Henry just now broke the news to me that Zsa Zsa Gabor has passed away. My obsession with her started in 5th grade. I wrote about it during one of the Blogathon things I participated in, so please excuse me as I repost that in her beautiful Hungarian honor.

RIP you mahhhvelous broad.

****

When I Played Zsa Zsa Gabor

July 31, 2010

“You probably don’t know who Zsa Zsa Gabor is, do you?” Barb asked me the other day, having just read of Zsa Zsa’s bone-breakage upon falling out of bed.

“Oh, DO I!” I exclaimed, swiveling around in my chair.

In fifth grade, we had to get into interview/interviewee groups. I have no idea what we were studying that made this a necessary assignment, but I was in a group with my friend Spring and some asshole bitch whose name isn’t even worth mentioning (the same one who years later went on to befriend Henry’s ex-wife!).

Everyone else in the class chose normal people to role-play with, like one girl was Debbie Gibson and the interviewer asked her questions about her new perfume, Electric Youth. Someone was a skateboarder. Another boy was a weatherman. Normal fifth grade character studies!

Me? I was Zsa Zsa Gabor. My Aunt Sharon swore it would be a hit. “Either her, or you could be Imelda Marcos!” I had no idea who either of them were, but Sharon found me a shoulder-padded sequined blouse and a blond wig, so it was decided that I would be Zsa Zsa. Spring was the interviewer, and The Bitch was the cop who received Zsa Zsa’s backhand.

That was the big thing in celebrity news at that time.

The Bitch was perfect for the role as the cop, because she was portly and looked like Chief Wiggums from The Simpsons.

I didn’t know much about Zsa Zsa. Sharon told me to just keep splaying out my hand and saying “Dahhhhling” over and over.

It was a train wreck. No one in the class understood who we were supposed to be, except for Mrs. Madden who was behind the camcorder failing at stifling her laughs.

Somewhere, I have a copy of this disaster on VHS. Maybe one day if I find it, I’ll find a way to put it online so everyone can laugh at my visible discomfort of playing the role of some old Hungarian stranger that no under the age of 40 knew back then, and then dance around in a ring of schadenfreude.

“You’re a very interesting young lady,” Barb said after I told her this story. Interesting is not the word Henry and Alisha would use.

While our country was in the middle of imploding last month, the only thing I could think was, “This year has been like toddler backwash in the cup of life. I just want to be with my friends and not care about anything for a few hours, Henry we’re having a party.” And Henry was like, “—-” and I was like, “Too late, I already invited people.” Henry LOVES when that happens, but at least this time I gave him a three second heads up before he got the Facebook event notification.

I created the event on my phone, probably through tears because a veil of salty face water is 2016’s little black dress. As such, I accidentally spelled party as “parth” and WENDY had a field day with that one. The next day at work, she was like, “I’m going to dress like Jennie Garth to your holiday parth” and then Lori, who had stopped in Wendy’s office right at that moment, was all, “LOL and I’m going to be Shannon Doherty” so then they wanted me to be Tori Spelling?! I was like, “Why do I have to be Tori Spelling!?” and I got unreasonably upset about this, so then Wend was all, “Fine you can be David Silver then. Or Andrea!” and I cried, “I DON’T WANT TO BE ANY OF THOSE PEOPLE!” and stormed back to my desk, even after Lori offered to relinquish her claim on Brenda.

“Wow, that took a turn,” Lori laughed.

#blamewendy

As usual, this was poorly planned. HENRY waited until the last minute to start preparing, after ignoring my month-long texts of food suggestions. His big idea was to make mini ham BBQ sandwiches and I was like, “Wow, how Yinzer of you. Can we fill an old tire full of Coors Lite, too?” And then he waited until two hours into the party to finally serve the vegetarian meatballs I begged him to make, and he only made like 10 of them and had to cut them into little pieces, and then he didn’t even make fancy sauce, he just used STORE BOUGHT ONES. Whatever, Henry. Go fuck yourself.

Also, I spent like FIFTEEN MINUTES at the idiotic grocery store, trying to decide what kinds of crackers to buy, and then we forgot to put them out on the table. And Henry wouldn’t buy fancy bread and instead bought some gross, dry, tiny loaf of party bread that no one ate because it was a real saliva-sucker and I didn’t eat it either. Chooch tried one and then threw it out in front of everyone.

(OK FINE I PICKED OUT THE BREAD BECAUSE I WAS CONFUSED AND FLUSTERED AND JUST WANTED TO BE DONE.)

We were really crunched for time, so I actually offered to help Henry with kitchen-y things. He had me cut peppers (!!!!!). First he gave me a huge knife, then thought better of it and swapped it out with something less dangerous. Still, it took me forever to dice them the way he showed me. I kept asking him what the peppers were for, to which he repeatedly responded with a vague, “Um…I’m not sure yet.”

OH I’LL TELL YOU WHAT THEY WERE FOR: his motherfucking ham BBQ!!! That bastard had me sous-cheffing for his gross meat shit!! Talk about betrayal.

I wanted Henry to make more sweet things too but he made no such thing, so then I just had Janna bake cookies and she did because I told her to. Obedient friends are important to have, guys. And Chris and Monica brought salted caramel bars too so thank god!

At least I didn’t screw up the punches. (And yes, that sign mentions pregnant people because Robbie’s girlfriend is having twins! HENRY IS GOING TO BE A GRANDFATHER!!! And someone else is pregnant too but hasn’t officially announced it yet so I won’t out them on here. And no it’s not me, ew.) Honestly, the beverage buffet is my favorite part of having parties. Plus, I get joy in seeing Blake daintily holding a tiny punch glass.

I did this! Here’s my Pinterest-worthy step-by-step DIY:

1. Hand garland to people.
2. Have them do it for you.

In my case, the “people” were Henry and Robbie. WELL DONE! Robbie also hung my “Merry Christmas” garland for me above the beverage buffet, because Henry was “too busy.”

But then people started to arrive and I didn’t care about the dumb food anymore because woo, distractions!

Guest list:

• Robbie and Nikki
• Blake and Haley
• Sandy, Elene and Zoe
• Amber1 and Brian
• Janna
• Barb
• Lori
• Lauren and Tony
• Chris and Monica
• Wendy, Shawn and Summer
• Sean and Ines
• Shawn and Jess

Lisa and Kara both sadly had to un-RSVP earlier that day because they were sick. :( I was so sad! It seemed weird without them. Although I think maybe Kara was just trying to avoid Henry because she is the QUEEN of finding ridiculous things for sale that she knows will get me all riled up, so she’ll text me the link to various oddities knowing that an impending headache will ensue for Henry, having to hear me whine and beg for things like an old bumper car being auctioned from a defunct amusement park. And then Henry will scream, “THAT THING WOULDN’T EVEN FIT THROUGH OUR FRONT DOOR” and Kara will reply, “If he really loved you, he’d find a way.”

Like, we have a roof you know — cut a hole and drop it through, Henry!

Holy fork receptacle — I DID THIS.

YOU GUYS, THERE ARE TWINS IN THERE. I can’t wait to be the weirdest young faux-grandma ever!!!! LET’S GO TO WARPED TOUR, BABIES!

As if everyone didn’t already feel under-dressed, Zoe had to go and add a garland boa to her ensemble. <3

Chooch said he had a good time at the party but his favorite part was when everyone left. Wow.

Henry and Shawn coming up with a hopeful Mouse Attack stratagem.

Ugh, everyone LOVES Chooch, blah blah blah.

A Somber Convo.

Blake and the dainty punch cup. PINKIE FINGER ACTIVATED.

When Barb walked in, Chooch casually said, “Wrong house.” I love their weird frenemyship.

Also, I think this is the first time I had a party where everyone was there at once (usually my non-game night parties are of a revolving door-variety where some people come early and some come late) so my tiny house was pretty packed. Sorry guys!

Not sorry to my ASSHOLE NEIGHBORS though. Hope all the loud laughter and talking disturbed them. (It probably didn’t though, ugh.)

I jokingly mentioned in the Facebook event thing that perhaps we also do lame crafts, but then it became a reality. Chooch picked out some s’mores craft thing with was evidently extremely frustrating to create, but luckily Sandy came prepared with foam snowflakes, stickers, and markers, so that seemed to appease the kids (and Blake and Haley). I think my favorite scene was Zoe crafting on the Devil rug.

Pictured: Haley using the s’mores craft supplies to make a snowman, while Chris waves her hand at this impromptu display of ingenuity and says, “WHOA.” Meanwhile, Blake just played with an electrical current.

(The s’mores craft really played with Chooch’s patience, that’s for sure. “It was TERRIBLE. Did not work” — Chooch’s 1 star review.)

Henry was in his glory because all of his favorite Sean/Shawns were there.

I wouldn’t let anyone leave without taking their picture with Trudy the Beauty:

The night before, I had a dream that I forgot to make the punch and didn’t realize it until the next morning, but then it ended up not even mattering because no one showed up anyway. I was nervous all day, wondering if everyone was going to cancel on me, but it ended up being such a nice turn-out! Someday, I’ll move out of this shanty and into something bigger, and then EVERYONE CAN COME!

