Oh Honestly, Erin

Do you know how many birthday parties I’ve taken Chooch to since he started school?

Zero.

I turn into a social cripple when it comes to being a Mom, so I always make Henry take Chooch to his classmates’ parties.

Except this last one. I was able to speak casually to this particular kid’s mom at Chooch’s cat party a few weeks ago, so when I saw that her son was having his party at Romp-n-Roll, I was like, “Eff yes I’ll escort my son to this shindig.” Clearly, I wanted to roller skate in a bad way. Plus, I didn’t feel awash with those typical overwhelming tidal waves of anxiety which  usually happens when Chooch brings home a birthday party invitation.

I think I am somehow accidentally fixing myself but I’m not sure how I’m doing it…?

I was pretty stoked because I’ve only been to the Romp-n-Roll to spectate roller derby bouts, and never to actually skate. Since I am donezo with the Neville Roller Drome (not a fan of the new owners/homophobia/religious agendas), I’ve been wanting to try this place on for size.

We pretty much lost Chooch as soon as we got through the door because one of his girlfriends from school was behind us. I don’t think he spoke to me once after that until we were in the car going home. I SEE HOW IT IS.

It’s more expensive than the other rinks we’ve skated at, but it turned out to be well worth it. Aside from a slight skate issue which had Henry holding his breath because god forbid I should lose my shit at the roller rink for the billionth time of my life. What will the parents think, oh no!? Instead, I took my skates back to the counter and VERY POLITELY asked if I could have a different, taller pair. And the nice man exchanged them for me without the need to get anyone else involved! Henry was totally stunned when he saw me a few minutes later, wearing different skates that he didn’t even have to lace for me! (Don’t get too excited; he put the first pair of skates on for me.)

Even after that though, as soon as the wheels hit the rink’s surface, the wheels started pulling the skates inward and I was basically skating like how whimsical twee bloggers pose (ie. PIGEON-TOED), but instead of being a bitchbaby, I just made a conscious effort to force my feet apart, and it was fine. Henry was having the same problem with his skates too so at least I know I wasn’t just Being Erin about it.

The first thing I noticed, aside from the on-the-ball skate rental guys and the Trapper Keeper-like carpet, was that they were playing a good mix of music. In addition to the classic rock, oldies, and Top 40 on rotation, they actually played Fall Out Boy’s “This Ain’t an Arms Race” and Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf,” YES PLZ.

“They play good music here!” I yelled in Henry’s face after I caught up to the veritable Opie Griffith-on-skates. Aaaaand just like that, cue Nickelback.

But whatever, I can forgive them.

Meanwhile, Chooch had laced up and took to the floor to show off for his little girlfriends. I noticed that there was girl in particular he wouldn’t leave alone. She was hugging the wall, and he was skating at a slow pace next to her. Anytime she would fall, he would quickly circle back and wait for her to stand up. For some reason, I thought she was a relative of the birthday boy because I’ve never seen her before.

“That’s Hailey!” Henry laughed when I pointed her out. Have I told you about Hailey? Well, she is pretty much the only thing that Chooch ever talks about anymore. She was the new kid this year, and when he went to her birthday party last fall, Henry said Chooch was determined to win her a prize from the Claw Machine at Dave and Buster’s, to the point where he had used up all of his tokens and Henry eventually took over so he could hurry up and win a fucking thing before Chooch wound up spending $18 on a stuffed animal.

I wasn’t there (parent phobia, remember? Stop forgetting everything I tell you! It’s offensive and hurtful) but Henry said Chooch made a huge deal out of presenting it to her.

They used to sit together too but the teacher had to separate them because they were too busy being googly, I guess.

Two weeks ago, I got to see her for a split second when I took Chooch to school, but I didn’t get a good look at her. That night though, he said to me, “Well, Mommy…now you know.” I asked him what it was I was supposed to know, and he quickly spat out, “How beautiful Hailey is!” and his face was beet red. I didn’t make fun of him, because I’d like for him to continue to tell me these things, but holy shit did Henry and I giggle about it later.

