“What is it?” Amethyst asked.

“Well it’s hard to explain, just take it,” the man stated

“MY WAND!” she screamed “Where did you get this?” she added.

“I found it laying on the ground when you were walking,” the man said suspiciously.

“What are you hiding from me?” She wondered.

“Well I have some of your…” he stopped.

He got an arrow shot into his back. He couldn’t feel a limb. He felt drowsy. The trees started to arch into the gate to the city of Wonderslate.

“Oh my god are you okay…” before she could finish he had fallen to the ground lying there with a blank stare. He had felt the pain of death at such a young age. The murderer must be found we will narrow it down to 3 suspects- The grandma, Hugo, and Penelope… WAIT PENELOPE, who gave me this script?

“What the crap just happened?” Amethyst thought to herself. She walked over to the trees to see who done it. She turned, she saw something what could it be. She was too scared to go over to it. She pulled out her Magnified Leaf to get a closer look.

It’s a scarecrow with a.. Hugo face mask.

“Oh my god, HUGO I’m so sorry I was always rude to you.” She said loudly.

“Huh?! Who’s there? I’ll get you rotten kids!” A voice called must be grandma.

Suddenly a pain shot up Amethyst’s arm. She looked down there was a dozen fire ants biting on her arm. “Aiiiii! Get off of me!” She screamed.

“Now you’re really gonna pay! Where are ya?!” Grandma screamed.

Amethyst passed out and fell to the ground. She woke up next to Penelope. “Uh where am I?” Amethyst asked.

“You’re in my lab! You will pay for messing up my test.

” Grandma mumbled.

“Well okay.?” Amethyst stuttered. Only if she hadn’t passed out she wouldn’t be in this mess. She hit herself in the head. She looked down where  all of the fire ants had been nibbling on her arm, it was all bandaged up. Her grandma had done something nice? “Thanks grandma,” she mentioned.

“Grandma? GRANDMA? I don’t have grandchildren.” she snapped.

“Uh, then who’s that outside in the cage?” Amethyst stuttered.

“Oh them, well the one is my younger sister.

Another is my younger brother. There’s also my husband.” The lady responded.

Amethyst was freaked out she had been kidnapped by this lady she had not known. She wish she could run away. But she was tied to the bench. Penelope sat there eating a carrot. Amethyst gave Penelope the orange jelly beans in the carrot bag. The next thing she realized the whole bag is gone.

“Here take this, it’s a gem. It’ll help you heal,” the lady provided in her best salesman voice. She couldn’t believe her eyes, the gem was bright purple with dragon designs on it, she had been looking for this gem her whole entire life. To Be Continued…

Last Saturday, I planned a little get-together for the remaining members of my family that actually like each other. My only intent was for us to be together on the 20th anniversary of my Pappap’s death, rather than mope around alone, internalizing our sadness. And that’s just the thing—I didn’t WANT to be sat on that day. That’s not what my Pappap would have wanted. My hope was that we could go out to dinner, share stories, and laugh.

My brother Ryan was out of town last weekend, but Corey, our aunt Susie, and her husband Larry were all available. And Henry too. So we met up at Pan Asia for a three hour nostalgia feast. It was everything I hoped the evening would be: tons of laughter and good old-fashioned family bonding. It’s a fucking shame that my mom and aunt Sharon couldn’t be chill enough to join us.

Eventually, the subject of my birth dad Paul came up. His name was pretty much verboten throughout  my whole childhood, with my mom only letting tiny informational morsels slip out here and there. I knew these few things for certain: he was a multi-substance abuser, a woman-beater, he died from an accident caused from driving drunk, and I was better off without him in my life. Basically, Paul was a very touchy subject, and you better believe he was my secret weapon during my volatile teenage years when I was looking to get that TKO in screaming matches with my mom and step-dad. I was the motherfucking champion of the last word.

Thanks, dad.

(I actually started writing about my dad two years ago and never finished because it was exhausting and made me feel a certain sadness that I didn’t understand.)

Anyway, Susie and I were piggy-backing off each other, filling Corey in about my dad’s death. When we got to the part about the actual car wreck, Corey said, “Oh, so he was drunk-driving then?” At the same time I was saying yes, Susie was saying no. I stopped talking and let her finish.

“That’s the funny thing, the tests came back saying there was no alcohol in his system at all,” Susie said, unknowingly dealing me a Mortal Kombat round house to the gut right there at our corner table in Pan Asia.

“Oh….so drugs?” Corey asked.

“No, he was sober. We were all shocked.” And then to me, Susie asked, “You didn’t know that?”

Um, no. Because for my whole life it was beaten into my head that my dad was drunk-driving and deserved to die.

So every time someone would find out that my “real” dad was dead and offer their obligatory apology, I would just shrug it off and say, “Eh, he was drunk-driving, so…”

I know it’s 33 years later, but I can’t help but have that “This changes everything” feeling. But what’s changed, really? I’m not sure. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s still dead, and it doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t know him—but it’s not even about that.

It’s about my relationship with my mom and how it proves once again that she has never respected me enough to be honest, like I was never anything more than just a dumb kid to toy with. One more Val grenade to add to the memoirs I’ve been writing in my head since grade school. I don’t think she would ever understand the damage she’s done to me.

I guess I thought I was OK until last Sunday when I totally lost my mind over it. This is part of my history too, not just my mom’s, and who even knows how many other times she’s changed my narrative on me. At the risk of sounding like a petulant bitch, this just isn’t fair. I wish I could sit down with her and have a normal, honest conversation that’s not bloated with delusion and maniacal laughter.

Aside from that, it was a really great evening! And it could have been worse, you know. Susie could have said, “Paul? Paul‘s not your dad!”  Hey, nothing would really surprise me at this point!

Secrets, secrets hurt someone.

At Kohls today, Chooch snuck a carrot-wrapped package of Jelly Bellys onto the counter and before we knew it, we had paid $6 for it. Henry is a tightwad so he was super pissed about this and decided that Chooch’s punishment was going to be to EAT THE WHOLE THING. Whoa, slow your roll there, Hitler. Of course, Chooch shrugged that off as a win, so then I declared his other punishment was that he had to write a story about jellybeans on my blog, because it’s like SUCH A DRAG for him to blog. However, this whole thing has backfired on me because he’s really getting into this story. “I think I might need a bigger word count,” he just said.

” So without further ado, here’s part one of his jellybean inspired story.

ONCE UPON A TIME, a fairy by the name of Amethyst created a brand new jelly bean for her pet rabbit, Penelope. It was a regular orange jelly bean. BUT… it was wrapped in a plastic bag in the shape of a carrot so it looked just like a carrot for her bunny to eat.

Feeling proud, she walked to Penelope’s bunny house. It was empty.

“Penelope’s gone…? How?!” Amethyst thought to herself.

She ran over to her neighbor Hugo the Hunchback.

He was from Notre Dame. *knock knock*

Amethyst knew she didn’t have to knock, she could just fly straight through. But she was polite. Hugo answered. “Huh who are you?” he asked.

“I’m your neighbor.” Amethyst said.

“Oh yeah!” he remembered.

“Idiot.” Amethyst whispered to herself. “Well I’m here because my bunny Penelope is missing. I was wondering if you’ve seen her.”

“Well i didn’t see her, sadly. But i have some rat stew if you’re hungry.” He politely stated.

“I’m fine.” Amethyst puked out.

“Well nice seeing you!” He waved.

“He seems innocent.” She said as she walked away on her quest to find Penelope. “Well maybe someone who is really jealous of Penelope and her beautiful fluffy tail took her to a cabin.” She kept walking. After 6 minutes her carrot shaped jellybean bag had a hole in it and the jellybeans fell out one by one. She also saw a hut. She peeked inside, there was a strange figure standing there with Penelope…PENELOPE!? She took a closer look at the figure. *Creak* “Huh who’s there!” the figure said. She saw the face it looked wrinkled and she had one tooth. It looked like… GRANDMA? “Why would she do this to me?” Amethyst whispered to herself.

“Over here.” someone whispered.

“Mom?” Amethyst asked.

“Your grandma is being crazy. She hates all of us. Let us out before she sees you.”

“Um… Okay sure, Mom.” Amethyst said. “Who are these people?” Amethyst asked.

“Well this is your dad, Joel and your old gramps, Joey. They are so weird.” mom said.

“Oh… Well.. I sure never met them.” Amethyst stated as she walked away to get the key from her grandma. With a half full bag of orange jellybeans she forgot what she was going to do with it so she gave it to her mum. But when she turned around she saw a figure run into the berry bushes.

“Hello?” Amethyst called.

*ring ring* “Oh, Crap!” a voice called out.

“Who is that?” she yelled.

“Um, yeah hi.” the man said. “I’m… a photographer, I’ve been stalking you since 1862.” the man said.

“Well that’s not creepy at all.” she said sarcastically.

“Well I have a gift for you.” He grinned.

To Be Continued…

It’s almost March, which means we have almost successfully made it through another depressing winter! And there are lots of things that are happening in March, such as both Bled Fest and Warped Tour announcing their full lineups (Bled Fest has been announcing bands here and there, and there are at least 8 bands that have me feeling like an excited 18-year-old pop punk boy), Citizen, Carly Rae Jepsen, and Emarosa shows, and Easter which I started to really like a few years ago after spending most of my life not giving a fuck about it at all.

So while I’m mostly in love with the idea of March in general (totally underrated month if you ask me), there are also some other things latching on to my heart AND HERE THEY ARE.

THINGS I LOVE:

• Chooch’s new hair. Chooch finally got a hair cut and I am so relieved. I have this thing where I associate certain hair length with shitty attitudes, and I SWEAR TO GOD, once Chooch’s hair reaches a certain shag, he turns into SUCH A DICK. The same goes for ponytails: anytime my aunt Sharon would tie her up into a p-tail on vacation, I knew I was in for it. Anyway, I convinced Henry to take Chooch to an actual barber for once, and not some rough broad with nicotine-stained fingers at Cost Cutters or wherever the fuck he goes. Chooch is also super pleased with the result, and I want to say that’s all that matters, but come on now. It’s all about pleasing me.  Now he wants to dye his hair opal (like a pale, muted pastel rainbow) but I’m not attempting that at home so we have to find a professional I guess.
• ARTIFEX PEREO BEING ANNOUNCED FOR BLED FEST. I was so excited when this happened last night that I couldn’t breathe and Henry was like, “WHAT. WHAT. Oh.”
• The grilled cheese I had for lunch at Poros. The bread alone was #litAF. I didn’t take a picture because it was a goodbye lunch for one of our peeps who is jumping ship and I already felt weird enough being there without throwing Instagram food selfies into the mix. So just believe me on this one.
• Usually though, I have Cream of Wheat for lunch everyday. I know, it’s kind of blah-sounding, but I really like hot cereal and I always add things to it, like various berries or bananas, chia seeds, walnuts…you know, basic crap. But I recently started adding SPRINKLES to it as well, and wow—total game changer. I do have a picture of this one:

• That #wonderful is used at work now when anyone refers to me. I DON’T CARE IF IT’S FACETIOUS. I love it.
• Having multiple personalities: Today, Catherine was telling people that I’m mean. “Look at her! She acts all sweet and whatever, but she’s really mean!” Which was Todd’s cue to chime in with, “Oh I know, she’s a bully.”And then they were closing in on me, dissecting all of the things on my desk. “I mean, look! She’s basically surrounded by death. If anything ever happens here, we can just be like, ‘Just look at her desk. The signs are all there.'” And I was so proud of this.
• Just Jillian, the Jillian Michaels reality show. I unabashedly LOVE Jillian Michaels and this show, as much as I try not get sucked into reality TV, makes me love her even more. If I ever met her, I would cry for sure. I made Henry watch two episodes last night and I kept catching him laughing; hahaha Henry, busted.

• When Pittsburgh looks all spring-like and sunny! It’s almost here. Spring is almost here. We can make it.
• Balance & Composure. I’ve liked them for a long time, but recently something shifted and now I’m just like, more please. I can’t wait to see them again. I am going to share with you today “Tiny Raindrop” because it makes me feel some things. (Barb, you can listen to this. There is no screaming. It’s not heavy at all. WOULD I LIE TO YOU!?)

