picked me up from work as usual and then booted me out of the car at Smiling Moose around 5:45. The hardest part for me is walking in. I’m cool once I get inside and assess the room, but those several minutes leading up to that moment totally ravage my stomach. Typically, I’d go straight to the bar and get a drink to help calm my nerves, but this time, I went straight upstairs and waited for Quarter Crisis to come on. They’re a local band and it was their first real show, so there were some family members milling about and I was thankful for that because their elder status helped me blend in a bit. These types of shows tend to draw in the high school and early college crowd, which is strange to me because the music definitely isn’t young or immature in any way. People at work asked me what kind of bands were playing and I just gave them the vague “pop punk” response, but that’s really not what genre this is at all. I like to consider it modern emo, to be honest. And also, I hate labels.

Old people acting giddy for the family band. One of the Quarter Life guys was standing near me for a short time before they were ready to play, and a woman who I assume was his mom kept trying to get him to just please stay at her house after the show. He was all, “Look, I appreciate it, honestly, but I have class at 9am.”

“So, you can leave at 7!” she countered, so this is where my excellent deductive reasoning skills figured that he must go to some college outside of Pittsburgh.

“I’ll be fine!” he promised. “I’ll drink a lot of coffee tonight, I swear.” This didn’t seem to satisfy her but then one of his bros showed up and bro-hugged him so she sighed and then started annoying her granddaughter about taking pictures of the show and the granddaughter snapped and said, “Grandma, staaaahhhp! I will just take pictures with my phone! God!” because I guess grandma didn’t know how to use her camera, who even knows with grandmas these days.

Anyway, the band had some sound hiccups during their set, but I still appreciated them for what they are and was glad that I was there to help out fill out the room some (or, with my girth, A LOT). My favorite part was when the singer pointed out that his older brother and dad were filling in and that’s when I noticed that the dad behind the drumset could have easily have been GLENN.

I DIED.

Me, leaning against a wall, cracking up so hard that my ghost gave up right there and reverse-slurped right out of my mouth.

We had a fun convo about it this morning at work!

Meanwhile, I had scarfed down a cheese sandwich before leaving work that day, having the foresight to actually prepare something before leaving home that morning, knowing that I wouldn’t have time to eat a real dinner before the show. Because I ate it so fast, I kept burping up cheese and mustard, so you’re welcome, anyone standing close enough to me to catch a whiff of my regurgitated culinary wizardry.

Next up was Carolyn and Caleb, but every time one of the other bands would give them a shout out, I thought it was some variation of Carrots and Kale. They were….OK. Inoffensive. Nice, complementary voices. But, kind of boring and too twangy at times. Also, “Kale” resembled that d-bag Pittsburgh Dad (if you’re not from Pittsburgh, he’s a “comedian” who makes parody videos of stereotypical Pittsburgh dads, and I have yet to find a single one of them even mildly humorous, but people here flip their shit over him for some reason) so I immediately felt inclined to dislike him. They also seemed to take themselves too seriously.

Sterile and bland. Their Bob Dylan cover was tight though and I don’t even really like Bob Dylan.

I wish Carrots would have sung some things on her own instead of just being Kale’s accessory.

There was a girl standing alone near me and part of me thought, “MAYBE SHE IS HERE ALONE TOO AND YOU SHOULD SAY HELLO I AM HERE ALONE AND SHE WILL SMILE AND SAY OH THANK GOD ANOTHER SINGLE DAME!” and then you will become besties and go to every show together from then on until you realize that the reason she kept tossing furtive glances over her shoulder is because she was waiting for her actual friends to arrive and of course she wasn’t alone because why would she be and also no one has said “dame” in a hundred years.

Also, I was the only girl there not wearing some combination of olive, maroon, black and cream. Hot pink Cure t-shirt up on this bitch’s torso, thanks.

A Will Away was completely unexpected. They had some major technical difficulties which prevented them from starting on time, so their set got cut short, and that was a shame because they had That Sound, you guys. The vocals and the music and the lyrics, sad boy music reppin’! I wish that Carrots and Kale hadn’t been in the line-up, affording A Will Away some more time.

I think “Home” was my favorite.

I bought their EP after the show and I’m already looking forward to seeing them again!

And then it was time for Better Off! I didn’t get any pictures of them because I was too excited and caught up in the music, OMG can you imagine. The sound was questionable in the beginning, but it gradually got better (I have issues with the sound at Smiling Moose no matter what — the room is so goddamn small and the sound is actually too loud at times and vocals can be hard to hear). I was really feeling it hardcore, especially when they launched into “Dresser Drawer” WHICH IS MY FAVORITE:

And cue more technical difficulties. They ended up having to cut their set short after like, I don’t know, FOUR SONGS. I was pretty wrecked, but I have faith that I will see them again real soon because I’m basically stalking them on every social media site so that I don’t miss a single thing. This is why I don’t have time to keep up with the Kardashians. Too many bands to stalk.

Something about this band reminds me of the Jealous Sound, and that’s a really good thing. There’s not one bad egg on their new album and you should all go buy it right now. Or here.

OR MAYBE STREAM IT FIRST, GOD.

(That took a lot of effort so that’s how you know I feel strongly about this album. Go make yourself a PB&J and think of me while you eat it.)

Pentimento was headlining, and I have to admit that I’m only just a casual fan of these guys. I like their sound just fine, but last night was a game changer; now I’m on their jocks hard bro. It’s unclear to me how anyone could stand still during their set, but most of the room was going nuts and that shit is contagious. My legs are pretty sore today.

“Thanks for coming out on a school night!” Jeremiah, Pentimento’s frontman, joked. I cheered and laughed along with everyone else, but my 36-year-old self was crying on the inside. Please, I would never let something as insignificant as my age stand in the way of going to shows, but I’m not going to sit here and pretend that it isn’t occasionally awkward at certain times. At least this one seemed to have more college-aged people there.

I tweeted something similar to that after the show, and a guy who was there last night replied to let me know that he’s right behind me, turning 31 in a few weeks, and that he’ll forever be the old guy at shows. And I’m like “good for you, guy! don’t ever stop!” All I know is that I have definitely been having better experiences at shows in my 30s than ever before. This is going to sound amazingly contrary given the fact that I paint myself as someone who is really concerned about age (see also: last 8 sentences), but now that I’m older, I feel less pressure to look or act a certain way at shows, because who gives a fuck. I’m not there to impress a single person. Ultra Chill: Unlocked.

Later on, Jeremiah gave a very heartfelt mini-speech about how they aren’t sure how much longer they’re going to have the opportunity to live out their dream, and how they never know if a show they’re playing is going to be their last, but they never take it for granted. Hearing gratitude pouring forth from such a down to earth band really gives me hope that the scene isn’t entirely going down the shitter. And of course, I always picture my own kid up there and hope he can someday turn a passion into a career.

But then I started thinking about this in my own terms and had a mild panic attack because I don’t ever want to have that “last show” I go to but I know it’s inevitable, because hello mortality. My mind was reeling there for awhile until they started playing again and then everything in my head calmed down. You can’t do shit like that to me! My mind is fragile.

It’s such a good feeling when you go to a show alone and then once the show starts, you suddenly don’t feel like you’re alone anymore. It was a good crowd. A SPARSE crowd, but definitely good quality.  Youth might be fleeting, but I’m not going to let go to this part of my life that easily, not when going to shows makes me feel so alive and hyper.

And if I ever stop feeling that way? Stick a fork in me, because I’m done.

This concludes another predictable chapter of the Emo Erin Diaries. Thank you for yawning, I mean, reading.

Gayle was over at my desk chatting about non-work-related things, can you even imagine, when our department help line rang. None of us particularly like answering that line because helping people is annoying, so Gayle kind of claimed that duty because she’ll talk to anyone.

The telephone is still a novelty to her. I don’t know.

“Gayle, you better grab that,” I directed, with just a hint of a scoff because that’s how I like to speak Gayle.

As she dutifully scurried off to her desk, I said to Glenn, “Aren’t I great at delegating?”

No answer.

“You might even say I’m management material.” It was a race to the end of the sentence, and my laughter definitely won the medal.

“Please,” Glenn muttered. “You can’t even manage yourself.”

And then Glenn and Amber² were talking about Henry being a serial killer, which I think somehow came up because I was bragging about selling a Ted Bundy birthday card (I like to keep my co-workers abreast of my comings and goings in the underbelly of the greeting card scene).

“You know, the only time I have ever seen Henry seething mad was when he was dealing with his ex,” I TMI’d to my group.

“Compared to her, I’m a dream!”

“Let’s not get carried away. Just say you’re ‘not as bad,'” Glenn interjected.

In other work news, we need a good name for Amber² because she hates being called that on here. Help. (I already promised her that it won’t be “Mom Amber” because, ew.)

After taking last year off, the pie party returned triumphantly to celebrate its fifth year. I thought that was a pretty big deal and wanted to make buttons to commemorate the occasion, but as usual I got side-tracked and Henry failed to build me a button-making factory, or at the very least, produce a button maker for me. I might still do it though. BUTTONS FOR EVERYONE.

You can wear it next to your Poor Henry button.

