I’m feeling better now, at least enough to where I’m mobile, but now HENRY is apparently sick?! So typical of him. I just went upstairs and asked him how much longer he’s going to be sick because I have things I need him to do, and his response was a stuffed-up, “OMG REALLY?!” 

God, Sick Henry is rude as fuck.

Ok I thought I was getting better but I WAS WRONG. Please make my face stop hurting. Today is so frustrating!

Chooch is giving me Shaytards updates and I’m like honestly not listening because that family is a bunch of Fucktards. Why do people like them get Internet famous? I do not understand. Let’s be real. (If you don’t know who they are, I’m proud of you. Now google that shit so you can hate them with me.)

I want to shove eucalyptus rods up my fucking nose. Where can I buy those. 

Now Chooch is singing the Shaytard’s Christmas song to me and I think one of my ears is bleeding. I’m sorry ear. Would you like to commiserate with my nostrils? They’re dripping, too. 

I’m watching NHL All Star coverage but nothing exciting is happening right now other than PK Subban talking about his ugly AF plaid suit. 

Only one good thing has happened today and that is my Basement record was delivered. Here is a picture of Henry reading the newsletter that came with it, like he suddenly cares about the scene. Fuck you, Henry. 

  
I want a smoothie bowl that has carrot juice in it but it has to be pure carrot juice and Henry supposedly couldn’t find any at whatever back woods store he went to and is “too sick” to go to Whole Foods, etc. Then we fought for a bit about who is more sick and I won. 

“Here, I found a recipe for making your own carrot juice out of carrots in 14 easy steps, with pictures,” I said, chucking my phone into Henry’s chest. 

He tried to get me to choose a different smoothie bowl recipe but I WANT THE CARROT ONE.

He threw my phone back at me and muttered, “I guess I’m going to the store to get fucking carrots, because that’s what my life has been reduced to.”

I’m so delirious that I can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying right now. #hellhouse

  
LOLOLOL Henry’s back with carrots and looking so stoked on life. 

Henry’s currently in the kitchen, blending the carrots that he went out to buy after I threw a Sick Fit, which would have been prevented had he just gone the extra mile(s) to buy the carrot juice in the first damn place!!

How do the Flyers even have anyone in this All Star game? That team is so gross. However, I will happily visit their city in March when we road trip for the Emarosa show*. I can’t wait to eat their ice cream & donuts. Thanks for having SOME nice things to offer, Philly. 

*(The show is in Lancaster but I cried until Henry said FINE WE CAN ALSO GO TO PHILLY.)

I slept for 15 minutes. 

Henry just came in and sat down?! I asked him what’s the word on my smoothie bowl and he claims that he has to “let the carrots steep” whatever that means. I HATE TODAY. 

These Flex Seal commercials taunt me. I dream of buying a bucket of that tar shit and making myself & everything around me water-proof.

Henry just felt my forehead and claims that I don’t have a fever. Well, his hand is wrong because yes I do. Whose fucking grandma does he think he is, anyway.   

I WIN. 

I’d love to tell you the verdict but I can’t taste anything. I’m sick, remember?

BUT NOW I’M FREEZING. Smoothie bowls are cold. 

Henry is jawing off about allllll of the thinnnnnnngs he did today even though he was soooooo sickkkkkkk, so I started singing my Henry the Martyr jingle, but I’m all stuffed up still so I started coughing and choking and it was ruined, just ruined. Although now that I think about it, it kind of sounded like Frosty the Snowman so I guess the world isn’t really missing out after all. 

Now we’re talking about biker gangs but I can’t remember why. 

Earlier today, like probably around FIVE AM, one of these idiot kittens knocked over a succulent and spilled dirt all over the coffee table. Henry just now walked past it on his way to bed (it’s not even 10pm but he’s all “I’m sick and going to get rest like normal people do when they’re sick”), pointed to the dirt on the tablecloth and asked, “What are you going to do about this?”

“Wait for you to clean it,” I answered matter-of-factly. 

I mean, duh. 

Now I’m down here alone watching an Eagles doc and feeling sorry for myself. Hotel California always makes me think of sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night to meet my boyfriend Psycho Mike. I had to walk down some really dark creepy streets and there was this one house that always gave me Alice In Wonderland vibes and then right after that was an abandoned house that sat up a bit on a hill and screamed BATES MOTEL and I CANT TELL YOU WHY* any of this made me think of Hotel California but I went through a heavy Eagles phase as a teenage so get off my fucking back why don’t you. 

*(GET IT?!)

Joe Walsh was my least favorite Eagle. 

I still haven’t made a Glenn Frey RIP Glenn. (“You Belong To the City” forever.)

My mom used to go to aerobics classes when I was really little and one of the routines was to Don Henley’s “Dirty Laundry.” They did a move called the Taffy Pull (OMG THAT SONG IS PLAYING RIGHT NOW ON PART 2 OF THIS DOC) so I have a natural inclination to bust that out every time I hear that song, which I did not do right now because I’m typing on my dumb phone. 

Don Henley seems like a cunt though, doesn’t he. 

Today is Phil Collins’ birthday, FYI. 

I’m taking NyQuil and passing out, at which point I will probably dream of carrots dancing to Hotel California. Can’t wait. 

I’d be happy numbing just my face right now. 

I feel much better than I did yesterday but my face still feels slightly like Pangea breaking. I’m glad I didn’t have any plans this weekend because I think that critically acclaimed “rest” that everyone speaks so highly of might be what I should strive for. I don’t get sick very often so when I do, LOOK OUT. 

If there is one thing I don’t do well, it’s sitting around doing nothing. And it looks like it’s going to be a nice day! I feel like Timothy from Secret of NIMH.   

Whyyyyyyyyy. 

Today’s big question, other than the above Whyyyyyyyyy, is “How many episodes of Soap will I half-watch before I finally change the channel?”

I’M SICK. I felt it coming on two days ago but I thought it passed, then it cold-cocked me in the face today and I had to leave work early. I’m a hot mess. Rested a little bit but now I’m sitting here, all bundled up and bored. So I decided to do a little iPhone photo dump because what else have I got going on, other than cold sweats and hot compresses? 
Still obsessed with a defunct restaurant I’ve never even eaten at: Ernie’s Esquire. Sometimes I google it to see if I can find anything new, and the other night I did! Someone posted this old Ernie’s postcard in some Pittsburgh nostalgia Facebook group. Ugh, that joint looks like it was THE SHIT.

 Me n bae. This is probably how I got sick.  
I bought graham cracker coffee at Nicholas’ the other day. One of my last moments of joy before I got SICK.

 Haven’t been able to work on any paintings for a while on account of getting kittens AND SICK.  

Amber2 brought this crazy cake-in-a-box to work last week and it say there for a full day because no one was brave enough to open it. I even tried to woo the HR guy on our floor into opening it.

“I really want someone to open this,” I said, my voice pregnant with hints and suggestive lilts.

He paused on his way past, got close enough  to read the MYSTERIOUS ITALIAN, and then said, “It’s not going to be me” before heading back to his office.

I’m losing my touch.

But then Amber2 came into the kitchen and together we unboxed it. The powered sugar was packed separately in a pouch, so Amber let me do the honors. I was hesitant at first and then just dumped the whole thing out in no particular pattern.

One of of our coworkers walked by and asked what it was.

“A science experiment,” I said.

She believed me.

It sat there untouched for quite a while. Not even Glenn was brave enough to try it. Finally, some hours later, I took a small piece. It was spongey, like if someone wet a biscotti and then let it mostly dry.

I enjoyed the presence of this cake. It was a good conversation starter.

 One of my unbirthday presents from Gayle, which reminds me, SHE DIDNT GIVE ME JANUARY’S.  

Henry reupholstered our two bar stools just in time to get two kittens!

I was bored a few weeks ago and painted this crap over top of a picture from goodwill.

  
Such productive.  

YOU GUYS. I could die. I started yelling at work when Emarosa tweeted this and immediately shoved my phone into the faces of Amber 2 and Todd (Glenn was gone for the day but I Emarosa’d him the next morning, don’t worry).

“Wow,” Todd said. “It could be tomorrow or 300 days from now.”

Ugh.

Then I found out that CASEY BATES is producing it and literally, 100% TREMBLED as I texted Henry about it, whose response was: “Who?”

Ugh.

I’m the kind of girl who fans herself over who is producing what record, ok? Let me have my small joys.

Speaking of small joys, I finally finished the first Law Firm zine and was able to distribute it the other day! It seemed to be pretty well-received and I hope it doesn’t get shut down because it seems like it could be a really fun, interactive thing for our whole group. This issue featured an interview with GAYLE who shared her time as a TRUCK DRIVER with us. It was great. I had to censor the part where she talked about being offered blow jobs by a lot lizard, though. Look at me! I’m already a REAL MEDIA MOGUL!

I tried to sketch a picture of the ITALIAN CAKE for the Things That Happened In January page but it ended up looking like a haystack of dicks wearing a toupee, so I just used the actual picture of the cake.

Carrie and I had lunch with Allison on Wednesday so I brought her a copy. She was all excited about it and then ALMOST LEFT IT BEHIND as we were leaving. I grabbed it from the table and gave it back to her.

“I carried that the whole way here for you,” I said in a hurt tone. She seemed geuinely sorry.

In other news, I got my Brand New and Basement tickets yesterday so that’s a pretty big joy.

I was going to watch horror movies but then I remembered I took my contacts out and I still don’t have glasses. So I guess I’m going back to bed. I think my neck is broken.