• These fucking adorable cats!!!
• Having a dealer again. Let me explain! God! Back in the late 90s, I used to go to Eide’s nearly every weekend. Eide’s a record/comic book store and it used to be so great back then. This one guy who worked there got to know me because I would always go straight for the Cs to see what new Cure b-sides and rarities they had gotten in. Lots of bootlegged European shows. So he would start waving me over when he saw me, like Mario to Pee Wee in the magic shop, excited to show me the new shit he ordered. Now it’s not so great as far as new music goes (thanks for ruining the magic of record stores, Internet) but sometimes I find myself walking there on my lunch break when I’m feeling like lamenting over the loss of their beautiful industrial and synthpop section. (I bought allllll of my synthpop CDs there and from A Different Drum, which doesn’t exist anymore.) Anyway, every so often I’ll find a new must-have record, like the Touche Amore one I picked up last week. While the guy was ringing me up, he said, “We sell a lot of this one” to which I replied, “Oh I bet, they’re a great band.” And then, as an after thought, I asked, “You guys don’t ever get any La Dispute in, do you?” He said no, but that he could order it for me, and I was like “JUST LIKE THE OLD DAYS!?!??!” So today I got to walk over and collect it, and there is just something way more fun and satisfying about going into a record store to pick up a record rather than clicking on “buy now” on some website. So then I came back to work with it and Todd and Glenn decided to listen to La Dispute and let’s just say the band did not accrue new fans from The Law Firm today. Todd was perplexed and Glenn was just straight up unimpressed. Sorry La Dispute, I tried.
• Law Firm Memories: Today was Jennifer’s last day, so I made her Goodbye Glenn because I couldn’t let her leave without some type of memento. This inspired me, Amber2, and Todd to look at all of the Easter Glenns and reminisce which was fun until AMBER2 opened old wounds by bringing up when my low-key, grassroots Easter egg hunt was eclipsed by the Big Time Departmental “There Might Be Money In Your Egg!!!” Easter Egg Hunt and then no one gave a fuck about mine anymore so I threw a tantrum and shut myself away in my fake-office in my verboten hallway and cried about it. “I still have a picture of the Golden Bunny I got!” Amber2 mused dreamily, and I was like “UGH WHATEVER!!” But then Todd agreed that my version of the Easter egg hunt is the one that provided lasting memories, so that is why this bullet gets to reside in  the “love” section of this blog post.

And now on to the part that everyone cares about because schadenfreude:

THINGS I HATE:

• When nice people leave The Law Firm. (See above.) :(
• Meghan Trainor. Still. I honestly hate everything about her: her voice, her face, the way she moves when she “sings.” She is a pimple begging to be popped. After hearing about the Lionel Richie tribute at the Grammy’s, I YouTubed it and my ears are still sobbing. She didn’t belong up there on that stage with those other performers! Even that country guy was passable as a singer! BUT NOT HER. I was seething about this and it was until I started making physical threats to her that Henry butted in and told me I was being unreasonable and that he didn’t “understand” why I “think” she is so “terrible.” So then I started making physical threats to him while rage-texting Wendy because she is the only one who share my pain when it comes to that dumb bitch Meghan Trainor.
• Getting to pick winners for some fitness incentive thing (after TODD was solicited before me but I whined until Michele was like, “Ok…or Erin can help with the drawing…” and then Todd had a new opportunity to call me a bully) and I wound up picking MY NEMESIS Lou. UGH.

• Vanilla yogurt. I eat greek yogurt every day at work as a mid-morning snack. Every single day. It’s just another one of those INTERESTING things about me, OK? But a few days ago, the only option available in our fridge was vanilla. Two greek vanillas and one regular vanilla. Ew. But when choice did I have? So I grabbed a Chobani and then proceeded to gag and make puking sounds two hours later when I attempted to eat it at work. So awful! Like sour paste! I couldn’t even make it a quarter of the way through that fermented slop. I’m not the type of person who can quietly dislike something, so I threw a basic fit about it at work before hurling it into the trash. The general consensus around here was that Henry is a fucking prick for buying vanilla yogurt. I texted him and was like WHY and all he said was that supposedly our SON requested vanilla but then changed his mind (sure he did, once he realized that not even Little Orphan Annie would eat that shit), so now we had enough of that sickening vanilla glue for a whole preschool art class to smear on construction paper. The next morning, I reached into the fridge to pluck out my daily yogurt and STILL ALL VANILLA!? I was fuming mad by the time I rolled into work that my salutation to everyone was, “I’M ON YOGURT STRIKE.” Glenn was like, “If I was Henry, you know what I would say? Go to the damn store yourself!” And then Todd piped up and was like, “Yeah, you know!? I’d even show you how to GET THERE.” UGH!!! Anyway, my strike only had to last one day because Henry dutifully went to the store and bought quality flavors so today I was able to enjoy a nice tub of key lime. Henry taunted me last night by eating one of the remaining vanilla puke pots in front of me while I made dry-heaving motions.  “You don’t like mainstream music, you don’t like mainstream yogurt — where does it end with you?” Glenn mumbled today.
• One-sidedness. Isn’t it an awesome feeling when someone who you used to be BFFs with calls you out of the blue and they’re sobbing uncontrollably and you still have no idea why you even answered because they’re such a piece of shit, but you saw their number and felt worried and you’re a human being who doesn’t want someone to be hurting so you answered, but then a few weeks later when you needed someone to talk to because you were feeling super low and helpless, you call that same person, thinking that they will return the favor by lending an ear but instead they decline your call and haven’t said a word to you since and then you realize it’s just because they’re trying to repeat the cycle of abuse? FUCKING AWESOME. I’m sorry that happened to you and I hope that person fucking burns in hell.
• Wardrobe malfunctions. Today was Jeans Day at work. I only have one pair that is work-appropriate, i.e. without designer slits and rips. This pair though is pretty old and worn, so when I sat down at my desk immediately upon arriving at work this morning and heard a rippppp, I can’t say I was too surprised. The rip was small, horizontal, and in the middle of my inner left thigh. I discreetly shimmied to the bathroom to assess the sitch, and it wasn’t noticeable, because I don’t walk with my legs turned out. (If you do, that’s totally OK.) So I went about my day like it was no big thing, and planned to go jeans shopping this weekend. Then on my lunch break, I was right outside of Eide’s when I crouched down to tie my shoe, and this time it was more like RIPPPPPPPPP. Immediately, I felt the frosty tongue of February licking my BARE THIGH. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. I ran inside Eide’s. My shoe was still untied, so I tried to gracefully achieve bunny-eared status in the stairwell, only to heard a series of truncated, staccato rip rip rips.  Sweating at this point, I made sure my coat covered my partial nudity and continued up to the record section of Eide’s where the beauty and pleasure of holding my La Dispute record in my hands was marred and sullied by the fact that I was one quick squat away from returning to work in cut-offs. Outside of Eide’s, I texted Henry my latest trauma and he completely did not find this to be an emergency situation at all. So I knew I was going to have to solve this problem on my own. Because I was still in ear-ringing, brain-clogged, panic mode, it appeared that my only two options were to either bypass work and go straight home and never leave the house again, or jump into the river. I cried a little bit. I felt anger toward Henry because this was his fault somehow for not noticing that my jeans were in peril the last time he washed them. He could have added some type of reinforcement to them or built me a new pair altogether. But then the fogs of frustration and fluster slowly drifted away and I saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and that light belonged to BURLINGTON. I still enough time left on my break and one slight change in direction would put it on my path back to work! And then my FUCKING shoe untied again. I thought to myself, “Two more blocks. Fuck the shoelace. Just keep walking. Two more blocks.” Just then, a man TAPPED ME ON THE SHOULDER and said, “Miss, your shoe is untied. Be careful.” WHO EVEN DOES THAT IN 2016?!?!? People aren’t supposed to care about each other! JUST LEAVE ME AND MY FUCKING SHOELACES OUT OF YOUR LIFE, OK?! So I cried, “I KNOW THANKS OK!!!!!” and then I ran across the street. Like, RAN and never looked back. Waiting to cross another street, I tried to lift my foot up high enough to at least be able to tuck the laces in because I was afraid that if I didn’t acknowledge this man’s shoelace policing, I might trip over it and fall into an oncoming bus. THESE ARE THE THINGS YOU HEAR ABOUT ON THE NEWS!!! Finally, I made it to Burlington and grabbed the first pair of jeans I saw in my size, tried them on while sweating and hiccuping on anxiety, and then bought those motherfuckers for $16 because Burlington. When the cashier asked if I wanted to donate $1 to whatever charity, I said yes before she could even finish because saying no to charity after all of that was bound to have me struck down by lightning. Plus, I felt thankful that I was fortunate enough to be able to go to a store and buy new jeans without thinking twice—PERSPECTIVE. Went back to work and threw on the new jeans in the restroom. I texted Henry to let him know that further crisis was averted and I was sitting at my desk, legs swathed in a pair of snug jeans that I think might actually be jeggings. “There’s rhinestones on the back pockets,” I told him (found out later that they’re actually studs, this is how you know I was in such a hurry that I really didn’t even look at what I was buying). “They’re totally urban. I think the butt might actually be padded.” And he asked, “Are they Applebottoms?” Fuck you, Henry.
• Henry. Because after he picked me up from work, we sat for a few seconds in silence before he started cracking up. “Fuck you, I had a really traumatic day!” I cried. “No, traumatic would have been if your jeans and LEG ripped all the way off,” he laughed. And then he made me show him my other jeans, to which he knowingly said, “Yeah, that’s exactly how I thought they were going to look. That rip is NOT that big.” I started screaming about how it was so big, and he put on that chastising tone to say, “Erin. ERIN. Erin! You probably have people thinking your whole vagina was hanging out. That rip is not that big.” Fuck you, Henry! It’s like at least 7 inch-things long!!!

