Oh Honestly, Erin

After spending the better part of this new year wilting under the spell of some unknown illness, I was so very ready to get out of the house and strap some old school skates over my Valentine hearted knee highs. Most of last Saturday found me spontaneously erupting with excited outbursts  like, “OMG skating tomorrow!” and “One more day, I can hardly wait!” and “This time tomorrow I might be finding a new lover!” What? Not like I’m actively looking or anything.

And then came Sunday, the official skating day. We had to wait for Janna and Blake to get here and of course I was acting a fool, pacing, swearing, running my hands through my hair. When they arrived, I could see Janna was in the mood to sit a spell, but I quickly ushered everyone back out the door and we were on our way to Neville Roller Drome, where Stacey was meeting us.

This was the first time any of us have been to this rink and it was AWESOME. Totally old school and un-fancified, just like I prefer. And even better – the Asshole Population was low. The rink was much bigger than the other place we used to go, at least based on my warped memory.

“OMG you guys, they’re playing my Justin Bieber joint!”

Stacey had read up on my retro posts and was not surprised when Janna kept flitting off to exchange her roller blades for another size or slip into the ladies room to do some blow. Stacey would laugh knowingly and then return to her desperate agenda of out-skating me.

There is just something so therapeutic about rolling across a warped wooden rink that even stale Top 40 songs sound Really Fucking Good. I didn’t think about any of that real world bullshit. Fuck bills, fuck the economy, fuck Jay Leno – for those three hours I was back in 5th grade with a blond side ponytail, white high-topped skates with pink wheels and rainbow laces, a Kids R Us sweatshirt decorated with puffy bears, flirting with boys at our school skating parties at Spinning Wheels. (And by flirting I mean skating past a boy and asking my friends, “DID HE LOOK AT ME? DID HE SEE ME?”) I used to live for those skating parties. “Heart and Soul” by T’Pau would come on and it’d be so intense. SO INTENSE.

We were prepared for Chooch to hate it, but the moment his plastic-wheeled feet hit the rink, he was like, “HELL YEAH BITCHES.” Henry looked pained because he was the designated training wheel, therefore unable to skate fast and free like his inner child-of-the-70s was begging.

Henry pushed Chooch down, derby-style, on purpose at one point, in hopes that it would dash Chooch’s skating dreams. But Chooch just laughed and got right back up again. Because he’s my son, and people that surf out of my uterus don’t give up. (Or in Chooch’s case, sliced-and-pulled out of my uterus.) After awhile, he was flat-out rejecting the steady hand of adults and even threw in some advanced jumps. That’s my kid – go big or go home.

When the octogenarian inside the music booth announced in his George Burns-voice that it was time for Couple Skate, I knew it was on. I shoved Chooch at Janna and barked, “Here, go take him to play a game or some shit” and then I dragged a reluctant Henry onto the rink, forced his hand into my sweaty paw, and pulled him around to the tune of some unknown country-cross over ballad. Even Stacey didn’t know what song it was, so it MUST have been as bad as it sounded. Henry looked pained, his thick brow all catawumpus and furrowed, stands of gray glistening under the disco ball-reflected lights. Then I started thinking about us being skating assassins and I couldn’t stop cracking up. I tried to invite Henry in on the joke but he declined.

The second couple skate was to the sexed-up tunes of some unidentifiable R&B track; as I circled the rink again with Henry (who looked violated), all I could think was that it sounded like a black Phil Collins. Thanks to the racy sax interludes, I felt like there was a chance I could be pregnant by the time the song ended and we left the rink. Stacey had worked up the nerve to invite Blake to skate with her for this couple go-around. They didn’t hold hands, but they sure looked happy….

….unlike here, where they were clearly in a skating coma. This was after Stacey attempted to raise the roof and promptly ass-kissed the floor. Definitely one of the highlights! I told her to just blame Henry, who was right behind her when it happened and I noticed this suspicious pattern of kids winding up sprawling on the rink with arms knotted and legs pretzel’d in Henry’s wake.

I won’t even try to deny the fact that I like that Ke$ha song, “Tic Toc.” And paired with roller skates and racing rainbow track lights, that song is THE ANTHEM. By the time it ended, I was like, “More! Again! One more time!”

After about an hour or so of straight skating, I yelled over to Janna and Stacey, “Hey, let’s go get a drink after this song!” But when it ended, the old man-DJ announced it was time for reverse skate and I was all, “Oh hell no, mama’s not missing this shiz” so Janna and Stacey, having already stumbled off the rink, hung out along the benches waiting for me. As that song was ending, I began to pass Janna and she yelled, “Are you coming?” but “Bad Romance” had JUST COME ON so I shouted back, “No, I love this song!”

Janna threw her arms up exasperatedly and retreated to the snack bar without me.

Let me just say that the ultimate Lady Gaga experience can be had on a roller rink. Possibly it would be better if someone had slapped an acid tab on my tongue, and I had all the Queen’s diamonds magnetizing toward my unitarded-torso, but who am I to ask for so much. Skating to Gaga for some reason triggered sweet memories of post-dinner basement skates  while Sanford & Son and One Day at a Time played on the small TV in the background. Those were the days.

Sadly, “Bad Romance” had run its course, so I very nimbly exited the rink with the grace of the holiest angel. Or Jennifer Aniston; she seems like she’d be graceful on skates. By the time I made it to the snack bar, Janna, Blake and Stacey were all sitting around a table, properly beverageinated. Realizing I didn’t have any cash on me and that Henry was still on the rink with Chooch, I pleaded for Janna to spot me. Hooo boy was she pissed. There went the arms! There went the eye-roll! There went the disgusted phlegm gurgle! Apparently, Blake had also asked her for money and she was starting to feel like a parental unit or something. What? I felt it wasn’t enough that the entire rink already assumed she was my son’s mom, why not try to finagle an allowance out of her too?

In the end, I got my Mountain Dew because it is written in the Bible that Janna cannot deny me.

Oh boy, soon it was time for Limbo! We kept trying to get Blake to go out there but he was all, “No, no, hell no.” Finally, we convinced him that it was the best idea anyone had ever had, even better than  putting peanut butter and jelly in the same jar, even better than making porn downloadable, even better than giving this asshole her own Internet property. So off Blake skated, to the back of a line in which he was the tallest by at least a foot.

When it was his turn, he split his pants.

Like, really split his pants.

Like, split his pants to the point where it was too obscene for me to even take a picture of it unless I wanted to have at least a dozen unsavory labels slapped on my record.

He handled it better than I would have. Had it been me, Henry would have had to rush home and clear the house of all prescription bottles, nooses, and razor blades.

Shockingly, witnessing Blake’s folly inspired Chooch to give it a go, and he tugged Janna onto the rink with him. I didn’t even realize what was going on until I saw them skating to the back of the line together. On his first skating foray, my kid did the Limbo and cleared the pole without falling on his ass. I was so proud! The guys holding the poles were like, “Dude you made it! You get to go again!” but Chooch was all, “Nah, cuz. It’s cool. I just wanted to do it that once.”

Then came the wobbly-voiced DJ again, reminding us that is was “Gentleman’s Couple Skate. This is now Gentleman’s Couple Skate.” I looked at Stacey and shouted, “Dude, that’s so progressive!” but then he came back on over the loud speakers to correct himself. It was actually Gentleman’s Choice. Since Henry doesn’t have a say in anything, I forced him to trade Chooch’s hand for mine. Stacey wanted Chooch to choose her, but he got real nervous and said, “I can’t! My hand’s all sweaty!” That means he really likes her. He’s shy around his crushes. He ended up skating with Janna, while Stacey kept Blake and his exposed crotch company on the bench.

Wow, that sounded so innocent.