It’s been very overwhelming here lately. Not in a bad way at all! But having cats in the house again just seemed like something I would never be ready for. And I’m going to be honest — it took me a few days before I really opened up to Drew and now I’m like I WONDER WHAT DREW IS DOING while I’m sitting at my cat-less job. She has really adapted extremely fast to our weird house, and she definitely fits in. Weirdos unite, you know?

I’m hashtag-obsessed with this one already.

But then Monday morning, Drew’s world came crashing down when Suzanne brought the second kitten to us. I had this adorable scene in my head where Drew would prance over to her and give her welcoming nuzzles, and both would be overjoyed at their reunion.

But no. Second kitten was terrified and trembling, and basically stayed scrunched up in the corner of the couch all day long.

And Drew, meanwhile, was PISSED. She greeted her sister with a trying-too-hard hiss and growl and then spent most of the day peering at her from afar. I guess Drew got a taste of being an only child and she liked it, guys. Who’d wanna give that up??

Nope.

Penelope seems to definitely remember that Drew is her sister, and will literally cry out for her. But Drew just turns her nose up, because she’s a human now, you guys. She has no furry sister.

I hadn’t even so much as considered any names before Drew’s sister was brought to us. I wanted to spend time with her and see what felt right. And, much like when Riley was born and “Choochie Cabrera” naturally rolled off my tongue, so did “Penelope Ann Killer.”

Haha, that’s so dumb I said to myself. But then I said it a few more times and couldn’t stop laughing because this kitten was so scared and timid…and then it just stuck.

Penelope Ann Killer.

So fucking dumb. YET PERFECT. And now this old Pinback jam has been stuck in my head:

Oh hay, just lounging on my chair, in my house, with my homies, #nbd.  

Drew spent all of Monday acting out and pouting, kind of the same way I acted when my mom brought my brother Ryan home from the hospital. I get it, Drew.

Monday night, I put on a Touche Amore video and Penelope’s eyes got super wide; she recoiled a bit and from across the room, Drew had this mildly sympathetic look on her face that said, “This is our life now, get used to it, girl.”

After she stole part of my bagel.

By Monday night, Penelope decided to emerge and start sniffing around the house, which irritated Drew. It was pretty clear that Penelope was not intimidated at all. Sorry, Drew.

It’s kind of been disorienting having them around, because it’s been nearly a year since anything with fur has resided in our house (aside from Henry’s mouth-fur, that is), plus we’ve been redoing our bedroom and kitchen so I’m kind of like WHERE AM I all of the time now. Henry’s mom was here that night and consistently referred to both Drew and Penelope as “he” and “him,” so at least that added a bit of normalcy in the house.

This little rotten cat has completely usurped control of the house. I’ve had to relocate most of my succulents because of her! MY PRECIOUS SUCCULENTS.

I have a feeling that Penelope is going to be one sassy little princess when she is fully out of her shell.

Somewhere, Marcy is laughing at me from her throne made of Christian skulls. I miss you, my little Pretty Rainbow Sparkles. I miss all of The Original Four. Moving on really sucks, and I’m still crying approximately 4 times a day, because when don’t I cry, really? But, these little two brats needed us and it feels good to give them a good, crazy home. And, at least I have my shrine for the others, so they’ll always be ever present. <3

Hi hey hello this is a live journal post from 9/2005 when I was a few weeks pregnant & craving meat, old political pins, & OJ Simpson stuff. 

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

The Inseminator and I celebrated Labor Day by waking up ridiculously early and going to a flea market. He suggested it the night before so there was no struggle trying to get me to wake up; I likened it to Christmas morning.
As soon as we arrived, I already saw the first item for my wish list. Imagine a regal and proud black grandmother, donning her Sunday’s best and finest pearls, sitting pretty with her head tilted to the left. Now, surround this vision with a giant gilded frame and you have what I covet. 
“Why would you want a portrait of someone’s grandma?” Henry scoffed. “And look how big it is! Where would you even put it?”
I couldn’t help but picture it hanging above my bed, watching over me every night. Like a godmother. I was getting more and more attached by the minute and I couldn’t stop thinking about who she was. Was she even still alive? I bet she made a mean Sunday dinner. I imagined she was also in a gospel choir. It pains me that I’ll never get to eat her corn bread.
Henry dragged me along in spite of my warnings of, “Don’t jostle me; I’m pregnant.” We walked disinterestedly past table after table of rusted tools and crocheted doilies, until something finally snapped me out of my pout.
A stack of R.L. Stine books. And not those shitty Goosebumps books, either. I’m talking the real deal. Gems like “The Babysitter” (and the sequel too, I almost died), “Beach Party” and “The Dead Girlfriend.” I scooped up about eight of them (in preparation for my baby’s future) and held my hand out for Henry’s money. The man behind the table counted my change while a lit cigarette dangled from his lips and I kept leaning back further and further like I was competing in a stationary Limbo, trying to avoid the smoke. It’s amazing what a week of pregnancy will do.
As I happily tucked away the change in my purse, Henry disgustingly asked, “Why is it the only time you take out your wallet is to put my money in it?” It’s funny because it’s true! I love looking at the financial pain on his face. The way it’s been slowly chiseling lines into his flesh–ooh it makes me tingle. And then I realized that I was carrying a bag full of paperback books so I flung it at him and said, “You carry this; I’m pregnant.” 
Playing the pregnancy card rules. Why didn’t I think of this a long time ago?
Minutes after pleading with Henry to buy me this fabulous antique wooden chair with a ten foot tall back (“It can be my pregnancy chair! I’ll sit in it everyday!”), I stumbled upon a table that would change my life forever.
It was a table displaying a wide array of antique political pins. And I wanted. Wanted wanted wanted.
There was one in particular that I couldn’t pry my eyes from. It was the size of a quarter with small silver balls decorating the black velvet edge and the face of some dude was in the middle.
An elderly man came over to help me. I stubbed my finger into the glass case and said, “This one, please.” He pulled out my pin and when he placed it in my hand, I felt goosebumps (and not the lame R.L. Stine kind). 
“That’s from 1896, you know,” he said in between old man shakes. Ooh, the history–I could barely stand it.
“Wow…….who is it, anyway?”
The man laughed, which kind of made me mad, and said, “That’s Bryan. He ran against McKinley.”
I don’t doubt that my face had sprouted undulating question marks, but I still wanted it. “How much?” I asked. I figured I could learn all about this Bryan fellow after I bought it. Henry was standing off to the side, showing us his back. This is what he does when he doesn’t want me to see him laughing. 
“Fifty dollars” the old presidential snob laughed, as if he knew this was too much for me. Well, he was right–this time.
“Oh,” and I handed it back to him.
But don’t think my dreams have been thwarted. I’ve already imagined myself wearing a black beret, boasting that pin on the front for all to admire. I’ll be back. I’m going to collect political pins now. 
I walked away with my head down and Henry tried to cheer me up by reminding me that we could go look at the selection of junk indoors, and maybe I could find some cool necklaces. I wasn’t trying to hear it, but as we crossed the threshold to the building, I stopped abruptly and started sniffing with my head held high. That scent was unmistakable, wafting seductively around my head like a ghost trying to score some oral. This was pretty good considering it was 8:00 AM and the hot dogs weren’t even out yet.
“I want a hot dog. With relish.” I haven’t partook in meat for 10 years and now this dumb kid is trying to make me throw that all away? It hates me already, doesn’t it? “Man, I’ll take anything on a bun right about now,” I moaned.
Henry’s eyes were glazed with shock, but then he started laughing. Sometimes he’s just asking for my fist in his mouth. “Cravings, huh?” No shit, asshole, is that what that is? Thank god for Henry — not only is he a Professional Driver, he’s also a Professional Father. I can already hear it: “Well, when my ex-wife was pregnant…” or “When my original son was born…” Goodie, I can’t wait to have my pregnancy compared to his ex-wife’s. 

And speaking of cravings, gone are the days of sour cream love. I ate so much of it that when we went grocery shopping over the weekend, I almost heaved in the middle of the dairy section. Then this morning, I had a fleeting memory of my sour cream and cracker meals from last week and started dry heaving into my soaped-up hands. Oh god, here it comes again.
I was starting to get angry and was just about to throw a tantrum when the perfect distraction, as if sent by god himself, manifested to my right.
“Oooh! Toys!” There was an entire section filled with stuff like Thomas the Tank Engine (in eighth grade, I signed everyone’s yearbook with my Thomas stamp–I was really into it) and old McDonald’s glasses. This corner had it all. Everything but OJ Simpson stuff, which is what I was really in the mood for. They had Pogs there, which made me think about my OJ Simpson trial Pogs. I even had this really elegant brass (or something like it) slammer that had a picture of Simpson’s face engraved in it, with “Innocent” across the top. I cherished that slammer, and then some jerk in my homeroom stole it from me because it made him “sick.” 
After a hyper Chinese woman held me captive in front of her table for 20 minutes, tempting me with hermit crabs (I just bought another one the day before; I named him Dijon and he and Tabasco are getting along just fine) and bamboo shoots (“They’re good for your mind“), my heroic boyfriend came back and saved me (after ditching me to begin with) and we left to get breakfast.
“Is that good?” I asked as Henry shoveled sausage links into his gyrating mouth.
“What, my sausage? Yes.”
“I bet.” And I went back to silently eating my non-meat, non-taste breakfast.