We didn’t get our usual pavilion, and at first I was sad about that but this one ended up being better. It was smaller, but when you figure people are coming and going all afternoon, plus all the kids are on the playground, we don’t really need all the space that our usual pavilion offers. So I only cried about it for a few minutes and then moved on with my day.

When we arrived at the park on Sunday, there was a family already there, making themselves at home. The dad was grilling next to the pavilion while the mom was pushing the kids on the swings. How quaint! Now get the fuck out. We rolled up and started pulling all of our shit out of the car and piling it on the tables, so the dad was like, “OK, I see where this is going” and moved all of their darling picnic accessories out of the pavilion and to a picnic table down by the playground. It’s a free country, so we let them nervously eat their All American lunch while Chooch slowly swung himself on a swing across from them, wearing a hoodie and black sunglasses and looking like he probably had a switchblade in his pocket.

When Robbie and his girlfriend Nikki arrived with their adorable and ridiculously delicious black raspberry cream cheese jalapeno mini-pies, Nikki said that she was making a sign for them but Robbie stopped her and said, “Erin will have signs there, trust me.” AND DID I. I found my Pie Party 5 notes after the fact and forget that I had originally wanted to carve the pie names into apples (lol) but instead I printed out mini versions of my Cherry’s Eyes painting, which had become the unofficial logo of this year’s party, and then I taped them to colorful mini Popsicle sticks. HELPFUL HINT: those things bled into the pies. It’s been three days though and I’m still alive. Hopefully you are, too.

For our “outside the box” pie entry, Henry made sweet potato whoopie pies with maple marshmallow buttercream. They were OK. He could definitely work on some gentler assemblage, that’s for sure. Also, he almost didn’t make them.

Everyone was like, “What makes this Romanian?” and I was like, “It’s great at gymnastics? I don’t know! Ask a gypsy!” It’s no secret (lol) that I’m obsessed with Romania so I knew I needed something at the pie party to represent my inexplicable affinity.

Our third representation was a rosemary pear pie with cheddar crust. I don’t think I liked it but I can’t remember.

I was about to brag about blowing up the P I E balloons but then I remembered that it was actually Chooch, being helpful for once. So never mind. I strung them up, though!

Since this is our fifth tango with pie worshiping, you might think that we have the wrinkles all ironed out. And surprisingly, you would be mostly correct! I have learned from my mistakes, that’s for sure.

One big mistake I usually make every year is asking someone to come early to help me decorate. This never works. No matter what, said person (usually Janna) doesn’t arrive until an hour after the party starts so instead of just doing it myself, I’m “just doing it myself” while also being extremely bitter and angry. This year I only planned as much as I could handle on my own, and it worked out well. I finished decorating and laying out my succulents with little to no sweat dotting my brows like salt-buttons and I was still in a relatively OK mood by the time I finished!

(There was one minor explosion, and that was when the staple gun ran out of staples and I assumed there were no more staples so I started Hulking around in a fury until Henry calmly filled the staple gun with more staples because, would you look at that, he came prepared for once!)

Another is relying too much on my phone to take pictures. This year, Henry conveniently left my portable charger thing at home so my phone was pretty much at 5% all afternoon, leaving me no choice but to use my actual camera. (And we even remembered to charge the battery!) I made a pointed effort to play around with the settings before anyone arrived to compensate for the frustrating pavilion lighting. #fauxtographer

Probably the biggest mistake I made the last time was being too ambitious, and by that I mean I put too much on Henry’s plate, baking-wise, and he was one angry motherfucker. I had him make two pies, two different types of mini-pies, three different types of pie pops, and apple pie flavored popcorn. Because it was the fourth pie party and I wanted him to do pie four ways. Get it?

It was a pretty big fail.  We were both so stressed out and tired that we could barely enjoy ourselves at the party. It always starts out as such a fun idea when it’s in my head! I love the planning stages, but when it’s time to start making it a tangible thing, it’s like TEARS MURDER BLOOD HEAR TATTACK.

This year, I went easy on Henry, and myself. I mean, yeah, I still gave him three things to make and when I came home from a haunted trail at 9:30 on Pie Party Eve and noticed that Henry hadn’t made the whoopie pies in my absence, I might have raised the roof a bit, and not because I was dancing to old school R&B jams. I never pass up an opportunity to remind Henry that my fingernails are deep in his balls, so he got to bakin’.

I made that bunting myself. I really hate crafting.

The key to proficiently pork out on pie is PORTION. I like to fill a plate with thin slivers of many types of pie so that it essentially equals one slice. That way I get to hopefully sample everything. LOL, who am I kidding? There are no rules. Just grab a plate and stuff your face and do your best to convince yourself that you’re not going to feel like you’re in gastro hell later.

This year, we had several savory pies! Kelly brought a taco pie, Patty brought two zucchini pies, and Elizabeth cooked up a vegetarian chili pie—major hat tip to her for that one. It was wonderful and helped me avoid an early sugar crash. Sandy brought not-pie which consisted of a veggie platter and chips. Salt is such a great counterbalance to pie! Especially when most of us were foregoing lunch in favor of turning our bodies into pie trashcans.

Amber¹ made a delightful S’mores pie which I have never had before and it was a big hit! Gayle brought apple pie, apple donuts, and apple cider from the Apple Castle apple festival! She’s still sucking up to me for MISSING MY BIRTHDAY. (Her self-assigned penance has been to give me an unbirthday gift every 30th since July. This arrangement has been working out well for me.) Kara brought a shoofly pie that she bought from a real Amish man at a farmer’s market last Friday and I didn’t manage to snag a piece! I hate myself.

We had pumpkin pie, an apple pie pizza from Rob, French silk, chocolate peanut butter, pecan, pistachio pie, Angie’s ricotta pie (light and lemony!)…so many pies.

Carnage of Crust.

But! If I had to play favorites, there are two that make me salivate just at the sheer thought, and those are Chris and Monica’s ground cherry pie and Maggie’s cherry pie. Two completely different, totally winning cherry pies.

I may have mentioned to Maggie a few weeks ago that cherry pie is the most under-represented pie in pie parties of yesteryear, and it’s also my favorite type of fruit pie. I got Gayle to cut me a piece because right place, right time, and I was really happy to find that it was still warm! It was perfection. Not too tart and the crust was all buttery and grandma-approved. When Maggie told me it was her first attempt at a cherry pie, I was like STFU liar! But no, it’s true: Maggie was a powerful pie princess in a past life who heroically brought war-torn countries together with her baking prowess. So my only question is why doesn’t she bake us for us at work more often?!

And Chris and Monica’s ground cherry pie, good lord. Have you ever had a ground cherry? I only first heard of them last summer when one of my co-workers brought some in from the farmers market and said to me, “I heard you like weird fruit.” And how! So, ground cherries are yellowish-green and bigger than an average blueberry but smaller than a grape. They’re wrapped individually in husks and have a very mild flavor. At first, I was like, “These ground cherries are bomb!” But then I started to taste something familiar in them and it eventually dawned on me that they had a faint tomato flavor. I’m not a big fan of tomatoes on their own so I started to feel turned off by these not-cherries.

Until Chronica turned them into a sweet ass, bitchin’ pie. AND THE RECIPE WAS MENNONITE! I was so stoked to have Mennonite shit AND Amish shit at my pie party!  You guys know how open-minded I am about that stuff. If you ever see Chronica, give them a high five for ground cherry skills.

The pie table is always completely jacked by the end of the day. I was bitching to Henry about how nice and pretty it looks until everyone starts plopping their pies down and then we forget to bring the little rustic buckets I use to put the forks in, so there’s an ugly bag of plastic forks junking shit up, and then Henry doesn’t care about paper plate aesthetics and brought leftover Halloween plates and super ugly, generic white plates with an ugly blue design that completely clashed with the autumnal tones of the burlap, leaves, and pie stands, but no! No, I’m not going to get all stressed out over this. I’m going to hand Sandy an ugly plate when we run out of the others and make some tight-lipped comment about how Henry ruins everything and then I’m going to move on from that moment of rage and instead of storming off into the woods and punching a tree until bark is protruding from my knuckles, I’m going to have another piece of pie.

OR IS IT PEACE OF PIE.

At some point on Saturday, in between gluing sequins on my Pie Party sign and shadow dancing around Baker Henry in the kitchen, I had the greatest idea of all time. I was upstairs when it came to me, and so I screamed for Henry to hurry his ass up to our room. He loves when I do that because sometimes it’s an actual emergency just often enough for him to fall for it every time.

“What?!” he asked, panting and mildly concerned.

“Greatest idea ever,” I began, and he immediately regretted falling victim to my wolf cries. “In addition to the pie party….SUCCULENT MEET N’ GREET.” I paused for a beat, smiling and waiting for him to crumble to the floor under the weight of my brilliance.

Instead, he just stood there, arms akimbo, that patronizing smirk plastered across his dumb bearded face.

Good thing I’ve never been one to look to my BEAU for validation. Speaking of BEAU, Bo Brady probably would have supported Hope in her decision to have a succulent meet n greet.

No, you’re right. That’s definitely false. Bo thought Hope was silly and frivolous. Oh, until she was about to marry LARRY WELCH, that is.

(OMG remember when Henry was my Bo Brady?)