  
Pee Wee’s Big Adventure is one of my favorite movies of all time, and one of probably only three that I ever quote from. (The amount of times I’ve referenced the Alamo on this blog alone is really pathetic.) I had so much fun painting this and kind of don’t want to part with it. 

One of my most vivid childhood memories is sitting in the family room of my house in South Park, watching this on HBO with my bff Christy who lived down the street, and asking her what “scenery” meant because Mickey tells Pee Wee to just enjoy the scenery. She explained it perfectly well but my kindergarten brain couldn’t comprehend it. It seemed like such a complicated concept.

Scenery. 

I was a dumb kid. 

Anyway, I just really love painting birds on wires, so this just felt very natural to me. Methodical and cathartic, especially while the Penguins were getting slaughtered last night by the Bruins. :(

I have some more custom paintings on tap (I keep saying I’m going to take a break and then a request comes in and I can’t say no!) but then I’m going to start one called The Pittsburgh Zoo, a painting of various famous Pittsburghers with animal bodies (like the Buscemi and John Water ones).  

Probably Mr. Rogers, Mario Lemieux, Sophie Maslof, Andy Warhol, and God only knows who else. 

NO STEELERS THOUGH.

In other news, I’m drinking blueberry cobbler coffee and it feels like warm arms enveloping my broken soul. 

This has been a quick update posted from my phone. 

My friend Alisha recently brought up the time she and I sang some Spice Girls song during Blogathon one year, because someone (my friend Alyson, I believe) donated extra to have this happen. 

Blogathon was this incredibly annoying but super fun and rewarding event where people stayed up blogging for 24 hours, in an effort to raise money for the charity of their choice. Participants had to post twice an hour and even though I always said “NEVER AGAIN!” after hitting publish for the 48th time in 24 hours, I’d always sign up again the next year. 

But then whoever was charge of the organization gave it up and no one took over, so no more Blogathon. 

Anyway, Alisha posting that Spice Girls video made me super nostalgic and this picture immediately came to mind: 

  This was from one of the Blogathons (2009 maybe?) where people donated a certain amount in order to command Henry to do things, such as pose with a fried egg on his head, and suck on a lollipop while wearing his hair in pigtails. This one was just him being served beer by Alisha in a tutu which was excruciating for her because ALISHA BOWS TO NO MAN.  

My favorite part of Blogathon is that my friends were always on call to cheer me on: Alisha, Kara, Evonne, Blake, Corey—we had some good fucking times churning out words and poor, REALLY POOR, karaoke. 

Now I’m depressed. 

Alisha, next time you’re back in Pittsburgh, we’re pulling an all-nighter for absolutely no reason. 

Hey boy, here’s a quick update on the fake art that I sling over at Somnambulant.

My friend Bridget requested a portrait of her and her boyfriend, and she specifically asked for glitter and I was more than happy to comply. I would use glitter on EVERYTHING if I could. I still want to glitter our ceilings but that might be the straw that finally breaks Henry’s back of steel.

And here’s the painting I did for the Warhol customer, and I realized that I never got a picture of the final, touched-up painting. This was one of the progress shots I sent her, so it looks slopp(ier than my paintings usually do):

Her boyfriend is from England, so she wanted me to paint them as tea bags (specifically the pyramid-shaped ones). Years and years ago, she had me do a sushi couples painting — I like when people throw out-of-the-box ideas at me!

(I mean, once I’m done having my I CAN’T DO ITTTTTT pity party.)

I can’t remember if I posted this here yet, but after David Bowie died, my friend Kendahl requested a Goblin King portrait. I was so excited about it that I considered calling off work to start it immediately. (DON’T WORRY, I DIDN’T. I’m still The Best Employee Ever.

)

And then my friend Lizz had a baby so I made her this name plaque for him:

All the eyeballs came out of an old copy of Alternative Press. There’s some Vic Fuentes up in there and…I think Jack Barakat and Alex Gaskarth. Possibly some of the guys from Real Friends.
And my current favorite!   So last week, I was getting ready for bed when the image of Steve Buscemi as an octopus popped into my head. I figured, who cares if it’s too niche or obscure to sell, I HAVE TO PAINT IT.

I started it that night, when I should have been sleeping, and had it done by the next day. If only I could churn out my customs that quickly. Ugh.

