We didn’t end up doing anything we had planned on Saturday, ditching our itinerary for cupcakes at Vanilla Pastry Studio (still the best, get fucked Dozen) and a leisurely stroll through the Allegheny Cemetery. Well, leisurely for Henry, who ambles about with his hands clasped behind his back, trying to replicate the call of the robins and checking the ground for moss. Elsewhere, Chooch and I are trying to break into crypts and proving once again why we deserve a blue ribbon for being a loudmouth powerhouse.
Chooch’s inappropriate act du jour was making lewd pelvic thrusts at every angel statue we passed.
“That’s how the dead people come out at night,” I explained to Chooch, after trying to get him to slide down into the basement of the crypt. Parenting rules sometimes.
Look, I take pictures of flowers with my iPhone. I’m original.
Notice how far ahead of us Henry is. This is typical. He stays about as far away from us as the wildlife.
“It’s a seed pod,” Henry stated calmly.
“A WHAT?!” Chooch and I screamed in perfect unison.
“A SEED POD!” Henry spat, irritation setting in. And then he tried to explain to us its purpose but we couldn’t hear him over the violent dry-heaving that set in after Chooch split one open. “You two are fucking idiots,” Henry mumbled, stuffing his hands in his pockets and storming off while Chooch and I continued to gag and spit into the grass.
“OH MY GOD, THEY’RE EVERYWHERE!” I screamed in terror, realizing they WERE ALL OVER THE GROUND.
“Yeah, because they’re dropping from the trees!” Henry turned around and yelled, trying once again to bring order to his nature lesson. This was almost as good as last year’s lecture on rocks versus stones in the same cemetery.
When Chooch isn’t playing Draw Something with my old iPhone, he’s using it to take pictures. A couple was approaching us from up ahead and Chooch walked confidently toward them, blatantly holding up the phone and taking pictures of them.
“Chooch, don’t take pictures of strangers!” I hissed, and yes, I totally am aware of the irony in that statement. But then it turned out that they were just Jehovah’s Witnesses stopping to stuff some literature into Henry’s calloused, heathen hand, so who cares. (He only ended up getting pictures of the road, my legs, and Henry’s crotch anyway.)
“Here, you need to read this,” Henry grumbled, thrusting a copy of their religious propaganda into my chest. “BOTH of you,” he added, on second thought, glaring at Chooch.
I love that we make so many beautiful family memories in boneyards.
Relevant song for this post: