Chooch got a fedora yesterday. He put it on and we took pictures. The end. (Wouldn’t it be nice if all my posts were this succinct?)

I was like, “Where the hell did you learn this pose?”

“Freddy,” he answered. And then when my face looked blank, he added, “From ‘iCarly’!”

God, I am so out of touch. (Not really, because as soon as he said that, I immediately knew what episode he was talking about. I’m such a hussy for TeenNick.)

This one was from Friday, after the Harland picture-takin’ extravaganza. The downside is that since I asked him to sit on one stoop, he deemed it necessary to try out EVERY SINGLE STOOP we passed on our way back to Kara’s.

He had to get his school picture taken a few weeks ago.

He probably wondered why the photographer did it in one shot. “He didn’t even ask me to wear a pig mask!”

Aw, fuck. Here I go ruining a perfectly good blog post with WORDS again.

Screwing around with some old photos at work while I have a little bit of an unusual lull. 

Chooch zombified himself with my iPhone:

Some other things:

Hockey season has begun! The Pens game starts in 30 minutes, which means I will be acting all indignant and put-off every time an analyst brings work for me. Can’t they see I’m TRYING to listen to the goddamn game?

!

Of course everything would be doubled-over-in-hysteria funny tonight at work since I have chest pains. Ow.

I posted a review of the new Chiodos album last night. It was met with a very “Bueller?”-esque reception. Some random girl on Twitter read it and said it was well-done. That was good enough for me. Really fucking love Chiodos, in case you haven’t figured that out, considering I have an entire blog category devoted to them.

Kettelbell workouts are my jam.

Pretty much sums up how I feel about 90% of the world’s population lately.

If I didn’t work for a law firm, I might even be persuaded to get this tattooed to my lips permanently. Then I’d walk around, doling out insulting kisses.

But even in spite of all the stupid people, I had a rad weekend with fantastic friends and hope you all did too!

(My lips are totally stained now.

)

Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong on the Dark Side of Etsy, like I’m not dark enough or goth enough (but they’ve never made me feel unwanted!).  Because of this, I’ve been a little self-conscious when assigned a member to gift for the birthday swap. What if they think whatever I send them is too “fun” or “whimsical”? Short of splashing my paintings with pigs blood, I pretty much just wing it.

But this month, the person I was given to gift expressed an interest in lomography, so I sent her the photo below and its accompanying story. She in turn told me that the photo and story were disturbing, and that her daughter asked, “What is wrong with her?” For a member of the Dark Side to think something of mine is creepy and disturbing? Best compliment ever.  

I don’t usually re-post my “super gay stories,” but I wanted to give this one another spin, since it was so well-received the other day. Just let me bask for a minute, alright? Christ.

And hey! If you want your own copy (which is printed on really cool metallic paper, by the way!), you can get it here.

Sally should not have been surprised when she was turned away at the door.

“But I was invited!” she insisted, coffee-stained invitation curved around the womb of her hands. She held it up to the man’s face, pulling it taut so he could see that her name, in adolescent lower-case, was penciled in at the top. Her name, it was there! Her name was right there next to the day-old coffee splash that looked like Hitler; right there, preceeding the typed words IS INVITED.

Laughter flitted from the bowels of the banquet hall. He flicked the invitation, knocking it loose from Sally’s grip and slamming the door in her snout. “No pigs invited!” she heard several revelers shout in unison, followed by more hideous laughter. “Pig’ll eat all the food!” The cruel heckling made the bile effervesce within Sally. For a brief moment, she could taste its sour flavor as it burned against her uvula. She swallowed it.

She tried to swallow the hideous laughter, too.

Fifty-three minutes later, Sally sat in her parked car at a truck stop just a few miles outside of town. She numbly nibbled on the sandwich that was handed to her through a window by an androgynous teen with a snarled upper lip, Sally’s own pout puckering involuntarily as her tongue moved over a spot of bread, moist from pickle sweat. Choking back a sloppy slurp of lemonade, Sally cried out bitterly, “I belong no where!

” She groped in the darkness of her car, until her fingers eventually came up with a pen.

You might not know it yet but you will be sorry. Sorry for slamming doors in my face, for flushing my poems down the commode. You will be sorry for not letting me carole with you that one Christmas in 1987.

As a child, Sally was invited to parties only because her father was the principal; parents used her spot on birthday guest lists to keep their own slovenly spawn from flunking out of third grade. And Sally, so full of jubilance, would put on her best Laura Ashley, and she would step into her best Mary Janes, and she would wrap the present in the best foiled paper. And last, she would pull on her rubber pig mask.

In front of her father, all the kids would chant “Oh Sally’s here! Oh, Sally, Sally, Sally!” But then the door would shut behind her and her father and his little green Pinto would be a dot on the horizon.

You might not know it yet, but you will see that my headgear did not define me, that my stutter was not a reason to make me a cafeteria pariah.

You might not know it yet, but my halitosis was bearable under the supervision of Altoids.

And then it was, “Oops, Sally, I didn’t mean to tear your dress” [as Mary Misslegap swiped at the silken floral with a boxcutter] and “Uh oh, Sally’s having her period!” [courtesy of Agatha Angelfuck pollacking her with Heinz] and “Sorry, Sally, there’s no cake left for you” [as Tommy Wettail smeared it on her face like paste, snapping her bra for the cherry on top]. And there would be that hideous laughter again. Sally would swallow that hideous laughter and go home.

You might not know it yet, but you will realize that I had things to say, ideas to share, if you could have only seen past my muffin top, past my cleft palate. You will realize that the brown stain on my white trousers in Spanish class senior year was mud, not shit from my own self.

And even after all of that, Sally was willing to give her old peers a second chance when the invitation arrived that day. YARDLY GREEN HIGH SCHOOL’S TENTH REUNION it said in an elegant script. Sally, who had too much hope for humanity, was anxious to show off her poker straight teeth and Kathy Lee knock-off. But Sally, whose better judgement raped her thoughts with reality, couldn’t help but falter in her step when she arrived at the hotel that night.

You might not know it yet, but I don’t care about your Better Homes and Garden wedding. And I don’t care your child was born with Downs Syndrome. And I don’t care about how you feel about me. Not anymore.

Sally should have known she was only invited as entertainment, one more lashing for the social reject. It was just like grade school, only now the cruelty was liquor-enhanced. Sally should have known there would be no punch-drinking and name tag-wearing for her that night. But now, parked next to a rocking eighteen-wheeler with frosted windows, Sally knew; and soon they would too.

You might not know it yet, but I am unable to swallow that hideous laughter.You might not know it yet, but I was really fucking good at Chemistry.

Sally had just added the final flourish to her signature when her pen bled its last drop of ink. Sally folded the coarse brown napkin she had been writing on and peeled off the pig mask;  with a forceful stab to her carotid, she used the sanguine ink to scrawl ATTENTION: ALL OF MY WORST CRITICS on the top of the note.

And that is exactly what a mulletted trucker in a camo vest was reading, coagulated in blood and pickle juice from a half-eaten Hoagie Hocker sub, when the bomb went off at that hotel with the hideous laughter.

Before I left for work yesterday, it began to downpour. Because I never think very far ahead, I kicked off my shoes, grabbed the camera and ran outside with Chooch.

“I had a dream that you were taking me to my new classroom and you looked ugly,” Chooch said when we were on our way to buy him new clothes for school.

“Hey!” I yelled.

“What?! It was just a dream. God.” And then came a series of annoyed and exasperated grunts that he must have learned from Henry because I am never annoyed or exasperated.

Nearly every shirt he picked out has skulls on it.  And he’s clearly not afraid to make bold statements by wearing purple.  I wonder what scene-kid fashion will be like by the time he’s in high school. I wonder if there will be cool scene-ish four-year-olds in his pre-school class.

Henry came home from work during our photo shoot and proceeded to sit across the street in the parking lot like a creeper, probably finishing up his daily phone sex with his girlfriend. I didn’t even realize he was there until I came back inside and saw that he texted “you guys are idiots.” He’s just jealous that he’s too old to play in the rain; it’ll enrage his arthritis.

And then I had to leave for work, where I sat in air conditioning for the next five hours while squirming under wet hair and damp clothes. And when I get sick, of course I’ll act surprised.

An hour ago, I was ranting about being considered a Mommy Blogger.

I’m not a mommy blogger! Here, have a photo of my kid!

Somewhere in my blog travels, I stumbled across Crunchy Betty, who is (super pretty and) having a contest thing where you send her a picture of food on your face. I thought, “Boy, that sure sounds fun, and maybe I should keep up with this blogosphere elbow-rubbing thing.” You know, instead of being that pissed-upon loser blog in the corner.