Once the song was over, I was dismayed to find that Stacey and Blake had already exchanged their skates for their shoes, and even more dismayed to see that the session was nearly over. I was overheated as shit, but I wanted more! More more more! Everyone assured me that the world wasn’t ending and that we could come back soon. But soon for me would have been ten minutes later.

I miss it there so much already. And I didn’t even have any pizza! I was so busy skating that I didn’t stop once to eat lunch. That’s how awesome it was there.

Later that night, I said to Henry, “Remember when we couple-skated and you didn’t ask me to marry you?”

“I also didn’t ask you to skate,” he pointed out.

Even when we were on a skating hiatus during the fall (tried to explain to Roller DJ that things are just too busy for us during that season but he didn’t want to hear it, jerk), I still kept tabs on the roller rink through Facebook to see if any soul skates were going to happen. Because I’d drop anything for some fucking soul skate. Some of the best times of my life (read: 2011) happened on that rink, beneath the flashing lights and pulsating beats of “Roll Bounce;” it’s kind of romantic, actually. For three whole hours, Henry and I get along. Sometimes he even looks attractive to me.

Finally, Roller DJ sent me a Facebook invite for an upcoming soul skate at the end of February. I RSVPd without even looking at the date, to be honest.

When we pulled into the lot that evening, I let out a ridiculous “Yay, black people!” cheer, which made Henry cringe, but you guys just don’t understand how happy I was to see all the Rollers milling about out there. They are THE BEST SKATERS IN THE WORLD. They make me embarrassed for my fellow white people, the same way my reverse racism embarrasses Henry. Thank god I’m only 2% white.

Sometimes, during regular afternoon sessions, there is this awesome semi-scene kid who comes alone, with his own green-wheeled skates. He is a fast, adept skater and these are things I look for in potential mates, plus he seems like he would be open to listening to Dance Gavin Dance in the cemetery at night, something that is on Henry’s never-to-do list.  When he showed up after us at adult skate, I could barely contain myself, tugging on Henry’s arm, squealing “I hope he asks me to prom!” in Laura’s face. I was also pretty smug because the last time I saw him, Henry argued that he was sure this guy was underage, but the fact that  he showed up alone to adult skate made me confident that he is AT LEAST 18. Sure, I will probably be consumed with a bit of shame once we produce roller-babies together, but I’m sure it won’t last long.

I’ve done worse.

(Not underage stuff, though! Jesus.)

(This post is not going well.)

He was sitting behind me in the snack room, so I propped my phone up to make it look like I was taking a picture of myself.

“No. No. To the left. More. No, you’re still blocking him,” Laura kept saying, trying to coax my phone in the proper direction so I could snag an image of my new prom date to share with all my imaginary Internet friends.

“You’re the worst at that,” Henry grumbled, watching me with his furrowed caterpillar-eyebrows, lips bent up in his signature disapproving smirk.

Later on the rink, he whirled past me and I shouted to Henry, “I want to go ask him where his flute is!”

Thank god Henry is old and gets all my stupid 70s television programming references. This doesn’t mean he thinks they’re funny, though.

(Seriously, you have to see this kid from the front. H.R. Pufnstuf has got to be waiting out in his car.)

Laura reveling in her first Soul Skate!

Henry’s rink ref bromance was there.

His name is Paul and he’s actually a very  nice guy, I just don’t get why he allows Henry to skate with him. I trailed them silently for a while, trying to eavesdrop, because what could they possibly have to talk about? Paul is a tangible majesty on wheels, leaving a trail of rhythm and skate-sex in his wake (you should see this man couple-skate!); Henry looks like Opie skating down to the creek to skip some stones before the Mayberry sock hop, leaving a trail of wedgie-inducing khakis and pocket protectors in his wake. I sidled up behind them but all I could make out over top of a 50-minute funk track was Henry’s HYUK-HYUK-HYUKing.

I like to do a Godzilla-dub of his laugh, making sure my jaw movements don’t  match up with the hyuk’ing. Henry does not find this amusing.

Later in the night, we were talking to Paul about skates, since we’re both looking into buying our own. (This is a big, serious process! I don’t want to fuck up and get some lame pair that doesn’t accentuate my scene kid swag.)

“I just like to skate fast,” I yelled over top of the quaking speakers.

“Yeah, I know you do!” Paul shouted back emphatically, which made me proud that he noticed. So we talked about my options, and then Paul kept trying to convince Henry to give his skates a try.

“Maybe later!” Henry kept saying on a bed of sheepish giggles, like Paul had just pulled a string of anal beads out of his back pocket. Before the end of the end, though, Paul finally wore him down, and Henry thought he was the baddest cracker out there, gliding around in a pair of $1,000 boots under-lit with a blue neon track light. He bragged about it for days.

Nauseating.

A gaggle of obnoxious honkies infiltrated the rink with their Valley Girl lilt and Katy Perry fan club membership cards. I knew right away that they were going to make the Rollers whisper “This is why segregation is sometimes OK!” They all looked like they stepped out of a 1998 Gap ad campaign, so basically imagine a gang of giddy Jannas. The ring leader was a ginger bitch wearing underwear on the outside of her jeans. (Laura overheard her telling someone she had lost a bet, but I could tell she was the type of person who thrived on the attention, good or bad.) There was something about her that immediately rubbed me the wrong way; well, yeah, there was the fact that she was a ginger (and not a good-looking one, either; but one plucked from the branches of the Bonaduce family tree).

The only good thing about their presence was that their sheer skating inadequacy made me look even better to the Rollers, I’M SURE. They just clomped around the rink in a tight group, stumbling and wobbling, having no rhythm and being white. I kept speeding past them, like I do, and I think Gingerpants was getting angry about it, because toward the end of the night, she suddenly broke away from the pack and passed me out of nowhere.

One thing to know about me is that I get easily up-in-arms. Sometimes (see also: 90% of the time) unrightfully so. When I am on that rink though, I get what I like to call skate muscles, where I really feel like everyone is out to get me and I am there to beat up the world. So when this ginger bitch smoked me, I didn’t take very kindly to it. Whether she did it intentionally or not (I honestly believe that she DID, though), this carrotbroad just threw down the gauntlet for a skate battle.

I skated off the rink and skidded to a stop next to Henry.

“DID YOU SEE WHAT THE GINGER DID TO ME?!” I exclaimed, arms akimbo, voice trembling with haughtiness. “SHE FUCKING TRIED TO RACE ME I THINK!”

Henry answered me by doing that thing he does to signify he’s exhausted by my antics, which is sighing wearily and running one calloused hand over his eyes.

“WATCH THIS,” I shouted as I skated back on the rink. She had rejoined her little suburban whitebreads; I dug down hard and picked up a good speed, turning to the side to skim between her and the wall.

She almost fell.

I couldn’t tell if Henry’s expression was one of shame to be associated with me, or one that said, “I’m gon’ bed that badass tonight.

”

I was halfway around the rink, figuring that the battle was over, when I noticed a bright red beacon in my periphery; I looked over just in time to see Carrot Top’s illegitimate daughter glaring at me over her shoulder, like I’m her greatest enemy: The Sun.

“OH FUCK NO!” I shouted to no one and everyone, firing up my skates and passing her again. She never did catch up with me again, I don’t know if she gave up and or just succumbed to her melanin deficiency, but I noticed that she and her goof troop left the rink shortly after.

“I can’t believe that stupid white girl tried to race me, ” I scoffed later.

“You’re white,” Henry reminded me.

Only on the outside, my friend. Only on the outside.

The Penguins were playing the Capitals on Sunday afternoon and as much as I love skating, I love my hockey more; I made the executive decision to go skating on Saturday afternoon instead, and it turned out to be one of the greatest ideas I’ve ever had, next to the creation of America’s most underrated sport (Thingieball), baking vaginal malady cookies, and touring in no particular order: Mystery Hole, Christ in the Smokies, and the Bayernhof Music Museum, which I try to name-drop every chance I get just so Andrea will be reminded of it every time she visits Oh Honestly, Erin.

(I heard Dick the Tour Guide even sent her a post card.)

“Why was it the best idea ever, Erin?” Oh, only because all the assholes stayed home, leaving me with all sorts of open rink space to jam out on.

This may have less to do with it being Saturday and more to do with the fact that there was an ice storm the night before. Either way, I was really feeling my groove that afternoon and made sure to openly gush about it to Henry, which always makes him scowl because he’s allergic to my four-wheeled braggadocia.

It didn’t seem like it was going to be a good skate session in the beginning, when my rentals ended up having two different-sized tongues. And one of them had shorter laces which needed to be tied lower than the other! Two really disconcerting flaws for someone who nitpicks every little thing that is put upon her person.

So for the first time ever, I had to return a pair of skates at the Rollerdrome. The new owner seemed annoyed by this, but I noticed that there were other people returning skates too so, I don’t know, MAYBE IT’S HIS PROBLEM AND NOT OURS.

The second pair of skates had adequate symmetrical properties, but the wheels were all fucked up and making me feet turn out against their will. I kept gliding over to Henry to bitch about it, at which point he would make the audacious suggestion that this was all in my head.

“Just keep skating. You’ll wear them in,” he shouted over Roller DJ’s meticulously crafted Top 40 playlist. This angered me. I wanted Henry to acknowledge my plight, to halt his Opie of Mayberry nerd patrol promenade around the rink and get to the bottom of my wonky wheels. I wanted him to march up to the skate rental counter and demand an oil can and a Billy Joel-approved red paisley handkerchief for him to adequately service his Uptown Girl’s brokedown quads.

But he did none of those things so I skated off the rink in a huff and pretended like I was just going to go home, which made him rant about how I waste money and OK FUCKER I WILL SKATE OUT THE KINKS, HAPPY NOW?!

And I did just that – took my temper, my indignation, my scrappy determination, and my catawampus-wheeled skates back on the rink. The kinks never really worked themselves out, but my desire to hedgeclip Henry’s scrotum did, and I guess that’s the important part.

Usually during intermission, Roller DJ plays a “Grease” medley and I just absolutely can’t stand “Grease” songs, which is weird because I love ONJ. But I mean, if you’re going to go that route, why not tip your hat to “Xanadu” and spin some “Magic,” Roller DJ? Plus, intermission equates “reverse skate,” and for some reason, I lose my bearings going clockwise around the rink, so I usually just sit it out. But last Saturday, Roller DJ dissed all the “Grease” fans and played normal music, which culminated at the end in a riveting romp through “YMCA.” I don’t know why this tickled me so, but I was so hyperbolically animated out there, it was probably embarrassing for all.

Meanwhile, Henry skipped out on his theme song and called all his make believe friends on his make believe phone to tell them about his new hair cut. Goodbye, flowing McNichol-locks, hello Mr. Belvehair.

(It only really bears a loose resemblance to Mr. Belvedere’s ‘do, so I don’t know why I said that other than the fact that Henry actually is the not-as-well-dressed Mr. Belvedere of our house.)

In other rink happenings, there was this stout lady in a purple sweater who was obviously some washed-up competition queen because she was doing all kinds of old school moves, but not the awesome soul skate jam moves. These were more “uptight cracker in a unitard skating a solo to Belinda Carlisle” calculated steps. My personal favorite was when she would squat down real low, prop her elbows on her inner thighs, and glide around the corners like it was some uncomfortable skate dance choreography for child birth. The fact that she was at least my age and fatter than me, and still out there doing her thing made me feel this really weird, awkward sensation. I realized later that it was what you people call “respect.” So while Henry, Chooch and I were sitting out during Backward Skate, I mused out loud that I wanted to talk to her.

“What, you HATE her?” Chooch asked, mishearing me as usual.

“No! NO NO NO, god no. I said I want to TALK to her,” I broke my neck to correct him.