P.S. It’s been a week and my house is still clean! The best part of having parties: Henry DEEP CLEANS.

When I was making a Spotify playlist for my Christmas party last weekend, things got weird. It happens every winter: I subconsciously veer off into my goth origins, and before I could stop myself, the playlist began to fill up with  Greatest Funeral Hits and dark synthpop dirges.

Type O Negative’s “Red Water (Christmas Mourning)” was playing while I searched for my favorite Projekt Holiday compilation tracks to add—Projekt is/was a goth record label and I used to buy all their comps because I was a comp princess—and Henry scoffed, “Seriously, Erin? People have had the worst year of their lives and now they’re going to leave our party in tears.”

I MEAN I WOULDNT GO THAT FAR, HENRY. I had Carly Rae Jepsen tracks on there, for Christ’s sake! But I get it. I gotchu. Not everyone likes to stew in a morose marinade like I do. And truthfully, there was a lot of Cure up in there—and not the happy, radio hits, either. So I remedied that shit by adding some Kpop to the mix. Because how sad can you be with Kpop gyrating into the room while you’re eating handfuls of cheese slices and trying to work up the nerve to ask Henry if he ever killed a bitch in THE SERVICE.

While I was adding my fave Kpop hits, I felt inspired to check YouTube to see if any new developments had happened with KpopX. I hadn’t been working out with them for awhile because they weren’t adding anything new and I was getting bored with the old routines. LONG STORY SHORT, there were new routines, but not only that, I discovered K-KARDIO!!! Holy shit, KpopX has a competitor! So I’ve been back to Kpopping all over the house again and Henry and Chooch are currently embroiled in an intense frown competition. Henry hates how the Kpop songs get stuck in his head, and I’m like, but that’s the best part?

Anyway, during my K-Kardio exploration, I realized that the main choreographer looked very familiar, and it’s because SHE WAS ONE OF THE KPOPX INSTRUCTORS. Holy shit, Jessica left KpopX!?!?

I became worried that there was a rift with her and Maddie, and the creator of KpopX, but then I saw that Maddie still follows her on Instagram, so whew.

I was so excited to share my discovery with Henry, who completely shouldered past me and started doing things he considers “more important” than KpopX, like paying bills or….I don’t know, what are important things? I’m 13, remember.

So then I was like IT’S FINE, MY WORK FRIENDS WILL CARE. But Glenn did not give me the reaction I was looking for, and Todd was just like, “Crazy girl is talking to me again, help.”

Their punishment was that this week’s Friday Video pick was Red Velvet’s “Dumb Dumb,” which is one of my favorite KpopX routines! I hope that it stays stuck in their heads all weekend long.

Amber2 and Sandy seemed to enjoy it though and now they both want a “Dumb” stamp, so hopefully Santa is reading this.

P.S. I kind of like K-Kardio better than KpopX, OMG please don’t tell Maddie!

P.P.S. OMG also I think that Maddie and Jessica might be sisters?!

P.P.P.S. Henry just asked me what “Dumb Dumb” is about and I’m like, “….you?”

P.P.P.P.S. Here’s my Holiday Hangs playlist if anyone cares. I even put a Krampus song on there for Chris and Monica!

Throwback to that time in 2002 when I dressed up a pickle like Henry and he was super annoyed by it.

LOL @ Henry’s molester ‘stache.

It was starting to feel like it had been months since I’d been to a show, maybe since the last one was so terrible. The Citizen show at the Rex couldn’t have come at a better time. This will probably be the last show I go to this year, and I had no doubt that it would be DIVINE.

Citizen decided to do a short tour to coincide with the Something In the Way festival that they’re scheduled to play tonight in NYC, a festival with all Run For Cover bands in the lineup—oh how my heart aches. I would love to go to that! But seeing Citizen headline a small Pittsburgh show was nearly as good.

Henry booted me out of the car outside of the Rex, without giving me any money. I mean, I did my chores*, so what the fuck, Henry?!

*(I washed 1/3 of the dishes in the sink; I always leave behind plastic tumblers because I hate washing those, anything sharp, and things that require actual scrubbing.)

My routine when I go to shows alone is:

1. Pray my ticket is at will call (if I didn’t have it mailed to me)
2. Make a beeline to the bar and nervously ask, “WHAT KIND OF WHEAT BEERS DO YOU HAVE, JUST PICK ONE FOR ME BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW.”
3. Find a dark hole to fall into where no one will see me, talk to me, look at me, judge me, care that I’m there.

On this night, I opted for whatever this thing is in that picture. Except that the bartender kindly reminded me that it was cash only, which I didn’t know because somehow I always have cash when I’m at the Rex except this time – BLAME HENRY. So she sent me off to the lobby where the ATM was sitting all innocently, except that it refused to accept either of my credit cards, so I had to ask the bouncer if there was a trick I didn’t know about, at which point he came over and coolly took my card out of my hands, blew on it, flicked it, kicked the side of the ATM, and….it didn’t work.

“There’s a PNC a block down on the right,” he shrugged, giving up after 30 seconds. WOW MY HERO.

Also, every bouncer looks the same to me. Is that rude or…?

Anyway, I got my dumb money and then Henry bitched at me later because instead of walking to the PNC, I panicked and stopped at the first ATM I came across and then paid a $3.50 service fee and have you met Henry? He’s one cheap motherfucker.

My beer was waiting for me when I got back, and I found myself wondering if it was even worth the hassle of the ATM odyssey. But…anxiety. It’s the “walking in” part of going to shows alone that’s the worst. I’m OK after that, but a little alcohol never hurts.

The Rex has a very small balcony, so I took refuge up there in the shadows, sitting alone on a stool and forcing Henry to text me until the show started.

There were about 5 other people up there with me, mostly inoffensive, but I knew I was just biding my time and would eventually make my way back downstairs before Citizen.

The first two bands were local: Same and Yrs. I had never heard of Same before, and they were OK. But I’ve definitely seen Yrs on lineups of tours I’ve been interested in, yet have somehow never managed to see them. And also managed to not know they’re from Pittsburgh. They were good! Definitely a band I would seek out in the future. Someone screamed, “You have a very interesting voice!” and the singer was like, “I know.” They had good stage presence and kept me from being bored, which sometimes happens when I’m just like, waiting and waiting to see the band I came to see.

Shortly after Yrs ended their set, I gifted my seat to the boyfriend of the girl sitting next to me, because I had spotted the perfect spot near the stage and I didn’t want to risk waiting any longer. Dizzy Pleasure Club started playing right as I made it downstairs, and I quickly slipped into a spot along the right side of the of the stage, where not a single motherfucker bothered me for the whole rest of the night.

I had to pee so bad but didn’t want to lose my spot. Looking at this picture makes me feel like I have to pee again.

Dizzy Pleasure Club was a last minute addition to the line-up. They’re from Baltimore and are made up of various members from Turnstile and Angel Du$t, so I was interested. This was only their 3rd show but you would never know it!

After the first song, the singer deadpanned, “We’re going to play 4 more songs for you….because we only have five songs.”  Ugh, it felt good to laugh with a bunch of strangers. EVEN THOUGH I HATE PEOPLE. I confuse myself sometimes.

Anyway, I was really into DPC.

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AND THEN FINALLY CITIZEN. They make me feel like I’m 17 again, full of energy and hope, and I wish I could wakeup every morning to them playing The Night I Drove Alone at the foot of my bed because that song makes me want to throw myself against the wall.

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This was the 4th time I saw them this year: headlining show at Altar Bar, Bled Fest in Michigan, and then Riot Fest in Chicago. But this night topped them all. It was the closest I’ve ever been able to get to the stage for them, and the crowd was just amazingly perfect — MY PEOPLE. It never seems to matter that I’m there alone once the band starts playing, because we’re all friends at that point. We’re all there to scream along to a band whose lyrics cut us to the core, remind us that we’re alive, make us feel like we’re all a part of something bigger. It’s easy to forget what that feels like when you’re sitting at a desk in a sterile office all week, or getting ready to declare on your psycho neighbor, or being degraded online by people who don’t share the same social views are you. All these things build up and you start to build those walls around yourself like you’re fucking Mexico and then suddenly you go to a show and your band starts to play and it’s like…FREE AT LAST.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BOBcqPFjeFA/?taken-by=ohhonestlyconcerts

I’m always hoping that one day I’ll either coerce a friend to like a band that I like, or maybe actually MAKE A FRIEND at a show, but at the end of the night, it doesn’t matter. Because for those 2-3 hours, no one in that room is a stranger. We’re all on the same side and it’s fucking amazing. I hate when it ends.

I love you, Citizen. You ruined my left contact from all the tears you produced, but it was worth it. <3

Eventually, this high will wear off, and then I’ll just have to wait for the next show to breathe life into me again.