Anyway, he’s available over on Etsy if you or anyone you know are really into that kind of thing.

And lastly, I’d like to say goodbye to Norm! He’s on his way to his new home in DC where I’m sure he will be happy. (His story can be read here if you’re interested in being lulled to sleep.)

Thank god for Valentine’s Day keeping me busy! Custom paintings and serial killer Valentines—thanks for keeping me in business, sickos! I mean that lovingly.

***

I have several paintings that I started but then I started thinking of our annual Easter bunny pictures so now everything else in my life is at a standstill, on the back-burner, in limbo, because now this is all I can think of and why am I at work right now when I should be running around getting costumes put together, ugh.

I think Henry is really going to hate this one.

Stop. Bullet-time.

• One of my lithops (Barbara, to be exact) is hatching! I’m so happy that I have kept these alive long enough to witness this glorious and erotic act of nature. I have some other lithops that are definitely not thriving like these living stones, I’ll tell you that much. I’m sorry, but succulents actually aren’t that easy to maintain, so a big FUCK YOU to whoever started that myth. It’s been a constant struggle for me ever since getting into the whole seedy underbelly of sleazy-sounding plants, but the payoff is rewarding. I fuss over them constantly, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I have my favorites. Like PANNE, who fucking DREW has set her sights on and I feel like all I do is scream at both cats to lay the FUCK OFF my succulents.
• Chooch thought he had lead poisoning the other day, and we were like YOU DO NOT HAVE LEAD POISONING but then he started reading off the symptoms and I was like “OMG I THINK I HAVE LEAD POISONING?!”

• A few weeks ago, we attempted to make the first installment of Chooch Chats, which is when I was quickly reminded of the fact that Chooch and I DO NOT WORK WELL TOGETHER and that there is a reason my outlet of choice has always been the written word and not film. So fucking frustrating! Some of my friends are still holding out hope that we will try again, and we almost did this past Sunday, but SURPRISE I was in a horrible mood so that didn’t happen.
  • Also, I asked on Facebook for my friends to submit questions and only one person did so it’s hard to have Chooch answer questions when there aren’t any, lol. (Octavia, he had an answer for yours though!)
  • Notice Drew in the background, sniffing around for succulents. Fuck off, Drew.
    • J/K I LOVE YOU, DREW.
      • But seriously, you’ll be living in he basement if you don’t lay the fuck off my plant-babes.
• GAYLE gets migraines and has determined that the light around and above her desk exacerbates said migraines, so now she has her sights on MY DESK. She even bought this lumen measuring thing to see how much more depressing it is at my desk than hers. First, she placed it on Amber2’s desk, and it was like 800 lumens, whatever that means. Then she put it on my desk and the count was more than halved. Everyone’s desk measured the same, around 800, but mine! Todd and I even stole the meter from her desk on Friday and re-measured, and sure enough, you’d expect that I work inside a cave in relation to everyone else. “It’s because of your dark aura,” Gayle said. UGH SHUT UP GAYLE.
  • Sike. I know a compliment when I hear it.
    • If I lose my desk, Glenn is going to party.

• Remember when Henry asked me to marry him and we had the greatest wedding of the entire 80s decade?
• The only thing getting me through this goddamn winter is all the rad shows peppering my concert calendar. At work today, we had to pass around a calendar to pick our late shifts and I got excited all over again when I saw all the nights I have blocked off because of shows.  Thank god for music, year-round.
  • THE CITIZEN SHOW IS NEXT WEEK AND I’M SO ANTSY WITH ANTICIPATION. I don’t even care that I’m going by myself.
    • I mean, I do care. It sucks to be a loner. BUT IT’S CITIZEN AND TURNOVER FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.

• A few weeks ago, we had dinner at Drew’s (no relation to our cat, probably) and by a happy coincidence, it was Greek Night. We only eat at Drew’s once every 8 years, so we did not know that this is apparently a HUGE event for the Forest Hills peeps. That place was rockin’ with old people getting their spanakopita on. Sadly, there were no vegetarian options on the special Greek menu except for a salad and FLAMING CHEESE which I fucking love, so we all ordered regular old American food like racists, and then also ordered the cheese. “Ah, getting a little bit of the Greek in there, I can dig it,” our waiter laughed after we basically snubbed the rest of the Greek menu. I LOVE HIM. For a myriad of reasons. The main being that he wasn’t Henry. We sat there listening to some old man (presumably Drew) travel to every table that ordered the flaming cheese, and then making a HUGE production of setting it aflame and bellowing OPA! So when he finally came to our table, we were ready for a show. Except that there was no entertaining lead-in. Just *fire* and a lackadaisical “Opa” and then a “Don’t touch this part of the plate, it’s hot.” Wow. Who’s the racist now. And then I was super looking forward to the baklava sundae BUT THEY RAN OUT OF BAKLAVA!? Ugh. So Chooch ordered red velvet cake, which all three of us shared because it was gigantic, and this was after we told Chooch he wasn’t allowed dessert because he ate like zero bites of his burger, and then he pouted and decided to punish himself, which is my favorite thing ever, Chooch the Martyr. So Henry wrote Crybaby on his place mat with an arrow pointing to Chooch, and as the evening went on, he added “spoiled” and “big, big” in front of it.

• Henry saw an ad for a housekeeping position at a private gay club as a second job and I was like OMG PLEASE APPLY. What a great second job that could be for Henry! You know, since LYFT only lasted ONE WEEKEND. Henry’s all talk, you guys. He couldn’t hang.
• Things I was told last week at work: I’m a wasted talent; I have a dangerous mind; I’m basically a bully.
• We were listening to a New Jack Swing playlist the other night and I accidentally told Henry that I have the Soul 4 Real CD, twice, in the span of 10 seconds. My memory is a candy-coated raindrop.

• Oh would you look? It’s Drew and Penelopiss hulking around SUZY BANYON before I moved her someplace higher. I’m sorry, but you don’t fuck with SUZY BANYON.
  • Henry calls Penelope “Penopoly.” LIKE MONOPOLY. So dumb.