So yes, this is the story of how I finally got to see my kid’s crush in action. Totally fucking adorable and I would post a picture here but I have retained that lesson I learned awhile back and will instead just store that photo away somewhere un-Internet-ish.

Fuck yeah, pizza!! Roller rink pizza is not exactly the best, but after you’ve been skating around in a dark oval for an hour, you start to think that nothing in the world could taste better. I ate that slice so fast, I don’t even think I tasted it. Then I was mad because I ordered pink lemonade (also a great album, holla if you’ve heard it) only because I didn’t know they had MELLO YELLO.

Fuck.

Then I made Henry help me learn how to pose for pictures, and by that I mean how to smile naturally without looking like Jay Leno, a dead hooker or a stroke victim. Oh sure, I can take a decent selfie. That’s why selfies are the greatest invention of our time. Almost everyone can look attractive when they’re manipulating their own angles and using filters. Unfortunately, we can’t use selfies on drivers licenses and who the hell has a wedding album full of nothing but selfies? Not that I’m naive enough to think I’m getting married anytime soon, but it would be nice to not panic every time a lens is thrust in my face on my (mythical) big day.

We got one picture (above) that I thought was kind of decent, but Henry was rolling his eyes and mumbling about how he didn’t want to take anymore pictures of me because he can only look at my magnificent face for so long before being blinded by beauty.

J/K you guys. “Magnificent” is too large of a word for him.

Anyway, I was aiming for “innocent sweetheart with a provocative secret” in that pose.

FEED ME MORE SOFT PRETZEL.

Other things to note about the rink:

• I hated no one. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? I don’t think this has ever happened before?
• I interacted with parents and didn’t turn to stone! It was actually not too bad and now they all know what a fucking dream on wheels I am.
• I got to make my own sundae!!! Thanks, Birthday Boy and Family!
• This rink has scooter races!!!!!! Asshole Henry wouldn’t team up with me because I’m too heavy to push and I couldn’t find my idiot son so I didn’t get to race, which is a shame because I would have won.
  
• The DJ is pretty great and sounds like he actually is on the radio from 1965.
• The only low point was when they played that ridiculous “Frozen” song and I purposely skated off the rink and sulked with my arms crossed because that song is extremely unskateable.
• There was this one older broad there who was singularly bringing some Xanadu action up in there and I was obsessed with her. “I want to be like her when I grow up!” I wailed to Henry. And then there was an awkward moment when I was skating behind her and then she spun around and started skating backward, so it was like we were accidentally couple-skating. I got over it though because people thinking I was with that lady wouldn’t have been the worst thing to have happened, if you know what I’m saying.

TRA LA LA, MUTHAFUCKAS.

Seriously, I will be going back to this place with a quickness.

“There’s a deaf birthday party today,” the owner’s wife whispered to us as we walked in. “So if you see anyone acting weird on the rink, that’s why.”

“Aren’t there always people acting weird on the rink?” Henry retorted, making her shift uncomfortably because she clearly didn’t want to be standing there making fun of the clientele, even though we had totally been joking about amputation moments before.

Meanwhile, the prospect of sharing the rink with deaf people had left me positively giddy, like I was at a theme party. I love deaf people! (Just not Marlee Matlin. Actually, she’s the only deaf person I know.) Henry kept giving me warning glares, like I was going to do something stupid, as if I haven’t learned my lesson from the horrible blog backlash I’ve been getting in 2012.

If it hadn’t been for the occasional frantic signing, I wouldn’t have even noticed that there was anything unique going on. It seemed like a typical afternoon skate to me, complete with the rogue assholes skating on the diagonal, against traffic.

“God! Why isn’t Robin blowing her whistle?!” I yelled at Henry after nearly being plowed down by some directionally-challenged runt.

“Um, because they can’t HEAR it,” Henry reminded me.

If ever there was a time to use the IP Relay service for good!