After last month’s experience at the Smiling Moose, I wasn’t sure that I was ready to go back there again alone. But Hail the Sun was playing and I really wanted to see them because they bring me great joy, and after the last few week’s of feeling bogged down by…what? Dismal weather? Restlessness? Mental illness? Bad Mexicans? I really needed to get my ass to a show. It had been a month since the last one and that’s just unacceptable.

I was prepared to go alone, especially after Henry ignored the Hail the Sun Facebook invite I sent him. And then yesterday, he sent me a text that said, “Did you get tickets yet? Because it’s sold out.” And my face was flush with panic as my fingers quickly typed in the information to Facebook because one of the local bands on the bill was selling tickets directly and I was prepared to beg them for one. But then Henry was all, “Lol.”

I hate him.

Good thing I asked Janna to watch Chooch because Henry ended up going with me after all! I was in such a great mood because of it that I actually paused outside of the Smiling Moose in order to have a pleasant conversation about my ray-gun purse with some pink-haired lady smoking a cigarette. She asked if it was Betsey Johnson and I was all, “Ha! I wish. If it is, someone accidentally sold it to me for super cheap!” And then we talked about Betsey Johnson’s current line of things while Henry stood there, bored and cold.

That is how you know I’m in a fine mood: when I engage in real life, proper conversations with strangers!

It was happy hour when we got there, so Henry happily went to the bar in the back of the upstairs. For as many times as I have been there, I have never gone to the bar upstairs (only the main one downstairs) because I always go right to the front near the stage and people-watch, i.e. nervously text and tweet while watching people out of the corner of my eye. The first band was still setting up, so I  joined Henry and had whatever Arsenal Cider was on tap. Henry asked the bartender—who was super nice, and one of the best parts of the Smiling Moose; I fucking love their bartenders—what some kind of beer was and a man turned around and said, “If you like IPAs, you will really like that.”

Henry doesn’t like IPAs, whatever that means, so he was like awkwardly trying to thank the guy for his suggestion without actually ordering one.

I stood back there with Henry through two songs from the opening band, Scene Stage the World, but finally Henry sighed and said, “Go. I know it’s killing you” so I happily skipped away to the stage. I liked this band, but no offense to them since I have no clue what the meaning behind it is, but I really hate the name. I’ve had to double check 5 times to make sure I got it right because y brain just won’t accept it as a real thing.

After their set, I weaved my way back to the bar and saw that HENRY AND IPA GUY were talking! They looked like all ‘Nam buddies, too, all casual and comfortable against the bar, beers in hand, until I rolled up and it got awkward real fast. I caught the tail end of their conversation, and Henry was saying something like, “Yeah, I like them” about some band which is probably a total fucking lie because Henry likes nothing. My presence really put a damper on their budding romance though: the conversation seemed to taper off mid-stream and Henry’s new boy toy uncomfortably shifted away from the bar, leaving me and Henry standing there alone. Then he eventually drifted away.

“Whoa, did I interrupt something?” I laughed.

“What? No! He was just telling me that he came here from West Virginia to see that band. One of the guys is his downstairs neighbor or something…”

WHOA, he was telling Henry about his living situation?! UBER INTIMATE.

And that’s when I discovered that Henry, Mr. Ew, IPAs Are Yucky, had an IPA IN HIS HAND.

“It’s actually not bad,” he said, wiping foam off his mustache with the back of his hand. “It’s like….creamy. Here, try it!”

Bitch, get that glass of adultery out of my face.

Processed with VSCOcam with 4 preset

Just then, someone walked by and Henry quietly shouted, “IS THAT DONOVAN? HE CUT HIS HAIR.”

For someone who doesn’t like any of the bands I take him to see, he sure as fuck can spot all the members. Yes, Henry, that was indeed the singer of Hail the Sun. Good job!

“That guy has a fake leg,” Henry whispered. “DON’T LOOK! I saw him adjusting it earlier.” This is what Henry does at shows. He rarely looks at the stage. So if you’re ever at a show and see Henry there, you better check yourself because he will definitely be watching.

Like the fucking background creeper that he is.

I ditched Henry again in favor of the second band, False Accusations. Before they even started playing, I felt like I had seen them before because their bassist especially looked very familiar to me. Then they started playing and hearts sprung out from my eye sockets and a crown of blue birds circled around my head.

The guitarist’s dad was in attendance, and he pushed his way through the crowd in order to snap some pics with his flip phone and I melted from the adorableness of it all. Turns out that the dad was also Henry’s fake-leg friend from the bar. He couldn’t wait to tell me afterward.

Anyway, I scoured my blog after their set, determined to figure out where I had seen them before, and it turns out that they were the opening band when we went to see Icarus the Owl 9/2014, but we had arrived during the tail end of their set and never caught their name. WELL, NOW I KNOW.

And this is why I continue to write on this thing regardless if people read it or not, because it sure beats relying on my own memory.

The third band was Makari, and I was excited to see them because I had heard of them and thought they were going to have that Blue Swan vibe that I love. But no. It was like something from a 2008 Rise Records showcase. I mean, they weren’t BAD, but they were kind of boring and the singer was a little annoying.

However, their bassist looked like a young Raising Arizona-era Nic Cage and I pretty  much spent their entire set marveling over that while trying to scream about into Henry’s furry ear. Henry just frowned in disagreement.

Makari doing Makari things. They’re from somewhere in Florida, but the singer told us that he was actually born in ALTOONA, PA which no one was that impressed about but I really wanted to scream, “DID YOU EVER GO TO LAKEMONT PARK!?!?!?” This was the most interesting part of their set for me.

That’s the wall where I almost died last time.

Before Hail  the Sun came on, I turned around to talk to Henry (trust me, it pained me to do so), and I noticed that two of the guys from Save Us From the Archon were there!

“Henry!” I urgently hissed at him. “I want to congratulate them for getting signed to Tragic Hero!”

“Oh my god,” Henry sighed. “Then just do it.” Which of course kickstarted the hamster wheel of self-doubt in my head. SHOULD I?!?!?! SHOULDN’T I!?!? HOW SHOULD I SAY IT!?!? WHAT IF I STUTTER?!?! Ugh, I hate myself. Some prog-head was chatting their ears off anyway, so that was my sign to just turn back around.

But then finally, finally, finally it was time for Hail the Sun and I rejoiced! This was maybe the sixth time we saw them live and I have to say, it was definitely my favorite. I love that Donovan is the drummer/singer JUST LIKE PHIL COLLINS but that they have someone slide in for him halfway through the set so that he can get up front and center and scream into our faces. I love watching Aric Garcia do his tight, concise head shakes, and I love watching maniacal Shane Gann show off his skills for all the prog nerds.

Just being there righted so many wrongs. This is the only drug I’ll ever need.

(I mean, unless I end up with some serious illness, then I guess I’ll consider taking actual drugs.)

This song especially rips out my heart every time:

My heart drops when the t-t-telephone rings..

I like turning to Henry afterward and saying, “Maybe…” with a shrug. And he just smirks and rolls his eyes. Because he knows that I’ll probably starve if our lives ever divide.

The crowd was great, better than I could have imagined that night. That’s not to say that it didn’t smell like piss and B.O. up in there, because it still definitely did. Probably more so than the last few times I’ve been there, to be honest.

Set List:

• Will They Blame Me If You Go Disappearing?
• Cosmic Narcissism
• Paranoia
• Rolling Out the Red Carpet
• Human Target Practice
• Falling On Deaf Ears
• Black Serotonin
• Relax / Divide
• Ow! (Splidao!) [I Like It, Though]
• Anti-Eulogy (I Hope You Stay Dead)
  Encore:
• Railmaster
• Eight-Ball, Coroner’s Pocket

I wanted to buy merch afterward but Cheap Henry had no cash on him (ON PURPOSE probably) so I was like, “Fine, forget it!” and we left. On the way back to the car though, I saw AJ and Samantha from Save Us From the Archon, so I stopped them and just quickly let the congratulations blurt out of my mouth without thinking too much about it. They were super stoked about it and formally introduced themselves; it was wonderful and I was so thankful that Henry had kept walking because he always makes me feel 150% more stupid about fan-girling. When I caught up with him, he laughed and said, “Happy now?” YES, THANKS.

****

When we got back to our house, I noticed that Janna had driven HER MOTHER’S CAR to our house!

“OMG does she know you drove her car, JANNA?!” I cried while laughing hysterically.

“Yeah!” Janna scoffed, already regretting this poor choice of vehicle. “My car needs inspected so she told me to take hers!” she added defensively.

“BUT DID SHE REALLY!??!” I screamed, practically squatting to keep from peeing my pants. Janna just rolled her eyes. Then I took a picture of Janna’s mom’s car to send to Corey.

THOSE ARE THE EMOJIS HE USES FOR THE SILHOUETTE OF JANNA’S MOM IN THE WINDOW AS SHE IS BEATING HER AND YELLING AT HER.

OMG, TEARS. This will never get old.

What night, man.

Today has mostly consisted of housecleaning and getting to know Drew    Walden, but I keep calling her Drewbarry. I think she’s into us. Chooch was explaining his record player to her, and that was just really adorbs, until he put on his Twenty One Pilots album and she was like “THE FUCK?!” and quickly backpeddaled out of his room. 

 Not quite sure about Trudy.   
Drew shares the same sentiments about this shelf as most people. Right after I took this, she knocked that clown on the top left off the shelf and broke its hand. BUT IT’S ALL GOOD. The person who gave that to me is a creep who is banned from my life so GOOD FOR YOU, CLOWN. 

And then she kicked dirt out of one of my succulent pots but I was like ITS OK. Even though I was internally weeping. 