• A few weeks ago, I caught most of the Eagles documentary on CNN. The next day, I mentioned it to Henry, and he was all, “There’s one on Netflix too” and for whatever reason I YELLED, “Oooh, let’s watch it!” Because suddenly I’m a huge Eagles fan? I mean, I like them well enough but certainly not enough to watch two back-to-back documentaries. Anyway, it took me about 35 minutes to realize it was the same one I had watched the night before on CNN, but I still continued to watch along with Henry, because I was waiting for the part when they poached the dude from Poco. I grew up listening to all that shit, so Poco is another band that brings back fond memories of my childhood, even though I think I only know two of their songs. So we’re watching this, and I admitted to Henry that I always thought that the Eagles were always a band, you know? That they all hadn’t previously had music careers with other people, that it was always just The Eagles.
  • After it ended, I told Henry that I DGAF about all those “you might be a douche if you like Hotel California” lists and memes that circulate in Facebook from time to time, because I think that is one of the best songs ever written, and I honestly can’t NOT listen to it in its entirety when I hear it on the radio. “That and ‘Africa’ and ‘In the Air Tonight,'” I added, and Henry just grunted.
    • A few days later, Henry told me he heard that the dude from Poco who joined the Eagles also recorded Africa with Toto! MIND=BLOWN.
      • This reminded me of the time that I heard a song on the radio that reminded me of my Pappap’s kitchen and I was freaking out trying to remember who sang it (this was pre-Shazam, you guys; probably in 2002 when searching the Internet required elbow grease. So I was all stressed out, trying to remember the name of this band, and meanwhile, Henry and I had bought the most delicious cake in the world from Bethel Bakery, a raspberry ambrosia, and I had become obsessed with that cake AND song at the same time, only to find out that the band who sang the song was Ambrosia. I LOVE WHEN THESE THINGS HAPPEN.

• In the span of one school day, Chooch got detention and accepted into the gifted program. That sounds about right.
  • Apparently, he landed himself in lunch detention for “yelling out” and “being silly” in art. I think he’s at the point where he is collecting detentions as a hobby.
• Speaking of hobbies! I have been fucked by the inspiration gods these last few weeks and have all kinds of pointless paintings I’m working on!
  • Fun fact: when Kara, Corey and I visited La Hutte Royal a few weeks ago, the docen asked us (and another couple who were also there for the tour) if any of us were artists/involved with art in any way and I casually declined to answer because I do not consider myself an artist. Here is where you would find me shrugging if you peeked through my front window right now. Shrug shrug shrug. But that doesn’t stop me from slapping down paint!

• Everybody has been flipping out because some Steeler named HEATH MILLER retired and I was like, “Who? Oh.” Then I saw his picture on Facebook and I was like, “Who? Oh.” That’s definitely not who I thought it was. I thought I knew what he looked like, when in fact, I’m fairly certain I have never seen this man in my life. He wasn’t even the same race as the man I was picturing. So.

• Last week, Jeannie and I had dinner after work with BARB, who was kind enough to grace us with her presence. Barb arrived right in time to start singing along to Blackstreet’s “No Diggity” and I was like, “Man, I miss making fun of her everyday.” Can’t she see how selfish her decision to resign from The Law Firm was?! DID SHE NOT EVEN CONSIDER HOW IT WOULD AFFECT ME!? I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year since what I sadly referred to as Mournday. Basically, Jeannie and I just sat there and ate while Barb talked so quickly about everything from her favorite song (“Oh Girl” by the Chi-Lites) to all of the TV shows she watches. Seriously though — it was a really great dinner at Villa Reale and it was awesome as always to see Barb. I think she needs to get out of the house more often, say, from 8am-9am Monday through Friday when she starts driving me to work after the trolley construction begins.
  • After dinner, Barb came back to my house to meet Drew and Penelopiss, and that’s when I learned that she killed the fucking succulent I gave her for her dumb birthday!! Succulents are so fucking easy to maintain, BARB!
    • NEVER MIND MY FIRST BULLET POINT UP THERE.

OK, I think I’m sufficiently purged. CARRY ON.

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I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, talking on the phone to my on-and-off again boyfriend Justin when my mom burst into my room and shrieked the words that would forever rattle in my brain with all the other loose screws. I spent the rest of the night filling my Composition book with orange-inked screams, denouncing God and making promises to the devil.  

Teenaged angst mixed with true tragedy is one volatile recipe, guys. Look out. 

  
That one moment in time completely changed the course of my life. I didn’t understand how my Pappap could suddenly be dead when I was just at his house earlier that evening, and he seemed fine. He was sitting on his Reserved For John spot on the couch, talking to someone on the phone about business as usual. 

  
He was alive, and then he wasn’t. 

 In his element: manning the grill during the copious cookouts and pool parties we had every summer. 

I credit my friends and teachers for helping me get through the aftermath. My friends Lisa and Christy, especially. And I don’t think it’s random that while so many other friends have come and gone, they’re still here. They walked with me through the deepest trauma of my life and made sure I didn’t sink. This day is making me think of so many things and I am so glad that I wasn’t alone then. 

  
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him, how he was taken from us abruptly, on a fluke, and I certainly don’t miss him any less than I did in 1996. But I think what I miss most about him, is his uncanny, effortless knack to hold our family together, like sane, stable mortar between our crazy, cracked bricks.   He was the greatest father figure to me. He was my goddamn hero.   

One of my Somnambulant customers works at the Warhol Museum. She had me make a custom painting for her for Valentine’s Day, and as a sweet little perk, she put me on the list at the door, so Chooch, Henry and I got to spend a leisurely afternoon eyeballing some arts on Saturday. It was cold and snowy that day so having something fun to do indoors was welcome. I hate staying home during winter weekends.

I was kind of nervous at first, because the last time I was there was three years ago and I don’t want to say that Chooch was a dick, but he was definitely….a dick. I mean, a six-year-old in a multi-floored museum probably is a bad idea no matter who the kid is.

Also, add Corey to the mix and Chooch was pretty high-energy. And it wasn’t even that he was bad and like, getting yelled at by the museum police or anything. But he rushed us through because, you know, he was six.

But this time was awesome! We made it through every floor and he was genuinely interested in things, especially Male Genital Diagram.

“The names on these things are so weird,” he museum-whispered to me and we started cracking up while pointing at butts.

Highlights for me are definitely:

• Watching Henry walked briskly past every single piece of art because art is garbage to him. “Dogs Playing Poker” or GTFO, right Henry!?
• Chooch’s extreme discomfort on the audio-visual floor, which featured a black and white 14mm film that had something to do with a sensual haircut. And then what I referred to as the Velvet Underground Den, a room hidden behind a heavy black curtain with seats in the middle and floor-to-ceiling heavily-psychedelic images projected on every wall while Velvet Underground pulsated us back to the 60s. Chooch was like, “NO THIS IS NOT FOR ME” while I was like, “THIS WHAT OUR NEXT GAME NIGHT SHOULD BE LIKE!”
• The Mr. Chow exhibit. Yes, the famous restaurateur! In addition to portraits of him painted by his famous friends (such as Keith Haring and Basquiat), Mr. Chow’s own pieces are currently on display, and I’ll tell you, refuse and coagulated eggs never felt more inspiring. Chooch and I were in awe, pointing out the various garbage we were able to discern among the paint, while Henry frowned and waited for us by the steps. I felt so motivated to go home and paint shit after that!
• In one of the rooms, there was a box of costumes which patrons were encouraged to try on. This was definitely Chooch’s jam. We walked on him modeling a black garment, similar to a witch’s robe I guess, and with a very stern visage, he slowly opened the robe to veal a pink tutu beneath it. The serious face melted into his signature “Derp” and he slowly shook his hips accordingly. Of course there was an audience for this.
• Getting to chat with my customer, Kris! She’s stuck with Somnambulant from the beginning, through all of the hiatuses and changes. She’s just a really cool broad. I painted her and her British boyfriend as teabags, the triangular kinds, because he loves tea. Her tag is an American flag and his is the Union Jack. It was so ridiculous, but really fun to paint!

