My obedient Henry picks me up from work everyday. I mean it’s the least he can do considering he makes me take the TROLLEY to work, all of the ughs!

Before you start thinking he’s wow so cavalier,  you should know that he doesn’t pick me up at my building — he makes me walk for that free ride. Not like, a mile or anything. But still! Whatever’s convenient for Henry.

When I approached him on Monday, he was out cold, snoring all up in our Cruze, with the window wide open, while people passed by. I walked straight up to him, reached through the window and clamped my hand around his neck.

He barely flinched.

Just slowly woke up all natural-like, as though this was his normal alarm clock, some violent BDSM version of a rooster crow.

Tuesday, same thing. But now his window was up:

The passenger side window? Wide open! Sun roof? Wide open! A carjacker’s delight! Might as well start sending out handwritten invitations with the make & model of our car and when it can be expected to be ready for the jackin’.

“I’m not worried,” he said in yawn-speak when I got in the car and began berating him. “There’s a cop right there.” And he pointed to some old security guard daydreaming in front of the fountain across the plaza.

And then he fell asleep at the show we were at last night. Boyfriend can honestly say goodnight anywhere. Chris has a picture of him sleeping at her wedding reception, for christ’s sake!

This concludes a blog post about Henry’s exposed, public sleeping habits. Thank you.

For a brief period of time, way back in the day, I was talking to some guy I used to work with. You know. “Talking.” He was supposed to come over one night, and I had recently scored a new Cure bootleg video (literally on VHS, this was a while ago), so I suggested that we could watch this damn thing together. He made a slew of disparaging comments about the Cure, about how he would rather watch dogs eat their own shit, about how much that band sucked, about how “faggy” they were, and I could actually hear my heart breaking in my ears.

Followed quickly by the sound of the door slamming on this asshole’s opportunity. I just couldn’t imagine being with someone who didn’t like The Cure, or who could at least respect my staunch devotion to them. (Not to mention someone who calls things “faggy”? Ew no.)

And thank god I didn’t give that guy a second chance, because then I met Henry (at the same job! I was such an office ho!) and do you know what the first thing is that Henry ever did for me, way before we even started dating? He made me a screensaver of all of the Cure’s album covers.

That is a fucking good man.

Back then I probably said he was wife material, too, but clearly that material is full of holes.

What is: Cheese cloth.

What is: A handkerchief in some person’s pocket in a coffin underground.

All of this is to say that when The Cure announced their hugely anticipated North American tour last fall, Henry didn’t even question it when I said, “Well, there’s no Pittsburgh date as usual, but we could go to the Columbia, Maryland one…?”

“Buy the tickets when they go on sale,” he said with NO HESITATION.

BECAUSE IT’S THE CURE. And Henry loves me, you guys. Duh.

I sat at the computer and waited for the clock to tick down and then I bought two tickets on the ASAP. Of course with all the presales and ticket reselling schemes out there, every last spot under the pavilion was taken, so I had to be satisfied with lawn seats. And honestly, this being my 6th Cure show, I was content that we were even going at all. Traveling for shows is expensive and we are not rich people. SHOCKER. Plus, we were pretty close to the front two years ago when they headlined Riot Fest so it was fine.

We left Chooch at home with Judy and set off for Maryland around 9:30am. I was acutely aware that my left contact was jacked up, but you have to understand the tolerance I have built over the years to eye woes.  I figured the discomfort would eventually just fade into the background, and then I proceeded to just up my blinking quota during the car ride.

The drive down there was pretty uneventful and quick, by the way. I didn’t even live blog because I was too busy listening to the same Pierce the Veil song over and over, psychoanalyzing it, and feeling depressed. That’s just what I do. Also, I bought a ticket to see PVRIS the moment they went on sale, which was a lot less stressful since it’s just general admission at the Altar Bar. And then we ate at some shitty country cookin’ diner thing on the side of the road, because I was off my game and let Henry choose the lunch spot.

I went in the bathroom there and jiggled my contact around a bit, because sometimes that helps. In this case though, it still felt like someone was applying slight pressure to my eyeball with the tip of the long-nailed finger.  So, normal.

We arrived at our Extended Stay hotel thing around 4 and I got angry because GPS said something about taking the third right at the traffic circle. “IT’S A ROUNDABOUT!” I cried petulantly. “EVERYONE IN AUSTRALIA KNOWS THAT!”

Henry muttered something about this being America and in America, “we” call them traffic circles and I’m like, how about not lumping me in there with all you “we”s, thanks. And then I loudly counted down the rights so that Henry would know which one to turn off on, thereby fulfilling my co-pilot duties.

If I had liveblogged that day, it would be a lot of “AND THEN”s because I was pretty fucking happy.

After sufficiently complaining about our hotel room (because that’s my other duty – reminding Henry that nothing he does is good enough for me), Henry fed me a candy bar (Hershey with almonds if you need this for the case study), and then it was finally time to leave for the Merriweather Ampitheater.

One good thing about Henry is that he booked our room months and months in advance. It was the closest hotel to the venue and completely sold out. The lady at the desk even asked if we were there for the Cure concert, because duh. This happened right before Henry denied ogling some yuppie bitch who was walking two Pomeranian dogs.

It didn’t take us long to get to the venue at all, maybe 15 minutes tops. I was too busy hyperventilating and saying, “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod” incessantly to properly keep an eye on the time. Sorry for the inaccurate journalism!

Henry and I had a brief feud before getting out of the car because he didn’t bring a blanket from home and had to buy a blanket from a Target near our hotel and it was sooooo ugly (brown plaid and fuzzy, ew) so first I was like, “I WILL NOT BE SEEN WITH THAT ATROCITY, LEAVE IT IN THE CAR!” I mean, plus it stunk of plastic because he had just unzipped it from the stupid vinyl package it was all cubed-up in.

Not surprising, Henry didn’t bother to fight with me. He knows not to fuck with me when I’m in an emotional fragile Cure-related state. So we left the blanket in the backseat and wove our way through the gravel parking lot to the end of the line. We got there about 45 minutes before the gates open, I would say, and in no time, the line behind us had grown so long that we could no longer see the end.

I spotted someone in line nearby carrying a blanket in the same bracket of ugliness as the one that Henry had purchased. So I succumbed to the Ugly Blanket Squad and told him he could go back to the car and get the motherfucking poop-colored blanket. Whatever. This isn’t the blanket prom, is what my dad would have said if he had been there.