We got a dumb snow storm so Suzanne wasn’t able to bring the second kitten over, so now we’re going to arrange another kitten exchange later this week. I haven’t had kittens in SIXTEEN YEARS. It was honestly that long ago when Marcy had Don and Willie. (And others too but I somehow found the restraint needed to not keep the entire litter.)

We’re having a small game night tonight so it will be interesting to see if Drew change out. My other cats were basically born and raised in a highly social household, so this was shit was no big deal to them—except for Marcy’s daughter Willie, who just never warmed up to people. I’ll be really sad if Drew isn’t a social butterfly!

It’s weird being able to participate in Caturday and #catsofinstagram again. It feels like forever. But also, it feels like only yesterday when I said goodbye to Marcy. Ugh, life is so cruel. 

In other news, the new Basement record comes out next week and I can hardly stand it!

All week, I was telling Chooch that we were taking him to a foster home. At first he was like, “Yeah, OK” while laughing to himself and going back to whatever lame YouTube video was currently rotting his brain. But I kept it up, subtle mentions and reminders here and there. I would say things to myself like, “I need to start packing Chooch’s clothes…” pretending like I didn’t know he was listening to me, and he would cry, “I DON’T BELIEVE YOU!”

But there was a glimmer of doubt in his eyes. I know what that looks like and I saw it.

Before Chooch left for school Thursday morning, I hugged him and whispered, “I’m really going to miss you.” And then when he and Henry picked me up from work that evening, I asked Henry where all of Chooch’s clothes were.

Henry is really lame (see also: not as twisted as me) and struggled to play along.

“You were supposed to PACK HIS CLOTHES,” I said, making “FOLLOW ALONG, MOTHERFUCKER” eyes at him.

“Oh….yeah. I didn’t have time. I, um, brought that blanket though,” Bad Actor mumbled.

“I know you’re lying!” Chooch spat, shaking his head and looking out the window. And then, realizing that we weren’t going the normal way home, he nervously asked, “OK seriously though, where are we going?”

I kept saying “your new home” while Henry said, “Don’t worry about it” until finally, Chooch got so frustrated that he willed himself to fall asleep.

When we arrived at our destination in McKeesport, I woke Chooch up. He looked all around and saw a woman, presumably his new mom, standing in her driveway.

“I’ll just wait here,” he spat, trying to pull the car door shut.

(Wow, as I’m writing this, I can see why Wendy called me a rotten mother…I’m totally like my own mother! She would have 100% done this same thing to me. But you have to understand something: this is what we do in our house.

We are deep into psychological games up in this piece and TRUST ME – Chooch gives it right back. His memoirs are going to be rockin’ someday.)

The only way I could get Chooch to come out of the car was by finally telling him I was just kidding. Even then, he was skeptical.

***

Last month, Sandy told me that her friend Suzanne had some kittens who needed homes, and for a minute, I was all about it. I sent Suzanne a message on Facebook, but by the next day, I was so overwhelmed with guilt and grief over Marcy that had something of an emotional breakdown. I sobbed so hard, that even hours later when Henry and I were at Target, I was doing that involuntary shudder-sniffle. YOU KNOW THE ONE. My eyes were all red and swollen, people probably thought Henry and I had just come inside to grab some toilet paper and Tim Tams after having a domestic dispute in the parking lot.

So I had to tell Suzanne that I changed my mind.

And I felt like a gigantic asshole.

But then on Tuesday, I heard Sandy talking about how there were still three kittens left and that it was almost shelter time. I quickly texted my friend Evonne to see if she could spread the word, because she is a big cat person. Within five minutes, she had me completely turned around and I was sending Suzanne a message on Facebook without thinking twice.

Or even consulting Henry. Shocking.

Evonne is just really good at clearing my head. She made me realize that if I’m not ready now, I’m probably really never going to be ready….so I might as well just rip off the Band-aid and take one for the team, because Chooch has been slowly dying in our cat-less abode.

***

And that’s how we ended up at a virtual stranger’s home in McKeesport, 8:00 on a regular Thursday night.

I will be honest and admit that I cried a few times yesterday at work every time I looked at Marcy’s picture (I have many scattered around) and at one point whispered, “Please don’t hate me, Marcy.” I mean, I know she’s down with her father Satan right now, watching me and Chooch squeezing new kittens, and she’s laughing and thinking, “Better those dumb cats than me!” I didn’t even tell many people that we were doing this because I was worried I was going to back out.

Turns out, Suzanne is an awesome lady and she was so understanding of my previous wishy-washy behavior. We were walking into the house when Suzanne thanked me for coming all the way out there. If I had just picked a cat from the pictures she sent me, she would have gladly the kitten to my house. But I had to be difficult and ask to see all three because I thought it would be fun to surprise Chooch and let him choose. Because that’s how I was coping with this process–by trying to convince myself that this was going to be Chooch’s pet.

Suzanne took us to the basement where the kittens were, and once she was finally able to corral them all out of their hiding spaces, I asked Chooch which one he wanted.

“WE’RE GETTING ONE!?” he cried, like actually cried. Just a little bit though, and he’ll probably try to deny it, but I saw a few optic wets on his face.

Of course Chooch didn’t pick the one I had my eye on since December, so Suzanne jokingly said, “You know, you could take two if you really wanted.”

“HENRY CAN WE?!” I begged, and Suzanne quickly apologized to Henry and swore she was just joking.

But Henry just shrugged and mumbled, “Whatever you want.”

SO I GOT MY KITTEN TOO.

However, these little babies weren’t easy to wrangle, so we settled on just Chooch’s for that night, and Suzanne said she would bring mine to our house another day since it was getting so late and it was beginning to look futile.

I was pretty much in a stupor the entire time we were there. Of course I’m excited about this new kitten, and the arrival of the other one, but it’s still pretty tough on me. I miss each one of the Original Crew so desperately. (Yes, even No Personality Willie.)

The first night was pretty sad for Chooch’s pal, understandably. She was frightened and disoriented, but hung around long enough for Chooch to name her Nightmare.

She slept in my bed for about 20 minutes before HENRY moved abruptly and scared her away. Fuckin’ Henry.

This morning, she was very interested in exploring Chooch’s stinky room. He changed her name to Drew Walden then, after his favorite singers: Christofer Drew of Never Shout Never and Bradley Walden of Emarosa. I definitely co-signed this.

When he left for school, Drew Walden cried like a baby.

I thought maybe I’d leave the TV on for her today, so I put on Animal Planet and she was 100% NOT into it.

But by this evening, she seems to have definitely made herself at home. She adores Henry which is ugh-worthy, she’s litter-trained, and she is also fucking psycho, so she basically fits in fine. I think she’ll be even happier once her sister gets here, too.

About twice an hour, I start to cry because Marcy really broke me, you guys. I worry that I won’t love these new additions like I loved the others. I know that it will get easier and that this was the right thing to do, because they needed a home and Chooch needs cats like he needs air. I guess I’m just so afraid of going through it all again.

But then kitten-y antics like this happen, and I’m all “THANK GOD WE HAVE A CAT AGAIN”:

So thank you, Sandy. You thought you ruined my weekend last month when you told me about the kittens, but look! It all worked out!

(P.S. Marcy, I will still always love you most! Please don’t be mad at me! I mean, even more mad than normal!)

I was joking the other day at work about how trouble follows me everywhere I go in that department, and why when I am clearly such a sweet, innocent, demure human being!? And it got me thinking about other jobs I had, where I was a holy terror on purpose and gave no fucks about it, because what was the worst that was going to happen? I was going to quit after three days and my mom would still pay my rent.

Rinse and repeat.

But if I had to pick a place that got the best version of Asshole Erin, it was definitely Echostar.

PICTURE IT: The year was 1998. I had recently lost the only steady job I ever had, as a telemarketer for Olan Mills Portrait Studio—which, coincidentally, is how I met the guy who got me to take the only bus ride of my life, which I mentioned last week. Joey was one of my cold calls (as opposed to those on the coveted and golden PAST CUSTOMER LIST) and after letting me pant my way through the whole portrait package spiel, he laughed and said, “Well, that sounds really great, except I don’t need it because I’m a photographer.” Turns out, he was in Pittsburgh going to the Art Institute for photography, and we REALLY HIT IT OFF over the phone. Like, instant connection. This is how people used to hook up back in the day! Over the phone, on sales calls. Anyway, my supervisor was starting to catch wind that I was no longer trying to make a sale, or at least, not the kind of sale I was being paid to make, so I quickly gave him my number and then we proceeded to stay up all night on the phone when I got home that evening and before I knew it, we were making wedding plans, moving to Montana, and buying a sheepdog. I mean, until I actually met him and then it was “……” But I still got on a bus with him and went to his place on the Southside, because I’m fucking smart.

OK OK, so our Olan Mills telemarketing branch got shut down (thanks, Internet) and my mom was started to put pressure on me to find something else.

There was another telemarketing job after that, where I sold a credit card terminal to a tattoo shop and then got a free (and shitty) tattoo out of it, because back then I had A Personality and it was impossible for me to not make friends over the phone. Now I won’t even ANSWER the phone. So by this point, I had myself pigeon-holed to the telemarketing industry. It was apparently the only skill I had attained somehow. That’s a little known fact about dropping out of high school: you’re spilled out into this holding cell while everyone else is running off to college like normal, functioning humans, and you’re given two options: drugs or telemarketing. I had a mild interest in drugs back then, but then my friend Brian got me a job at Olan Mills and totally ruined that plan.