The only lowlight was that all these cool-looking people were like, “I LIKE YOUR SHIRT!” to Chooch and for once, no one said anything about my stupid purse. Chooch was so smug about this.

Before we left, he got to try his hand at screen-printing. One guess what he chose to screenprint….

Yep.

Henry and I have many recurring arguments, usually over his unwillingness to put the seat down or let touring bands crash at our place.

(He at least picks up his socks now, either that or he just stopped wearing them since I retaliated by throwing away every sock I found of his on the floor, and now he just doesn’t have any left.)

The other night, we live-acted another episode of The Things We Fight About Most: Season 15, Episode “Henry Eats An Orange Again.”

We were standing in the kitchen together, peacefully co-existing, when it happened. The initial SQUIRT SMOOSH SMACK SLURP of his teeth and tongue tag-teaming in a juicy mastication match, wet nectar spraying through the air like a carefully choreographed money shot.

I’ve never felt more uncomfortable around someone eating a piece of fruit; it feels like walking in on your parents fucking. This should be done in private or at least not until others in the house are provided a pair of ear plugs. He sounds like he’s performing oral sex in citrus porn EVERY TIME HE EATS ORANGES. Must be how some of you feel when you hear the word MOIST or OINTMENT, like nails on a chalkboard that’s also being used to administer a pelvic exam on you.

Just imagine his beard glistening with post-coital orange jizz interwoven between those grizzled bristles.

I just can’t stand it.

And every time, it comes as a shock to him, being called out for being the sleaziest Sunkist gourmand this side of the fucking Green Door.

UGHHHH go fuck yourself with that orange! YOU ALREADY SOUND LIKE YOU ARE. #getaroom

For a day that’s supposed to be steeped in calendar-dictated synthetic love and bacon-flavored sentiments on beds of rose petals (isn’t that what you young couples do these days? Wrap everything in bacon?), my house was popping off with explosive attitudes and screeching histrionics. I was still half-sick and miserable; Chooch was code orange whiny—and if we’re being frank, probably feeding off of my irritability;  and Henry was just tired of taking the brunt of it.

So, no gluten-free, lavender-infused, edible-gold-sprinkled, heart-shaped Pinterest-approved pancakes for us. :(

It was starting to look like Chooch and I weren’t going to the Never Shout Never shout that night after all. My only saving grace was that he hated me slightly less than Henry.

(Henry committed some heinous slight against him that evening, didn’t make him a King’s banquet for dinner, and then when Chooch whined about wanting more, different food, Henry started yelling about how he’s not a restaurant and he’s tired of making separate meals for everyone and then I got involved by yelling, “Well fuck me for being ethically against eating meat!” and the night just went south from there because it’s all about Henry. Henry Henry Henry!)

The only thing we had in common with Valentines Day was the color red we were all seeing.

But we managed to compose ourselves and push in our devil horns long enough to get in the car and have our chauffeur drive us to Mr. Small’s, where we were magically transformed into MOTHERFUCKING SWEETHEARTS.

This could only mean one thing.

HENRY is the catalyst. Henry, you reactant! Henry, you motherfucker. 

As soon as Chooch and I walked into Mr. Small’s, one of the guys from the opening band, Waterparks, interrupted his conversation with some young fan girl to say to Chooch, “Hey, I like your hair!” Chooch just casually shrugged, like, “Yeah, of course you do.”

Duh.

I wish I was more like Chooch. Instead of cooly brisking past, I was choking on my tongue in an attempt to thank the kind boy on Chooch’s behalf.

We purposely arrived two hours after doors. I rarely miss the opening bands, and I think it’s so important to support them, especially the ones that are local. But I have to consider that my nine-year-old has a low threshold for standing in one room. So, we missed Waterparks and Get the Picture (sorry, guys) but arrived just in time for JuleVera, whom I was really looking forward to after missing them at Warped Tour due to conflicting set times.

Their singer Ansley is only 18 years old. So young! And as soon as she started singing, Chooch looked at me with ruddy cheeks and this big goofy grin that I recognized as his I’M IN LUFFFFFFF AND CANT FIGHT IT HELP I’M DYING face of anguish.

“We have to go to their merch table after they’re done!” he hissed.

Guys, I didn’t expect to like them as much as I did, but they sounded great, and any young band that can spend three minutes between songs doing a drum and guitar solo without coming off as douchey or losing the interest of the crowd has genuine talent.

Chooch declared that this is his new favorite band and I’ll co-sign that.

As soon as their last song ended, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me over to their merch table, quickly, before the line gets too long!

Sadly, most people there were more interested in the dregs of the music scene, namely Metro Station who were up next. So not many people rushed to the merch tables.

I was super proud when Chooch passed up the row of CDs and pointed to the vinyl, which I happily purchased for him. CHOOCH IS AMAZING. THE NIGHT IS AMAZING. EVERYTHING IS AMAZING WHEN HENRY ISNT THERE!

Lol sike. But seriously, Chooch and I generally get along much better when. Henry isn’t in the temperament equation.

Right after I paid the top-knotted merch girl for the record, Ansley walked over. Begin obligatory awkward transmission of the night.

She seemed shy, he was definitely shy, and I was shoe-horned into an uncomfortable position of being Son’s Mouthpiece. So I quickly said it was our first time seeing them.

“Oh cool! Did you like it?” she asked Chooch directly.

“#^*^^+£[#^@&$” he gurgled with a nod. Then I quickly took their picture and whisked him away before we could fall any further into social peril.

LOOK HOW RED HIS CHEEKS ARE!

We went back into the main area afterward and scored a decent spot in a sparsely populated area by the bar barrier, and I was thankful to sit down on the floor with my back against a wall, because I had the day-after-food-poisoning weakness. Chooch smiled deliriously at his record for awhile and then eventually, Metro Station came on.

I try really hard not to flat out hate a band, but my feelings for Metro Station come very close to simulating bricks of ultra-negativity being hurled through glass walls. OK I hate them. They were pretty popular in what, 2007 or something? Because Miley Cyrus’s brother is in it? And they had one catchy song called “Shake” that made all the Radio Disney kids feel like rebels for listening to what they were told was “punk” music?

Then they went away and it was wonderful! Five Metro Stationless years!

And now they’re back. And disgusting. Honestly, they sound like mediocre karaoke at the corner bar. But they have BRIGHT STAGE LIGHTS  and TRACE CYRUS!

That’s MILEY’S BROTHER Y’ALL.

He took his shirt off at one point and all the girls screamed their panties right off their bodies and onto the stage, and I was just left standing there in a stupor, like “Ew, why?”

And when they lovingly name-dropped their homeboys in Attila and Falling In Reverse, I was ready to go home and start my own Pittsburgh chapter of Girls Against Misogynistic Bands.

Get the fuck out of my face with your Ronnie Radke shout-outs.

Total lowpoint of the night. And they didn’t really match the vibe of Never Shout Never anyway, so why. Even Chooch was cringing.

Turnover playing over the sound system while Metro Station’s fecal residue was being scrubbed off the stage. I actually cried out, “Ooh, it’s Turnover!” and I doubt anyone cared.  Chooch definitely didn’t.

The singer of dumb Metro Station walked past us and I was really angry to note that he had a CURE PATCH on the back of his dumb black denim shirt. Robert Smith’s face does not belong on such filth.

Never Shout Never took the stage at 10 and the night vastly improved. Chooch’s excitement was contagious. Every time Christofer would describe the next song, Chooch would quickly shout out what it was going to be and he was so happy the one time that I got it wrong, because he’s Mini Erin, and that’s something I too would gloat about.

At one point, Chris mentioned that he had been eating “marijuana-infused honey from Denver” all day, and what he really needed right then was a cup of red wine, half wine half gingerale, and someone should be awesome and get that for him. Chooch was like, “MOMMY! DO IT!!!” I mean, we were standing right on the other side of the bar so I could have easily turned around and snapped my fingers, but I figured 20 other broads were well on their way back to the stage with his wine…

Also, I’m such a great mom for exposing my 4th grader to this shit.

After another song, Chris said, “So…where’s that wine?” because no one had actually gone through with it so then I was like OMG SHOULD I BE THE ONE!? SHOULD I DO IT!? but by the time my mind worked out 87 different variations of how this scene could play out, some dude had climbed onto the stage and handed him a cup, courtesy of some chick who is probably still Snapchatting about her 10 seconds of recognition.

It would have been pretty hilarious to send Chooch up with it, though.

Ugh. Missed opportunity!

Anyway, they played one of my favorites, “On the Brightside” and I was so glad!

And Chooch kept screaming “Red Balloon!” and then when they finally played it, he smirked at me, like “See what I did?” Sure Chooch, whatever. He was stoked when a menagerie of balloons was released from a net in the balcony. Kids and balloons, amirite?

We moved closer toward the end of the show, once I was confident that I could stand without leaning back on something sturdy and we realized that there was an empty pocket near the left side of the stage.

Being there made me think of all the shows I’ve seen in that place, and how fucking fantastic it is that now Chooch is seeing shows at this exact same venue. This night was pure magic. (With the exception of Metro Station, ugh! That part was fucking voodoo.)

I left Chooch alone during the encore so I could buy him a shirt before the merch table was swarmed with people. The merch guy told me that Chris wasn’t going to be coming out after, and that he already had done a meet and greet before the show, so part of me was sad for Chooch, but super stoked for myself because all I could think about was RESTING MY WEARY BONES IN MY BED.

“Oh well, at least I’ve already met him once,” Chooch shrugged, content with his JuleVera experience and just an overall night of beautiful music (and 30 minutes of garbage cacophony).
  

***

On the way home from the show, I was angrily retelling the horror story of Metro Station to Henry.

“One of their songs was literally just them yelling ‘she likes girls girls girls,'” I seethed.

“Oh, I thought they were saying ghosts. ‘She likes ghosts ghosts ghosts….'” Chooch piped up from the backseat.

You’re giving them way too much credit, buddy.

Finally, they made a video for my favorite song on their album. Ouch, my black fucking heart of coal. 

:(

My plan today was to come home from work, boss Henry around, and then at some point blog about various weekend things that didn’t involve me puking or buying holy light fixtures. But then I watched last night’s mid season premier of The Walking Dead and now I’m dead. All the ghost of  me feels like doing is posting pictures of cats, so that’s what is going to happen. Maybe the church lamp will resurrect me sometime during the night and Alive Erin will waste your time with other, non-cat-related things. 

Mostly just pictures of crackhead Drew this round. 

 She spent a good hour tearing around the house yesterday with a fortune cookie wrapper stuffed in her mouth like some sort of take-out dinner dessert mouse. She ran around growling, like anyone of us cared enough to take her treasure from her. This is exactly the kind of behavior that Marcy frowned upon. 

   
 Right after Henry told her she’s not allowed beer. 

Oh wow, shocking, even in my supernatural state, I can’t stop spewing bullshit. So in other before-I-died news, Chooch is angry because Henry bought me cherry pie yesterday since I was sick and apparently when Chooch is sick, Henry never buys him pie. 

“You never ask for pie…?” Henry answered tentatively, because like with me, you never know what you’re going to get when verbally sparring with Chooch. Earlier this evening Choochaccused me of saying “either” when I clearly said “neither”! AND YES, IT WAS THE PROPER USAGE. Oh, it was a fucking war up in here. 

Ok fine. I want to talk about lamp one more time because I’m obsessed with it and also terrorified of it. Henry actually hung it in our bedroom yesterday instead of leaving it in the middle of the floor to be tripped over for 7 months. I guess the power of Christ compelled him. 

  
We were talking about it at work today and of course Glenn had all of these boring technical questions about how Henry hung it (or how Henry’s hung LOLOLOL) and I was like, “Dude I don’t know? He took down our other light thing and then put this one in the ceiling?” And then Glenn used some man-word and I was like, “yeah sure, that’s what he did.” Glenn seemed impressed that Henry can do electrical things so now I’m picturing Glenn cutting down trees for the cabin that he and Henry are going to build together, and then Henry can make it light up with his electrician skills. 

As I’m typing this, the cats just collided with each other in mid-air and both dropped straight down to the floor, like a fucking cartoon. As long as they quit breaking my stuff, I don’t care what they do. BUT LEAVE MY FUCKING SUCCULENTS ALONE.