Later that night, we were getting ready for bed and I was still yammering on about my succulent meet n’ greet. “This is just really exciting, I’m really excited about this, and I think it’s just full of excitement, so much excite,” the words spewing out in an auctioneer’s cadence. Henry must have been delirious from baking all day and night, because he just stared at me with an amused look on his face, and that is unlike him. The looks he gives me are typically basted with disgust, contempt, and frustration. Occasionally rage, but Henry is pretty laid back so one must really give him a series of forceful shoves for the anger to really shine through.

“They’ve never gone anywhere before!” I reminded Henry.

“Well, they’re plants, so….” he muttered.

Sunday morning, while Henry was filling the car with unnecessary, boring items like forks and plates, I was carefully considering which of my succulents to bring with us. I couldn’t bring some of my faves, like Bae and Panne and Suzy Banyon, because their pots are too fragile and breakable.

“I really want to bring Johnny Maplebitch with us, but I’m worried because there will be kids there…” I murmured mostly to myself, staring at that beautiful beast on my coffee table.

“Well, you could change his name for the day,” Chooch suggested. “Like, maybe….Johnny Mapledick?” he shrugged, completely serious about this.

“Yeah, good one, Chooch,” Henry sighed, stomping past us with more unessential pie party things, like pie.

I ended up bringing him in the end, because I don’t believe in succulent censorship.

I placed them all gently inside a carrying case while Henry was wasting time rounding up the beverage and making sure Chooch was dressed and not in danger. A little help would have been nice, but knowing Henry and his meathands, he probably would have just jammed my babes into the car all recklessly, like they’re not his real children.

Of course they’re not.

They’re the Devil’s.

I lined all of the picnic tables in the pavilion with craft paper and then had all of the succulents introduce themselves and say a little thing about pie. Because it was a pie party.

I TIE THINGS TOGETHER. It’s what I do.

Chris and Monica asked me what vasterbotten pie is and I shrugged. “I’unno. I just googled ‘swedish pies’ and then didn’t get much farther than that.” So then Chris googled it and actually read about vasterbotten, and now we’re obsessed with vasterbotten pie because it’s basically just cooked Swedish cheese and I hope that Chris and Monica are currently reorganizing their wedding menu as I type this.

Henry always rolls his eyes when I bring up Phil Angie.

Leopold is the succulent I found in Savannah! I brought him so it was like having Octavia there in spirit. <3

And I had to bring Stefano so Monica could meet him in person, since she is the one who named him. (Also, two Days of Our Lives references in one blog post! And I haven’t even watched Days since 2005! <—sadly.)

Bambi had to give a shout-out to her favorite show, Twin Peaks. HOLLA.

I named this one after my favorite gymnastics coach of all time, BELA KAROLYI. He was happy to bring some Romanian flavor to the party. Isn’t he handsome?

Henry frowned at this one.

Some people seemed very eager to meet the succulents! Other people were like, “Why.” Henry was like, “This is why you don’t have friends.”

Anyway, if you couldn’t be there on Sunday, I hope you enjoyed this virtual meet and greet!

I’m not trying to say I’m some weirdo 50-year-old man living in a letterman jacket, but my high school experience was pretty awesome and I’m one of those rare breeds who genuinely enjoys reminiscing about those lost years. Of course there was drama and heartbreak and weird family bullshit, but the amount of fun times, crazy experiences, and really interesting friends I had definitely outweighs the bad. Some might say I even peaked in high school! (My personality and social skills have been on the fast decline ever since.)

Back in high school, my core group of friends consisted of Lisa, Angie and Martha (née Melissa). Given our first names, the obvious moniker for our crew was L.A.M.E. There were some boy members too, like Russ, Evan, Lawson, and Justin, but they weren’t cool enough to change the acronym. Girls rule, boys drool, obvi. Some of my best high school memories involve these people, and I always start to get just a tad bit nostalgic for those days in autumn, because let me tell you: we knew how to do haunted house hopping right.

Lisa, Jason, Jason, Angie, Jason. I believe this was at Phantoms in the Park.

Henry LOVES my LAME stories. J/k. He rolls his eyes at them pretty hard and then smirks but this is just because he’s jealous that I actually had friends in high school.

I loved being part of a group. I loved it so much that I even made a newsletter for us! Granted it was short-lived, but at least I made the effort to keep our group abreast of each others comings and goings. (I even rolled up each individual newsletter like a scroll! I don’t half-ass these things, guys.)

Lisa and Angie helped me get settled into my first apartment in January of 1998, when we were 18.

Sometimes we would let other people hang out with us too, like in this case, my friend Shawn.

I would usually invite That One Person to my parties that completely killed the vibe, which is why everyone always looks like they’re at a funeral in my party pictures. Typically That One Person was someone that I had just met in a chat room or literally invited in off the street. At this particular party, I distinctly remember it was my Iraqi next door neighbor Abdul, who was in the States to go to PIA – Pittsburgh Institute of Aeronautics, and who my mom wanted me to call the FBI tip line about years later because she’s a racial profiler, but I low-key kind of wondered about him myself.

Anyway, my point is, these guys were used to my awkward social gatherings yet they still came around because Tru Franz, yo.

Seriously considering the ceiling Slinkie motif for my current home.

I lost touch with most of the LAME crew after high school, except for Lisa. Barring a few hiatuses due to geography and life in general, Lisa and I have managed to maintain a pretty consistent friendship. (It always blows my mind when someone willingly sticks by me for longer than three years! That’s usually the shelf life of my friendships because I’m so stupidly annoying and whiny and melodramatic and probably you could add a lot worse things to that list depending on which person you dig up from my friend graveyard.) But then over the summer, Angie posted an old group photo of LAME + our silent members on Facebook and it spawned a comment thread full of nostalgia and “I miss you”s and “We should”s. So I sent a group message to our crew, minus Martha who lives in Florida now but hopefully she will visit soon, and Russ who isn’t on Facebook. We all agreed that meeting up would be fantastic, and Lawson said that Russ was on board with it too.

But, you know how that goes.

That conversation wound up dead in the water, but then a few Friday nights ago, I was bored at work (Friday night late shift, you guys; the worst) so I resurrected the convo and BAM – plans were made to meet up at our old Denny’s hot spot less than a week later.  All day long, I was so excited for this to happen. I hadn’t seen Angie in over 10 years, and it had been even longer since I saw both Lisa and Angie together! Probably at one of my awkward parties in 1998. Lawson had to unfortunately back out the day of, but Lisa and Angie made it. I even snagged the corner booth in the back for us because I got there too early. (Story of my life.)

The level of comfort I felt was off the charts. We talked about our current lives and cracked up over old English project memories and there was definitely some gossip thrown in for good measure. Something terrible happened though! I always pride myself on having the best memory out of everyone I’m friends with—probably because if I write every goddamn thing down, and back in high school, I was VIDEOTAPING everything too. One might say I’m a little obsessed with preservation. Out of all of my friends, Lisa is probably the worst when it comes to remembering things. Sometimes I’ll call her and say, “Guess who I saw from high school?!” and then it’s like we’re on a really boring game show where I’m trying to help her guess who for a brand new washer and dryer. Anyway, on this night, we got on the aforementioned subject about how I was always pulling in strangers off the street, etc, and she said, “Do you remember when I was with you and you picked up that hitchhiker?”

Now, I definitely had a hitchhiker problem for several years, this sick compulsion to pull over and cart them around, and at one point it got so bad that I would actually drive around on highways SEEKING THEM OUT because death wish, I had one. But I didn’t remember Lisa ever being with me! She kept talking about it though, about how pissed she was, how it happened on the side of 79, and it started coming back to me. I began having a vague recollection of a blue-collared man getting in my car and then Lisa and I having a mild argument about it afterward.

Yes, that sounds about right.

And then Angie brought some letters and post cards I had sent her over the years and started reading them out loud. Lisa was like one gigantic eye roll at this point and I was fucking loving it. In case you were wondering, I haven’t changed much.

In 1993, I was in love with a man in Morocco and the sad part is that I remember this VERY CLEARLY and even the fact that Inner Circle’s “Sweat” was playing on the radio in the shop he was working in when I first saw him, what the fuck is wrong with me. And the waiter in the hotel in Capri, 1997? Yup, remember him too. Sorry, Henry!

And I still make my hearts like that, except mostly only with one strike-thru now, in case you were wondering.

Angie started reading this one letter I wrote her right after senior year, where I tell her in painstaking detail what my job at Olan Mills Portrait Studio entails and then SLICKLY delve right into a SALES PITCH. OMG I am definitely the same person. I try to trick Glenn into buying a painting from me pretty much 8x a week.

“Oh my god, Erin, what are you even writing about?” Angie cried, continuing to slough her way through my handwriting circle-jerk. Honestly, I was just in love with my handwriting and would start transcribing the ingredients of my omnipresent Slim Fast meal bars if I started to run out of original thoughts to scribble. And then she paused and asked, “I don’t know what letter this is…” I looked to where Angie was pointing and with that faux-exasperation that everyone loves to hate about me, I sighed, “That’s part of a PARENTHESIS, Angie. GOD!”

“Well, I didn’t know that!” she laughed. “There’s this weird line through it—-”

“Because that’s how I do it, Angie!”

Lisa was just like, “Oh my god.”