I don’t know what the hell Chooch’s problem was that afternoon, but when the first couple skate was announced, we made it around the rink once before he got all inexplicably angry at me and left me to skate alone to Luther Vandross’s “Here and Now,” and suddenly it was the 6th grade all over again and my crush du jour was dancing with some other stuffed-bra bimbo to that same song and to this day THAT IS WHAT I THINK ABOUT WHEN I HEAR THAT SONG. Which is often, actually, because if I’m not listening to Jonny Craig on repeat in my bedroom, the radio dial is set to soft rock. There, now you know something about my private bedroom life.

Oh, was I in a foul mood after that! Never has someone had a scowl so chiseled while being serenaded by Vandross. Toward the end of the song, Henry skated onto the rink and attempted to take my hand, oh valiant one that he is. I was like, “Quit trying to look romantic in front of your rink ref girlfriend.”

And that’s another reason I was in such a surly mood: Every time I would look around for Henry on the rink, I’d always find him over by the snack room, hyuking it up with either the owners or the employees and NEVER ON THE RINK WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND. And Chooch was off somewhere laying on a bench, being a pouter-bitch. I think he may have only skated for one song all afternoon. Oh holy shit was I livid. Nice to know I came to the rink to skate alone.

Be a bitch, I don’t care!!

He wouldn’t even stand near us for the Chicken Dance. THAT’S COLD.

In other rink news, I have been having a big issue with the music there. I feel like it used to be a decent mix, with some nerve-grating tracks, but you have to expect that shit when the DJ is paid to cater to the masses of ordinary people who like shitty, ordinary music.

When Ladies Only was announced, I said to myself, “Single Ladies or Barbie Girl in 3…2…1.”

It was “Barbie Girl.” Fuck that song. Fuck the other song too. This is the best us ladies get? Beyonce or motherfucking Aqua? Yeah, I still skated to it, but I WASN’T HAPPY ABOUT IT.

Men Only was next and it is almost exclusively “Boom Boom Pow” for the guys. I sat on the bench, gripping my phone and clenching my jaw. Deaf people are so lucky they get to avoid the Black Eyed Peas.

My ear drums were crying uncle at this point, so I skated over to Roller DJ’s music room and pleaded with him to play The Cure.

“Oh…I don’t think I have any Cure,” he said, but not making any moves to actually check.

“I haven’t finished bringing all my music in yet, so I only have new stuff, or like, really old stuff.” Yes, I know — that fucking organ bullshit.

“You don’t even have ‘Just Like Heaven’?” I continued to press. What the fuck kind of DJ doesn’t at least have “Just Like Heaven”?! Supermarket sound systems have “Just Like Heaven” and those aren’t even real DJs!

I skated away in disgust and immediately this really terrible song came on that he plays every week.

“What the fuck kind of song is this!?” I shouted over the feel good “You’re my best friend” lyrics. I figured Henry would know, because it sounded like some goddamn Leif Garrett Afterschool Special track that he would have hitched up his tube socks and pranced around his bedroom to.

“It’s the theme song from the Pokemon movie,” Henry answered entirely too quickly.

RECORD SCRATCH.

Roller DJ has the motherfucking POKEMON MOVIE SOUNDTRACK but he looks at me all crazy when I request THE CURE?

Furthermore, why does Henry know this!?

So instead of skating dreamily to the sonic bouquet of black roses that is Robert Smith’s golden voice, I had to mope around on wheels to this bullshit excuse for a song:

Please try to imagine me skating around, shoulders all scrunched up in annoyance and a look of absolute horror and disgust on my face EVERY WEEK WHEN THE SAME KID (who is the best roller blader I’ve ever seen) REQUESTS THIS SONG. And on this particular afternoon, HE WASN’T EVEN SKATING TO IT!!!!

Oh for Christ’s sake.

Henry and I went to the Adult Skate two weeks ago alone, kind of like a real life date, I guess. He didn’t even seem to mind when I blasted Dance Gavin Dance on the ride there while pantomiming in his face. (That’s his favorite part anyway, who’s he trying to kid.)