Ugh.

I could only see the first 30 or so people in front of us, because then the line snaked down and around into a forested area. It was making me nervous not knowing how far back we were.

People-watching was splendid and helped pass the time. There were OG Goths, neo-goths, yuppies, hippies, hipsters, Henrys — people of all walks of life had converged upon Merriweather all for the same reason: to bow down before the Cure. Two guys behind me did nothing but quote from Pitchfork the whole time, while the two dads and their respective young-teen sons talked dryly about sports.

Hockey came up.

I inched in closer.

“Yeah, his mom is a huge hockey fan,” the one dad said to the other. “Her favorite team is the Flyers, and then the Penguins.”

I was bouncing on my toes by this point while Henry was giving me the “KEEP IT ZIPPED” look.

“Oh, well she must be happy. The Penguins won the whole thing,” the other dad said and I was SQUEALING now, about to raise my hand and do the whole, “OOOH! OOOOH!” thing that I do when I’m desperate to add to a conversation that does not belong to me.

Henry, that motherfucker, actually grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me back!

I hate small talk EXCEPT when it’s about music or hockey, or if I overhear incorrect information and feel like I could die if I don’t set the universe straight with my infinite wisdom.

But apparently this is “annoying” and Henry doesn’t like to be a witness…or an associate.

The opening of the gates was pretty prompt and we were inside in no time at all. There are several entrances and parking lots and there were less people in front of us than I guessed. We were able to snag a prime piece of real estate very close to where the pavilion seats ended and the lawn started, and I let go of all my high expectations of having the perfect, unobstructed view and instead just enjoyed being there. Sometimes you really gotta just let go.

Henry bought me some kind of beer that he figured I would be able to drink without wasting — Shocktop maybe? I’m still trying to become a beer person but I’m just unapologetically picky. Don’t fuck with my palate. I managed to drink two whole beers! Each one cost less than my $10 pizza, which was actually pretty good but NOT ENOUGH.

“For $10, it’s gonna have to be,” Henry frowned before going off to buy some gross sausage in a bun atrocity for himself.

The fact that you can barely see my left eye in this photo is FORESHADOWING.

The lawn was really starting to fill up and so far, I didn’t find a single person I hated. I wasn’t too startled by this revelation though because Cure crowds have historically been some of the kindest and most fun I’ve ever been in the middle of.

EXCEPT: Coachella 2004. Worst crowd ever. A bunch of rich frat boys screaming “FAT BOB!” and booing when anything other than a radio single was performed. Welcome to America, Robert. Welcome to America, indeed.

Just then, two middle-aged men tossed down two seat cushions in the small section of lawn available between the two couples in front of me.

“And DOWN!” the one announced loudly and jovially as he plopped himself onto the cushion, beer sloshing all around. He looked at us and laughed, but I gave Henry the “I hate this guy” look. When the two women whose blanket they sat down next to came back from getting beer, I thought for sure they were going to be all, “OH HELL NO” but instead, the one lady was like, “LET’S BE FRIENDS” and then everything was happening so fast before my eyes.

Henry went to get more beer, leaving me alone to stew in my depressing solitude while everyone around me was carrying on with each other and making friends with new people, and ugh just ugh.  Never was there a more apropos moment for Robert to come on stage and sing, “Why Can’t I Be You.”

(He didn’t.)

(But he should have.)

So now the people in front of me were introducing themselves. The one who had yelled, “DOWN!” told the two ladies that they were from Pittsburgh.

PITTSBURGH? I’M FROM PITTSBURGH!

I tapped him on the back and was all, “Hey guy, I couldn’t help but overhear you say you’re from Pittsburgh. We’re from Pittsburgh too,” I said in that weird 1920s radio DJ syncopated voice I get when I’m no longer Erin but some weird caricature of a person with a sturdy societal footing.

And that’s when Henry returned to his ugly blanket and found that his girlfriend had made new friends with the boisterous men in front of them. (I never talked to the broads though. Once I heard the one lady say that she was heartbroken that the Penguins won the Stanley Cup, I knew I had nothing left to say to her, except for SUCK IT.)

(J/K, she and her sister seemed like fine ladies.)

Randy was my favorite of the two guys. I can’t remember his friend’s name. He was nice too, but not as hilarious as Randy. I can’t explain it, you guys would have had to have been there.

You know how it is.

The Twilight Sad came out sometime around 7:00. I was already familiar with them and interested to hear them live for the first time. And I mean, they were wonderful, but it’s hard to give a shit about an opening band when you know, and they know, and everyone knows that The Cure is back there somewhere, pretending to jump rope, touching up that blood red lipstick, sipping a spot of tea.

So I can’t say anything other than, “The Twilight Sad seemed good.”

I ran to the bathroom afterward, while there was still a bit of sunshine left. I was immediately cold-cocked by the essence of patchouli and clove.

And it just felt right.

As I washed my hands, I inspected my eye in the mirror. There didn’t appear to be a dagger or any such spiny specimen jutting from it, contrary to how it felt. So I gave it one good, aggressive rub (What Not To Do To Your Eye 101) and stumbled my way back to our blanket, which was now one of many in a sea of throws.

Sold out show, y’all.

As soon as the opening notes of Tape wafted into the air, my face was wet with tears. It doesn’t matter how many times I have seen this band, they make my heart feel so full and I even if I tried, I couldn’t hold back my emotions. I get all snively and trembly and the tears just flow freely – this who I am.

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Aside from the three Instavids above and few Snaps that my brother requested, I didn’t fuck around with recording or taking pictures, because it’s the Cure and I needed to let every last second get into my pores, you know what I mean? Henry even gave me some “there-there” pats a few times.

He gets it.

He didn’t need to see my face to know it was slick with tears, mascara, and whatever poison was seeping out of my left eyeball.

You’d think that all the crying would have washed out whatever was in there, scraping my cornea, but instead it just started burning even more. The joy and amazement of standing before The Cure made it easier to shrug off, though. It was going to take a lot more than an eyeball malady to get me to leave this show early.