I get dramatic sometimes. Sometimes Lisa’s presence exacerbates that and 1996 Erin wants to come out and play (and whine and pout and cry and be bossy). It’s a familiarity thing.

LOL at my Precious Moments stationery and “A-Sexy Nemov” giving me the BEST birthday present when he took his shirt off at the Gymnastics Gala, OMG. I think this was Summer Olympic mania in 1996. I texted this to Christy and neither of us have distinct memories of loving this random Russian gymnast, but we both agreed that it sounds pretty typical of us. Especially the “A-Sexy” part.

We totally overstayed our welcome at Denny’s and I loved every minute of it! Now we just need to drag Martha back from Florida and convince Lawson and Russ (and Evan if he’s not too cool for us now that he owns a tattoo shop — the same place I got my Marcy tattoo, actually!) that we won’t annoy them if they come hang out with us. (I mean, I can’t really promise that.) I think they should all come to my house and help me give Henry more gray hairs.

P.S. The Vegetarian Dinner Party of 1996. NEVER FORGET.

   
Today is the pie party and our streak of perfect fall weather while gorging on filled pastries is holding strong! It is absolutely gorgeous today and I can’t wait to see everyone (and their pies)!

Currently I’m taking some time to decompress in the cemetery while Chooch is down the street at piano and Henry is at home probably staring at a wall and drooling. He baked his ass off yesterday and probably wishes he was “napping” in this beautiful sleep shack right now:

 Hope everyone has a wonderful Sunday and I will have a bite of pie for each of my far away friends who can’t be here today!

   
(I should have held the pie party in the cemetery. I’m an idiot.)

 Now if you’ll excuse me? I have some geese to mock and a unicyclist to gawk at. 

Ghoul Mansion

Have you ever been to Ghoul Mansion? Well It wasn’t TOO scary. Well on the way there I fell asleep and while I was sleeping daddy went in Barnes and Noble to get a “My Drunk Kitchen”  book made by Hannah Hart.

Daddy was “scrub” so he didn’t want to go in. There was a maze where there were guys with glow in the dark gloves on. It was also pitch black. We got into a Nurse part (WHICH ALWAYS THE WORSE) and me and mommy got our pictures taken. The first picture was normal. The second picture had a loud BANG when it was shot. Oh yeah and a couple doors down there was a bar and grill called Marigold Bar and Grill. Daddy said that was where he was going to while we were in the haunted house.

When we were leaving mommy was a “scrub” for running away from a kid dressed up as a devil. LOL (,:! She was so annoyed.

After the haunted house we stopped at this diner called MIDDLESEX Diner. LOLOLOLOLOLOL! Before the MIDDLESEX Diner we drove past MIDDLESEX BAR AND GRILL. I had a HUGE cheeseburger that I made daddy eat and the bathroom smelled like piss. I was sad because Yankee Kitchen (The diner we went to before) because daddy didn’t want to go so we didn’t get to hear Fish Dinner! ):

While we were there an old guy sneezed louder than daddy, LOUDER THAN DADDY! I mean who sneezes louder than daddy, right?!?!

CASTLE BLOOD

Janna, Daddy, Mommy, Kara, and I went to Castle blood the day after me and mommy went to Ghoul mansion. I made fun of Janna by saying “Are you sure your mom isn’t going to whoop your a**?” She said back “No, only on Christmas.” I found a hand buzzer in the parking lot and Kara took it and I said “Don’t Taze Me Bro!”  One of the guys at Castle Blood called daddy “BIG MAN.” We all laughed but daddy agreed with the guy.

It was Kara’s first time at Castle Blood and she liked it. We go every year because its awesome and we just like haunted houses a lot. It used to be an old funeral home and there are a lot of ghosts there now. I was nervous because I had to go in the front a lot. If someone asked me why they should go to castle blood I would say because its AWESOME and always has a good story. I would tell you what the story is but you should go find out for your self.

We were looking for 3 things a Stone, a Bone, and a Crumb. Wait umm sorry, a Crone. Well that was embarrassing. Some vampire guy made me go up the stairs without the group so I did, and I got to scare the crap out of mommy. But not anyone else because I’m bad at scaring people.

At the grave yard part Whiplash (one of the people) said “Don’t drop the stone.” and right after that it sounded like I dropped it but I kicked a nail. SO QUIT MAKING FUN OF ME!

A Werewolf jump-scared us and made us all howl. I did the best and daddy did the worst because he didn’t do it.

Obviously you know I had fun at two haunted houses on Saturday and Sunday. 
 

Nearly every day, I spend my hour-long lunch break walking aimlessly around the city. So today, I decided to take my three blog readers with me on AN OFFICIAL WALKING TOUR OF PITTSBURGH.

First, let’s walk out of my building and go a direction.

Here you will see a FLORIST where I spent approximately 5 seconds asking if they sell succulents and then they were like, “Haha, no” and I was like, “GO FUCK YOURSELF AND YOUR ORDINARY PLANTS THEN!” and smashed a flower pot into the floor on my way out. Fuck those people.

Church. I think this is the one where I participated in some spirit conjuring?

Sometimes, there are birds.

Here, we pause to call Henry, who is spitting a haughty diatribe about being signed up for a Pittsburgh blogger holiday cookie swap when he’s not even through with the pie party yet. Then we hang up on him because he is boring us.

Like, the old jail or something.

None of these are where I work.

A lamp post.

Oh, OK.

Yinzer Haute Couture.

Halloween shit in SW Randall’s window. I took this right after some guy popped his head out of the Weiner World ordering window and screamed “HOW YOU DOIN!?” to me right when I was about to take a picture and then I felt TOO SPOOKED so I ran away.

A mural. If those A Beautiful Mess bitches ever come to Pittsburgh,  $20 says they pigeon-toe all over this fucking mural.

HALT! Huge tourist attraction right here. This is the Army Navy store that sold some madman the machete he would then use to hack a motherfucker!

Then you’ll walk down a street and these things are there looking all big and stony. Photo-op, probably.

Spoiler alert: pumpkin everything.

Weird, light-up fountain pathway thing: the only redeemable part of our eyesore of a convention center. That building can get fucked. Seriously.

Here is a relic of something that I don’t think is there anymore, and here’s why: I can’t find an entrance. Unless it’s some Diagon Alley bullshit and I just don’t know the secret.

And then let’s go down the alley that has all the weird shit in it. (Non-people-wise, I mean.)

And whatever this thing is.

Maybe next week I’ll show you the more urine-scented parts of town and then you won’t ever have to come to Pittsburgh. Yay!

Today is the Dip Off, Dip Day, Day of Dip, whatever we’re calling it when everyone brings in a dip to work. Originally, I was going to give Henry a reprieve since the pie party is coming up and he will be doing all kind of kitchen work for that day. But then one day last week I looked at the sign up sheet and noticed that no one was doing anything along the lines of SAVORY PUMPKIN. And I mean come on now, autumn. So I asked Henry if he would consider making a savory pumpkin dip and he muttered, “Whatever you want.” Because of course it’s whatever I want.

I found a delightful-sounding pumpkin parmesan dip on the Internet and it seemed easy so I didn’t think Henry would mind too much. Plus, I knew for a FACT that we had a can of pumpkin guts already on hand.

I put myself down on the “dipper” side though, just in case Henry bitched out. Then I could just bring in pumpernickel pretzel rods and call it a day.

On Friday, I was filing some stuff away and happened to glance at the sign-up sheet when I saw it.

GLENN WAS BRINGING PUMPKIN PARMESAN DIP.

I did a whole bunch of verbal fist-shaking at the back of Glenn’s head and he just mumbled, “Looks like you should have signed him up for that then.”

^&(%^*%$^*%_P_(&*^&%^*%

I mean, OK — good point. But still!

So then I was like FORGET IT HENRY. HALT THE DIP-MAKING ENGINE. I’M NOT BRINGING ANYTHING TO THE DUMB THING.

And then I found a light and refreshing-sounding green pea dip. So I sent it to Henry and he said, “We’ll see.”

Then it was 7:00 last night and I was like, “Well…are you making the dip or what?” and he was “Jesus Christ, Erin!” So then he went to the store and made the dip and I thought it was terrible and we had a fight about how “it has to sit for a while!” and I cried, “WELL YOU BETTER JUST GO AND GET THOSE PUMPERNICKLE THINGS BECAUSE I CANNOT TAKE THAT SHITTY DIP TO WORK!” It was after 9 by this time, and there he went, back out to the store.

I tried the dip this morning and it tasted much better! So look at me, now I had a dip AND a dipper to bring with me!

The secret ingredient in my dip (haha, “my”) is tofu but I didn’t broadcast that very widely because god forbid tofu. I think because there is no heavy cream or cheese of any sort in it, it might be kind of healthy?

Glenn is less immature than me so he actually had nice things to say about the dip. Todd, too, until he learned of tofu’s presence inside the dip. So finally, I decided I would try Glenn’s dumb dip and made a big production of telling everyone within earshot that it wasn’t that great, OK at best. But really, it was super good and I knew it would be because why else would I have chosen that SAME RECIPE FOR HENRY?!

Here is a very real life, non-curated photo. Shit’s real here at the law firm. We make messes sometimes.

Meanwhile, Gayle brought a separate dip with no bacon in it just for me because she’s scared of my fury;  I was hesitant to eat it because she told me this in front of Glenn and Todd, and who knows if they keep bacon bits in their pocket. I would not put any level of dip sabotage past them.