This particular adult skate was way less soul, more cracker because it wasn’t hosted by the Steel City Rollers. They did play my Return of the Mack song, though, which I’ve decided is my all-time favorite skating jam. But still — way too many whites. It was almost embarrassing. And maybe if I didn’t already have knowledge of the Steel City Rollers, I’d have been impressed by some of these Opies, but they just looked farcical out there. Especially the one older man who was fist-pumping aggressively to Queen.

Queen.

I was definitely the best white-girl skater there that night though, so I took satisfaction in that. And Henry even skated with me a lot, even to the tail end of “Rush, Rush,” and even after I admitted that I was pretending he was Jonny Craig. Henry is willing to role-play to keep me.

It became suddenly very apparent during this Adult Skate why Neville Roller Drome isn’t open all year. It was unseasonably warm that Sunday in April, and even at night the rink was trying to smoke us alive. The windows were open, and the exit door at the far end of the rink was propped open (which lured neighborhood children over to watch the grown-ups acting like teens on the rink; I raised the roof to them every time I skated past) but even then my whole body was moist with skate-sweat and I was starting to get scared of passing out. For the first time ever, Henry and I  spent more time sitting off-rink and downing fluids in the snack room than actually skating. That’s when it became apparent that we needed to find a new rink. (Though we’ll still be going to this one just  for the adult skates until the season ends.)

***

And that was the catalyst that led us about 40 minutes out of the city to Donora last Saturday. We let Janna come with us, even though she is A ROLLER BLADER.

Immediately upon entering the building, my tongue was slathered with a horrible taste as a Valley Skate-shirted woman darted around a corner and, in a very condescending tone (don’t listen to Henry’s version of this) asked, “Can I help you?” Her bug-eyes were sizing us up, realizing we were city folk, probably wondering what our motives were, like, why weren’t we at a martini bar?

I continued to stare back at her, making my eyes into slits of intimidating fuck-you-uppery, while Henry calmly told her we were there to skate.

I mean, I understand some people go to rinks to sell drugs to minors and have sex behind the skate rental counter, but bitch please. I have all the intensity of a professional roller dancer, but just to be clear: I AM HERE TO SHOW YOU WHAT A DREAM ON WHEELS LOOKS LIKE.

“Oh. Well it doesn’t start til 2.” And with that, we were made to go back out to the stench-laden vestibule, which was muggy as Hell thanks to the rainstorm performing directly outside the doors, where we had to stand with another family for an entire 10 minutes. (This will now be known as The First Thing That Pissed Me Off.)

And you know I was motherfucking that broad up and down, which prompted Henry to release his years-perfected elbow-clench (which, by the way, hurts but never makes me shut up). “She’s right on the other side of that window!” Henry hissed, pointing to the open plexi-glass of the ticket booth. “She can hear you!”

“OH I HOPE SHE CAN! THE DUMB WHORE BITCH!” I replied with my outdoor voice. (Which doubles as my Church Voice.) “LET’S JUST LEAVE! I DON’T WANT TO SKATE HERE ANYWAY, IT’S A DUMP.” (It was not actually a dump.)

“Don’t start,” Henry seethed. And then he tried to block me from taking her picture. NICE TRY, ASSHOLE.

Turns out (or, if this were Henry talking, “Come to find out”) she’s the daughter of the owner and also the go-to girl for purchasing skates, which is what I want to do, but now I’m not sure if it requires talking to her without the aid of a translator. Or a paper bag over my face.

They got the Ode to a 1987’s Trapper Keeper carpet pattern down to a T. I completely approved, even though I tried to act disgusted by it at first when I was still hating the place.

The Second Thing That Pissed Me Off: The kid working the skate rental counter did not put enough attention into assuring that the skates he plucked from the wall were in my best interest. As soon as he handed them to me, I said (apparently to no one, since neither he nor Henry appeared to notice my presence), “I can already tell these are too big.”

And they were too big. So I threw a small fit, which Henry took as his cue to go get me a smaller size. Meanwhile, I decided to utilize the facilities before skating-up.

The bathroom was clean enough, but it was concerning how low the stall doors were. Any adult could have stood on the other side and watched from above as I proudly peed currents of rainbows and the blood of  Christ, which is also rainbow-colored and serves as an astringent for anytime a Katy Perry fan might lay a hand on you.