The asshole neighbors are still next door, and while things have (mostly) simmered down (knock on the wood of their severely damaged and beaten front door), there have been some new developments.

Since Henry talked to the landlord, it’s been mostly quiet over there. In fact, we started to think that Boots is living there alone now, like maybe the landlord was all, “Yo, I never said your strung out sex doll can shack up with you, get her out of there.” While Boots drives me nuts with the slamming and the stomping, it’s admittedly Phyllis’s gross smoker’s voice and hearing her scream lazily at him that really makes me feel psychotic.

So Tuesday through Thursday, we heard very minimal noise. An occasional opening and shutting of the front door, but NO SLAMMING. To the point where I was sure it was another person who was there, not Boots. Regular footsteps replaced the cinderblock-stomping on the stairs. I was able to sleep through the night! It was a fucking dream!

I was off on Friday. I heard movement next door, what sounded like the opening and shutting of cabinets in the kitchen, quiet sane-sounding voices. Maybe the landlord was there inspecting? Who could tell without x-ray glasses. But then I heard a dog barking. I looked outside and saw Boots on the porch with a Jack Russell and thought, “OH GOD IF HE HAS A DOG NOW, THEN SHIT’S GETTING REAL” and then I noticed, parked across the street, A U-HAUL. Nooooooo! My greatest fear realized! Boots was legit moving in! That dog probably had the house address engraved on its tag!

Thankfully, from my Concerned Neighbor Watch Post at my bedroom window, I determined that Boots was actually helping Chooch’s nemesis Larry move junk out of Larry’s house. The one thing I saw looked like an old furnace. I’m not sure how this matters to the story, but there it is. Larry eventually drove off in the U-Haul, and then a few minutes later, I saw Boots running down the street with the dog under his arm!?

I heard the dog barking again later, don’t worry. He brought it back.

I think it was actually Larry’s dog. Chooch knows everything about the neighborhood, most of all what kinds of dogs each house holds, and he verified that my description of the dog sounded like Larry’s. So I think Boots was just keeping Larry’s dog in his house so it wouldn’t run away while they had Larry’s door open? I DON’T KNOW, YOU GUYS, BUT THIS IS HOW I SPENT AN ENTIRE DAY OFF WORK. I HATE MYSELF.

Saturday, we heard Boots shuffling around, and still no sign of Phyllis. I was getting to the point where I felt that, if this was how things would stay, I could possibly accept Boots being my neighbor. Without Phyllis there provoking his temper, I wasn’t so on edge.

Still though, I worried about how things would go that night, when I had some friends over for a holiday party. Oh god, please don’t embarrass me Boots!

If anything was unraveling over there that night, I couldn’t hear over the noise in my own house. I hoped that it was annoying Boots! Sandy said that when she left my house, Boots was also leaving his house in a “creepy huff” and she was afraid he was going to abduct her and her girls, but she was at work today, so I guess Boots resisted the urge. I stayed up late that night, hanging out with Janna after my party ended, and Boots had visitors. It sounded like several men, and they were walking around and talking loudly for most of the night. One of the guys was driving a pick-up and he came and went numerous times. I turned up my radio super loud and put it against Boots’ bedroom wall and then I finally fell asleep around 2:30am. God only knows when that asshole went to bed.

Sunday afternoon, we realized that the window in Boots’ front door is busted out and he has a piece of cardboard taped over it. GEE I WONDER HOW THAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED HE TAKES SUCH GREAT CARE OF THAT DOOR.

Later, all was bone-chillingly quiet next door, when suddenly, Boots started murdering his front door and bellowing, “MELISSA OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!! MELISSSSSSSSAAAAAAA!!!!!” and then he would kick the door so hard it would shudder our side of the house. Henry looked at me and said, “I honestly don’t think anyone else is over there?!” And so then I started to imagine that Phyllis (Melissa) was dead in the bedroom and he was so delusional that he thought she was going to come downstairs and open the door for him.

So now I wonder if he just has a habit of keeping the front door unlocked?

Anyway, I stood up and said, “OH FUCK NO, I’VE HAD IT” and Henry was all, “OMG PLEASE DON’T DO SOMETHING STUPID” but I was already whipping open my front door angrily. This man is not going to be satisfied until he splits his door in half.

Boots stopped pounding on his door and drug-drawled, “It’s just me, babe, sorry. Don’t tell [the landlord].” I gave him a death glare and made a disgusted noise, then came back in the house with a succinct slam of my door to punctuate the encounter.

HE CALLED ME BABE. Where’s the sewing kit, my vagina’s getting stitched up.

Henry heard him say “don’t tell [the landlord]” and we started cracking up, because clearly the landlord did talk to him and must have given him a warning. While we were laughing, Boots had entered the house through the basement and had begun his rage-stomp through the house, screaming his face off for Phyllis, who never answered him because she’s dead or something.

Later that evening, some man came to his house twice in search of him. He was knocking like a normal person, though he was calling Boots’ name relatively loudly. He left and came back later in search of Boots and I was like, “HE IS CLEARLY NOT HOME GO FUCK YOURSELF ASSHOLE” and Henry was all, “He’s not even doing anything — GET BACK IN THE HOUSE!” because by that point, I was throwing open my door like a wild woman looking for a fight. BOOTS IS RUINING MY LIFE.

I was home again from work om Monday but nothing much went on. I don’t think Boots even woke up until around 11 because I didn’t start hearing his footsteps until then. This is my life now. I am so fucking tuned in to every tiny movement on the other side of the wall.

I got home last night from seeing Citizen (<3) around 10:00 and while Henry was taking out the garbage, I saw a tall man walking through the yard to meet Boots, who was standing on his porch in shorts. The man seemed normal, and I think it was possibly the same man who was looking for him Sunday night. They went inside and had normal-volume conversations, which I could hear only because I muted everything SO I COULD HEAR. Now Henry thinks that maybe it’s his parole officer, because this is what we do in our spare time, sit around in our mismatched PJs, passing judgment and making crude character assessments of those on lower social rungs. (There are not many rungs lower than ours, so let us have our moment to feel better about ourselves, OK??)

Anyway, I know you were al worried but Phyllis apparently isn’t dead because I heard her fucking gross voice last night when I was trying to go to bed. I decided that I hate Phyllis more than Boots. I think I want to fight her.

The best part of my update is that while I was at work today, Henry said he was walking down the street to get Chooch who was at his friend Jaden’s house. He walked past Larry, who stopped him and said, “Hey, please don’t associate me with him,” and pointed to Boots’ house. “I’m trying to get rid of him.” If anyone knows Boots, it’s Larry, because they used to work together. So…sorry Chooch, but Larry is now our BFF and we must join forces to rid our street of Boots. I wish I had been there when this happened because I would have started asking Larry questions about Boots but dumb Henry was just like “Oh OK” and kept walking.

I need a new partner in my neighbor-spying game. Henry sucks.

A lot of the stuff in my house looks like junk. Like the random rock on my mantel, or the 16-year-old orange Starburst in my freezer (it’s survived two fridge upgrades!

), the $2 Last Supper portrait in my bathroom, or the tiny stuffed hippo on top of my bedroom dresser. There’s my Christmas tree topper that I cut from a flimsy baking tin that everyone always tells me I should throw away, and the tiny bottle of teeth in my curio.

But there’s a story behind everything. And that’s why I keep things that Henry would prefer I threw out, put back outside, burned, or buried.

There’s one random thing that looks almost too normal and basic to be in here, a bluebird tea light that guides the way to the bathroom when I have parties.

The kind of object that no one would be able to imagine me walking into a store and purchasing with my own cash money. When I was putting a candle in it on Saturday, I started to laugh to myself because it’s a tangible souvenir from the time I was invited to a Mormon women’s dinner at their church in Greentree, back when I was taking a creative non-fiction writing class at Pitt and had to choose a stranger to interview for an assignment.

I picked the Mormon missionary who had swung by my house once on a solicitation basis, in her long, stiff wool skirt.

This one dumb ceramic bird is a symbol of extreme emotional discomfort, pushing myself out of my comfort zone* in order to write something completely different for me, back when I used to actually care about my writing and didn’t just blog from the WordPress app on my phone, crossing my fingers that the typos would be minimal, but also not giving enough shits to go back and proofread. My Pitt writing professors would be so fucking proud to see me now. #washedup

*(Back then, anything that involved me leaving the house was me “pushing myself out of my comfort zone.”)

Every once in a while, I catch of glimpse of this damn bird, and I feel really proud that I opened myself up to that strange experience, that instead of hiding from someone going door-to-door in a Jesus skirt, I sought her out and tried to understand why she does missionary work, and my reward for that was this blue bird…and an A on my paper. Duh. It also makes me think of how much has changed since then, when I was going to college to become someone that everyone said I should be, not who I wanted to be.

One stupid little candle holder, but so much sentimental value!

DEEP THOUGHTS FOR A MONDAY.

Another week in the books, time to purge the ol’ battered brain. (Battered as in beaten, not deep-fried carnival treat. OR IS IT A DEEP-FRIED CARNIVAL TREAT. I think there’s a recipe for that in Jeffrey Dahmer’s cookbook. What am I even talking about. I need sleep, my people.)