In other news, I’m not saying I’m magic or anything but don’t you think it’s curious that a week after I named my succulent Boz Scaggs, the real BOZ SCAGGS announced that he’s coming to Pittsburgh?!

What a great, sultry photo of Mr. Scaggs.

I excitedly told everyone about this today and Glenn felt inspired to fire up some old school Scaggs hits on his computer in an effort to teach Amber² and Todd of his existence. The consensus after hearing Lowdown and Lido Shuffle was, “Nope.”

“He’s like the poor man’s Barry Manilow,” I said to him and Glenn vehemently disagreed with me so now I think Boz is his brother.

“Glenn come on. He’s a second rate Barry Manilow!” I argued. I mean, I love Boz Scaggs, clearly, but barely anyone even knows who he is anymore!

“He was really big there for awhile,” Glenn muttered in defense of the Scaggs.

“Yeah, but none of us were alive then!” I laughed, meaning me, Amber, and Todd. Obviously Glenn has been alive for hundreds of years. And then I taught Glenn about Yacht Rock, which he didn’t know existed and you just know he’s at home right now Googling it.

And then in non-work news, I was on the phone with Henry while outside on my break and he told me that he dropped on a pallet on the same foot that was run over by a pallet jack and I wheezed, “OMG OK I HAVE TO GO NOW” and then ran back to work so I could tell everyone, as I doubled over with laughter.

There was a collective round of Poor Henry after that.

Hi blog-diary thing. I need you to be there for me right now. I already ranted about this on Facebook, but now I am feeling more things and need to enjoy the glorious release of typing it out. 

One of our weirdo neighbors was waiting for us to come home from work, on his bicycle no less, and immediately confronted Chooch about stealing his paintball gun and some Pokemon thing that is like, collectors edition? Both of these things he kept in his garage which is always opened. (And as Blake said: lock your shit up! This is the city not a farm.) Anyway, Chooch was all blindsided and was like “what I didn’t do it” and basically we all know it was some asshole down the street and the accusatory neighbor knows it too but since Chooch is the oldest out of the neighborhood kids, this is automatically his cross to bear?

Yeah no.

You know who else was blindsided? Me. It took me a while to figure out what was going on because I was in my After Work Hunger Famine stage that happens everyday from 5:30 – whenever Henry chucks some dinner at my face. I was just trying to cross the street to get to food, not pay attention to some middle-aged bully straddling his bicycle and interrogating my kid. Ok, tough guy. 

Anyway, we got the douchebag neighbor off our back and onto the other kid’s back (and that kids mom wa a screaming at him because she knows her son is a thieving cooze too) so you would think that all was well. But no. Because I say here and stewed all evening. Hours later, I snapped. My snarling bitch fest went something like this: 

“Henry, this is fucked up. I’m PISSED. I just want to come the fuck home from work and eat the dinner that you’re going to cook for me, not be accosted by some rando neighbor on his lame ass bike for god knows what?! YEARS I lived here in peace and harmony, never having to deal with a fucking neighbor, and then we had to go and have a KID and now this?! Fuck these people! This is why I don’t go outside! CHOOCH SHOULD JUST STAY INSIDE TOO. WE CAN ALL STAY INSIDE TOGETHER. LETS GET WORK-FROM-HOME JOBS AND NEVER TALK TO A PERSON AGAIN.”

Henry is not on board with this. 

NEW PLAN: Henry does all the handling of the neighbors. I’ll talk to Hot Naybor Chris BUT THAT IS IT. 

The rest of them can suck my dick that they’ll never see because I’m a hermit now and also because I don’t have one. 

I liked this neighbor better when he was on house arrest and our house was out of ankle bracelet range. 

Actually I didn’t even know who he was until after I recovered from my dumbfounded stupor and asked “who the fuck was that?!” as he pedaled off into the horizon like Miss Almira Gulch.  And Henry and Chooch yelled, “LARRY!”

 I’m not over here blowing on my fingertips or anything, but I am basically the (un)official Pittsburgh haunted house tip line, OK? Of all the things to be an expert of….Anyway, I decided to repost this thing I wrote two years ago since it’s the beginning of the haunted house season and even though some of the things in this are dated (some of the referenced haunts aren’t around anymore), it’s still PRETTY HELPFUL — so read it, don’t read it, print it out and send me your heavily red-lined copy of it — it’s a free country. Also, if you live in Pittsburgh and want to go to a haunted house with me and Chooch, WHY YES WE WOULD LOVE TO.

****

Every Halloween season, I get pretty nostalgic about the “old days.” Way back in the age of flowing flannels and Contempo Casuals (where I would buy all of my slutty “I’m a slut who has money” slut uniforms), it was possible to go to two, sometimes even THREE haunted houses in one night for under $20. True story! It seemed like every last VFW, YMCA and Boy Scout Troop had hoarded enough black garbage bags over the course of a year and used their dues to stock up on slipshod Halloween masks from K-Mart to pull off a “haunted house.” And it may have been hokey and rudimentary, full of blacklit Jason Voorhees masks and “accidental” boob-brushes, but fuck if it wasn’t fun.

In high school, I would scour the newspaper for haunted house ads and then my friend Lisa and I would stuff her parents minivan with our ragamuffin group of friends and proceeded to exercise our god-given vocal prowess. We were Those Kids that everyone else hated standing in line with. And I was That Girl who flirted obnoxiously with Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers, hoping to make my crush Evan jealous. (HE NEVER EVEN NOTICED.) There was the Bethel Park Haunted Yard, Clairton’s Haunted Pool, the Glassport Haunted Fire Station, and then all of the Haunted Schools: Castle Shannon, Victory, the Tri-City Jaycees one that I lost my keys in and then it burnt down (no correlation to my keys). Before there was Hundred Acres Manor, there was Phantoms in the Park and Terrors By the Lake. Before Kennywood had their Fright Nights, Station Square transformed into Station Scare and offered carnival rides just in case all of the fog machines, hyper-jealous boyfriends and diet pills* didn’t get you nauseated enough.

*(What? My weight issues go waaaay back.)

But then the behemoth, corporate haunted houses started popping up and taking over. The ones that pay to have haunted house listings and the Travel Channel call them the #1 Haunted Attraction. The ones that make you wait in line for upwards of 3 hours because OMG WE ARE THE BEST IN THE BIZ SO STAND AND WAIT, JAGOFFS. They pour loads of money into their advertising, production and animatronics, but they lack the true Halloween spirit and moxie that the smaller haunted joints have. Money can’t buy moxie, you guys. I’d rather walk through a haunted trail lit by flaming jugs of moonshine in some hick’s backyard than give those corporate bastards my money, if we’re being totally frank here.

People are usually shocked when I start waxing contrary about the city’s most popular haunted attractions, so I have compiled a list to offer some insight into what makes a “good” haunted house.

Here is the official Oh Honestly Erin Haunted House Criteria:

1. Will There Be Chainsaws?

It doesn’t matter how many times Henry exasperatedly assures me that there are no chains on the chainsaws, the moment I hear that whirring, no matter how far away it is, I am suddenly in booty shorts at Camp Crystal Lake and Jason Voorhees is mad as fuck because I just had sex on a hammock, and where the hell did this adrenaline come from? I don’t know, but look! I can scale the backs of the people in front of me!

Even when I’m standing in line chanting, “I hope there are no chainsaws. I hope there are no chainsaws” the truth is that there better be at least one fucking chainsaw guy who takes his position really fucking seriously because I just gave you $15 to scare the shit out of me, so please, do just that. Henry does my laundry, so what do I care.

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Chainsaw Guy at Cheeseman Fright Farm. It was really cold that night on that bale of hay, and your persistent wielding provided warmth to my shivering extremities. Also, you didn’t give up even when I used my 7-year-old son as a shield. Good for you, Ambitious Non-Hockey Mask-Wearing Chainsaw Guy. You were way better than the apathetic Voorhees-wannabe at Freddy’s Haunts who whir-whir-whirred for approximately 10 seconds before walking away.

2. Will There Be the Possibility of Simulated Horror Porn by Michael Myers?

So, maybe it’s just me, but when I’m singled out in a crowd by some dude who looks like his face got violently bear-hugged by bologna slices and green olives, maybe even corners me and snorts and snarls in my ear, I am REALLY FUCKING EXCITED to be there at that haunted attraction. Especially if it’s a particularly sexy-savage Michael Myers. And for those 30 seconds you’re towering over me with your fake machete and vacant eyes, I promise to pretend that you’re not actually some pizza-faced 17-year-old band nerd. NO, YOU ARE A FUCKING HOT PSYCHOPATH WHOSE EVERY PRIMAL INSTINCT IS TELLING YOU TO KILL ME, BUT WAIT! WHAT’S THAT!? YOU ARE FALLING IN LOVE WITH THIS CHUBBY MOM-BROAD WHO IS SCREAMING HER FACE OFF!

And then I’ll go home and write about it in my haunted house journal and it goes something like this: Holy fuck, I am so hot for Michael Myers! I bet he doesn’t pay that much attention to anyone else in that wing of the haunted maze! When we made eye contact, I think he winked at me but it was hard to see over the strobe lights. AND SPEAKING OF HARD! I’m not sure if that was Michael’s tumescent cock-machete or the Pizza-Faced-Kid-Dressed-As-Him’s satchel of dork dice, but I’m totally probably maybe pregnant now, you guys, right?