I’ve learned my lesson enough times now to know never to say anything disparaging in front of Chooch because he is a direct pipeline to the National Enquirer. (Sadly, it took me more than once to finally learn my lesson. But you’re not surprised.)

Also during Backward Skate, I fell in love with a ROLLERBLADER. I know, I was just as disgusted with myself! But to be fair, he had on pro blades, not those clunky plastic boots, and he was straight stuntin’. He obviously is a hockey player and as soon as I make sure he’s at least 18, I’m going to marry him. Or at least take him in the alley out back.

Highlight of the day: Roller DJ announced it was Guy’s Choice and I dejectedly skated off the rink. Even if Henry and I were there alone, he would never choose me. I bore his child, and he still won’t choose me. (ERIN, ARE YOU STILL TALKING ABOUT SKATING?) I’m sitting there alone on the bench when a grubby little hand juts out toward me and there’s Chooch, standing there saying, “Come on, Mommy!”

“You choose me?” I asked, all surprised and emotional. He gave me this look that asked, “Are you coming or not?” So I took his sweaty hand and we skated together to Bruno Mars and it was pretty much the most adorable thing ever. Chooch and I get along really well when we’re skating. It’s not until we get in the car that we start bickering like siblings. And he is getting so good at skating! He’s basically out there on his own all the time now and I don’t think he fell at all this time.

I like to think he aspires to be as excelsior as his mother. (Reminder: he was not adopted.)

Then it was time for the Pepsi Challenge! Which is really just Four Corners sponsored by Pepsi, unbeknowst to them I’m sure. I almost didn’t participate because the song was some nauseating Katy Perry joint (the second Pukey Perry* song of the session, I was very displeased) but it’s a good thing I’m trained in blocking out her eye-crossing caterwauls because my corner won, bitches!

*(This is totally what I would have gotten everyone to call her if we were in 4th grade together.)

I think there were 5 of us in all who got a ticket for a free Pepsi in the snack room. Henry skated over to me and with his lips perverted in that signature smirk of his, he said, “Gee, I’m sure Roller DJ choosing your corner as the winner had NOTHING to do with you.”

“Well, duh,” I said. Hey, some dudes are stupid enough to think I’m cute, OK? And if they want to give me free Pepsi products, I’ll take it, because I know my goods are way too damaged to score much better than a paper cup of carbonation.

SO LET ME HAVE MY MOMENT, HENRY.

We stopped in the snack room on the way out so I could cash in my winnings. The owner’s wife took the coupon away from me before I had a chance to take a picture of it, which honestly left me feeling paralyzed because I have to take pictures of EVERYTHING. I guess I’ll just have to try to win again next weekend.

I was sitting at a table with Henry and Chooch, sipping my free Mountain Dew, when Chooch loudly exclaimed, “MOMMY! THERE’S THAT LADY YOU WANT TO TALK TO!” I started to slowly turn around, hoping that maybe she was outside of the snack room, or had ear plugs in, or just had her ears lopped off entirely by Jason Voorhees, but no such luck. She was literally right next to my shoulder. She looked down at me and smiled and waited expectantly. It was the longest, most pregnant pause of my life. I just stared back at her dumbly before finally sputtering some jumbled superlatives at her face, in the same way I do to guys in bands (“YOUWEREREALLYAWESOMETONIGHTTHANKSBYE”) but instead of bursting into tears and running away in the style of Phoebe Buffay, I simply returned to my free drink.

Thank god I was able to convince Chooch that I hadn’t actually said I hated her.

“I should have asked to be my mentor!” I wailed minutes later, when we were already in the car on our way home.

After my skate exchange earlier in the session, the owner (Henry is totally on the “‘Sup, cuz!” level with him now and it’s so irritating) gave me a skate catalogue and in a tired voice said, “Please, just please come talk to me before you buy a pair. I’ll help you.” I think I’m totally getting the purple ones with green wheels. That is, if my fickle feet can even tolerate low-tops.

Someday, I’m going to own my own rink. And I’m going to have bands play there. You just wait and see.