• At work on Thursday, Gayle sent out a department wide email about having an extra candle she didn’t need and first person to her desk gets it. First of all, there’s no such thing as “not needing a candle.” CANDLES ARE LIFE. Luckily, I sit about five feet away from Gayle’s desk, so I got up to casually walk over and claim my free candle in a cool, calm, and collected manner. In my world, that includes nearly catapulting ones self out of their chair, taking a giant lunge, and then galloping like a FUCKING RACE HORSE around the corner to Gayle’s dark abode, completely cutting off Catherine, who had dashed out of her office at the same time in an effort to be #1. BUT I WON! And I have no problem admitting to the Internet that I was prepared to throw an elbow or eight (you don’t know my body) and clothesline a person if I had to. Anyway, you’re reading the blog of a proud new owner of a SLEIGH BELLS scented candle, homemade by Gayle’s friend. I let Catherine hold it long enough to catch a whiff, because I wanted her loss to sting even harder. I care.
  • I’m not sure what SLEIGH BELLS are supposed to smell like, but I think cinnamon?
  • Apparently, Catherine and I created a quite the audible stampede, so the topic of candles became a group conversation, which inspired me to share a CAUTIONARY TALE involving candle tarts. Here, I’ll tell you, too. Pull up a seat, bring a pencil to jot down some notes, or just write your name over and over in different styles like I do in meetings, but make sure you add various accolades after it, like ‘is awesome” and “rules” and “is better than everyone in the entire world.” Anyway, my story dates back to 2005. I was home alone one day, which right away tells you that this is about to be one of the Harrowing Chapters in my life. One of the candle tarts had been burning for some time in my bedroom and I decided that I needed to change the scent immediately. Because if the wax was still in liquid-form, it should be harder to change, right? So I did the logical thing and carted the burner into the bathroom and poured it right into the toilet. Former honor student, right here! What I hadn’t anticipated was that once it hit the water, it would QUADRUPLE IN SIZE. Maybe even whatever comes after quadruple. It immediately hardened and blew up like a balloon, turned into this grotesque, elephantine wax brain, buoyantly glurging in the commode, threatening to come to life. Now, here’s the part of the story where I couldn’t quite remember the ending aside from the fact that Henry was all, “OHHONESTLYERIN!!!” when he came home from work. So later that night (we’re back to present-day now, try to keep up) I mentioned this story to Henry and he laughed without mirth (see also: disgusted sigh). In Henry’s reality, I left it I the toilet and waited for him to roll up on his white stallion, Sir Lancelot’s plunger in hand, to conquer the Yankee Candle commode coagulation. Sure, this seems plausible….but I decided that I better fact check this in the ol’ LiveJournal archives. Because I knew this was something I would have transcribed for posterity since I have no life. And here I am, 11 years later, recounting this tale like it’s the story of my ENGAGEMENT or something (thanks, Henry). LiveJournal reminded me that I was a brave girl that day and reached into the toilet all on my own and removed that chunky abomination of Midsummers Night and threw it in the garbage. However, various tendrils stayed behind, hugging the sides of the toilet bowl like waxy plankton, so I did what ANY ONE OF YOU would do and flushed. And then the toilet proceeded to run all day long until Henry rolled up on his white stallion, Sir Lancelot’s plunger in hand, to conquer the Yankee Candle commode coagulation. There. Henry’s the hero yet again. I HOPE THIS STORY SATISFIED YOU.
  • Speaking of being satisfied, I don’t get the appeal of those “satisfying” YouTube videos. They don’t make me feel satisfied! They just make me feel like I am literally watching the thing that’s happening and feeling no emotion about it whatsoever.
• The look Henry gets on his face when I get in the car & casually say, “I don’t know what I signed up for but there’s apparently no cancellation fee” could be used in place of those alarm system decals to deter burglars. Anyway, turns out it was to switch our electric over to some clean environmental thing and Henry is like blowing the top of his head off over this. He was reading the pamphlet I was given while saying “Tell me you didn’t sign up for this. This is what that guy came to the door about last week when I said NO!!” But it was some sweet college boy, and I couldn’t say no! Even though when I was walking by and he said, “Excuse me miss, do you have a second?” I said no. Yet somehow, here we are. Now I have to call and cancel but I don’t feel like it.
  • “ALL OF THESE REVIEWS FOR THIS COMPANY ARE ONE STAR, ERIN!” Henry frantically hissed. I feel like the last time I did something like this, it was for my phone (back in the landline days) and the utility company somehow managed to forward all of my phone calls to a tattoo shop in Homestead, PA. #truestory
    • But I mean…no cancellation fee…so.
• My smug face, in case you forgot what I looked like:

• I’M GOING TO SEE CITIZEN TOMORROW NIGHT! Fourth time this year, plus another time too when I saw Mat on his solo tour! I can’t explain how rejuvenating this band is for me. Another show by myself, but it’s OK. Eventually I’ll start making friends. Right, Internet diary?? #pityparty #toobadsosad
• Last Monday on my lunch break, I was accidentally walking beside a man who started introducing himself to passers-by as “Satan.” This was near the Army Navy store, and that’s where the other crazy guy bought his machete!! I didn’t stick around to find out if this was going to be Machete Monday Part 2: Erin Gets Hemisected
• Henry tried to serve me the worst acorn squash tonight and I sent it back to the kitchen with a quickness. I love acorn squash, but he strayed from the tried and true path and added some strange combination of spices to it and my palate was like, “Bitch, hell no.” So then he roasted other vegetables for and practically frisbeed it at my face. What a sensitive cook.

• Sometimes Chooch goes to this super lame gaming place on the boulevard and I’m like, “Whatever, loaf with all the geeks, whatever.” And then I just make Henry deal with it (you know, the small, unimportant details such as: having money to pay, and getting picked up, etc.) but yesterday, Henry was like, “IF YOU EXPECT TO HAVE A PARTY TONIGHT, YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO HELP ME BECAUSE I CAN’T DO IT ALL ON MY OWN, SO AT THE VERY LEAST, GO PICK UP CHOOCH FROM THE GAMING PLACE WHILE I’M COOKING.” Ugh god, I can’t stand how dependent he gets on me! So there I am, bailing Henry out once again, driving to some lame ass gaming place to pick up my kid. So I go inside all huffily because why do I have to do everything, and then some guy is all, “Oh hello” and I’m all, “OH HELLO GUY WHO MILDLY LOOKS LIKE CHRIS PRATT BUT ENOUGH THAT I FIND MYSELF SUDDENLY INTERESTED IN THE GAMING PLACE.” So I collect my kid and as we’re leaving, Cute Guy says “Bye Riley!” all cheerily and I whispered, “WHO IS THAT” and Chooch (a/k/a Riley) casually shrugged and said, “The guy in charge.” We came home and I was like, “Hey Henry, I’ll be in charge of gaming place drop-off and pick-up from now on, you’re so very welcome.”
  • Chooch just told me the guy’s name is Ed. “Oh. Eh….let’s just go ahead and call him….Damon.” Ed is not sexy.

• Got a new mask for the wall! If you ever see an old Halloween mask at the flea market or thrift store, grab that shit up for me and I will trade you serial killer cards for it, or something of actual value…like a piece of Henry’s liver.
• I still don’t know what’s going on with the weird neighbors. More on that later, I guess. I’m just obsessed  now at this point. To the point of flat out stalking and spying. Eh, nothing new for me, though. #lowkeysociopath
• Speaking of, while Chooch was at the gaming place yesterday, Henry had to go to the store to get more stuff for the holiday party we hosted last night, and I actually went with him for once because it seemed the better alternative to staying home alone while Boots was next door marinating in nicotine and gin baths. Or whatever it is he does. Fucking weirdo. (I feel you, Phyllis.) So Henry was standing in line to buy CHIPPED HAM (ugh gross) and he said, “Instead of standing here being in everyone’s way, why don’t you go to AISLE THREE and get the paper plates.” And then he repeated “AISLE THREE” like four more times for good measure, and I’m like, “Dude, you can say it all you want, that’s not going to make me magically know how to get there.” I mean, god. But I did eventually find it and that’s where the real challenge began: WHAT KIND OF PLATES SHOULD I CHOOSE? So I opted for these green plastic ones, because they looked festive, and this was after much deliberation between those and ones that had snowmen on them, but those ones seemed a little trite if we’re being frank here. So I take the plates back to Henry and he had all kinds of negative things to say about them, like, “These are expensive” (????) and “How many people are you planning on feeding?” — whatever that means. So after he collected his gross bag of dead animal, we had to go back to the illustrious AISLE THREE where he completely went over my head (literally — the plates he chose were on a shelf above my head) and I was like, “Then what was even the point of you making me come to AISLE THREE and do this?!” and he was all, “I don’t know. I was stupid to think you could handle it.” OMFG, GET FUCKED, HENRY!