Which leads me to The Third Thing That Pissed Me Off: getting bested by a motherfucking sink.

A SINK, I SAID.

After lathering my hands up real good (I’m not even so much of a germ freak), I held them beneath what I could only assume was a faucet and hopefully not the piece of farm equipment it actually looked like, and nothing happened. I fiddled around with the invisible knobs on top, banged around a bit with the heel of my hand and felt my face heat up as panic crept in.

I considered walking away, but I had this thick sheath of pink antibacterial soap on both hands and of course there was only a hand dryer at my disposal, nary a paper towel dispenser.

Suddenly, it was 2005 and I was in the lounge of a funeral home, waiting to be interviewed for a job. “Have some coffee while you wait!” I was told. But I couldn’t figure out how the coffee maker worked, which made me light-headed with anxiety. I didn’t really want coffee, but I was told to HAVE SOME COFFEE so I felt that I should do just that. I spent the whole time (at least a half hour, because the interviewer double-booked himself), slamming the carafe against the counter, sweating through my blouse, crying. Oh, I cried. And when I finally figured out its twisted puzzle, I was called back for the interview.

This sink was the new funeral home coffee maker, and I found my eyes were welling up much in the same manner. WHAT COULD I DO?! To my right, I noticed a water fountain. I tried to covertly assess how many people were nearby, and which of them appeared to be noticing this grown woman completely spazzing out in front of a sink (did I mention this sink was located OUTSIDE of the restrooms?)

I could rinse my hands in the water fountain, I thought, momentarily awash with hope. Just as I started casually walking over the fountain (to be clear, the Erin Version of “casually” is suspiciously clod-hopping with unbent knees while furtively glancing over my shoulders and drawing every last bit of attention to my person as single-handedly possible), a young girl skated over and took a hearty gulp from it.

I froze, like a priest caught with my hand up an altar robe, and she and I locked eyes for what seemed like an entire episode of that shitty television program where F-List “stars” pretend to dance. Then I decided to do that thing that people are always telling me about, where one human asks another human for help. So that is what I did.

“Oh! Here I’ll show you,” she said cheerfully, skating over to the trough. “You just step down on this,” and as she did so, glorious streams of water poured forth like a waterfall of promise. “And it’ll turn off on its own.”

I thanked her with way more enthusiasm than necessary, and she was like, “Um, OK,” then left me alone to have what I can only explain as my Virginal Hand-Washing Experience.

Meanwhile, I had been gone so long, Henry probably thought I was giving birth to my Internet Boyfriend’s lovechild in one of the stalls.

“You’ll never believe what happened to me over there,” I wheezed, out of breath from running the length of the building with jazz hands. I explained the situation and Henry, with a bemused smirk, said, “Let me guess—-did you have to step on something?”

“Fuck you,” I sighed in defeat, sitting down to put on my skates. Of course Henry would know! He’s so fucking old, ain’t no sink he hasn’t encountered.

Once Henry scraped the gum off my wheel, I was set free and it only took me .0002 seconds to understand just how perfect the rink was. It was smooth as silk, twice the size of Neville Roller Drome, and even had a small children’s rink off to the side, so the idiots could stay over there and learn how to act like proper human beings.

The Fourth Thing That Pissed Me Off: Really awful music. In a three-song span, I was ear-assaulted with Miley Cyrus, Who Let the Dogs Out and Smashmouth. SMASHMOUTH, REALLY? I almost had an angry-cry session right there on the rink.

“It’s probably just because the session hasn’t officially started yet,” Henry reasoned, like he always does because he’s a professional father. Eventually, the lights went out and the colored track lights came on, at which point the rink was soundtracked by a mix of somewhat appropriate pop (there was only one Katy Perry song, I couldn’t be too hateful), 80s rock classics and a little bit of 70s soul for a little flavor.

An hour into the session, I noticed that there were still really only about 20 or so people on the rink, and most of those were children who actually knew how to skate well. There was only one incident where a boy younger than Chooch decided to change directions and came careening into me. We completely crashed into each other because I have little to no reactionary instinct, though I managed to stay on my feet while he rolled a good five times before coming to a stop.