After quitting the credit card terminal place, I applied at Echostar (Dish Network), which had just opened a huge call center in McKeesport and it was like A Really Big Deal for us people who weren’t qualified to do anything much greater than bag groceries. It was so new that the call center wasn’t even finished, so the training classes were being held in this really old joint called the Peoples Building, and it was such a shady area that we had to have security guards escort us from the building to the parking garage every night. (Evening classes, ya’ll.)

What I will always remember the most about this job is that I started on the Monday directly after returning from Philly, where I had attended the Dracula’s Ball with my friend Cinn. I almost didn’t show up for my first class at all because my eyebrow piercing had become so infected from all the glitter I was wearing that evening, plus the fact that the new hoop was shoved in forcefully by some guy who looked like the guy Happy Gilmore shot with a nail gun to the point where I PASSED OUT IN HIS SHOP and woke up on a couch with him standing above me, holding a paper towel saturated with my blood, saying, “Wow, look how much you bled!” So all of these factors led to an eventual infection which caused my eyelid to swell up and I had to walk into this class room with my hair covering one side of my face, looking like I was trying to hide a black eye. But then I was like “Fuck it” and just started flaunting it and that was how I made a bunch of friends in that class on my very first day, by being the youngest person in the class who had a gross piercing story to share as an introduction.

(I ended up going to the emergency room right after class that night, where a doctor had to cut the ring out of my face while a nurse watched on and said, “This is exactly why I told my daughter she’s never getting pierced.”)

At the start of this first class, our trainer Mike had us go around the room and say our name with a descriptive adjective that started with the same letter. I fucking love these things because I’m a nerd, so when it was my turn, I shot out of my seat and cried, “EFFERVESCENT ERIN!” Everyone in the class laughed at  my enthusiasm, and that was basically the start of Mike’s infinite disdain for me.

There were lots of tests and POP QUIZZES.

The class was a month long. We had to learn all about the company, customer service, operating the company’s computer system, and all of the various cable packages they offered. It was kind of like telemarketing and support combined: we had to help customers with issues they might be experiencing with their service while trying to upsale them at the same time. I was kind of torn, because I used TCI for my digital cable and I was obsessed with it. (This was pre-Comcast.) I loved TCI so much that I turned down a pretty nice apartment when I found out that the cable used in that area was ADELPHIA.

P-U.

I sincerely wish I had stayed in touch with these people. They were fucking nuts.

So my heart was never really in this job from the get-go. (I mean, how much of a heart could one really put into this sort of job, anyway?) Class quickly became less of learning and more of an opportunity to hide behind computer terminals while passing notes and giggling with my new friends, Bobbie (a girl), Roniece, and Letecia.

These girls though. They were the only reason I kept coming back to that class, night after night. One time, I arrived in tears because my pet frog Hubert had died that day. They helped me eulogize him on our break, and it was the sweetest thing that I will never forget. THEY WERE MY RIDE OR DIES, obviously, except that no one said that in 1998.

We were totally the bad kids, and very quickly we became A Class Divided: there was us and a handful of the other younger people plus some of the soccer moms (surprisingly) and then there were the Others, made up of the older women and the people who were surprisingly actually there to learn. They would get so fucking irate every time Mike would have to stop class to chastise one of us. It got really bad too, and if us Bad Kids wound up in the same place as some of the Others during our dinner break, they would get so ruffled and tight-lipped, like we had just sleazily oozed over the threshold, flicking our switchblades open and closed, popping our gum, and making cunnilingus Vs with our fingers.

It was like being in college after all! Lol, j/k.

One of the girls in our group got bitched at by Mike because he found out that she was sneaking out onto the fire escape to smoke. So then he had to have the building manager come up and lock the door to the fire escape, which made us scream dramatically about, “BUT WHAT IF THERE IS A FIIIIIIIRRRREEEEE?!” while cracking up behind his back.

There is one moment that stands out the most for me though, and that was the day we were learning how to add notes to customers’ accounts. The company was smart enough to make sure we were on a training server, so all of the customers were Jane and John Does. Trainer Mike was having each one of us take turns going into the fake accounts and adding notes based on the scenarios he read to us, so after the note was “published,” it would show up on everyone’s computer. I quickly realized that if I skipped ahead, I could add fake notes and then everyone else would see them by the time we made it to that particular account.

I quickly alerted my homegirls about this and we all giddily forged ahead and began adding childish notes, the only one I for sure remember was “Our trainer sucks ass.” NOT SAYING THAT WAS MINE.

But it was mine.

Needless to say, when the rest of the class, and Mike, stumbled upon these, there was a major uproar. The people on our side laughed and appreciated the effort of our antics, while the nerdy ones were appalled at our juvenile behavior and began clucking and whatever else old bitches do when they’re mad at the Youth of Today.

Mike was furious. I mean, this was his breaking point. You could practically see his pupils turning into boiling point thermostats, the veins popping out of his forehead like someone REALLY WAIST DEEP in some late night viewing of The Erotic Network, the LARGE FONT letters queuing up in his brain before exploding out into a “I DON’T GET PAID ENOUGH TO DEAL WITH THIS MOTHERFUCKING BULLSHIT” rant.

When Mike eventually regained his composure—kind of—he pounded his fist against his desk and demanded that whomever did this, speak up.

Of course none of us did. And he definitely could narrow down the suspect pool to three. But Bobbie, Roniece and I just hunkered down lower, our faces red from stifled laughter.

Then he started threatening us.

“If no one comes forward, then the whole class will suffer!” he roared, and this made the Other Half of the class pivot in their seats, thrusting their fingers at the three of us, screaming about life’s injustices and their inability to get a good Echostar education thanks to our disruptive behavior and basic tomfoolery. Still, we wouldn’t take the blame.

(This morning, I was actually telling Henry this story, and through tears of laughter I said, “Can you believe those bitches were so upset over that? What losers.”

“Yeah, imagine being concerned about your job,” Henry dryly replied.)

Mike then told us that the CEO of the company, Charlie Something-Or-Other, was coming to town to deal with this, that the fucking CEO OF THE COMPANY was flying in from COLORADO just to YELL AT OUR WHOLE CLASS.

Like, OK sure, Mike. We all knew he was coming in because the grand opening of the Pittsburgh location was that weekend. But still we were sure surprised the next night when fucking Charlie himself made a guest appearance in our dumb classroom, and proceeded to lecture us about respecting Mike, how he puts a great deal of effort into employing the BEST TRAINERS to provide the rest of us with the knowledge we need to succeed within the company. Mike stood to his right, hands clasped behind his back, looking smugger than a motherfucker grading Echostar tests.

It was fucking surreal. I loved/hated every moment of it. I think we were simultaneously proud that our actions warranted such a dramatic response, but also stunned that we didn’t get fired when we probably should have.

Hilariously, that one lady back there in the pink turtleneck was the wife of some dude who worked at my family’s drywall company, so she would go home and tell him about all the shit-stirring I did, and he in turn would go to work and tell my mom. The phone calls I got from my mom was fantastic. “What are you doing over there?!” she would cry. “Please don’t embarrass me!” But that dude’s wife was actually cool as shit; she was on our side and thought the whole situation was hysterical. When the “Goody-Goodies” started to rally against us, she gave me a big pep talk outside on the sidewalk and told me that they were just angry old women who had no joy in their lives and to not let them get me down. I mean, these broads went full-throttle Mean Girls on us, which was stupid because we weren’t directing any of our antics against them. We were just a bunch of goofy idiots who were bored at studying the various remote controls that came with the satellite dishes. I was nineteen — of course I didn’t take this job seriously!

But you know, looking back on it — wow I was a fucking douche bag.

This was my life for a whole month.

Somehow, we all managed to make it to the end of the month-long training course, but the real victory is that we all PASSED THE TEST. It was time for us to move to the newly-built call center and begin our live training, head-sets and all. But first, we decided amongst ourselves that we should celebrate during our last class.

Even Trainer Mike was on board with having a party, but he was definitely partying for much different reasons.

I volunteered to get a cake, which was no skin off my back because all I had to do was call Mommy and tell her to deal with it.

“What do you want it to say?” she asked.

“I don’t know….;this class sucks’,” I joked. Then we went on to talk about other things, probably me whining about all the things I wanted her to buy me.

The next day, and I remember this vividly because it was a bad day, I had to leave my apartment to go to the mall and pick up the cookie cake. But first, I realized that I forgot my car keys, and how I realized this was that I was unable to open my car door with the CORDLESS PHONE that I left the house with instead of my key chains. And then I couldn’t open the apartment door because my apartment key was on the keychain so I had to call my mom (on the cordless!) to come and open my door with the spare key she had. Even back then, I was a spaz about being late. I have ALWAYS been a spaz about being late.

(Hey 1998 Erin, never change.)

By the time I had my keychain, I was in pedal-to-the-metal mode and floored it to the mall, where I said, “Nah!” when the Original Cookie people asked if I wanted to see the cookie cake before they put it in the bag. Then, several feet away from the stupid Peoples Building, I merged into the right lane and didn’t see that there was a car in my blind spot so then I had to pull over and deal with THAT nonsense.

And so I was late. And in a really shitty mood. Which didn’t get much better when Bobbie lifted the lid of the cookie cake to reveal that it boasted a delicious declaration of This Class Sucks.

“Fucccccck,” I whispered. “I thought my mom knew I was joking!” And then I played back our conversation and realized I never told her what I actually wanted the stupid fucking cake to say.