• GUYS KURT TRAVIS HAS A NEW BAND AND I’M SWEATING A LITTLE DO I HAVE A FEVER MAYBE.
• I was off on Friday and it was glorious. I need very little! That’s not true! I made EGGS. Like, how do people even know how to cook eggs, my good god. It was so frustrating! My brow was furrowed and dotted with beads of sweat. I think I scraped Henry’s dumb pan. I somehow twisted the eggs into a knot when I tried to flip them? Part of the yolk was cooked solid and the other part was not cooked at all. I mean, I ate it anyway, but I felt myself getting food poisoning mid-bite. Henry came home and I told him about my disastrous turn in the kitchen and he asked, ‘Well, what were you trying to do to the eggs? Scramble them?” And I said, “Uh no, I was trying to makde dippy eggs, obvi.” And then he was like, “No, please don’t try that again” and said he’s going to teach Chooch how to make them so at least if Henry isn’t home and Chooch is, Chooch can just take care of it for me. Thanks, I think.
  • I luckily did not get sick and die like I anticipated!  I kind of wanted to though because Henry said, “Oh you’ll be fine” and just like, laughed it off, so I wanted him to feel super guilty and sorry that he said that, and didn’t take me to the ER to have my stomach pumped like a real soulmate would have. Probably. Jack probably would have done that for Jennifer on Days of Our Lives.
• Speaking of DAYS, RIP Stefano DiMera. </3
  • Literally, Chooch just said, “Days of Our Lives? What is that?” and I’m like HOW HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD ME TALK ABOUT THAT BEFORE, SON!? So then I had to explain to him what a soap opera is, OMG, and how before he was born, Henry and I would “tape” each episode on the VCR and then watch it while eating dinner, because Henry and I have always been a super hot and exciting couple. Envy us.

• Um. I’ll leave you now with this picture of Drew, who is pissed because I moved her wheelchair and also put lights on it. And then had like 20 people over last night which frightened her and made her squeeze in between Henry’s dresser and the wall because she is the complete opposite of my old cats, who were always like, “PARTY’S HERE! WHERE MY PARTY PPL AT?” Seriously, my original cats (well, minus Willie) were fucking attention-starved party…well…animals. They were always up in it.

CIAO FOR NOW. I’m off work tomorrow too so who knows what tales I’ll regale you with! I HAVE NOTHING ELSE GOING FOR ME.

First thing Monday morning, I was delivered a real coal-raking when Lauren (of all people!) told me, “You know Erin, it’s not always all about you.” Granted, she said it in good fun, but it was still the best thing Glenn would hear all week. Ugh.

Later that day, I was on my lunch break, talking to Henry. I was whining because Chooch had a birthday party to attend later that week, at 5pm!! Who has parties on weeknights at 5pm!?!? And why did it concern me, you might be wondering? Oh, because it meant that since Henry was going to be dealing with that, he wouldn’t be able to pick me up from work, so I would have to TAKE THE TROLLEY, UGH. And when Henry said, “It’s not always about you, Erin” I had brief déjà vu and then said, “Weird. That’s the second time today that’s been said to me!” Henry asked, “Who said it first—Glenn?” YEAH YOU WOULD THINK.

Wednesday was the day I had to take the trolley home, which wouldn’t have been that bad except that I remembered I don’t have a house key, and here’s why: Chooch lost his house key so I let him borrow mine, and then he lost MINE, so Henry had to get him another one made, but never got one made for me!? So Henry was like, “When I go home to get Chooch, I’ll leave his key under the seat of his bike” and I was like, “Chooch has a bike?” SIKE NO—I know he has a dumb bike.

So I got home and of course it was dark out because WINTER SUCKS, so I had to turn on the flashlight on my phone while hunkering down along the side of the house, digging under a bike seat for a fucking key, and it HURT!! Henry had it jammed so far up there that my hand was getting all scraped! Finally, I got the key out but then I couldn’t get it to unlock the door because here’s another thing: my key was the master key. It slid in smooth like butter, like a well-lubed weener, every time. And way back when I had a key made for Henry back when we were “dating,” the dude at Daniel’s Hardware didn’t cut the key very well, so Henry’s been using a janky key for like, 16 years. So then when Chooch lost his key, and then my key, Henry had to get him a new key made using HIS JANKY key, so now both house keys are FUCKED. And now you know the history of my house keys.

Needless to say, I could not for the life of me get this fucking key to unlock my door. I tried all the tricks, such as leaning into the door while turning the key, and….OK, so I tried a trick. After 15 seconds, I gave up and called Henry. Try to picture me shaking with unbridled anger and also HYPOTHERMIA because it was cold out there, with rage beginning to present itself in the form of foam in the corners of my mouth.

Henry answers from the luxury of Dave & Busters, and I hiss, “I can’t get the fucking key to work.”

And here is where Henry says a string of patronizing things like “Are you turning it the right direction?” and “Is it plugged in?” and “Did you turn it off and on again?” Or whatever. I low-key cried into the phone, “You’re a motherfucker and I can’t believe you did this to me GO FUCK YOURSELF.” And then I quickly looked around to make sure no one heard because I am my grandmother’s granddaughter.

While struggling with the key, I looked over and noticed that the mysterious neighbors now have a lamp downstairs, so that’s a new development. Thanks, landlord. It sounded really quiet over there and I imagined that they were spying on me from their bedroom window like I do to them. HOW RICH. Now I’m the trashy neighbor trying to kick her door down while threatening to slit her boyfriend’s throat with a frying pan.

(Shout out to my new DGD friends!)

Henry had the audacity to call me back after I hung up him. I feel like hanging up on someone is a pretty clear cut way to tell them that you no longer wish to expel breath on them but I guess Henry’s too dumb to get it.

We would yell words over top of each other for 10 seconds before I would have to hang up on him again on account of the rage noodles boiling in my blood.

ALSO! Idiot Chooch has some metal Batman keychain and it was cutting into hand every time I tried to force the key to turn! Since when does Chooch give a fuck about Batman?! Oh my god, my hand hurt so bad! It was so red! I was too afraid to look long enough to see if it was bleeding too but it felt like it was. I kept dropping the key on the ground because I was shaking with so much rage, and every single motherfucker who walked past my house looked over at me because I LOOKED LIKE I WAS TRYING TO BREAK IN. So then I would have to stop, casually lean against the porch column, and whistle.

I really didn’t want to have an encounter with Boots or Phyllis while this was happening, so I felt even more stressed out, like I was racing against something….time or whatever. Like the Mormon missionaries were swishing their wool skirted way to my house and I had to get inside, draw the blinds and hunker down on the floor until they left their bible literature and moved on. LIKE THE PIZZA GUY WAS COMING. (Do you even KNOW me? I scream and run up the steps every single time we have pizza delivered. I was scarred by Freddy of Freddy’s Pizza back in the day. He got too friendly with me and my friends and then started to COME IN MY HOUSE?! I mean, the pizza was great, but nope, go away.)

It was clear that I needed help before I did something stupid, like throw a brick through my window/hit myself in the head with a brick/chuck a brick at the next car that drove by. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT A BRICK IN MY POSSESSION COULD MEAN.

WHERE WAS I EVEN GETTING A BRICK!?

Hot Naybor Chris’s light was off, and I certainly wasn’t asking mysterious neighbors, and Marky’s mom would want to hang out and talk and I don’t make a habit of talking to neighbors. But then I noticed that Chooch’s nemesis Larry was unloading groceries from the weird-ass Yellow Cab van that he drives. Oh man, I really didn’t want to have to talk to him. But I couldn’t get in my house! And my rising agitation was threating to destroy any hopeful entry into my dumb house. And I had to pee! SO BADLY. Why didn’t I pee before I left work!?

So I did it. I swallowed my pride. I took a deep breath of compromised Brookline air. I started my slow march to Larry’s house, motherfucking Henry in my head the whole way. Larry had just gone back inside his house, but as I slowly climbed the steps to his door, he had turned to come back out. The sight of me startled him, so right away our interaction was fueled on suspicion and alarm.

I tried to be super friendly, like, “HI I’M ERIN FROM THAT HOUSE THERE” like he doesn’t know I’m the mom of Notorious Chooch. I dangled the key up high and said, “This is really embarrassing, haha, but I can’t get my key to open my door.” Insert self-deprecating shrug and cute sitcom laugh. “So, can you help me?”

He was still looking at me with that super-serious, concerned face, like he couldn’t tell if it was a trap. And I’m like, “Do I look like a burglar? Come the fuck on, man, help me.”

So then he made a “come on” motion with his hand and I followed him back to my house, where I stood on my porch with him for what seemed like a full half hour, enough time to reflect on the idiocy that clouds my life.

I tried to lighten the mood by making jokes, and all of them bombed. Like, “My 10-year-old can open the door, but I can’t, LOL.” And he was just like *no response*. Brookliners are a tough crowd, yo.