My heart was racing.

“I COULD HAVE KILLED HIM! WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE RINK REFS?!” I screamed at Henry, because he was obviously responsible for the near-carnage. There are two rink refs at this joint, the one with bleached blond hair was nowhere to be found, and the other (the asshole who gave me my skates) was sitting in the corner of the rink with some kid, yukking it up.

UNACCEPTABLE.

“I’m saying something to that lazy asshole!” I yelled with determination, because it makes me mad when patrons do not abide by the rules of the roller rink. YOU DO NO SWITCH DIRECTION MID-STRIDE. There were literally no more than 15 people on the rink together at any given time, so collisions should not have been a worry.

“Please don’t,” Henry said quietly. So I didn’t, because we were newbies after all, and I guess I didn’t want to get black-listed right after we finally found The Perfect Rink. (It’s where I’m having my birthday party this summer, probably. It will be at the end of July so if you want to come, just tell me. I need all the people I can possibly get to pose as friends.)

After a minute or so, Henry added, “You should just be a rink guard.” (He refuses to call them rink refs like I do.)

“I KNOW RIGHT!” I yelled, even though he clearly didn’t READ MY BLOG a few weeks ago when I wrote about just that.

“No one would come on the rink.”

That’s actually a pretty good possibility.

From some undisclosed location, the voice of Whore Bitch filled the rink and announced that it was Game Time. All fifteen of us gathered in the center of the rink for the Hokey Pokey, at which point we were all instructed by Whore Bitch to sit down for Spin the Pin. “The adults can remain standing,” Whore Bitch went on to say. “I know it can be kind of hard to get back up!” And she laughed, along with Henry who knows all about being old and unable to stand from a seated position. I sat with the kids because I’m not old. Janna and Henry stood like old people.

Spin the Pin was a crock of shit. The bowling pin was clearly about to stop while pointing at Chooch and me, but the tow-headed rink ref did something to make it keep spinning, I fucking swear to god, because he probably wanted a townie to win. So some other asshole got to win a free pass to come back, while Chooch and I sat there with our mouths twisted in the shape of WTF.

It was Katie’s birthday! I don’t know who she is, but she couldn’t skate for shit. She got a fucking purple balloon and I kept cheering and wishing her a Happy Birthday in a very exaggerated fashion, which was really pissing off Chooch because I think he thought I cared more about her birthday than his, which hasn’t even happened yet.

Then we played a game called Corners! How exciting! Along the rink, there were six numbers painted on the walls. Everyone had to split up and stand under a number. I went for 6, which was located above the DJ Booth. Whore Bitch was explaining where all the numbers were located and when she said, “And then number 6 is right above me!” I turned around just in time to make eye contact with her on the other side of the DJ booth glass. I don’t know why, but it hadn’t occurred to me this whole time that she was the DJ. Janna, Henry and Chooch were across the rink, standing under the number 1. Janna laughed when she saw my expression of extreme disdain.

One of the Rink Refs came out with a large felt die and had some asshole toss it. I’m chanting “666!” over and over, like some sugar-fed Satanist, and the die landed on 6! I was like, “HELL YES BITCHES! WOO!” but then Whore Bitch was all, “Oh, sad. Everyone under the number 6 is out! You must now leave the rink! Go stand somewhere over there.”

LONGEST SKATE OF MY LIFE. I had my head hung low, especially when I inevitably had to pass Henry and Janna, who were belly-laughing at my loss.

“I thought I was supposed to root FOR my number,” I hissed at them, before sitting sadly and alone on a blue carpeted bench.

Stupidest fucking game ever.

Chooch got to roll the die and rolled Janna, Henry and himself right the fuck out so I made sure to jeer and heckle them loudly from my spot in exile. Assholes.

AT least they didn’t piss around with Limbo. I hate Limbo.

The rest of the time was All Skate, with an occasional Couples Skate thrown in (I tried to get Henry to twirl me but he was too embarrassed to have to publicly place his hands on me).