I was nearly about to cry because everything kept happening! But then I was like, “Fuck it, I’m probably going to quit this job anyway, so who cares.” And it turns out, Mike definitely didn’t care! He came over, swiped off the “cl” with one swift motion of his finger, and then started cracking up.

I guess we kind of made up that day, over pizza and unfortunate cake sentiments. But honestly, I think he was just really fucking giddy about never having to deal with us hooligans again.

I mean, look at how innocent I was! This was also when I was going through a heavy goth phase, in that I spent most of my free time in a goth chatroom, listened to goth music, and had goth Internet friends. I never went full-fledged goth, but LOOK AT HOW PALE I WAS. So I would go to my training class every night and teach all of my new, normal friends things about Dracula’s Ball, Sisters of Mercy, and Darkchat. Their response was always, “Giiiiiiirl.….” paired with the raised eyebrow of skepticism.

I did end up quitting right after we “graduated.” It just wasn’t for me. I saw Bobbie once afterward, when we met at Nigro’s, a lounge down the street from Echostar. And the next summer, I hung out with Roniece and it will forever be known as The Night I Died On The Street In Front of a Strip Club In Braddock; but earlier that evening, Roniece’s grandma saved my friend Keri from possibly dying from a bee sting, so the day was clearly full of second chances. I kept in touch with Leticia the longest out of all of them, and dragged her to the Denis Theater twice to see “white people movies” which she bitched about on the way there and then gushed over the way home. (“Shakespeare In Love” and “American Beauty” lol.) I even visited her a few years later when she had a baby. But eventually, I lost touch with her too. I wish I could remember their last names so I could Facebook-stalk them.

Anyway, the moral to this story is that I am not even close to being a troublemaker at my current job, even though Todd thinks I’m a “bully.” So there.

(I think I actually am kind of a bully though.)

Sometimes I like to pick random years to browse on my old LiveJournal, mostly because it makes me feel better about my current life but also because I occasionally stumble upon things I forgot about and I am nostalgia-obsessed,  I back nostalgia HARD. anyway, this one from 2004 made me laugh because I love Christy Memories!

In other news, we had a mild snowstorm thing happen late this afternoon. Corey was in the area after work and stopped by to kill time while the roads were a mess. Randomly, he brought up the time when I was a teenager and ran away to Lisa’s house. I forgot all about that, but man, I sure did! I really did run there too, late at night, and it was kind of a hike on foot.

“I remember Val* standing in the laundry room with all the lights on, screaming about calling the cops,” Corey laughed and I laughed too but in reality, that wouldn’t have been the first time she called the cops on me, haha. God, I was a hot mess then.

*(We refer to our mother by her first name.)

Not anymore though, RIGHT HENRY? Lol all the way home.

Speaking of Henry, here’s one from 2002 where we went to dinner and he asked for separate checks?! (I called him Em back then, short for Emily because one time I heard him say his name and it sounded like Emily. Boring story is boring.)

#heh #tapeplayer

Post Script: So, I did end up getting a Nissan. It was a brand new Sentra, which were way less nice in 2002 than they are now, let me tell you. And I know in my heart of hearts, in my butt of things, in my car of buncles, that my stupid Sentra was a fucking lemon.

Alternative Press finally posted the video of Craig Owens performing a brand new song, and it’s super exciting for me because Henry, Robbie, Nikki, and I were there, in the same room, watching with drool as this was filmed last month. (Well, maybe Henry wasn’t drooling; he probably waited until later and let it all out in private.)

That was such a beautiful day. I’m happy to have this video so that we can all relive it! Can’t wait to see what Craig has up his sleeve for 2016.

On paper, my Saturday looks like it was a fabulous day: breakfast at Pamela’s with Wendy, Summer, and Jeannie; roller skating; cherry pie; horror movies. But NO. It was frustrating and borderline volatile. (I say borderline because nothing got broken.)   

Summer, being less of a crybaby than Erin. 

I woke up in a wonderful mood even though it’s a struggle to leave the house early on a weekend. I love meeting Jeannie and Wendy for breakfast at Pamela’s, the only Pittsburgh establishment whose hype I can get behind—not to be morbid, but I want to be buried inside a blanket of their blueberry hotcakes. The last time we were there was over the summer when Wendy was still pregnant so this was Summer’s first Pamela’s trip! A real monumental occasion. 

Breakfast was wonderful. In hindsight, I should have stopped while I was ahead, but I have had this idiotic Sephora gift card for two years and I really wanted to use it (I’ve lost and found it three times, along with my entire wallet because that’s the type of adult I am); there is one across the street from Pamela’s, and I walked in knowing full well that I was going to be spending way more than what was on the card because Sephora is a racket like that. 

So already I was feeling anxiety because there is so much I woke rather spend $$$ on. I mean, I like make-up and other assorted shit like that but I hate having gift cards that are specific to one place. I really wanted to spend money on music, not moisturizer, even though I really do need moisturizer now that winter is sucking my face dry. And of course the one time I actually need assistance, I am INVISIBLE to every asshole in that store. 

So I left, and not quietly either. 

When I was little, my Pappap would always call me a pistol. I was born with a silver spoon practically shoved in my ass, and if there is one thing in my entire life that I have ever been really great at, it’s the fine art of hissy fits and temper tantrums. 

Even as an adult, even after years of struggling financially during most of my 20s, I never lost the spoiled brat in me. It’s my literal Drop Dead Fred, hovering over my shoulder and whispering things like, “Oh hell no, you’re not going to let THAT happen are you?”

One time, years ago, Henry made me an omelette and I kicked a hole in our bedroom wall because he put mushrooms in it and I didn’t ask for mushrooms. 

I kicked a hole in the wall. Because I am a fucking loco brat. 

(Fun fact: Henry just patched up that hole last week while he was painting the bedroom. So, 13 years later.)

From Sephora on, that is the Erin that starred in the Saturday Shit Show. The wall-kicking Erin.

By the time I came home, I hadn’t calmed down much. Every single thing Henry said to me, no matter how innocent, was met with screeching snaps and snarls. Because it was his fault. Why did he have to buy me a Sephora gift card?!

Finally, I went upstairs and played a Defeater record, hoping that would settle me down before it was time to go skating. I was chill long enough to take this picture:

Erin Rachelle, during happier times. 

But then the switch was flipped again as we left the house to go skating. Chooch and I were sniping at each other because: siblings. We were only five minutes from home before he and I were both huffing about how we should just turn around and go home, and Henry was doing that thing where he remains very quiet but his eyes are kind of bulging a little. Finally, he actually did whip the car around, which caused Chooch and I to both angrily mutter, “Oh, that’s great. I guess we’re not going skating. I guess we’ll just sit in the house and rot all day” and then Henry lost it and yelled, “TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK YOU WANT TO DO?!” and then under his breath he mumbled something about feeling like he woke up in another dimension.

So we went skating. 

Oh! I was also angry because my phone charger broke as soon as we left the house. Henry was like “Is this actually over a phone charger?!”

Henry said he was going to go to the post office and Lowe’s while we were skating, which made me cry, “YOURE LEAVING US HERE ALONE?” I made him at least put my skates on me first, but he ended up not leaving anyway, probably because he was too afraid.   Instead, he stood on the other side of the rink wall with all the other parents, and made sure Chooch and I didn’t indulge our inner derby demons. 

But on the rink, Chooch and I usually team up with each other because we are both roller NARCs, rink tattlers, skate snitches. We hate when people don’t follow basic rules and etiquette, and Chooch kept catching up to me, and in a staccato cadence marred by huffs and pants, he would cry, “THAT KID OVER THERE NEEDS TO GTFO! DID YOU SEE ME ALMOST SKATE OVER HER HEAD?” 

When it’s amateur hour, and it mostly always is if there are birthday parties on the schedule, it’s like skating through the Killing Fields: a vertible slalom course dotted with limbs and felled bodies, parents struggling to pull their children off the rink, and skate guards whirring past at warped speed without so much as a second glance. 

IT’S KILL OR BE KILLED. 

Let me tell you someyhing about where I am in life: I really dislike being around people. The exception to this is concerts, which is really weird considering, but I think my love for the bands helps me deal with it. As soon as stepped onto the rink, I knew it was going to be bad. Romp n Roll’s skate guards are teenagers whose pals come to hang out with them, and in this case, “hanging out” entails rollerblading like high-speed Bond villains around the rink. There was one that almost knocked me over and I wanted to complain but Henry was like “Good luck, he’s friends with everyone who works here.”

Oh don’t worry, it got worse: in an effort to block out the enemies, I decided to focus on the music. I thought it would be nice to request a Bowie joint in honor of his recent passing, so I sent Chooch over to the DJ booth to do my bidding. He loves requesting songs, just like I did when I was his age. 

Before I continue, let me explain that the DJ is old, like probably older than HENRY. He has the voice of Casey Kasem, even. For all intents and purposes, he has all the characteristics of your basic, generic party DJ. 

So when Chooch requested Bowie, he should have been rifling through the discography on his head, narrowing down the tracks best suited to play in tandem with the pulsating track lights and terrified yelps of children unseasoned in the art of rollerskating. 

But instead he asked Chooch, “Is that the one who just died? I’ll try to play Mony Mony, ok?”

Whaaaaaat. 

I slammed into the wall opposite of Henry to disgustedly scream about this disgrace to music. 

Henry just shrugged and said, “I don’t know what to tell you.” Considering that’s his classic response, then it seems to me like he does in fact know EXACTLY what to tell me.  