But I would just like the record to state that Larry even had a trying time with that defective key. Which made me happy because at least I’m not a moron, but it also meant I had to stand there awkwardly with him in a bubble of rape alert, arms crossed tightly over my boobs. TRUST NO ONE.

After about 5 minutes (OK probably 3), Larry finally got the key to cooperate and my front door popped open. I could see the twinkling lights of Trudy’s arm and all of Henry’s shit strewn about the dining room table and what appeared to be a package containing a vinyl laying on the chair, and I was like THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME! THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME! And then, “Oh yeah, thank you Larry” as I shouldered past him to get inside. I gave him a few seconds of an audience while he explained to me the trick of opening the door and how I was probably turning the key the wrong direction because I Am A Gurl.

So after being all, “Oh OK. Gurl thanks Man,” I shut and double-locked the door, ripped open the vinyl package (it was the 10 year anniversary pressing of Alexisonfire’s “Crisis”!), remembered I had to pee so I peed, and then sat down to watch The Crown.

Ten minutes later, my phone rang, It was Henry.

“DID YOU GET IN THE HOUSE?!!?” he asked hysterically.

Apparently, he wasn’t getting my texts and proceeded to call Hot Naybor Chris to see if he could help, and when he didn’t answer, Henry was actually going to make Chooch leave the party early so they could come home and rescue me, lol.

God guys, calm down. I wasn’t dying.

(Henry for no reason just now told me he’s mad at me and I’m like I don’t care, I’m writing about my hero Larry.)

*OK cool is what I say when Henry doesn’t respond to me in .00000000008 seconds.

Never forget that time last summer when Chooch spied on Larry from the window:

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Hey Larry – I appreciate you. I mean, now I do, anyway. Until you do something to piss me off, which will probably be soon.

Now Chooch REALLY hates Larry.

During the Holiday season of 1999, I turned my back on Christmas music and pretty much exclusively listened to my Black Bible – an epic 4 CD compilation of the goth music. I was so obsessed with it that I turned my purple hand chair into a shrine for it: 

My friends were like “Sigh.”

Anyway. I’ve been all out of whack (or Waco, as autocorrect wants it to be) this week and totally lacking Christmas spirit so I’m pouring salt in the wound by listening to music that I listened to during some of my most depressed nights because GODDAMN what a plan. 

I’m off tomorrow. Maybe I’ll find my holiday joy. Suck the Yuletide marrow out of a candy cane or something.  Or maybe I’ll just sleep all day because I’m tired as fuck, in every aspect. 

Other than that, my only plans are spying on the neighbors, foraging for things to eat without having to cook, and I guess cleaning kind of. 

More things we know about our neighbors:

• We are not the only people who hate them!

Monday evening was wonderful. Henry saw the neighbors leave in a blue car shortly after we came home from work, because now they have a car, I guess. This is a new development. It was around 8:30-9:00 that night, and as I mentioned in an earlier post this week, I was just trying to enjoy an episode of The Affair, motherfuckers. Suddenly, someone started banging and kicking on the neighbors’ front door.

I heard a man scream, “I see your light on, you cunt! Come out here!” So I thought, “Great, Boots is locked out again and is rearin’ to start another domestic battle with Phyllis.” But the more he banged, pounded, and kicked, the more it sounded less like he was irritated about being locked out, and more like he was literally ready to beat someone’s ass.

Then he started screaming again. This is when I began to realize that it wasn’t Boots after all. This was some other male. It sounded at one point like he said, “I saw what you did” — did he know someone in the house watched a person drown?! WAS PHIL COLLINS OUTSIDE MY HOUSE?

WHAT DID HE KNOW!?

The way this man was bellowing though, it chilled me to the bone; he was 100% raging in front of our house. He called the empty house everything from punk, prick, cunt, and faggot. And he was kicking the door with such force that it was making things in my side of the house shake.  I wanted to teleport back to m y childhood bedroom, lock the door, and crawl under the bed. But instead I just stood in the middle of the living room, in a frozen crouch, trembling. Henry ran upstairs to  try and get a look at the guy through our bedroom window, while I called 911. Hello, what if that guy comes to my door next, looking for those derelicts!? I don’t want to get caught in that crossfire!

While I talked to the dispatcher, I started to shake really bad. I mean, not that many like violence, but I really truly hate it. I know I’m into murder TV and all that, but when I see violence in real life, I want to throw up. I always think back to the time I was with Janna, my boyfriend Psycho Mike, and our friend Jon on Thanksgiving Eve in 1999. We were driving near the old Sun TV in West Mifflin (you care) when we came upon a man kicking the fuck out of another man’s head in the middle of the road. I got really upset and wanted Mike to stop the car and make the man stop, but he was like FUCK NO and sped away. I don’t think any of us had a cell phone then, either. A few minutes later, we were pulled over because apparently Mike’s mom’s car was similar to the car that the assailant was driving. I started crying and frantically tried to tell the cop what we had seen, but Mike and Jon were like STOP TALKING, LET US MEN TELL THE STORY, WOMAN. Ugh. Anyway, that was a long time ago (I don’t want to do math right now) and I still have random flashes of that night.

So I was pretty happy that the neighbors weren’t home because I don’t want to live next to a crime scene, you know?

Anyway, while I was on the phone with 911, the man finally gave up and stormed off up the street. Henry described him as being in his 40s, white, stocky, bald and wearing a dark sweatsuit. The dispatcher asked which direction he was walking, and then assured us that they would send a squad car but that if the man came back before then, to please call 911 again.

Um, YOU KNOW IT.

Then I got really nervous and started running around the house panicking because I really dislike cops and I go out of my way to make sure I never have to speak with them. “Will you do the talking?” I begged Henry, and come on, of course Henry will do the talking because he was born to be a hero. That fucking popo sycophant. Never forget the time he got to bro down with a cop the night there was a hit and run in front of our house.

“What if they come in here and mistake Trudy for a black man and shoot her?” I asked, and I promise I wasn’t even making jokes. I AM THAT LEARY OF COPS. Everything scares me these days.

“Why the hell are cops coming into our house with guns drawn and then shooting at a green mannequin!?” Henry asked incredulously.

“Because they think it’s a trap?? And they’re color blind!?” God Henry, try to consider all scenarios — that’s how you win wars!!

Guess who never showed up? THE COLORBLIND COPS.

But the neighbors did. They rolled up a bit after 10 and after a quick conference amongst ourselves, we decided that they should be given a heads up that some angry man was trying to break into their house and kill them.  So I sent Henry to do the dirty deed. I stood just inside the door so I could hear.

“What was he driving?” the daughter asked in her rough-ass hillbilly voice.

“Nothing, he was walking,” Henry answered. “He was bald—”

“Was he FAT?” Boots spat in his warbled mumble.

“I guess. He was pretty stocky,” Henry said.

“Yeah, I know who that is,” Boots said dismissively and then they went into their crack house and slammed the door with vigor. Literally no big deal, you guys. Some guy wants to kill them but they don’t give a fuck! Probably because they’re used to this kind of thing!

If I came home one night and Hot Naybor Chris was all, “Yo someone was trying to break into your house t murder you” I’d be driving to the nearest Amish town, put me in the fucking Witness Protection Program, here Chooch, don this fucking bonnet, your name is Ezekiel now.

So then I was just pissed! Fuck those motherfuckers!

“Wow, you want to talk about a group of strung-out people, holy shit, Erin,” Henry said as he closed the door and double-locked it. “They could barely even stand up straight! And the daughter looked a lot better when she had her hood up the other day,” he said, so I guess that means he hopefully won’t cheat on me with her now. (Season three of The Affair, you guys. I’ll be in a paranoid fugue state for the next few weeks.)

“You made contact! Now he thinks you guys are friends,” I said solemnly.

The rest of the evening was calm.

Until 4am. I woke abruptly to the sound of the front door being repeatedly slammed shut. Then Boots was running up and down the steps. Then the daughter started SCREAMING, “Mom! Help me!” in a deep, drawn-out tone.

Phyllis screamed, “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT, GEORGIA?!?!” So hooray, now we know Daughter’s name is presumably Georgia!

But really, Georgia, what the fuck do you want at 4am?!

Then Boots’ garbled bark interrupted, and at this point, I was out of bed and standing in the hallway next to the wall because I’M UP NOW, ASSHOLES, MIGHT AS WELL SEE HOW THIS PLAYS OUT.

As usual,  I couldn’t decipher what Boots was screaming about, but then Phyllis yelled, “I DIDN’T LOCK YOU OUT, YOU FUCKING WEIRDO!” and then it was 30 minutes of Phyllis calling him a fucking weirdo over and over and hollering about not having cigarettes, with random slams of the front door punctuating her nicotine demands.

They eventually stopped, but I couldn’t go back to sleep after that. They make my heart race, and not in some teeny-bopper Katy Perry song kind of way.

The next morning, I called Henry, who had already left for work before this went down. He said that when he was leaving, he saw Boots come out of the house and proceed to sit inside his mystery car. Maybe he was sitting in there and smoking Phyllis’s cigarettes!?