By the end of the session, I was a hot mess of frizzy hair and brow-sweat, which is how I look at Warped Tour. That’s how I know it was the best day ever. And I didn’t even find a single skater I wanted to hate! Except for Janna. Obviously.

Henry and I get along best at the roller rink, it’s become quite clear to me. I’m thinking—we have hardwood floors, so maybe if we just go about our homelife while wearing skates, we might actually be able to achieve full-scale Love.

The DJ at the RollerDrome is in love with Kim and sort of reminds me of Christina. It’s exciting to me that you can see my quotation mark tattoos in the reflection.

By the time my second straight rollerskating trip rolled around, I had shimmied out of my idyllic sense of humanity like sodden post-rape panties and resumed hating every wheeled dildo that dared skate in my path. It was crowded this past Sunday with Steelers-jersied douchebags and birthday partying prepubescents, most of whom had their feet stuffed in clunky rollerblades, which are super easy to trip over on the rink. I hate that rollerblades are permitted there. QUADS 4 LYFE.

Kim and Chris thankfully made it home safe and sound from the ghost hunt as well, so they met us at the rink. There are two reasons Chris comes skating: to play videogames with Chooch and to help Kim and I lace our skates. (He calls himself KH now – Kim’s Henry. It’s a pretty accurate nickname.)

Once they arrived, I tried not to talk too much about the prior night’s ghostly events in Henry’s presence, lest he feel all left out and do that thing where he shoves his hands in his pockets and slumps his shoulders. He could have joined us at the haunted school if he wasn’t so scared.

The music selection was a little better this week. What the rink lacked in Lady Gaga, they made up for in Ke$ha (look I spelled it right this time!) and Trey Songz. Still too much Katy Perry. At least three tracks! I once knew this obnoxious girl* who would always end tweets with “boo hiss” when she was displeased with something and I thought that was so lame, but really – BOO HISS, FOR REAL. (* And no, I’m actually not referring to myself.)

However, I was very happy with the song selection for the first Couple Skate of the afternoon and thought to myself with a smile, “I’m so glad I survived ghost hunting last night so that I could skate to Air Supply today.” Air Supply, bitches! Huge fan of soft rock.

There were a lot of children there who had no right being on that rink, and because of them, I spent more time slaloming around the wooden floor and less time practicing the roller-dance I’m choreographing in lieu of walking down the aisle. (You know, if Henry ever proposes before arthritis and osteoporosis sets in.) There was one point where Henry and I were skating together sort of near each other (to Justin Bieber no less; I let loose an ironic shriek in perfect tandem with all the young girls and Henry was not pleased) and I delved into a (loud and meant-to-be-heard) rant about how bad I hate children and how they should all stay the fuck home playing their fucking Wii and sexting their classmates and leave the rollerskating intricacies to the well-trained adults. Henry made some off-hand remark about our son being there too, but he’s cool by association, I argued. Besides, he spent most of the afternoon sidelined on the bench with Chris, playing games on my phone. I’m so disappointed that my spawn wasn’t graced with the same roller-master gene as I.

“You weren’t always good at skating,” Henry argued. “I’m sure it took you awhile to learn, too.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I cried. “There was no learning for me. I put the skates on and just skated. It was inherent, Henry.”

Just then, some douchebag in a flannel CHANGED DIRECTION in the middle of the song and came barreling toward me. He and I both yelled out in terror at the same time, narrowly missing each other, which made Henry do this husky laugh inspired by schadenfreude. I hate that fucking laugh. It’s usually reserved for when I get busted for writing about someone on my blog. (He thinks I’m going to get recognized someday while out and about in Pittsburgh, which will probably lead up to me catching a blow with my jaw. But then I remind him that there are only 10 people who read this thing.)

The DJ announced it was time for Limbo, causing Kim and me to collectively protest. Limbo is a fucking waste of time to the die-hards who want to SKATE, MOTHERFUCKER. And of course, since there were so many kids there, that fucking line snaked back to eternity.

Getting in line for Limbo. Never mind that Chooch can’t skate!

