There were other things I wanted to do on Saturday, but then I woke up and it was so nice and pretty out that it was pretty clear to all three of us that we were going to prance around in the cemetery. So here, enjoy some photos and some light commentary.
I SAID ENJOY IT.
This is how much fun we have in cemeteries! Without desecrating graves or sacrificing babies, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!?
God forbid, Chooch had to walk up a hill. He exaggeratedly collapsed at one point because his “spine hurt.”
From walking up a hill.
I might turn this into a pendant!
Surprisingly, I’m pretty sure this was the first time Chooch has been to this cemetery, even though it’s only separated by a street from the other two we visit. I don’t even really go to this one when I’m alone very often, to be honest, because it fucking scares the shit out of me sometimes. Once, I was even stalked by some asshole in a car in this cemetery.
This maintenance building is one of the reasons. It’s creepy when no one is there, and it’s just as creepy when the maintenance are there.
“I always feel like Leatherface is going to come barrelling out of one of those doors,” I confided in Chooch, who decided he was going to be a hard ass and plant himself down on the retaining wall in front of the building, trying to draw out Leatherface like his own weird version of Bloody Mary, I guess.
“That’s fine,” I called over my shoulder as Henry and I continued to walk. “Have fun with Leatherface!”
He kept sitting there, because he’s stubborn (sooooo unlike me), while Henry and I came to a fork in the road. We took the right, because that would eventually lead us back to the car. We were still well within Chooch’s line of vision for him to see that we turned off the path.
Along the backside of the maintenance building was a dumpster. Because I’m a motherfucker, my mind always goes straight to “LET’S HIDE AND SCARE THE PISS OUT OF [enter victim of the day]!” So I tugged Henry and pulled him behind the dumpster with me.
“You’re such an asshole,” he mumbled, but I could tell by the twitch of his moustache that he was relishing this just as much as me. BECAUSE WE ARE AWESOME PARENTS.
A few seconds later, I could hear the patter of Chooch’s feet and detected the slightest sliver of blond over top of the dumpster’s edge. I had to slap my hand over my mouth like a giggle-dam.
He got a few yards (quarts? pounds?) into the road when he paused and began furtively turning his head left and right. You could actually watch the panic as it slowly slid down his face and pinpoint the exact moment when he realized he was fucked.
Then he spun around and saw us, all hunched over with our shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
[This is the part of the story where we will pretend my child didn’t obliterate us with obscenities and threats.]
We both got punched a few times, but I guess we kind of deserved it.
Hey, at least he had Fox & Bunny with him.
Speaking of Bunny, he got his own seat later that night when we went out for dinner at Tillie’s, where I had an unfortunate stand-off with three old ladies in the rest room. THEY WOULD NOT GET OUT OF MY WAY. I hit one of them with the stall door and she was all aghast, but maybe GO BACK TO YOUR TABLE AND TALK TO EACH OTHER THERE and you won’t get hit with bathroom doors, JESUS.
Totally almost ruined my dinner, which made me feel like a knife fight was underway in my stomach because I’m not used to eating rich foods anymore, but it was so worth it. All these years, I’ve only been ordering gnocchi at Tillie’s, but something made me order grilled salmon from the specials menu, and HOLY SHIT was the best/worst idea ever. It came with a risotti cake.
Chooch was being a compete jerk at dinner and suddenly formed a newfound aversion to the scent of spaghetti.
“Ugh how much spaghetti can there BE?” Chooch bitched. I put that on Facebook and he lost a bunch of fans because Tillie’s is one of those long-standing family-run Italian institutions that everyone but Chooch loves. It’s kind of like me, living in Pittsburgh and hating the Steelers. (Which I do, aggressively.)
I felt like I must have gained 5 pounds just from Saturday night alone, but somehow I made it through the weekend with my weight loss unscathed.
Henry gave Chooch some of his calamari and then we waited an hour to tell him what it was. He wasn’t very pleased with us at all.
Ugh, his pouty face is officially better than mine.
After dinner, we watched the original Evil Dead. He has been hounding me to take him to see the remake (“If you take me to see it, then I don’t want to be your son anymore!” he threatened, which sounded more like A PROMISE, if you ask me) and I’m just not sure I want to be That Mom who takes her six-year-old to what is being helmed as the scariest horror movie of the year. I mean, at least wait for the DVD, Chooch!
Anyway, the original one is so campy, that it didn’t make him flinch one bit. And when Cheryl turns into a flesh-eating demon, Chooch scoffed, “Cheryl? More like SCAREL.” Usually I’m like “STFU!!” when I’m trying to watch something and someone is talking, but his commentary was on point that night. He kept referring to all of the demon deaths as “birthday kills” because all the shit and pus squirting out of the bodies reminded him of pinatas. I mean, way to make it sound festive and fun, right?
Hiding from Chooch in the cemetery, making him think we left him there; bribing him to eat a piece of calamari and then waiting an hour to tell him what he ate; finishing off his impressionable mind with a gory horror movie —- overall, a great day to be parents.