SET LIST:

Tape / Open, High, Pictures of You, Closedown, Kyoto Song, A Night Like This, The Walk, The End of the World, Lovesong, If Only Tonight We Could Sleep, All I Want, Push, In Between Days, Just Like Heaven, Bananafishbones, Never Enough, From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea, End

1st encore: Sinking, It Can Never Be The Same

2nd encore: Shake Dog Shake, Burn, A Forest

3rd encore: Dressing Up, Lullaby, Fascination Street, Wrong Number

4th encore: Hot Hot Hot, Let’s Go To Bed, Close To Me, Why Can’t I Be You?, Boys Don’t Cry

I have never heard “Burn” live before so I was freaking the fuck out for sure. FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

It’s unreal to me how solid this band sounds after all of these years. How they can get out there night after night, play for three hours with just as much if not more energy as bands 30 years younger. These guys are living legends, and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame can keep snubbing them all they want because there are millions of screaming fans who know just how brilliant and incomparable they are.

When you can get even someone unmoved and unaffected as Henry J. Robbins to stand for the entirety of your show and also APPLAUD after every song? That’s how you know you’re frizzled hair, shoegazing perfection.

Little Cure fan. <3

Robert seemed to be in very good spirits too, chattier than I have ever seen him, and still breaking out his adorable little goth moves during “Lullaby.” However, he did get choked up during a new song, “It Can Never Be the Same,” which rumor has it is about his mother who passed away last year. When the song ended, he said something along the lines of, “The last song is a new one…. haven’t quite… haven’t learned how to hold back….so…”

</3

He is a motherfucking god. No one will ever replace him in my heart.

NO ONE.

***

As soon as we got back to the hotel, I raced to the bathroom and plucked the contact off my eye, which exacerbated the pain. Now it was like my eyeball was in labor with a hatchet-coated fireball. A thicket of natty homeless person pubes. A briar patch of all the human bones found in Jeffrey Dahmer’s apartment.

My eye was so red that it looked like it was bleeding, like it had been CHEESE GRATED. Tears were squirting out left and right, like some completely crude, X-rated, optic money shot.

“I CAN’T KEEP MY EYE OPEN!” I wailed, flapping my hands and hopping from one foot to the other.

I was panic-stricken, screaming about having to go to the hospital; but instead, Henry calmly went out and got me eye drops. I had cried myself to sleep while he was gone, but don’t worry! I woke up in the middle of the night and as soon as I realized that it wasn’t just a nightmare and that there were still flames licking the inside of my eyelid, I started screaming. Henry woke up and secretly pretended he was killing me when he held my head down against the pillow and put the drops in my eye.

In the morning, it still hurt and I felt like a vampire, screaming about the sunlight. As the day wore on, I was mostly OK again, though my eyelid was slightly puffy and I wasn’t even about to try to put my contact back in for the next two days. So I went about life squinting and walking with my arms outstretched. One-contact-wearin’ Erin.

But none of that was enough to tarnish the beautiful memories of the night before. Le sigh.

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The Phil Collins vibes are strong AF at Gillcrest. Every time I turn on the kitchen stereo, there he is. And twice on Sunday!

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It’s all at once comforting and haunting. Absolutely impossible for me to hear any Genesis or Phil jam and not think of my childhood in that house.

I guess that’s why when I couldn’t fall asleep Friday night, I found myself painting a picture of Phil.

When Chooch saw it the next day, he happily said, “Oh, Phil Collins!

I was just thinking about him, too…” Can’t imagine why.

Speaking of my fake stustudio, I finally got this bad boy up on the wall. It was originally hanging in my grandma’s clown room and she always said I could have it. And now I have it, so…

This post is brought to you by late night iced coffee, kettlebell fatigue, and MTV’s Are You the One*.

Coming up later this week: an emotionally disjointed recap of last week’s Cure show, maybe another music video no one will watch, an essay on my political stance (lol no), HOPEFULLY HENRY’S WARPED TOUR VIDEO, and probably some furry love because Anthrocon is this week and I have a date with a walrus!

*(I tried so hard to resist, but it finally sucked me in. I’M WEAK, OK??!!)

(Also, I wonder if Henry and I would be a match if we were on Are You The One. Omg lol that’s a hilarious thought.

I just woke him up to tell him that and his response was muffled on account of his dumb face being buried in his pillow.)

Well guys, it’s that time of year where I get super ridiculous about my Warped Tour anticipation. Henry walked by and asked me what I was watching, to which I giddily cried, “WARPED TOUR VLOGS DUH!!”

“Oh boy,” he responded dryly. “The fun never ceases in this house.”

Then we were watching some of the Warped Tour “what to expect” videos that these dummy kids make and subsequently garner tens of thousands of views and they are SO LAME. Henry sits here, engulfed in a big, billowy frown, and scoffs at each one. 

So now I am BEGGING him to make his own Warped FAQ video. He hasn’t actually said no yet so WHO KNOWS. I’ll remain cautiously optimistic but all I’m saying is, don’t wait up for us, YouTube. 

(Seriously though this year’s lineup is fucking stacked.)

As you may know, I fucking LOVE clowns. The weirder, the better. And I’m trying to cover my bedroom walls with all the clowns. (Henry might have other ideas for what to hang on the walls, like Playboy calendar pages from 1975 or paintings of airplanes, but when do we ever ask him what he wants?) Anyway, in lieu of looking for clown art on eBay and at flea markets like I generally do, I thought it would be really fun if my FRIENDS drew me clown pictures! Like how awesome & sentimental (you know how us emos be) to frame original art from the cool as fuck people in my life and hammer ’em all up on my wally-walls.

Plus, my birthday is in a month and that would help me not be the depressed motherfucker that I normally am on that dumb day.

Small or big, oil or crayons, I want your drawings. Get your kids or the neighborhood wino to scrawl a Pogo the Clown on a paper bag — I DONT CARE, I WILL FRAME IT & POST IT ALL OVER SOCIAL MEDIA. I’m just a really considerate pimp, I dunno.

Are you in or out? WOOOOO. Comment and I’ll email you my address!

Gotta go! Henry’s trying to smoke me out of my bedroom by blaring Alexisonfire downstairs. TIME TO DANCE!

On Wednesday, I ate a grilled cheese in a shitty diner in Maryland with Henry.

The diner was super sketch and the extent of its decor was cheap I Love Lucy memorabilia.

Coffee was weak.

Henry got a thimbleful of cole slaw with his burger. Man, what a tease.

It was just us and two ladies behind us, until a group of three men came in on their lunch break from digging ditches or whatever people do for work in rural Maryland, and the one guy said he didn’t like to sit with his back toward the door; at first I thought he said it was from all those years he was in prison and I thought maybe things were going to get interesting, but it turns out he used to WORK in a prison.

Grilled cheese tasted like I made it. (That means it tasted less than basic and probably was made in a toaster then microwaved.) I wonder if it was better or worse than prison grilled cheese. Shoulda asked that guy on my way out.

But I didn’t give a shit about any of this because I was with my one true love, Henry. LOL JK: because I was on my way to see The Cure.

Can I do one of those parent-brag things for a second? No, it’s not about Chooch getting good grades (I mean, he does) or achieving some high sporting goal (he doesn’t play a sport, so…). No, my brag is that Chooch has officially unlocked the next Mini Erin life level: he is addicted to going to concerts. He is even more like me now and less like Henry! Y’all can say he looks just like Henry all you want, because he is ALL ME ON THE INSIDE. And everyone knows what’s inside is what really matters. So there.

However, it was only a matter of time before there was going to be conflict, and it happened way quicker than I imagined. He wants to go see Melanie Martinez next month and I was considering taking him, because why not. She’s not the best but she doesn’t offend my ears and I don’t want to be That Person who puts their kid in a corner for liking something that they don’t.

Annnnnd then PVRIS added a Pittsburgh date to their tour at the very last minute, just squeezed us on in there. Of course it’s the same night as Melanie Martinez.

“Oh this is going to be an awesome fight,” Henry sighed when I told him after work the other day. And at first Chooch got super pissed but then I was all HOLD UP WAIT A MINUTE and told him to just ask his brother Blake to take him, so I guess that’s happening?

Hope so, because PVRIS tickets went on sale yesterday and I got mine, so….

This could be the last time I get to see PVRIS in a small venue, and it will definitely be my last time at the Altar Bar, which is closing for good a week after this show. I’m sad about it because we have such a limited selection of venues to begin with, but I can’t say that the Altar Bar is my favorite. The sound kind of sucks and I almost always have a subpar experience with the crowd, but the bathrooms are wonderful. The staff isn’t bad either! (The bartenders are kind of assholes though.)

Henry is super stoked that he doesn’t have to go to either show since I dragged Blake’s good name into this whole mess.

Honestly though, can we take a moment and give a hand to this MOM GETTING SHIT DONE?!

***

In other parental news, Henry and I got home earlier this evening from seeing the Cure (!!!) in Maryland and almost immediately had to go to some school down the street to register Chooch for this idiotic summer camp bullshit. We had to stand in this ridiculous line IN THE RAIN which other parents because the registration process was flawed as fuck and you do know how bad I hate this shit, right?

“I don’t belong here with all these people!” I cried frantically as Henry parked the car.

“What people?” he asked.

“PARENTS. ALL THE PARENTS. THEY’RE SO UNLIKE ME!”

“Sometimes you have to actually do mom-things,” Henry said, feigning support with a clap of his hand on my shoulder.

Ugh, we stood in this line longer than any Warped Tour line I’ve ever stood in. And at least Warped Tour lines have something worthwhile at the end of them! This one just had ANOTHER LINE. INSIDE THE SCHOOL. WHERE ALL THE SCREAMS OF BABIES, CHILDREN, AND YINZER SOCCER MOMS SWIRLED AROUND ME AS THOUGH WE WERE STATIONED INSIDE A PTA VACCUUM.

(Chooch just did a Madlibs and made it hilariously political with all kinds of Trump and Hilary fill-ins and I’m kind of dying right now, please hold…)

Needless to say, I lasted approx. 5 minutes inside the school before Henry shoved the car key at me and mumbled, “Just go.” So I sat in the car while Henry parented.

Like, can’t I just make sure my kid wears cool shirts, spellz all gud n’ shit, and knows a lot about music? I’m really good at that role.

Pittsburgh threw a huge victory parade for the Penguins last Wednesday and it was estimated that over 400,000 people were in attendance! I was one of those people because I have the convenience of working downtown so me, Amber2, and Mitch took an early lunch and walked on up to the parade route where we were fortunate to get a really decent spot only three heads back! (This was after Glenn reminded me to pee before we left so that I wouldn’t go in my pants.  #workdad.)

All the pacing and panicking I had done that morning was in vain, because it ended up being totally chill and one of the very few times I can recall ever feeling like I belonged somewhere in Pittsburgh, and that the idea of bumping elbows with hordes of Yinzers didn’t repulse me. Everyone standing around us was so wonderful!

….except for this creepy Steve from Blue’s Clues douchebag who came bursting through the crowd out of nowhere as soon as the parade started and wedged himself between Amber and me. I was like, “THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM, DICKSTICK?!” I eventually slipped around him and forced him to move over so I could have my old spot back, but this put him in the crosshairs of some VERY ANGRY YINZER MOMS who started screaming things like, “WE BEEN STANDING HERE FOR 4 HOURS AND NOW WE CAN’T SEE, YA JAGOFF!” and he would just turn and look at them with this infuriating pudding face and then resume taking photos with his dinky point-and-shoot.

I told Amber that he was actually kind of scaring me and she offered to switch places but I decided that I needed to be BRAVE and take a stand. Also, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to see if we switched.

I kept watching his hands because I was so afraid he had a grenade in his pocket.

But then all I could focus on was all the glorious PENGUINS driving past us so he could have been holding a butterfly knife to my throat and I may not have noticed because of all the hearts in my eyes. It sucked not having there Henry there but he couldn’t leave work and I’m a bigger fan than he is anyway, so oh well.

Suck it, Henry.

The Bonino Bonino Bonino guy was there!!!!

My friend Kaitlin’s husband, Danny! I always get so excited when I see him in the background of the games on TV. It’s like kind of knowing a celebrity!

Kris Letang!

TURN AROUND BILLY, UGH.

TURN AROUND DUPUIS, UGH.

I think Fleury was sitting across from him too, ugh.

Henry and I were talking about Fleury earlier today and I started crying. :(

2/3 of the HBK line!

Sheary, Kuhnhackle and Lovejoy.

You guys. Mario Lemieux. Heavy breathing.

Bonino and Kunitz!

The Malkin Mobile!

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Oh you guys, it was just too much for me. I cried some legit tears. This team just means so much to me! What a great day!

***

The other day, I noticed that Amber has her Thank You, Pens! sign hanging up on her desk and it’s in near-immaculate condition. I have no idea how she was able to preserve it. It was so hot that day that as I was holding the sign between my arm and side, it adhered to my sweaty, moist skin and part of the Pens logo transferred to my arm so it looked like I had a huge bruise for the rest of the day.

No one asked about it, but I was prepared to blame it on when I tackled Blue’s Clues right before he was able to launch his grenade.

The face Henry makes when I make him stay up on late on a WEEKNIGHT watching some girls’ reaction video to the new Pierce the Veil album and then I start crying at the same time she does. 

In other Henry news, I liked him for a minute yesterday. LET ME BACK UP…

My Father’s Day gift to him was giving him some peace and quiet while Chooch and I went to see The Conjuring 2 with Corey, which ended up being a BEAUTIFUL LOVE STORY, you guys. The Warrens are relationship goals, for real. 

I was thinking about them while I was on my break yesterday and it made me miss Henry. So I called him and of course he was all WHAT DO YOU WANT I’M WORKING (he had to go back to driving because of DRIVER DRAMA – typical at the Faygo Factory). 

“God, I just wanted to tell you that I love you kind of!” I cried. 

“…..why? Where do you want to go now?” he asked hesitantly, mentally preparing for how much my latest I NEED TO SEE THIS BAND road trip was going to cost him. 

“Nowhere. I was just thinking about Ed and Lorraine Warren and it made me miss you,” I whined. 

“….I don’t know what that means,” Henry said, sounding thoroughly confused. 

NEVER MIND, HENRY. The moment’s passed. 

I don’t always love Henry but when I do, it’s brief and inexplicable. 

Back to my Pierce the Veil videos. BYE-EEEEEEEE. 

Last Sunday, Chooch and I went to the Pierce the Veil “Misadventures” show at the House of Blues in Cleveland. When they announced that they’d be performing their new album Misadventures in its entirety for this tour, I was all in. I bought tickets for Chooch and myself the second they went on sale (balcony seats because I’m not taking a 10-year-old into the pit for PTV — those girls are aggressive!) and then Henry agreed to be our chauffeur.

Henry likes Pierce the Veil, but what he likes even more is that our kid also likes them enough to be my concert partner and Henry can go off and be an old man somewhere.

Since we had actual seats, I didn’t feel the need to get there hours before the doors opened, but even 45 minutes before-doors, the line wrapped all the way down the block. I just asked Henry how many people he thought were in line when he dropped us off and he said, “Everybody.” It was the longest line I have even stood in for PTV and while it was mildly annoying, I was also really happy for them. They have come so far since the time I saw them playing for 150 kids at an indoor skate park in Buffalo, NY!

Some old man walked by and said, “Wow, this is a really long line. What band is playing?”

“Pierce the Veil,” I said proudly, like I’m their fucking mom.

“Never heard of them. Where are they from?”

I was acutely aware of all the people in line who had turned around to look at me at this point, and I ALMOST blanked! So much pressure! But then at the last second, before any of the dumb kids could steal my thunder, I answered, “San Diego” in a voice quaking with uncertainty.

“I hope everyone fits inside!” he laughed, and as he walked away, I wiped the sweat from my brow. I hate when strangers ask me questions!

However, if I overhear strangers passing around incorrect information to each other, I have NO QUALMS with inserting myself into their conversation. For instance, when the people in front of us where talking about the Stanley Cup Finals and the girl was all, “I think tonight might be game 6 but I don’t know” and her boyfriend was all, “No, I think it’s game 5. The Pens are up 3 games to 1” but I knew the correct answer.

“Excuse me,” I said, holding up a finger. “We’re from Pittsburgh. Tonight is definitely game 6. AND IF THE PENS WIN, THEY WIN THE STANLEY CUP.”

They both mumbled thanks and then turned their backs on the crazed Pittsburgher who couldn’t mind her own business. HENRY HATES WHEN I DO THIS.

It happened later on too, before the show started. We were in our seats (which Chooch found on his own and then an usher came rushing over ready to yell at us for taking seats that weren’t assigned to us and then felt stupid when he checked our tickets and muttered, “Oh, you found your seats”) when the kid next to me said to his girlfriend, “Oh man, I love this song, but I can’t remember who sings it!”

“Do you want me to tell you?!” I leaned over and asked him in this super weird husky voice I get when I’m excited. He was kind of caught of guard, I think, but he humored me by saying, “OK sure.”

“THE USED!” I cried, and he and his girlfriend were basically like, “Cool story, psycho.”

And then I ask myself where my kid gets his know-it-all-ism from.

You wouldn’t know it, but Chooch was saying, “Tampax Pearl!” in lieu of “Cheese.”

There were only two opening bands for this show and while I’m certainly no hater of opening acts, I was secretly happy that this wouldn’t be a super long show. I was way too hyped for PTV and also I was hoping that the show would over early enough that I’d get to hear the final minutes of the Stanley Cup final in the car.

What a conflict to have, you know?

The first opener was Movements. At first, they sounded like your standard Warped Tour-caliber band, but then the SPOKEN WORD happened. Chooch gave me a knowing look because this genre is my motherfucking jam and he knows it.

“Let me guess — you’re going to buy their album?” he said. FUCK YEAH I AM. AND I DID. On vinyl, son. And it sounds glorious.

I the Mighty was next and somehow I have never seen them live. I have no idea how they’ve escaped me this long since they literally roll with some of my scene faves. In fact, they’re touring with Artifex Pereo this fall!

“He looks like Chris Kunitz,” I yelled in Chooch’s ear, pointing to the bassist. And right after that, I got an alert that the Penguins scored the first goal of the game, AND CHRIS KUNITZ HAD THE ASSIST.

“They’re going to win,” Chooch said in a very calm and wise tone. “This is their year.”

And you know what? I felt really reassured and peaceful in that moment, because Chooch knows everything.

Not as much as me. But he’s getting there.

So I will now always associate I the Mighty with the Penguins winning the Stanley Cup.

Chooch made me buy him a soft pretzel with cheese before PTV’s set started. I’m pretty opposed to eating during concerts—it just feels weird to me—but Chooch was in a very good position to ruin my night if I let his hunger get out of hand. A soft pretzel in his pie hole seemed to really do the trick and we were able to coexist peacefully for the rest of the show.

This album is kind of a big deal for PTV fans because it took 4 years to create and it seemed like maybe they had lost a lot of the momentum they had built up coming off their last album.

And for as much as I love PTV (and I’ve stuck with them from the beginning), I didn’t love their last album. I still had fun at their shows but it kind of made me wonder if I was growing out of the PTV scene. Time to move out and buy a Coldplay CD…?

Thank god Misadventures was released and saved me from bland Mom Rock.  I’m back in love, people! This album somehow feels like such a throwback to their first album (my favorite) without making them sound young, regressed, or un-evolved. (You know, un-evolved. That’s a word. You must have been absent the day it was on the spelling test.) I can’t put my finger on it exactly, and I’m not even sure if they did it intentionally, but there are nuances and subtle nods to their past work, almost like secret part 2s or reprises. A “getaway” reference that just can’t be an accident. There were a lot of skippable songs for me on their last album, but Misadventures is fucking solid and I have already come close to wearing out the record.

And hearing them perform it in its entirety was fucking priceless. And for their encore, as the Penguins were watching the clock tick down in the final moments of the third period, PTV came out and played “Bulls in the Bronx” and “King For a Day” — the two songs Chooch was screaming for them to play so of course now he thinks he made that happen, and that’s OK, because I MADE THE PENGUINS WIN THE STANLEY CUP.

PANT PANT PANT.

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This might have been the best PTV show I’ve ever seen. Obviously they sounded fantastic, but that combined with Chooch and me singing our faces off together and the Penguins winning the Stanley Cup—it was a priceless trifecta. So many stars aligned, mood swings remained unswung, not a single douchebag sat near us.

I want to do it all again.

But my favorite part? That Chooch and I got along so magically! Anyone who has ever hung out with us knows this is like some rare familial occurrence. It was really choice quality time, and I’ll tell you, sharing moments like this with my kid is my favorite part of being a parent. He was just a little babe back when I started listening to PTV and now we’re both fans — that’s kind of an amazing thing. The kind of amazing thing that really makes your life feel super rich.

****

Henry was waiting for us in the car across the street from House of Blues when we came charging at him after the show, screaming “PENS!!!!! PENS!!!!!” like drunks. Henry just frowned and yelled at us to get in the car. He apparently spent his time tooling around Target and various grocery stores, which is probably what the other moms did after they dropped their kids off at the PTV show. His frown fluttered into a slight smile when he showed us the limited edition Blueberry Pie Oreos he found. Henry’s life is super rich, too.

i like your starry eyes

they yell SURPRISE SURPRISE

i’m in love but not for long

Yesterday was a good day at Gillcrest, full of productive conversations & planning…just a general sense of optimism. There is still so much to do that it often makes me feel like I can’t breathe, but Henry got the grass cut— so, there’s that.

(Hey, there’s a lot of grass over there!)

Dick in a tree.

Dick on a tractor.

Dick behind a mower.

More Gino Vannelli finds!

And this bitchin’ Winchester shirt that has stains but IDGAF.

I like to turn on the kitchen stereo so the house is full of soft rock. It’s comforting and makes it feel alive in there again.

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One can always count on Chooch for comedic relief.

My mom got a random head lamp thing in the mail as a free gift from Marlboro, so she brought it over for Chooch. But it actually was a pretty handy device for me because I was working on cleaning out some of the drawers in one of the gamerooms that has very limited light.

I haven’t worn one of these since I did that ghost hunt back in 2011!

After we left the house, Henry took us to Page’s for ice cream where I had major ordering remorse. I wanted a maple sundae but I didn’t see the sign for it, so I got the blueberry soft serve instead. And then of course right after Henry paid, I saw my maple queen on the fucking menu.

Dick at the ice cream shop.

“It tasted like ice cream. I never would have thought,” Chooch just deadpanned when I asked him if he wanted to review his ice cream cone.

Seriously, for being my back-up, you can’t really go wrong with soft serve made with real blueberries, you know?

Dick hugging a dick.

Dick with an angel.

Capped off a fine Saturday with “Crimson Peak,” which was way better than I thought it was going to be and felt actual sadness when it ended. JUST LIKE I DID WHEN SATURDAY ENDED.

Never enough Saturday. :(

We’re having a Fathers Day* picnic at the cemetery and Chooch and I immediately started complaining about the sandwiches Henry packed for us. 

“Here’s an idea!” Henry started, and then I quit listening because I know he’s saying shit I don’t want to hear. Stuff about how we should just do it ourselves next time and he’ll stay home, la la la. 

*(This was my excuse to have a picnic but then Henry had to do all the labor lol. And then we had a huge fight in the car because I needed iced coffee and nearly died. #typicalsunday)

I just wiped watermelon on Henry’s leg and now he’s throwing cherry seeds at me. I swallowed one of those at work last week. Goodbye. 

My people and I had a really lovely pre-Pierce the Veil afternoon in Cleveland last Sunday. I just love that city so much, and it’s OK for me to love it because I have zero affinity to our lame football team so I don’t feel like I’m breaking any rules of loyalty or solidarity, like when you keep being friends with someone who treated your other friend like absolute horse shit.

I mean…

I like when we’re blessed with weekend shows because then we have all the time to tool around, stuff our faces, hang with local friends…it’s just PLEASANT. A very PLEASANT feeling all around.

It only takes around 2 hours or so to get there from Cleveland, but Chooch acts like it’s a cross country hike and then winds up sleeping for most of the drive which is fine because sometimes I just want to listen to music and not his psychotically motorized voice warbling incessantly from the backseat.

(He said we have high expectations if we want him to stop talking so much. He’s so strong-willed! God help us.)

Our go-to food place is usually Melt, but the last time we were in Cleveland, we went to Happy Dog and I fucking fell in lust so hard and I’ll tell you why: Froot Loops on a veggie dog and like 50 different condiments for my tater tots!? Is this real life?! I have been dreaming of this place since we were last there in November for the Dance Gavin Dance 10 Year Anniversary show.

This was Chooch’s first time there and he was so overwhelmed with his options, 99.9% of which he didn’t agree with anyway so I’m not sure where the struggle even came from. He shocked us all though by actually sticking a toe out of his basic box and ordering Spaghetti-Os and a fried egg on his dog.

I just now asked him if he liked it and he shrugged while sadly smiling. This kid is the worst when it comes to eating. It’s cereal or GTFO with him. Too bad there are only two Cereality locations left in the world and none are anywhere near Pittsburgh.

When I was pregnant, I went through a really intense condiment phase. I was a few weeks along, unbeknownst at the time, when Henry and I were visiting Christina in Cincinnati. I knew something was awry when we went to Jungle Jim’s and I bypassed the chocolate aisle in favor of MUSTARDS OF THE WORLD. (Don’t worry — there was a fortune teller machine at the store’s entrance so on the way out, I asked her if I was pregnant. I don’t remember specifically what she said, but it was probably something about how even mild-mannered men have a threshold.

Or: “He’s not going to marry you. Move on.”

Then we went to get ice cream and after making both Henry and Christina trade with me, I eventually pushed all of the dishes away and pouted. “I don’t want any of these,” I mumbled.

“Well, what DO you want?” Henry asked exasperatedly while Christina frantically prepared to book a flight to Iran to procure me some faloodeh.

“Horseradish,” I answered without even a second thought.

I even had two hermit crabs named after condiments: Tabasco and Dijon. If Happy Dog had been around then, Chooch likely would have come out of me weighing 15 pounds (as opposed to the 10lbs2oz he wound up being without the aid of Happy Dog’s fatty sauce enabling.)

Chooch at the bar getting change for pinball, knowing I was taking his picture because when am I not taking his dumb picture.

And then there was a weird menstrual interlude, where Henry had to go to Rite Aid to get me tampons because I’m the worst woman, as he always says. It makes him so mad that my purses are full of concert ticket stubs and lip gloss, and not things that a woman/mother should have. Like Kleenex and bandaids? Who knows.

“Get used to this, Chooch,” Henry sighed as he got out of the car to make his lady product transaction. “This will be your life someday.”

“What, buying TAMPAX PEARL? Chooch said from the backseat. And then that became the joke of the day, and he said it every time I took his picture.

(He knows I hate when he makes that stupid chipmunk face so he does it ALL THE TIME. I complain about it now, but he’s going to end up being the next motherfucking Jim Carey with all the idiotic face-pulling he does. His face is like rubber!!)

After sufficiently putting a plug in the menstrual interlude, we met up with our pal Jason at Sweet Moses. Chooch brought his dumb Loom thing with him and was really insulted when Jason asked him if he was making a robot when it’s clearly a PANDA. Also, I only took this picture because Chooch was acutely aware of those girls behind him and he always shuts down when there are girls around.

Henry’s ice cream date.

It’s always nice getting to chat it up with Jason. And finally, over dark chocolate vegan ice cream, I was able to blab on and on about Bled Fest with someone who actually gave a shit and even asked, “What bands did you see?” and as I rattled them off I knew that Jason had heard of all of them and for once it didn’t feel like I was speaking a language no one else understands.

It’s really frustrating not getting to talk about your biggest passion!

Jason had work obligations to attend Taste of Chaos, so we parted ways with lots of hugs (hugging is OK sometimes) and then we went to see THE WATER. Chooch was just happy that we weren’t taking another boat tour.

The whole time we sat by the lake, I kept screaming, “DON’T GET TOO CLOSE! OMG HENRY TELL HIM TO NOT GET TOO CLOSE!” I am way too tightly-wound and paranoid to be a mom sometimes. My mind automatically imagines 87 fatal outcomes for every scenario.

12 years ago, Henry and I sat in this very spot, and Chooch wasn’t even so much of a thought yet. It’s crazy to think about sometimes. But being there with these two idiots made me feel super lucky and content with life. It was a great day, and it was only about to get even better.

(And no—not because Henry proposed to me. Because he didn’t.)

I’ve never been one to have anything useful or profound to say in the face of adversity or in the aftermath of a tragedy. Typically, I sink into a pit of hopelessness and confusion, and do a lot of crying. #secretempath

But what I am good at is pushing music into people’s ears. A bunch of bands I really love have contributed songs to this pro-LGBTQ compilation, and promoting this here is my way of adding my small voice to the cause. Pay what you want, from $1 up, and all proceeds from this compilation will be donated to support the victims of the Pulse shooting as part of the OneOrlando Fund. 

So go on! Add some amazing music to your collection while also helping the victims of a senseless tragedy and their families. You can even buy it as a gift for someone else! 

I 100% endorse this compilation and yes, I purchased it myself. 49 songs, you guys! There’s bound to be something on it that agrees with you.  I’m listening to it right now and crying because when am I not listening to music and crying except for when I’m at work wearing my Normal Lady mask?

Let me know if you get it and if you love it or what! It’s full of beauty. And most importantly, you can listen to it and PRETEND TO BE ME! (Lol.)

CLICK HERE TO DONATE/PURCHASE!!

Plus, any compilation that features Anthony Green is bound to be lit AF. 

Another long week is coming to an end and I’m ready to slam the motherfucking door on it. BUHBYE, STRANGE WEEK FULL OF MURDER AND MAYHEM. Can we call this a…circle point post? Dot point? I don’t want to use the b-word anymore. Fuck the b-word and the g-words too.

• We had a low-key surprise birthday cake for Corey last Saturday at The House. The garbage truck is an inside joke relevant to what our lives have become since March 30th. In light of recent events, it was a relatively somber cake-eating session, but I was pretty high off the fact that I saved the whole entire day when my mom announced she forgot to get candles and a lighter. I’ve been rummaging through enough drawers in that house lately to immediately summon up visions of a box of birthday candles from the 1970s in a drawer behind the game room bar, and an entire canister of matchbooks in my aunt Susie’s room (I chose a book from Tambellini’s in Bridgeville and it got shit done).

• Chooch was in a foul mood during the cake-eating session.
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  I think he partially hangry but mostly just being spoiled because he wanted to go to the craft store and get that loom shit that he’s all into now and we were like WE WILL GO AFTER THIS JUST SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH but he’s Chooch and also my spawn, and people like me are unable to keep their mouths shut, so he just kept needling away at our sanity and then started to CRY because who needs drama classes? Not this son of a bitch. His scowl immediately made me think of this picture that Henry took of me years and years ago at Buttermilk Falls. He learns from the best. Scowls all day.

