I want to be writing in my blog even though I’m sick. Henry is like, “GO LAY DOWN AND REST!” but I’m too stubborn. Resting is fucking boring, I’m sorry.
I’m so sick that I left work on Friday after an hour, bringing an end to my perfect attendance streak. (Seriously, I’m such a freak that I have not once called off sick since I started working there last April. With the exception of when I took off to go to Warped Tour in July, but I still neurotically gave like, two months notice.) Barb says that my streak was protected by the fact that I came to work in the first place on Friday and didn’t technically call off, but I feel as though I’d be living a lie if I accepted this loophole, and then we’d have to change the name of my blog to Oh 99.9% Honestly, Erin.
And now Chooch, who we thought was on the mend, is sick again, this time with an ear ache. Chooch has never had an ear ache before, not even when he was a baby (miraculously), so he has been sobbing intermittently about it. I’m sure it’s probably very scary, but he’s totally eclipsing my whining and I can’t help but feel that Henry is more concerned with taking care of him than me (even though he’s made four trips to the store in the last 12 hours for me).
We discovered Chooch’s new symptoms yesterday when we stupidly kept our plans in spite of my sickness to meet my sister Amy, her boyfriend Dick and her daughter Brooke at the Pancake Skate n Whirl yesterday afternoon. It’s a rink we’ve never been to, but it’s halfway between us in Pittsburgh and them in Wheeling, so we figured it was worth checking out.
I had grand visions of this rink being adjacent to some outstanding pancake shack, where patrons would be fork-fed fluffy bites of syrup-bloated pancakes by pony-tailed rink girls while some flour-dusted granny cooked up unlimited batches in the kitchen, some with blueberries, some with angel-dusted chocolate chips. (And I do mean the drug, not celestial dandruff.)
Then I learned that the town itself was called Pancake. There were suspiciously zero pancakes to be found.
The snack bar and arcade games were way superior to that of the Neville Roller Drome, so I was feeling optimistic. But then I saw the rink. The floor was uneven, painted a pale blue, and had a surprise dip in the center that gave me rollercoaster-stomach when I unknowingly skated across it. I think it may have been the first roller rink in all of the world. I’m pretty sure one of the nicks in the floor that I stumbled across was a souvenir from polio leg braces and in one of the darkened corners, I felt the presence of small pox’ed ghosts. I can feel things like this now since I am a member of a ghost-hunting team. I also suddenly excel at science.
The size of the rink was about half that of the Roller Drome and the wheels on everyone’s skates were so tight that you could basically just walk clunkily around the rink. Chooch didn’t even need his hand held. Amy’s back wheel completely locked up at one point and some old broad had to come to the rescue with her skate tools. There were even people walking on the rink IN THEIR SHOES. Roller DJ would have been on his big boy mic in a hot second if he had seen that.
On my first lap around, I had the impeccable timing to be right behind Dick as he lost his balance and began windmilling his arms. His left fist hit me square in the face. My surroundings faded away and all I could see was a 4th of July display at Disney World. I was vaguely aware of Dick apologizing profusely and asking me if I was alright. That’s when I realized that my sinuses were clear (temporarily, anyway) so instead of pressing charges, I found myself thanking him. Then I congratulated him for being the first man to ever punch me in the face (surprisingly). Henry was not pleased that those honors went to someone other than him. That’s OK baby, you punch my dead-end future in the crotch on the daily.
I didn’t manage to skate much. I was overheated after the first three laps, had a sick sweat dotting my upper lip that screamed FEVER ALERT, even though the skates prevented me from maneuvering with my patented velocity. We all spent more time sitting on the benches, I think, until after about an hour and a half, Chooch started whining. This isn’t really like Chooch to whine in public. We thought it was because he had been playing air hockey and got his fingers smashed, but then his whining turned into sobbing and after staring at him for a few minutes, like he was a ticking bomb in a plexi-glass box, our parental bulbs lit up and we deduced that, “Hey, maybe Chooch is really sick.”
Which, obviously, he is. Because he is a four-year-old, not actually a pet, and is able to communicate his ailments to us. Sometimes it just takes us a good hour to process what he’s telling us before accepting it as truth.
We cut the afternoon short, which sucks because the last time we tried to hang out with them, we were at the Washington County Fair and it began storming. I hope they don’t think we have an aversion to them. Chooch sobbed the whole way home in the car while I openly wept about my sinuses and Henry considered driving the car into a ditch.
Chooch and I spent the rest of the day being miserable while Henry begged us to just take a nap. So I did, and he let me sleep until 9:30 last night, what the fuck, Henry?? So then I was up most of the night, watching Fuse’s Sexiest Video countdown. #1 was a huge disappointment. So was #2. I woke up this morning feeling as though I was smashed in the face with a frying pan, which would explain that “dream” I had of Henry cooking breakfast in the bedroom.