By mid-morning, I was falling asleep at my desk. And then that just made me really angry. So I texted Henry and he said he was going to try and get ahold of the landlord again. AND THIS TIME HE ANSWERED! And HNC was correct, the landlord has been traveling and admitted that he hadn’t been in touch with those dildos. He also confirmed that he has Boots set up with some type of “fix up to live” arrangement, where he’s supposed to literally be renovating the house in exchange for reduced rent, I guess.

“Well, FYI, there hasn’t been any work happening there in about a month,” Henry told him, and then ran down the laundry list of domestic disputes, house calls from the cops, screaming and slamming doors at 2-4am….

The landlord asked if we think there are drugs involved and Henry was like, “Probably most likely yes.” The landlord said that sometime last month, he sent a plumber over there to do work, and the plumber apparently found the daughter unconscious on the bathroom floor?! The landlord told Henry that he was told she has seizures and Henry was just like, “Mmmmm……ok.”

Anyway, the landlord is super pissed and said that this arrangement is obviously not going to work out and that he’ll take care of it. BUT WHEN, LANDLORD?! DO IT NOW. I was so upset yesterday that I didn’t want to come home after work.

Last night, we went over Hot Naybor Chris’s house to fill in him and his Wife-Thing about the recent events because HNC kind of knows Boots from whenever the landlord sent over the (legit) contracting company to do work on HNC’s house. Boots was working for them at that time and was apparently kind of OK?

Here is what we learned from HNC:

• Boots’ name is George.
• That is HIS daughter, so I guess it makes sense that her name could be Georgia for sure.
• The “older woman” staying there is just Boots’s “friend” who is going through a rough time because her husband recently died. But I heard Georgia call her “mom”?! Ugh I’m so confused.
• He used to work with Chooch’s nemesis Larry*, who lives two houses down, and recently told HNC that he went over there and that “There is no way George is clean” so we know that George has definitely had a drug problem, and most likely still does currently.
• Wife-Thing said that sometimes when she comes home during the day, Boots comes out of the house and gets all up in her face and she doesn’t like that ONE BIT.
• HNC said one night he looked out his window and saw Boots dancing in his front yard. They have a blue porch light, so HNC said he thought to himself, “What, is my blue light turning him on?” DEAD.
• When we started to tell them about Bald Guy (which Wife-Thing heard as it was happening, btw because probably most of the block heard it), HNC interrupted and said, “Was it Dave?” and then described TOURETTE’S TO US! It took everything in me not to blurt out, “OMG now I know Tourette’s name!!”
• Wife-Thing confirmed that something not right is going on over there and that they will also talk to the landlord about it. HNC wanted to just go straight to Boots and “talk to him” but Wife-Thing was all, “DO NOT GET INVOLVED CHRIS!!!” I agree.

They never came home last night so I was hopeful that maybe the landlord acted faster that I thought he would.

“Maybe they went on vacation,” Henry suggested.

“To where? A tenement across the city?” I spat.

But don’t worry. They’re home again.

Octavia said these assholes are lucky it’s not her husband living next to them because he would have been outside with guns drawn by now and now I wish they lived here. Have you met Henry?? He is the most non-confrontational person ever! He’d be out there not with a gun but with…a wooden spoon, like “Guys, don’t be mad at us. I made you spaghetti! Taste the sauce! Let’s be friends!”

Ugh, maybe Bald Guy will come back and take care of this for us.

*(I have a Larry-centric blog post coming later this week.)

Let’s go over what we already know about the mystery neighbors in the other half of my duplex:

• they’re technically supposed to be “working” on the house for our landlord.
• they could maybe be squatting, though??
• they’re probably illiterate.
• definitely smoke too much because I CAN SMELL IT IN MY BEDROOM?!
• the main players are a man and woman in their 40s/50s.
• the woman’s name is allegedly “Melissa,” as we learned last week when Man left the house, made it halfway down the street, and then turned around and started screaming, “MELISSA!” At which point she came to the window and yelled “WHATTTTT????” in her patented Yinzer trash throat scrape.

Where we last left off, Henry reported that the cops had made a visit next door one night last week, around 2am. He said they were fighting so bad that he was getting ready to call the police himself, but someone beat him to it. We’re speculating that it was her.

After this happened, I went to work and was ranting about how trashy and psychotic these people are, and how the cops were there, etc etc. And then I had a vision of the cops over there, breaking up a domestic dispute while Henry and I are next door, churning out serial killer greeting cards under the warm glow of our Christmas mannequin. And then I started cracking up because psycho pot calling the psycho kettle black.

WE’RE NOT TRASHY THOUGH.

Well…not as much as them.

Hot Naybor Chris confirmed that the guy truly does work for a contracting company, because he was one of the guys doing work on HNC’s house a while back. Apparently, HNC was there the day that the landlord brought this guy over to do work, because HNC got to go inside the house and said that our old neighbors really did a lot of damage. Which is crazy because we RARELY HEARD THEM.

The last day I heard them do any work over there whatsoever was when I was home on Veteran’s Day. I heard drilling, hammering, your basic construction noises. Now that I’ve gotten more acquainted with these idiots, I find it hard to believe that they’re capable of hammering a nail into the wall to hang a picture of an egg in a frying pan, let alone operate actual power tools. #concern

Why haven’t we called the landlord, one might ask. Landlord has been out-of-town, apparently, possibly even out-of-country. (His wife is from Japan or something, I don’t care enough about him to keep up.) Also, anytime the landlord has any work done to his properties, he is constantly over there, pacing back and forth in his cowboy hat. This guy is no-nonsense—Henry has a video of him wrestling a shovel off a guy from the gas company who dug up our front yard and then was going to leave without solving our issue. I’m not a big fan of our landlord, but I for sure was that day.

Anyway, ever since the domestic incident, I clench up every time I hear the door slam and then the STOMP STOMP STOMPing of his boots on the steps. Actually, let’s just call him Boots from herein. I know we’ve established her name is Melissa but let’s call her…Phyllis. Because that throaty smoker’s voice, man.

I hear Boots clomping his way through the house and my brain starts screaming to me, “HIDE UNDER THE BED, DRUNK DAD’S HOME AND HIS BREATH STINKS OF JACK AND PUKE!” Something like that.

Late Wednesday night, I heard the door slam and the house shake, and then I heard the stomping of boots up the steps. A short scuffle then BAM – the door slammed again. I looked out the bedroom window and announced in a hoarse whisper to Henry, “He’s leaving again!” I watched him walk down t he street, then stop and get into the backseat of a car that rolled to a stop right in the middle of our street.

The car continued to sit there and I was getting mad. YOU CAN’T STOP IN THE MIDDLE OF OUR ROAD, IT’S A BUSY STREET! But then BAM — the door slammed again and out scurried Phyllis. She got in the passenger seat and the car sped away.

“Maybe it was their Uber,” Henry mumbled, already falling back asleep.

But then! The boots again! His muffled voice slammed up against our bedroom wall, and PHYLLIS started Yinzering back! THEN WHO WERE THE MAN AND WOMAN WHO LEFT THE HOUSE OMFG  THERE ARE FOUR OF THEM!?

Phyllis started screaming, “GO AWAY! GO TO YOUR OWN ROOM! LEAVE ME ALONE!” I was prepared to call 911 because I don’t fuck with this shit, but then it got very quiet. And then nothing for the rest of the night. Either they passed out or died.

****

On Thursday, while I was at work, Chooch was in the house alone. Henry was across the street in the parking lot probably having an affair, like he does, when he said he noticed that a guy was walking past our house and stopped. The man looked up at our neighbor’s open bedroom window, at which point Boot poked his head out, so the man kept walking. WELL APPARENTLY HE WAS STOPPING BECAUSE UNEARTHLY SEX MOANS WERE EMANATING FROM THE WINDOW, as Chooch proved by RECORDING THE SOUNDS WITH HIS PHONE.

“Um, it sounds like maybe she was hurt or something,” Henry said when they were telling me about it after I came home from work.

“No, I’m pretty sure they were doing it. Now my childhood is ruined,” Chooch sighed dramatically.

I listened to it later and congratulates on recording the audio of your first sex tape, son.

Totally doing it.

OMG I FEEL SO VIOLATED. I WANT TO VOMIT JUST TYPING THIS. NOW MY CHILDHOOD IS RUINED TOO.

The worst part though is that Chooch said it started with her saying “Help, help.”

Was this not consensual? Is he her captor?! Is the prequel to The Room playing out on the other side of my bedroom wall?

****

Friday was blissfully neighbor-free. Maybe they were dead? We kind of didn’t care.

But then Saturday morning rolled around. Henry was leaving to “go to the store” (i.e. cheat on me behind a pile of empty milk crates in the back of Giant Eagle) and he texted me excitedly because he saw Phyllis on his way out and she nervously said “Morning” to him. GREAT NOW HE’S GOING TO CHEAT ON ME WITH HER, TOO. Anyway, he said she looked young, like in her 20s and I said for sure that couldn’t be Phyllis then because I saw Phyllis once a few weeks ago when she and Boots were scurrying down the sidewalk with their gas station coffee. So now it was really starting to sound like Phyllis’s daughter is squatting there as well, and that’s who I saw leaving the house late Thursday night.