Just to really illustrate my alarming Michael Myers crush, my kid wouldn’t exist today if I hadn’t thought his dumb dad looked like Michael Myers when he would wear his stupid blue Weiss Meats coveralls back when we were co-workers in 2001. THAT IS WHAT MADE ME WANT TO SLEEP WITH HIM, OK?

Anyway…

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Rich’s Fright Farm Michael Myers. You smashed your fist into the wall in front of me every time I tried to escape and at one point BROUGHT ME TO MY KNEES while Janna stood off to the side, staring at her imaginary watch. I could feel your hot murderous breath on my neck and it was, well, fucking hot. Now your demon seed is sprouting inside my womb. Womb, womb, womb.

3. Will Someone Please Entertain the Fuck Out of Me?

Hi. I just dropped the cost of a concert ticket* down on your haunted establishment, so please prove to me that I didn’t make a mistake. *(What? I like underground bands, you guys.) If you’re charging me approx. $18 for 30 minutes, then I better come out the other end feeling like I just came. I mean, feeling entertained. Ridicule my blondness with your biting wit! Tickle my eyeballs with your macabre decor! Make me follow directions! Engage me! (No really—do you want to get engaged? Because Henry apparently doesn’t.) Pay attention to me, to me, to me!

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Castle Blood, duh. You still never fail to call me out for being a dum-dum. (Remembering three talisman is trying. IT’S HARD FOR ME TO PAY ATTENTION, OK!?) You still make me believe I’m going to be poisoned in Professor Scrye’s lab and turned into mortal mana pua by some convincingly realistic witch. (I don’t know why I picked a Hawaiian food that I have never eaten.)

But let me tell you something about this sanguine estate—if you came looking for chainsaws and robotic corpses hemorrhaging on toilets, queue the Sad Tuba soundbite. This is half past Saw, more toward Nosferatu. Castle Blood’s tagline is “Halloween the way it oughta be” and they mean it. It’s elegant and unique, it’s intelligent and interactive, it’s humble and passionate about the season. I’ve been going to Castle Blood since the late 90s and it’s still just as refreshing and inspiring as it was when I was a teenager. We’ve been taking Chooch since he was a baby (first to the no-scare matinees; he’s since graduated to the nighttime tours) and he loves it because it’s magical while still maintaining a high creep-factor—-plus, sometimes Henry gets presented with a death certificate.

4. Will You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman Teenager Again?

As previously mentioned, I long for the old-school haunts of yore. The ones in vacant buildings that charge $12 and under and probably meet the safety standards of a treehouse in 1954. The ones that aren’t mentioned in the obligatory WHAT TO DO THIS OCTOBER newspaper write-up or any of the haunted house listings online. The small haunted house put together by members of a local community and advertise by tacking up flyers in Spirit Halloween stores or sticking bright orange signs in the ground next to the highway. I like giving these people my monies! They know how to crack me up while also making me pee my pants. (I had a longstanding reputation at the now-defunct Victory Haunted School, and every year, from the moment I set foot inside, the “monsters” would start chanting, “Erin’s here! Erin peed her pants!” So fucking obnoxious but I loved every second of it.

If I’m in such pitch-blackness that I need to walk with outstretched arms while simultaneously screaming to no one and everyone that I AM SO FUCKING SCARED OMG WAS THAT A BREAST I JUST TOUCHED, then this haunted house rules. If I’m told, “GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES AND CRAWL THROUGH THE TUNNEL OF LOVE…OR DEATH!” and I literally find myself scrambling on my hands and knees over top of what I really really really hope are pieces of a CLEAN mattress and I start screaming about how I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE TO DO THIS! I AM SO SCARED! OW I JUST HURT MYSELF! then this haunted house rules. If the volunteers are so over-the-top with their theatrical lines and fake gunfire that I am literally doing pee-squats from laughing so hard, then this haunted house rules. If I tell the guide that my name is Erin and he decides that “Smellvin” is a better name even though that would only make sense if my name was Melvin, but everyone else thinks it’s hilarious, then this haunted house rules. If some kid pops out of nowhere and freaking feeds me a mouthful of Silly String and even HENRY laughs, then this haunted house rules.

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Ohmygod it’s a tie! Teen Quest’s Scaremare in Mon City and the haunted basement of the Sewickley United Methodist Church. Can we please admire the irony here, that two of this heathen’s favorite haunted houses are Christian-based? IDGAF, these two haunts made me laugh until I almost peed. (ALMOST, I swear!) It was like being in high school again, faced with the threat of falling down a staircase and inhaling asbestos. And the volunteers at these two places had way more enthusiasm than any of the ones anywhere else, especially Terror Town, who apparently pays their actors and that is just ridiculous because for the last two years, their “employees” were relatively ineffective and I’m officially done giving them Henry’s hard-earned Faygo money. Especially after seeing one of those “actors” on Facebook turn her nose up at people who, god forbid, volunteer their time to play zombies. The people at Scaremare and the church in Sewickley had HEART. The church even had a babydoll displayed in a very horrific, decidedly un-Christian way! I applaud them for that, for being able to recognize that it’s OK to be outrageous and controversial in the name of Halloween, and for being so balls-to-the-wall. I actually wish I had the time to revisit both of these places this month. Even if it’s just essentially dropping money into a collection plate. I’m OK with that.

5. Do You Have a Worthy Haunted House Companion?

Chances are, during this season you are going to sometimes be driving great distances and are probably going to get lost at least twice (are you going to a hayride on some jackass’s farm? Yeah, good luck trusting your GPS with that), so you better make sure you don’t bring some douchebag along with you who is going to drive you so insane that you need to buy your first pack of Camel Wides in 7 years at some sketchy gas station in the middle of downtown Sharon, PA. (True story.) And then once you’ve arrived at the haunt, you might be standing in line for an hour at least. DON’T BRING A DUD OR YOU ARE FU-HAHAHAHA-UCKED. I was lucky this year and have gone to haunted houses with quality peeps (and Henry), but I have been pretty unfortunate in the past. Your company can make or break the haunted house experience, especially if you are so fucking over-the-top annoyed at who’s ripping your shirt in faux-fear that you forget about the actual haunted house itself. Did you like it? WHO EVEN FUCKING KNOWS?!

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: And the award goes to my good friend Janna. No one handles being pushed and shoved into chainsaw guys with quite the panache as she, nor can anyone tolerate my extreme giddiness with such a steely veil of patience. Except Henry, but he hates going to haunted houses. I like to believe that every time I scream, and I mean SCREAM, “JANNNNNNAAAA LOOOOOOK OUTTTTT!” that I’m actually saving her life for real. And she just kind of chuckles a little at first, but by the end of the night, I sometimes detect some eye-rolling and sighing.

________________________

Those are my unofficial winners because I still have at least four more haunts to attend before Christmas starts shitting all over my fun. And remember, all of this is subjective. The things that I look for in a haunted house might not be the same things that make you scream like Laurie Strode or make popular local radio DJs jack off into each others’ cupped hands. If your haunt isn’t going to be gonzo enough to scare the FUCK out of me, at least entertain me. Make me laugh, make me push Janna into a chainsaw guy, have a hot Michael Myers, make me have some F-U-N if I’m giving you twenty goddamn dollars out of Poor Henry’s wallet.

(And let me just tell you, now that Chooch is brave enough to go to every haunted house with me, October is officially waaaaay more costly than December.)

Some extra tips:

• Look for coupons! Sometimes haunted houses will offer them on their website. Hundred Acres Manor usually offers $3 off coupons at Eat n Park or Burger King. (They’re only good on Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday nights, I believe.) And you know, check Groupon and Living Social or have a boss that forwards every single haunted house deal to you like I do. Maybe stop in your local corner pub and gather up enough barflies to qualify for a group rate. Just trying to save you some bucks, OK?
• Go on off-nights! If a haunted house is open on a Sunday or Wednesday night—GO THEN! You will beat the crowds and probably have a better victim:monster ratio. Have you ever gone through a haunted house with just the one person you arrived with? SCARY AS FUCK. Real talk.
• Try to remember that no haunt is perfect and “bad nights” can be expected. Maybe I went to Cheeseman’s Fright Farm last weekend and had a blast, but you went earlier in the month on a night where they happened to have a lot of volunteer no-shows. Shit happens, ya’ll, and most of it is behind the scenes. This is why I try not to do too much bashing. (And believe me, I’ve been to a few duds this year.)
• If you go to a haunted trail after it’s been raining all day, you’re PROBABLY GOING TO GET MUDDY. Don’t be that dickhead who complains about it. Maybe you should have stayed home and watched a Duck Dynasty marathon instead.
• Bitching about standing in line isn’t going to make the line move any faster and pro tip: NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOUR STUPID YINZER MONOLOGUE ABOUT IT, EITHER.
• Pretend that you are actually running for your life. BECAUSE YOU JUST NEVER KNOW.

Hey! Why don’t you leave me a comment and tell me about your best (or…worst) haunted house experience?