“How is Chooch going to manage to get under the bar?” Kim asked. “Do you think Henry will take him all the way?”

“No,” I said, barely thinking about it. “Henry will probably just push him through.”

I was right. Henry gave Chooch a hearty shove, resulting in Chooch falling and basically crawling his way under the bar.

“I used to be so good at that,” Henry murmured to himself, lamenting the fact that it’s been thirty years since his Limbo heyday. I’m going to have to ask his mom if she has any photos of a bell bottomed Henry, in a provocative half-split Limbo action-shot.

I sort of had a crush on Henry that afternoon. Skating makes him seem less old, I guess. He tried dodging me when it was Ladies’ Choice, but I’m way too fast; I caught up to him and clamped his hand inside my own, silently signifying to all of the rink that we are definitely A Couple.

My crush dissolved as soon as Henry took off his skates.

I nearly wiped out way more times this week than last, all because of waist-high nuisances. Kim even used one as a hurdle at one point. I’m pretty sure that people should be licensed before being allowed on a rink. Amateurs really fuck with my flow, you know? Specifically that asshole in the flannel. His near-collisions with me were beginning to become such a regular occurrence that I was sure he was doing it on purpose. I kept skating over to Henry and screaming about it.

“He’s gunning for me! That fucking prick is doing this on purpose! He won’t be happy until I break one of my delicate bones!” But then I started thinking about how I always wanted to break my nose, because I hate it so bad, and I wondered if I could somehow arrange for that to happen by the flannel motherfucker’s hand, so that people would feel sorry for me and I could get a new nose, which would hopefully change my whole face just like it did for Jennifer Grey and then no one would recognize me and I could start over from scratch! No more running from the Feds!

Look, you flanneled motherfucker: Try skating in the right direction! I don’t care if you’re six. You are a motherfucker.

When I finally pointed him out, Henry was surprised. “I thought he was going to be at least a teenager, the way you were talking about him!”

Why? Because I used names that most respectable adults reserve for other adults? I don’t care if he was two-years-old and in a wheelchair. He would still be a motherfucker. Evil little dickhead.

The other person I hated was this old fuck who thought he was Flashdance on skates. Oh my Lord, he disgusted me. While everyone not participating in Limbo was told to stay off the rink, he planted himself in a corner and did these fruity fucking pirouettes with his arms bowed gracefully above his head.

“What a dumb motherfucker,” I yelled to Henry. “Stay home and do that stupid shit on your driveway, am I right?” I looked at Henry for his adamant agreement, but instead he gave me a thoughtful stare which means he’s trying to figure out why I’m so hateful. Maybe it’s because of you, Henry!

(l-r) Fruity Ballerina, Rink Ref, Someone in a black shirt associated with those two so clearly he must be an asshole, as well.

Next to Fruity Ballerina is the rink ref (Henry said he’s actually called a skate guard and I was like, “OK, but there’s no alliteration in that…?”) who chastised Henry thrice (little Conan shout-out) last week for wearing a beanie on the rink. I was prepared to shoot him scowls and stinkeye but then I saw Henry sidle up next to him on the rink and lean in real close to his ear. Whatever Henry said made the rink ref laugh, and then Henry laughed too, and I felt so confused. I thought we were supposed to be hating this dick, not sharing secrets with him on the rink?

When Henry skated back to me, I demanded to know what he said to him, and I swore Henry said something about asking him to go thrifting, which makes sense because that’s always what I pictured Henry doing on a same-sex date, but later, when we weren’t shouting over top of Ludacris, he said he merely alerted the rink ref that someone had spilled something on the floor by the refreshment room and people were streaking it around with their skates.

Oh. That’s pretty boring.

Kim’s Sunday Boyfriend (i.e. The DJ) told her that his friends have bought the rink. The current owners are going to finish out the season, but once the new owners take over, it’s going to be better with more Adult Only skates and hopefully a new DJ (sorry, dude). I will be highly anticipating that. I might even have my birthday party there. One of them, anyway. (I have a few years’ worth to make up for.)