  • He did end up getting his loom shit, but only because he used his own money. I wasn’t rewarding his behavior with free gifts! Bitch, please. He didn’t care. He even asked a Pat Catan’s worker to help him find what he needed because he is way more independent than me. (I guess maybe he gets that from Henry.)

• I purposely switched my late shifts with Amber2 so that I wouldn’t be a zombie at work on Monday since I knew I would be getting home really late from Cleveland. I was looking forward to sleeping in a little, but then I heard Chooch yell something about a succulent, and then I heard the spine-tingling sound of GLASS BEING SWEPT UP. Those little fuckers. Apparently the fireplace mantel is no longer safe, either. THERE IS NOWHERE FOR ME TO PUT MY PLANTS NOW. (Until Henry finally makes me some macrame hanging plant holders. Kara sent me some DIYs to help him get started!) Of course, Chooch only half-cleaned up after his dumb cat (I KNOW IT WAS DREW) so instead of sleeping in, my plant-induced anxiety had me out of bed at normal time and downstairs cleaning up the carnage. Then I tried to relax with a nice glass of cold brew and fucking Penelope was trying to get all up in it. CAN’T A BITCH DRINK HER ICED COFFEE IN PEACE AFTER CLEANING UP DIRT!? Fuck.
  • Speaking of cold brew: guys, get yo’selves a person who learns how to make bad-ass motherfuckin’ cold brew even when they hate coffee. Because that’s what my person does. And he is the goddamn best.
    • YES I’M TALKING ABOUT HENRY. JESUS.
      • I mean, just Henry. Not Jesus.
    • That first time he made me cold brew, though….

• And then there’s the leader of Plantpocalypse: fucking Drew.
• Did I tell you about the time a few weeks ago when I almost got HIT BY A CAR? Well, I almost got HIT BY A CAR, you guys. I was walking to the trolley shuttle (Henry’s fault already, as you can see) and I was crossing the street IN A CROSSWALK when this woman came careening around the bend. I saw her coming and thought, “Oh surely this dumb cooze is going to slow her roll.” FALSE. She just kept coming and then she saw me at the last second, when I WAS LEAPING TO SAFETY. I have never come that close to getting hit by a car, but she was literal centimeters away from clipping me. We made eye contact and I screamed, “HEY!!!!” at the same time she mouthed the words, “OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY” and then drove off, leaving guilty fumes in her wake. I hope she stewed over that all day, because I know I sure did. I wanted to press charges at one point, but Henry was all, “Yeah but….did she even hit you?” OK, WHITE KNIGHT.
  • The perils of taking the trolley! Henry is trying to have me killed!

• Remember when banana clips were the shit? Chooch doesn’t. He was like, “But why would someone want to wear this in their hair?” Indeed, son.
  • I never wore banana clips because they didn’t look right on me. I did wear those big floppy bows that came attached to french barrettes. Oh man, I had so many of them. I think I’ll wear one to work on Monday and make Ethan jealous.
    • Because he doesn’t have hair.
      • Although, Amber1 did offer to let him borrow hers.
    • He does have a beard, though.

• My excitement for the week, aside from the PENGUINS VICTORY PARADE, which I will post about separately, was watching the first episode of the new season of MTV’s Are You the One and recognizing that one of the guys is from SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE.
  • My life is so full.
• Speaking of a full life, I watched this on YouTube last night because my aunt has me all stoked for Gino Vannelli:

• Today is Thank God It’s Emarosa Friday, so I shared the new Emarosa video with my WORK HOSTAGES and now both Ambers have agreed, upon their own volition, that they will go with me to see Emarosa next time they’re in town.
  • Which is next month at Warped Tour, but I don’t foresee that happening, so we’ll just wait for the next tour, I guess.
  • And then I heard Amber2 admit that she “sometimes has a soft spot for emo music” so now I’m probably going to start making her playlists.
    • EMAROSA ISN’T EMO but that will be a lesson for another Friday. Emo is a tricky subject.
      • WHAT IF I WAS A MUSIC TEACHER IN REAL LIFE?!?!

• Chooch found a Rick Astley tape at my Pappap’s house and went nuts over it. OH THE THINGS WE FIND.
• Speaking of Chooch (but not Rick Astley), he took a page out of my manual and recorded his nemesis LARRY bitching about being under-appreciated. Sometimes I really love my kid.
  • I mean, always! I always love my kid.

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• I accidentally stood up my friend Stacey for dinner last Tuesday. I can’t even believe it and I feel like such a royal asshole. And it wasn’t even like I had blown her off for better plans! It was just another evening at The House, taking out garbage and having Why So Formal pizza.
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  But everything going on has turned my brain into mush and most of the time, I don’t even know what day it is. So basically, what Henry said was going to happen to me is finally starting to happen. “You need to pull back,” he said. “You’re getting too invested,” he said.

  • But, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
  • Anyway, my point is that I’m now officially That Person who is too self-involved to remember a goddamn dinner date. Ugh, I hate myself.
    • SEE?! SELF-INVOLVED.
• Anyway, back to me and my life. Today on my lunch break I went to Nicholas Coffee to buy a new bag of coffee for work because I used the last of my Cafe Orange blend and I can’t be expected to work an entire day on only one cup of coffee. I had every hope and intention of buying Maple Cinnamon but they didn’t have it. Right as the voices in my head had agreed with each other that Vanilla Buttercream was the way to go, a young girl breezed up to me at the counter and asked in the most bored and apathetic tone ever if she could help me. I DON’T KNOW, CAN YOU?! I nervously ordered my bag of coffee and then stuttered when she asked, “Whole bean?
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  ” because she had me so flustered with her brash 70-year truck stop diner waitress attitude. I managed to tell her I wanted it ground and then also slid one of those random Ice Cube chocolates onto the counter next to my credit card. When she came back with my total, I asked her if she also rang up the chocolate, and she waved it off with an eye roll. I started to thank her for hooking it up and she angrily spat, “IT’S JUST 50 CENTS.” I ate that Ice Cube on my way through Market Square and though it was delicious, it was marred by the bitter notes of confusion and humility.

  • But my coffee tastes fucking amazing, so I’ll keep going there and enduring the emotionally jarring customer service I consistently receive. It’s all part of the experience, really.

And that’s all for now.