After Henry sent that text, I heard the basement door slam and Boots’ signature stomp began to shake the house.

“Don’t you think it’s weird how Boots always comes in through the basement?” I later said to Henry.

“Yeah, because he doesn’t have a key. The keys are in our house!” And then Henry reminded me that Chooch found keys in the front yard a few weeks ago, and how shortly after that, we heard what sounded like the basement door being kicked in. Because it sounds like Phyllis and Daughter keep Boots locked out, LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL.

Meanwhile, I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom, painting. My desk butts up against our shared wall, so I had a prime seat for when the Real Phyllis woke up and started screaming because “YOU CAME IN MY ROOM LAST NIGHT AND TOOK MY BLANKET OFF MY BED!”

So now we know there’s at least a bed over there! And we think it was left there by the family who lived there before them because this merry band of misfits never actually moved anything in. So ew, gross.

Boots was all, “MWWAAAAHMWWAAAAHHHH” because I can never understand anything when it’s his turn to talk, he sounds like a fucking throatless hobo with three pairs of balls in his mouth. The next thing I knew, he was out on the front porch screaming at her, but she must have been standing in the doorway, because I could only see him from my bedroom window, pelvis a’thrust, arms flapping limply at his side. They were fighting over money at this point. I was barely able to discern the words, “OH YEAH OK, YOU BOUGHT IT, MMMHMMM” and if I were Phyllis, I’d have punched that Coke bottle eyeball’d motherfucker in the face. Ugh. Of course I didn’t have my phone, and by the time I ran downstairs to get it, they had retreated back to home base—the bedroom—where a fight over CEREAL ensued:

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My phone shouldn’t be able to pick that up through a WALL. I’ve had plenty of neighbors living over there through the years, and we rarely could hear voices, only occasional bass from TV/radios. It takes some heavy-duty shouting to be heard through those walls.

And then they went quiet for most of the day. Later in the evening, they were gathered in The Room again, but they seemed to be coexisting peacefully so the sound of my radio was enough to drone out their slurred, cigarette-ravaged voices. They could film This Is Your Brain on Drugs commercials over there.

Pretty sure we witnessed Daughter buying drugs in front of the house that night, though.

Sunday: FULL DAY OF QUIET. We decided they must have fired up the caravan and visited some other crack den for the day.

TO BE CONTINUED because I’m still stressed out from living Part 2 last night.

My plan for tonight was to finish watching episode two of The Affair and I then write about my mysterious neighbors tonight but then something  weird happened over there and I’m too shaky and flustered to finish that right now so here’s a series of photos that have nothing to do with anything at all.

Peen Lop’s turn with the bow tie.

Current DIY mani. I barely spend any time on my nails anymore like I used to. #2016Blahs

Pretty sure this basic mannequin bitch on TV is jealous of Trudy’s opulence.

Tried to give Chooch a man bun but then remembered I can’t do buns. So, Pebbles it is.

Henry framed my Riot Fest 2016 screenprint and I softly run my fingertips across it every time I walk up and down the steps. The co-founder of Riot Fest, Sean McKeough, passed away last week and I never met the guy, but it broke my heart. That’s one of my people, for sure.

******

BONUS: Vintage photos of Chooch from 2006, because how has 10 years gone. Y already??!!:

Early stages of our competitive relationship. WHO CAN SWING HIGHER?!

(He still sucks at swinging, FYI.)

Ugh when I see these old pictures of him, I’m like, “HEY HENRY….???” But then I remember how shitty my pregnancy was and I just laugh it off psychotically. Maybe someday we’ll get a foreign exchange student?

We were going to make Trudy Dress-Up Time an event like last year, because nothing says Christmas tradition like drunkenly talking with friends about current events while hanging ornaments from a mannequin’s tit, but then I got SICK so Henry basically did it all himself. But let’s face it—it’s probably better that way. Especially when it comes to putting up lights. I don’t fuck with that peasant shit.

We never started putting up trees until Chooch was 2, so by then, my four original cats were already old enough to not really give a shit about it. We never had a single incident! At most, Marcy would sometimes lay under it. Last year, when we introduced Trudy as our official tree of the season, we were, for the first time ever, a pet-less household. Drew and Penelope are both a little over a year old now, but they still act like pernicious assholes, so I have been super worried about how they’d react.

I voiced my concern so Henry said he would strap Trudy to the wall if he had to.

“How are you going to do that?” I asked honestly, because no really how?

“ERIN, I CAN PRETTY MUCH DO ANYTHING!” he cried, giving me those crazy mountain man eyes he gets when I’ve given him one too many things to do in one day. lol forever.

Don’t worry. I kept a close eye on him to make sure he didn’t grab Trudy by the pussy. NOT ON MY WATCH, MOTHERFUCKER.

Trudy Twinkle Toes.

My only contribution was wrapping her with garland, which Henry yelled at me for because “LIGHTS ARE SUPPOSED TO GO ON FIRST, IDIOT.” Sorry, Father Christmas!

Chooch looks promising as an option for an auxiliary tree….

Thankfully, the cats were mostly blasé about the whole ordeal, save for several sniffs and curious peeks into the bins of decorations. But today was a brand new day, and it was like they were seeing it for the first time. However, most of their fascination lies with the tree skirt – Santa’s hat has a pom-pom on it and hoo-boy is it enticing. There’s been a lot of running and sliding into Trudy and bunny-kicking of Santa’s hat.

Trudy has a new wig for this season. Now she looks a bit more sophisticated and less like a candy cane floozy.

Whatever that means. I’m sick, remember.

Praying for a normal Christmas tree. Chooch hates Trudy. OH WELL, SUCKER. Stop trying to make me conform, tiny patriarchy!!

I always say that I’m picky when it comes to girl singers, and even looking back on my childhood, my mixtapes were predominantly filled with testosterone. So I decided today that I would share of the femme voices that do currently appeal to me, because I’m sick and have little energy for much else.

1. Petal: because Kiley Lotz is fucking precious. Also, Run For Cover is the best record label that ever labeled.

2. Julien Baker: because just literally thinking of her makes me cry. I started to say her name once to Henry and actually got choked up, which made him say, “OMG” and roll his STUPID BORING EYES.

3. Carly Rae Jepsen: because you knew she was going to be in the mix! Seeing her live (and meeting her, OMG MY HEART) last February was one of the few things that made it to the GOOD column of 2016. Sometimes I wake up and feel so sad that she’s not my BFF. </3 LOVE HER SO MUCH, YOU GET TWO VIDEOS.

4. Angel Olsen: Like her name implies, she is a goddamn angel and why haven’t we rollerskated together yet? (Side note: this was my pick for today’s Friday Video at work and Lauren said she is also now in love with her and also Glenn mumbled, “I like this.” Sometimes I win, you guys!)

5. Fisher: because 1999 vibes. I think I first heard of her back then because of the Great Expectations soundtrack, and then I bought “One” from CD Baby and played this motherfucker out. It was one of my “lay on the floor and cry into my cup of Manischewitz” albums. I saw her once ever, at Club Café with Henry in probably 2002 or something, and cried through the whole thing and then had to stop myself from falling into her and calling her “Mom” while she signed my CD.

6. Paramore: because I could listen to Hayley Williams sing Henry’s grocery list. And not to be That Guy, but I have been a Paramore fan since the first album (“Conspiracy” was a ringtone on my pink Motorola Razr, lol), when they were a scene band, and Hayley just gets better and better. For a while there, I would have to turn the channel anytime Zedd’s “Stay the Night” came on the radio because I would start crying – there is something about her voice that makes me feel like a bag of bricks has been dropped on my chest, and I mean that as the greatest compliment. Anyway, “Decode” will forever be my favorite Paramore song, and I especially love the Unplugged version because her voice is SO RAW AND FULL OF SADNESS HELP ME I’M CRYING RIGHT NOW.

7. CHVRCHES: because Lauren Mayberry’s elven space-voice paired with synth is like a dream come true for this synthpop fool over here. (Synthpop is my favorite music genre, thanks for asking.)

        8. PVRIS: because Lynn Gunn sounds      like no one else and mesmerizes me every time I see them live. The last time I saw PVRIS, I wept so hard that I gave myself hiccups what is wrong with me OR IS IT ALL JUST OH SO RIGHT? 

OK, that’s all for now because I feel like I’m losing consciousness. #WhenErinHasaCold I expect that you will watch each and every one of these videos! Lol. J/K. DO OR DON’T, I DON’T CARE, UGH.

P.S. Now that I’m thinking of it, Zedd’s “Clarity” ft. Foxes also made me ugly cry a lot when I would hear it on the radio, probably because IT REMINDS ME OF DUMB HENRY.

P.P.S. My all-time favorite female singer is Barbra Streisand, no shame.  #Babs4Lyfe #guilty