This weekend was good, a strong start to October. I got one painting started, another finished, and yet another closer to its anticipated deadline. Baby steps. No pressure. Constant loops of Pentimento and State Champs music videos on YouTube. This is how I function. 
 Roots.

Did you know that Henry is a wedding handyman on the side? It’s true. He’s in the process of helping Chris and Monica build a display for their wedding desserts so we had to run to the craft store Saturday afternoon, which usually I bitch and moan about because the craft store is annoying but I love it in October because of all the Halloween shit. Plus, I had stuff to get for the upcoming pie party, decoration-wise. When we were checking out, the elderly cashier asked us what we had planned for the burlap sacks we purchased. First of all, none of your business? Also, Pinterest-approved body bags.

AND ONE OF THEM WILL BE FOR YOU IF YOU DON’T STOP ASKING QUESTIONS.

I was in a mood on Saturday.

Moving on.

Chooch is bona fide infatuated with YouTubers (what 9-year-old isn’t) and has much love for Hannah Hart. We actually just had a huge argument because made the mistake of telling him  that I have known of her existence for quite some time now and fun fact about Chooch: he knows everything and also, he knew it first. He’s worse than a hipster in that regard.

Anyway, all last week he was begging us to take him to Barnes and Noble because he wanted to get her book and if you read my blog like a good little pair of Internet eyeballs, you already know that Henry took him there on Friday and they struck out.

Well, Saturday evening we were on our way to a haunted house in Sharon. Chooch fell asleep because he was pouting about something or other, it all blends together. Henry, feeling a moment of charity, pulled off one of the exits and stopped at a B&N, where he successfully procured said book and Chooch was one happy jerk-son when he arose from his backseat nap.

(I like Hannah Hart. I used to watch My Drunk Kitchen and thought it was hilarious. But this book….? It makes me seriously think any ol’ motherfucker can publish pages of basic thoughts and call it a book.)

(John Green wrote her foreword. Apparently it’s a thing for YouTubers to have John Green help them with their books? I learned this from Chooch the other day when he told me that if I ever wanted to be an author, I would have to seek a LOT of help, maybe from John Green.)

After the haunted house, which Chooch is supposed to blog about, Henry and his deep pockets took us to the Middlesex Diner in Middlesex, PA which made Chooch and I laugh hysterically and Henry yelled at us for being 12-year-olds.

Our waiter was new. Possibly even new at life. He screwed up nearly everything but in such adorable fashion that I implored Henry to leave him a decent tip. Poor guy.

I got a salad with oil and vinegar and Henry to walk me though the ratio process.

Then there was a guy whistling and I sincerely thought it was a prelude to murder, like after receiving the chicken salad he came to pick up, he was going to whip out an Uzi and let loose.

I’m super paranoid. I think it might be a bordering on an actual psychological condition at this point. The amount of times I’m walking around downtown, see something shady, say “Nope,” and then change directions is alarming.

Oh wait, I just remembered that’s normal.

There was hand sanitizer behind Chooch which was a good thing because that kid needs it. Also, I ordered coconut cream pie and the waiter brought me french silk. I really liked that kid, I sincerely did, so in lieu of slinging it back to him Chinese throwing star-style, I peacefully held the pie out to him and in a gentle tone said, “Thanks, but I could I have the coconut instead?”

“Right,” he sighed, “because that’s what you ordered. I’m so sorry.” And then I thought he was going to punch himself in the head, but maybe he waited until he was locked in the broom closet at Ma’s house to do that.

My pie was eh. I always have high standards for diners when it comes to pie because if you’re calling yourself a diner, you should have the homemade pie to back it up. This pie was definitely not homemade. It was firm yet gelatinous, and had a layer of skin between it and the meringue, which was the worst part for me, the meringue. I really dislike meringue and prefer my coconut cream pie to have a heavy helmet of fresh whipped topping on it.

I peeled off the meringue and threw it on Henry’s plate, which was really Chooch’s plate of pumpkin pie that he didn’t like so now Henry was eating that along with my meringue, in addition to his own dinner and also half of Chooch’s dinner because WASTE NOT WANT NOT or whatever your grandma had embroidered on her idiot tea towels.

On the way home, Chooch and I had such strong laughing fits that Henry barked, “If he pukes back there, you’re cleaning it!”

The next day, we went to visit Wendy and baby Summer after Chooch’s piano lesson! (Don’t worry, I ended up not actually being sick like I thought I was on Friday. It was all in my head, even though everyone kept telling me that and I was like, “No no no this is West Nile.”

Is West Nile still a thing? Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know. Anyway, look at how miserable Henry made Summer! One look at his grizzly visage sent her over the edge, man. Don’t worry, Summer, that mean man has the same effect on me.

Wendy looks amazing, by the way. A-MAYYYY-ZING. I was like, “How the hell is it possible to look so good one month after birthing a child?!” I still looked like a sebaceous glob for a good year after Chooch was born.

Fine. Two years. Then Jillian Michaels helped me.

Then I got fat again.

Then, Jillian.

Next, fat.

Now, Jillian.

It’s a vicious cycle. Chooch has actually been working out with me and he hates Jillian but I think he is secretly enamored of her. I know I am! At first, he bitched about it but here’s the thing: 4th grade was when I started my journey to Fat Status. And that journey was at break-neck speed, you guys. I was unlocking that level faster than my mom could replace my wardrobe with huger sizes. Without giving Chooch a complex, I’m trying to subtly teach him that fitness and exercise are such important things to make a habit of at an early age, plus healthy food. Otherwise, he’ll be 36 and terrified of food just like his broken mother. I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I wish someone in my family would have come to my aid back then instead of waiting two years and then flipping out because I looked too hideous to be a junior bridesmaid in my aunt’s upcoming wedding, thus putting me on Slim Fast. Because that’s normal, right? For an 11-year-old to be substituting meals with Slim Fast shakes and getting Slim Fast popcorn in their Easter basket?

So yeah, exercise was done over the weekend, too.

Then we went to Castle Blood! That will be its own post though. I think Chooch and I both going to review it, so that should be interesting.

These weekends are just the absolute best. I love you, October!

I have been playing the shit out of the new Better Off album “Milk” for the last few weeks. There is this deliciously messy image of a multi-layered PB&J on the cover that has  been triggering some fierce feels for me lately and I finally put my finger on it the other day.

It reminds me of my old hair stylist, Gwen.

In the fall of 2001, my friend / co-worker Carol arranged for me to visit her stylist Gwen after I endured the worst dye job ever at J.C. Penney’s. My hair was tiger-striped and I had to wear a hat.

I do not rock the hat look well, you guys.

I liked Gwen immediately. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable enough in the swivel chair to engage in non-stop conversation with a stylist. Typically, I would just stare off into space and pray that I wouldn’t be spoken to. I walked out of the salon that night with haute highlights and a new regular stylist.

Full disclosure though, Gwen was far from perfect. She had abhorrent time-management skills;  it would take her upwards of four hours to complete my cut and color because she was always running off to call her mom or have a smoke or flat out forgetting what she was doing. One time she even left me sitting there idly while she ran across the street to get a cappuccino.

It would anger me so badly that I would always consider walking out. But then she would come back and apologize profusely and we would start bullshitting and she would tell me I was funny and all would be forgotten. An abusive relationship if anything.

About a year later, she lost her job at the salon. She was accused of stealing. But she didn’t do it, honestly, you guys! I only half believed her. She gave me her home phone number and from then on, I would get my hair managed in her garage. She lived in a nice house in the suburbs near my old turf. She had a handsome husband who worked for the FBI and two beautiful daughters who I would eat three-layered peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with at their kitchen counter while waiting for the dye to set. Gwen made sensational PB&Js. So good that I became spoiled and when Henry would attempt to make me one, it would get tossed back at his face.

(That may have also had something to do with that pesky bi-polar thingaling too, though.)

Every other month, I’d arrive at her house for my appointment. If I was lucky, she would remember and actually be home to open the door for me. Other times, her husband would come to the door and tell me he didn’t know where she was, but I was welcome to wait. Sometimes, no one would be there at all and I would sit on the front steps like a lost puppy with mange.

After some time, her appearance began to change. The skin on her legs were marred with red bumps and scabs and her hair consistently looked unwashed. She would tell me stories of her new friends that were prostitutes. Legit prostitutes!  I was horrified but at the same time loved hearing stories of how she picked up these mythological creatures and drove them to “appointments.” How does a suburban housewife get such a gig, I wondered. I don’t think Craigslist was around then.

Sometimes, Gwen would forget to have the dye ready and I would have to drive her to the beauty supply store five minutes away. Seems like a hassle, but for gas money and a candy bar, there’s little I won’t do.

Despite her erratic behavior, my hair still came out shining.

Gwen was more than just my hair stylist, though. She had become my sounding board. I would cry to her about my nightmare job at Weiss Meats, and she understood because she knew the people there.  Gwen was someone who I might not have been able to rely on in terms of being on time to do my hair, but I could tell her anything and feel comfortable doing so. I could talk candidly about Henry and she was one of the few people who never made me feel weird or self-conscious about our age difference, which seemed way more extreme when I was 23 and Henry was 37.

She became sort of a running joke with my friends. “How long did Gwen leave you sitting on her front porch this time?” they’d ask. No matter how angry she would make me, she would always do something to make up for it, like only charging me half price or plying me with chocolate, and I would leave her house smiling.