I don’t know what exactly I wanted him to do, storm the DJ booth with flaming bags of dog shit or what, but I guess I thought he would at least care a little bit more than he was letting on. I hate how unreactionary he is!!

But don’t worry – he played Mmmbop and some lame Taylor Swift song. 

Shortly after this, regular skating was interrupted for “cart races” and I hate this segment of the session because it takes FOREVER. It’s such an unorganized shit show, like every time they do this is the first time. So we sat in the snack room and made Henry buy us pizza because he had the audacity to buy himself a soft pretzel without us. Can you imagine?! Feeding himself and not us?!

Chooch and I told Henry about all the people we hated and he just rolled his eyes because he doesn’t understand what it’s like to expect perfection. 

After cart races wrapped up, we resumed skating. On my second time around the rink, I skated through a sticky gum-like substance and came very close to falling. I made a HUGE DEAL over it, turning and pointing over my shoulder at the infected area of the rink, loudly mouthing off to my skating partner about it, who said, “I’LL GO REPORT IT!” 

He loves reporting things. 

I skated around two more times but was unable to locate the contaminate. Then the DJ turned on the lights and signaled for one of the incompetent rink guards to inspect the area, so I skated off and joined Henry along the wall.

“I CAUSED THIS,” I urgently informed him. And then I started cracking up, but not because I thought it was funny–I was kind of embarrassed. “I can’t go back out there now,” I cried, clutching Henry’s arm. 

“Why?” he mumbled. “No one cares.”

EXACTLY – NO ONE CARES. I watched as the rink guard did nothing more than give the general vicinity of the almost-accident scene a cursory glance, little more than a lazy once-over, before shrugging in the direction of the DJ booth, and then the rink lights went out again. 

“There was nothing there,” Chooch said a few minutes later when he joined us. “I told the DJ you tripped over a block but they didn’t see anything.”

“It wasn’t a block, you idiot!” I screamed over top of some unoriginal pop song. “IT WAS GUM OR SOMETHING! GOD, UGH!” And then to Henry I growled, “I’m done. Go get my shoes.” I was irate. The situation had inflated inside my head to tragic proportions where the entire roller rink had conspired against. I was ready to start fights with people. 

“We’ve only been here an hour!” he exclaimed, mental math’ing how much money I wasted. But then Chooch lost a dollar in the claw machine, so then there were two of us crying about wanting to leave and Henry was hissing something about “never again” so then I accused him of being on Romp n Roll’s side when I almost PERISHED out there AND the DJ didn’t know who the fuck David Bowie was?

Get fucked, Henry. 

It felt like everyone was pointing and laughing at me in slo-mo as we walked out and I’m still not sure if that didn’t exactly happened. Ugh, fuck you smilers!

We drove home in absolute silence. Except for one I declared that I was going to write a letter, which is how I retaliate when I’ve been wronged. 

Later, Henry made dinner and I told him with zero coats of sugar that it had no taste. He gave me a really scary look and then went to the store because I said I wanted cherry pie but I think it was less because he wanted to make me happy with pie and more because he needed to get away from me and Chooch. 

 
But by the end of the night, everything had righted itself and Chooch & I settled down (after having a brutal tug of war over a blanket until Henry stormed away and brought us a second blanket) to watch The Visit, which was way better than I expected and even Henry said it was “not bad” which was high praise because he hates everything M. Night touches. I guess M. Night is to him what Ryan Murphy is to me. (Seriously, stop giving American Horror Story new seasons!)

Sometimes it’s not about being happy vs. sad. There are all kinds of other weird second-strong emotions fighting for their moment to shine, and the bad ones win out occasionally. There really wasn’t anything that was going to “fix” my day other than going to bed and starting over in the morning.  And my Sunday was definitely better.

P.S. I forgot to mention that I had numerous coughing fits over the weekend  which was clearly my body’s attenpt to expel the demons. 

Chooch and I went geocaching last weekend and we are now, together, co-blogging about it. I’m not writing this with my hyperbolic plume either. This experience was particularly blood-boiling, and I have an extremely low boiling point to begin with.

Short-fused. 

Tightly-wound.

Hot-headed.

I’m all of these things. 

Hey its yo boy Chooch, I’m gonna tell you a little things about Geocaching. K, First things first, I learned about Geocaching in school in a book. Geocaching is basically a High-Tech Treasure Hunt Game where you get the app or go on a computer and look for a Gray, Blue, Orange, Light Green, or Dark Green dot and you click on it. It will tell you what the coords are and you just go look for it.

Erin here: I thought he learned about it from YouTube, so I am currently pleasantly surprised.

So I thought there wasn’t much to do, I thought me and mommy could go Geocaching. Daddy didn’t think it would go well, but I did. He said we would kill each other cause’ we’re so competitive. So we went on a Saturday and went to South Park. Because usually there is a lot of Geocaches in the park. As soon as we got there mommy flipped out. Two minutes in she just wanted to go home. I was in the wrong area the whole time.

Erin here: Geocaching with Chooch is terrible because he thinks he knows but HE DOES NOT KNOW. He took us to some area that had an older man like, DIGGING something or someone in the woods and we had to walk near him. That was incredibly unpleasant. Chooch was putzing around with the app and I kept screaming, “AREN’T THERE COORDINATES?! HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE TO LOOK?!?!” and we were literally just standing there, walking in tiny circles, staring at the ground and toeing rocks. Chooch isn’t wrong — two minutes in, I completely flipped my lid and screamed (and I mean BELLOWED), “This is fucking ridiculous! I am going THE FUCK HOME!” Volaries of birds burst out of a nearby tree. The man with the shovel was like “…the fuck is that lady’s problem?” and according to Chooch, everybody hated me when this happened.

“Everybody.”

We were in the fucking park in January! There were not many people around!

Except for a biker who said hello to me RIGHT AFTER MY OUTBURST and because I’m a fucking psychopath, I switched on Sweet Erin and jovially bid him a fine afternoon in the fakest fucking baby voice I could muster.

OH, SUCH DEMURE.

Back to Unicorn Chooch: After looking for like… 7 mins or so I was just looking through rocks, and I saw some weird looking rock. I felt the bottom and it was flat. I turned it over and it was a sliding rock cache. I found the cache. We put some inappropriate mommy cards* in there. I mean like the cards she makes. I was so happy. But… I forgot to bring a pen to sign it. So I made mummy go check the car for a pen. No luck.

Me again: When I went to the car, some dumb elderly couple cheerfully said hello to me, as they were getting their idiot bikes out of their minivan. I said, “HI-YEEEEE!” in return and they kind of stepped back a little because I guess I sounded like I was being an asshole. BECAUSE I WAS.

*And he’s talking about my Totally Awesome Blog Cards, thanks!

I just put a card in and went on the app and said I found it. I wrote “Took forever I thought me and my mom would kill each other! My god”

So then mommy wanted to go home but I told her there’s one 0.3 miles away. We walked down a muddy trail next to a golf course. There was a tree tipped over so it was like a tunnel. I wasn’t going off trail I was totes on trail. We got to some torn down outhouse because I thought it was right there but nope. Farther down by a log. I was getting stabbed in the leg by tons of thorns almost dying. Then I tried to climb over a log but fell. I could’ve died. Mummy couldn’t see because she was in some crack. Lol sounds weird.

Me, with anguish: Hello, it was a GORGE and I was trapped in it, OK?

Erin’s turn: Chooch had us going totally off-trail and it was getting late in the afternoon. I felt like I was on some Blair Witch expedition and bitch, I wasn’t dying for no fucking Tupperware container in the woods. And then we get to these decrepit outhouse ruins and I thought for sure we were going to perish. I kept having future visions of tumbling into that hole and getting dragged down into Hell. Because that would be my luck.

So Henry and I used to occasionally go letterboxing back in the day, which was like the pioneer version of geocaching in that it didn’t give you GPS coordinates and you had to rely on good old-fashioned directions to find your booty. Like, turn right by the crushed Michelobe Lite can. The problem with this though is that most of the time, that fucking beer can wasn’t there anymore, you know? However, with this particular cache we were looking for, it said that it was near “an old source of water.” For some reason, Chooch felt that this meant “look for an ancient outhouse and try not to get murdered.”

Spoiler alert: it was not anywhere near the outhouse. Chooch fucking left me there and started scaling some mountain to get back to the trail that we had long-since abandoned and here’s something to add to the Erin Fact Book: I tend to get crippled with fear anytime I’m faced with walking down a steep hill. So it took a good five minutes of me standing millions of yards away from Chooch, screaming, “I CAN’T DO IT! I’M SCARED! WHY ARE YOU LEAVING ME!?” before I finally ran at full speed down the hill and then let momentum carry me up the other side of the “crack” as Chooch effectively called it.

I was rewarded by finding the stupid cache literally as soon as I joined Chooch on the other side. I stubbornly spat, “The clue said that it’s by an old source of water and I don’t see AN OLD SOURCE OF WATER” and then a split second later, I said, “Oh, right there” and pointed to a rusty water pump a few feet away.

And let me tell you, all of my homicidal rage completely evaporated and I was suddenly a completely different broad, jumping up and down and screaming, “Yay geocaching!”

So Chooch, back from playing GTA-V: We opened up the cache and put a card in. I took tw bouncy balls and a picture of a cat. I replaced it with the card.

We saw there was a bridge on the way back to the car we completely missed. I walked up really easily but on the way back down mommy cried for help and I was so disappointed in her. I thought she could do it until I told just to jump and she whined even more. Eventually like 24hours later she jumped.

Erin, Terrified of Heights: I WAS HIGH UP THERE, OK!? And I didn’t jump down. I cautiously and slowly scooted down. Anyway, it’s amazing how much my attitude changed after winning at geocaching. I practically skipped the whole way back to the car with a crown of blue birds swirling around my dome. Also, I was completely shocked at how calm and patient Chooch was during our trying times. He never gave up! So there’s one quality he didn’t get from me: the endurance of a champion quitter.

Bootiful horse ass! So cute with the tail and riders! I was like neigh and they were like moo! Then I just started singing The Killers.

That was a fun day maybe we can do it again!

Me: Probably not. Except for right now, since this was how I got Chooch to write on here. Fuck.

It only took me two years, but I finally made that sheet of vintage porn star Valentines I’ve been threatening!

These are perfect for your preschooler to pass out on Valentines Day. Give one to some asshole Planned Parenthood protester after you chuck their abortion propaganda in the nearest garbage can. Fuck it, send a whole sheet to Tiger Woods!

All of the designs on the sheet are also available as full-sized cards as well, plus this classy fucking John Holmes treat:

In addition to the porn stars, I have a new Lizzie Borden Valentine for 2016:

Can’t remember if I humble-bragged about this one last year, but my Patty Hearst Valentine is still a personal favorite!

And of course there’s the sheets chock full of affable homicidal maniacs! $6 for one, $10 for two, $15 for three, and $20 for four!

So here’s a personal story: I want to send one of my Valentines to my record label crush but I can’t decide which one. I mentioned this at work the other day and then paused and asked Glenn, “Do you think that’s weird?”

“That you have a crush on an entire record label? Knowing what I know about you, that’s actually one of the few things that actually makes sense,” he mumbled. Cue the Heartwarming Family Moment sit-com “aw”s. Todd on the other hand was like “[10 uncomfortable seconds of silence]….wait, what?”

I think I’m going to send them the new Borden one, because they’re in Boston and you know, Fall River, etc etc. You should send one to your crush, too—record label or otherwise!

Ever since The Devastating Trolley News, I’ve been thinking about all of the find memories I’ve accumulated over the years. So for Flashback Friday, let’s sit down together and talk about the time I accidentally caught feelings for my regular trolley driver back when i worked late shift.

June 2013

Since I’m a Regular Trolley Passenger now (thanks for nothing, Henry), I have become quite chummy with the trolley driver, who looks like HOLY FUCK Bob Ross is alive and living in the mountains! He says things to me like, “Here we are again, huh? Vicious cycle!” (Monday Greeting©) and “Happy Almost-Hump Day, huh?!” (Tuesday Greeting©, although sometimes he jumps the gun and lets this one fly on Mondays) and I’ll let you wonder wildly about the rest. I’m not the only one to whom he’s so salacious with his salutations: this man loves, and I mean loves to a point of compulsion, to beep his trolley horn at all his PAT Transit buddies.

He beeps at buses, he beeps at other trolleys, he beeps at fare booth broads trying to enjoy their cigarettes, he beeps at construction people digging up roads. I mean, the entire trip to work is everyday is soundtracked by BEEEEEEEEP! BEEPBEEPBEEP!! BEEP BE-BE-BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP! It was kind of cute at first, until the time we were going through a tunnel and two buses and one trolley passed us, throwing him into beeping conniptions. It was like a full minute of the most obnoxious, we-are-inside-a-tunnel-you-motherfucker horn blaring that I have ever had to witness. It was kind of like being stuffed in a metal tube and thrown into a deep vat of hipsters screaming about Arcade Fire becoming popular, where the degree of screaming becomes more urgent and shrill the further down you tumble until you finally land in a junkyard of unlimited Fran Dreschers laughing to Jeff Foxworthy jokes. I could still hear it, faintly, an hour later when I was at work. Totally ruined my afternoon.

The one day, he saw one of his buddies in a parking lot, operating some sort of crane, so he was straight beepin’ his proverbial trolley dick, but the guy did not reciprocate the love. I’m 99.9% sure that this was intentional, so Bob Ross: New Career rolled the trolley to a halt and laid on the horn again. This time, the crane-operator doled out the most sarcastic hand-wave I’ve ever seen, and I could almost hear him screaming, “OK! I GET IT! MOTHERFUCKING HELLO! BLOW IT OUTCHER ASS!” Henry said that he was pretty sure that the horns on trolleys and buses were meant to be used as a warning, not a Salute Buzzer. The other day, I couldn’t imagine who Bob Ross of PAT Transit was beeping at, when suddenly I saw a squirrel dash across the tracks. So I guess he does occasionally use the horn as the warning siren it’s intended to be. Good for him. Super nice guy though, for real.

August 2013

This morning, without realizing it, I began to think about my trolley driver. Not like think thinking, nothing racy or scandalous, just a casual thought popped into my head.

The last time I saw him was Thursday of last week. As I slapped my ConnectCard against the orange pad on the fare machine, he cheerfully boomed, “An hour and forty minutes, then I’m done!” I already know that Thursdays are his Fridays (I’m learning a lot about him from the quick sentences he’s able to push onto me as I step onto the trolley everyday at 12:47PM) so I figured he meant that in that amount of time, he would be done for the week. I smiled and mustered up enough faux-enthusiasm for the “yay” that has become my signature response to his jubilant greetings.

Yesterday, I had a different driver. He wasn’t mean like the guy who yelled at me once for trying to insert a flimsy, laundered dollar bill into the fare machine, but he was no Resurrected Bob Ross, either. We feigned polite smiles at each other and then I took my usual seat in the back, where I read a book the rest of the way into town.

It wasn’t until this morning that I thought about it, the different trolley driver and what my regular trolley driver said to me last week. An hour and forty minutes. What if he was counting down to his retirement? What if that was my last ride with the out-of-place mountain man and his unruly facial mane? What if I never had the same driver again, no one to act happy to see me everyday at 12:47 on the dot, no one to make me feel like I was more special than the other commuters who just got a generic “hello” or “how’s it going?” and nothing fancy and personal like the time I went back to riding the tolley after Henry had spoiled me with two entire weeks of having a personal chaffeur and the trolley driver, his face all lit up around his gnarly gray cheek-shrubbery, cried, “HEY! HOW YOU BEEN?! I thought maybe you bought yourself a motorcycle so you could ride to work in style!” And I was mostly embarrassed, but also a little smug that he was paying attention to me and not the hoodrat in booty shorts who had walked on right before me.

And what if now he was retired and I would never get to say goodbye and wish him luck? And why do I even care? Other than it has been nice to be greeted by a friendly, now-familiar face every day when I step onto that awful trolley and begin my daily descent into the depths of Hell.

Yesterday, the new-to-me trolley driver didn’t happily honk his horn once. It was the quietest commute to work I’ve ever had.

****

Today, I was trudging along Potomac Avenue toward the trolley platform when a gruff, yet amiable, voice yelled, “Hello! Hey! Hello!” I lifted my sunglasses onto the top of my head and scanned the line of cars stopped at the red light. And then I saw him looking out of the backseat window of a black Blazer. My trolley driver!

I waved back and yelled an uncertain hello, because what do you say to your trolley driver when you run into him out in public, as a civilian, without the trolley intertubed around him? It seemed so weird and unnatural, seeing him without his forearm resting on the steering wheel of his long, publicly-sponsored carriage.

“I’m on vacation!” he yelled, his untamed mountain ‘fro looking even more carefree than usual, like stationary storm clouds suctioned to his pate.

“Oh really?” I called back and immediately felt stupid. That is the most worthless answer ever and I do it all the time, and all it does is force people to say “yeah” and what a fucking waste of time I just perpetuated.

“Yeah, look at me!” he cried, waving his hands over his body to illustrate that he was free, oh-so-free of his PAT Transit-mandated polyester-blend. His vacation wardrobe consisted of a denim vest with nothing underneath. It was at least buttoned, though. His arms were covered in tattoos, and I suddenly felt kind of perverse and voyeuristic to be seeing him in anything other than his brown Port Authority uniform, so I looked away real quick, focused on the nondescript broad behind the wheel instead. “I’ll be back in two weeks! On…” he paused for a second to think. “…the 27th! You gonna be there?”

I nodded and smiled. “I’ll be there,” I said weakly, swallowing a grimace. Yeah, of course I’ll be there. It doesn’t seem like I’ll be not taking the trolley any time in the near future.

The light turned green and we said goodbye. I continued walking to the platform, happy to know that he was returning on the 27th and I could go back to being the kind of person that a stranger is excited to see. Maybe I should use this time to put more words into my Things to Say to the Trolley Driver repertoire, other than “yay” “hi” and “I know right” (usually my response when he says something about the weather). I even called Henry to giddily brag about my encounter, to which he responded, “You’re so weird.” I think that, after 12 years, Henry still has hopes that I’m calling to tell him something amazing.

As I sat on the trolley, driven by yet another foreign-to-me face bare of any significant hair design, I wondered why my trolley driver was sitting in the backseat of the Blazer when the passenger seat was empty.

I guess when your job is to cart people around all fucking day long, sitting in the backseat might actually be your vacation.

September 2013

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

But by the end of the week, he was back on track, so to speak.

Please, enjoy a video I compiled of my shitty trolley ride to work:

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

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

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

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

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

I NEED TO MAKE HIM LIKE ME MORE THAN HER. Should I (have Henry) bake him cookies?! Buy him an airhorn? Get him a Best Beepin’ Trolley Driver mug? Ugh, I’ll think of something.
You know I’m going to be obsessing over this now. I should probably find out his name at some point.