My then-friend Keri’s wedding was coming up and I was desperate for hair therapy. Gwen eventually called me from her mother’s house; her husband had kicked her out, but if we made the appointment while he was at work, she said, we could sneak into her house. It was like renegade hair styling with her, you guys. A true, ridiculous adventure every time. She gave me highlights the week before the wedding, and then scheduled me to come back the morning of the wedding so she could style it. When I told Keri, she panicked. “Oh my God, she’s going to make you late! Do I have to remind you that you’re my bridesmaid?” But Gwen pulled through with plenty of time to spare. It made me think that she was turning over a new leaf. Maybe she bought a watch?

And then I never heard from her again. I’d call her, but her voice mail was perpetually full. The last I heard, she had been picked up in a park for prostitution and was even heavier into drugs. It made me realize that you could have the nicest house in a suburb called Pleasant Hills, for Christ’s sake, and still succumb to a stereotypical life led by someone living in a tenement.

I quit calling her and found a new stylist, one who worked within walking distance of my house and never, and I mean never, left me waiting.  I eventually just stopped wondering about Gwen altogether.

One August morning in 2006, Carol informed me that in the beginning of July, Gwen had OD’d. She was 41.

I realized then that I didn’t have any photos of Gwen. I wrote in my journal that I was afraid I was going to forget her. Yet here I am, nine years later, listening to Better Off, eating a three-layered PB&J that Henry made me per request, and thinking of the whirlwind in my life that was Gwen.

Henry’s PB&J still doesn’t have the same magical effect as Gwen’s crustless creations had, but it made me feel some kind of comfort.

Guys, I’m panicking. Ever since I read an email at work about FLU SHOT registration, I have started to feel like I’m getting sick. And I can’t get sick because there are haunted houses to run amok through this weekend.

So I’m trying to take it easy at work by not working. (LOL, just kidding. It’s a slow night. And ugh, GLENN is filling in for GAYLE on late shift so that’s annoying. He’s already insulted me 216391874 times, but that’s just fine. I’ll get my revenge.)

This morning I watched the latest Scream Queens episode and I have to say, I have a ton of faith invested in this series. It’s everything I liked about Glee (except for Lea Michele, but I’m learning to tolerate her) and American Horror Story mashed into one edgy television delight. However, I started to hate Glee after awhile, and AHS always finds a way to disappoint me, so I’m trying to not let Ryan Murphy break my heart again.

I also did some painting. I’m trying to force myself out of this rut and I think I’m almost there. Maybe.

Then something alarming happened at work. I got on the elevator to leave the office for my lunch break and I accidentally pressed “4” instead of the lobby. Then some guy got on at 7 and I thought to myself, “OH BOY HE’S IN FOR A SHOCK WHEN THE ELEVATOR STOPS ON 4 AND NO ONE GETS ON.” So I was going to tell him that I accidentally hit the wrong button but then I remembered my allergy to small talk so I said nothing. When the doors opened at 4 and no one got on, he said, “Must be a ghost. Oh well, I guess it’s the right time of the year.”

AND THEN SOMETHING HAPPENED. I joyfully blurted out, “OCTOBER IS MY FAVORITE MONTH.”

He cringed.

“What, you don’t like October?” I asked sadly.

“Eh, I don’t know. It’s just depressing. Everything starts getting cold…”

“Yeah, but, haunted houses!” I said as the elevator deposited us on the ground floor.

He laughed. “OK, there’s that.”

Now we were walking out of the building together, talking about the creepier side of October.

“I can’t help it, I’m goth at heart,” I said, and he laughed.

By this point we were outside the building. “You know, the best haunted house I’ve ever gone to was in Smithton—”

“RICH’S FRIGHT FARM!” I yelled in tandem, except that his version of “Rich’s Fright Farm” was said in a calm, normal person tone.

I told him about how now they have a new addition where they blindfold you and—

“They blindfold you? No. No, I wouldn’t do that,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Well, you can opt out of that part,” I reassured him.

I mean, I know what you’re thinking at this point: By golly, Erin, take him to the Courthouse already!

But alas, it ended as abruptly as it started, with us waving as we went our separate ways.

Man, that guy gave good small talk. AND I DIDN’T EVEN ASK HIM HIS NAME.

In other Friday Late Shift news, I’m eating squash that Henry roasted for me but he didn’t take the skin off so it looks like I’m eating an actual Gremlin. I mean, it’s still good though, but looking at it kind of makes me gag so I have to close my eyes.

I keep missing my mouth.

Because I’m eating with my eyes closed.

Meanwhile, Henry just texted me from Barnes and Noble. That is this place where BOOKS are sold. How weird and antiquated right? Anyway, they’re there because Chooch is obsessed with YouTubers, all of the YouTubers, YouTube as a whole, but Hannah Hart is one of his favorites (he hijacked my phone once and made me follow her on Instagram) and she’s inspired him to learn how to cook, so he made Henry take him  to the book store so that he can buy her My Drunk Kitchen book, which apparently they couldn’t find and had to ask about it, which probably made him feel awesome since he had his nine-year-old son in tow, who, by the way, likes to tell people that his dad is an alcoholic (?!).

(You know which YouTuber I love and it makes Henry so mad? Shannon Taylor / HeyThereImShannon. He will literally walk away if I play her videos. LOLALLTHEWAYHOME.)

[EDIT: Now that I’m home from work, I got the full story, which is that Chooch stood in the middle of the store, saying, “I need help!” and then a B&N employee was like, “What are you looking for?” at which point Chooch said, “My Drunk Kitchen” because that seems like something a 4th grader would want, right? They didn’t have it so the person asked Chooch if he wanted them to order him a copy and he said yes at which point Henry butted in and said, “NO.” Henry was really annoyed while Chooch was telling me this story. “I was like, ‘Hello, talk to me, not the 9-year-old!'” Sounds like someone is just jelly.]

Ew, there are hard parts to my squash that I have to keep spitting out! HENRY, YOU ARE THE WORST. WHERE IS MY 7TH FLOOR SOUL MATE?!

I was helping some dude via email and he told me I’m enlightening AND a lifesaver and Glenn almost puked, but I bet if I showed him my Gremlin-skin squash, he’d puke for real.

The other night, I stupidly let Chooch read one of my short stories. Watching the expressions on his face was priceless and I thought he liked it! But then I mentioned something about how I once was considering putting together a book of “children’s” stories, and he said it was a good thing that I didn’t do that. I asked him why and he shrugged. “I mean, you’re not an author. You would have to get someone good to help you. Like….John Green.”

I cried, “I WENT TO SCHOOL FOR ENGLISH WRITING, YOU ASSHOLE!”

He shrugged again and did that nervous laugh he does when he just finished delivering a piping hot truth stew and now he’s going to try and back-peddle and act like he was just kidding. Nothing like being put in your place by your NINE-YEAR-OLD.

(This is the story I let him read. IT WAS PROBABLY JUST TOO ADVANCED FOR HIM.)

I want to go home and have soup. :(

Ugh, I had other things I was going to say, but: SICK-ISH. So I’m going to spend the rest of my late shift shivering under my blanket. I’ll leave you with two pictures of my OK-ish city that I  took yesterday. Now you know what two small parts of my city look like. Wow.

P.S. I just went back and looked at that email again and noticed that “lifesaver” was ITALICIZED — THAT IS HOW MUCH THAT GUY MEANT IT. Doesn’t make me feel any less sick-ish though.

My sister Amy texted me this Michael Myers picture today and I was like, “FUCK YEAH OCTOBER.” I’ve been in the best mood all day! (Henry is like, “FALSE.”) Look, I know I’m not alone in this October love-fest. We all have that basic white girl in us that comes out extra strong in October so let’s just embrace that shit and sprinkle ourselves with pumpkin pie spice. It’s OK–I put some in my cream of wheat today and I am not even the slightest bit ashamed.

You can have the Starbucks PSLs though, and if we’re being honest, just typing out those letters made me feel like a sleazy contributor to the cause. I like eating actual pumpkins, but if we’re talking flavoring, I gotta take my best girl Maple to homecoming.

Here are more obvious October thangs I fan-girl for:

1. THIS SONG:

It’s been my October anthem since 2004. I highly encourage you to listen to it!

2. MY NEW DESK SUCCULENT, BOZ SCAGGS:

Those tombstones are always up on my desk. I have officially decided to not do a Halloween desk theme this year because I have some other things I need to focus on, but who needs to decorate anyway when YOUR SOUL IS ALREADY DECORATED WITH BATS AND CANDY CORN?!

3. TAKING ROMANTIC FALL FOLIAGE STROLLS WITH MY #MCM, HENRY.

Lol, Just kidding.

4. ALL OF THE HORROR MOVIES + WRITING IN MY HAUNTED HOUSE JOURNAL!

Even though I was savagely mocked for it at work yesterday!

SORRY I’M LAME, GUYS.

Horror movies are pretty much the only movies I watch, ever, but they just feel so much better in October. WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE HORROR MOVIES?!

5. THINKING OF AUTUMNAL PHOTO SHOOTS!

Below are my favorite ones ever that Blake graciously modeled for back in 2009. Those were the days.