And really, does it get any better than applying balls of sugary Trix to your face in ninety-degree heat, using peanut butter as adhesive? I had to take these pictures faster than I jump into bed at night. (I don’t like standing next to the bed after dark because SOMETHING MIGHT LOP OFF MY FEET WITH A SICKLE, so I usually do a little running leap, like I’m some goddamn gymnast in fear of being whipped by Bela Karoli.)

There. That was fun. But no one wanted to kiss me…?

[ETA: I’m sure I did this wrong, now that I think about it. I have this incredibly rich habit of glossing over words like a sixteen-year-old fresh out of Adderal and I’m wondering if I was supposed to actually make one of the facial mask recipes on Crunchy Betty’s blog. There might be a do-over in the future.]

Success is managing to photograph the subject without getting sprayed with milk and dirty boy spit.

Vic Fuentes from Pierce the Veil, fuck yeah.

I haven’t even come close to collecting all my thoughts about Warped Tour 2010, but when I was going through the pictures from yesterday and came across this one, there was no way I could wait to post it. Pierce the Veil’s set was the highlight of the day for me; nothing else came even close. As far as I’m concerned, that one short set was totally worth the price of admission and enduring the unrelenting sun beaming down 100 degree rays of pain and torture on us all day long.

I cried through their entire set.

There’s much more to come! You know I’m a wordy motherfucker. (Plus, there’s still Butler County Fair stuff to post about, including a REALLY MAJOR secret I learned about Alisha!) But until then, anyone who thinks Warped Tour is “gay” or maybe just doesn’t get it should check out this article by Alternative Press’s Scott Heisel, because it made me simultaneously say “Fuck yeah” and cry. Music turns me into a pussy, what can I say.

Filthy disgusting boy-hands, all day, every day.

It is hot. We don’t have air-conditioning, except in the bedroom. Just putting four pictures in a post is making me sweat and it’s not even 10:00am yet. Words will have to come at a later date.

(And I have a lot of them, because Alisha and I went to the Big Butler County Fair, OMG.)

I grew up with an in-ground pool at my disposal and central air. Ten years I’ve spent in the hell that is this piece of shit house in Brookline, and I have come to the conclusion that acclimation isn’t a real thing. I actually wished I had to work yesterday, just to get a reprieve.

“You had a REAL pool when you were a kid, and all I get this cheap balloon-thing?” Yep, pretty much, Chooch.

People passing our house yesterday were actually willing Chooch to splash them.

Tomorrow, it’s supposed to be 96 degrees for Warped Tour.

But at least it’s open space, and not the brick prison I call home, which is essentially Hell with a lid on.

When Alisha moved into her current apartment last summer, I was immediately entranced by the old-time creep factor of the house’s foyer and had been wanting to take pictures of someone in it ever since.

I just wasn’t sure who. Finally, Alisha’s pug, Bonzi,  was like, “OK fine, I’ll do it. You can lose the number to the Humane Society now, Jesus Christ.

”

I wish I had a flapper to drape across Bonzi’s lap.

Miraculously, we were able to get Alisha’s cat, Fallon, to sit still for a couple of shots. This one was my favorite, sitting with their backs to each other in typical sibling fashion.

Doubly miraculously is that Chooch was there and managed to keep his big head out of all the shots, and only tripped over the lighting once.

Henry brings home a donut for Chooch every Sunday. He looks cute eating it for approximately .002 seconds before all the sugar activates his Asshole Switch.

Hey look at me and my mommy blog!

I’ve been having conflicting feelings lately. Feelings that have made me want to seriously pack a bag and just go away, possibly never come back.

I suspect that maybe this is normal, that other moms probably feel this way at times, but it’s hard when you can’t find anyone to admit that, when you feel that just saying the words out loud will have you ostracized from humanity. Makes you feel kind of alone in it all. Lately, it’s seemed like Chooch and I fight with each other more than anything else and I hate that. I hate going into work with blood-shot eyes, trying to suppress that sniveling reaction your body goes through when you’ve been crying all afternoon. I miss being able to just enjoy my kid instead of constantly yelling at him and having him defy me over and over. Usually this starts as soon as he rolls out of bed.

I don’t hate my kid. But I’m starting to hate being a mom. I don’t want to hate being a mom. Last week at work, I overheard one of the analysts in her office, talking on the phone to her nineteen-month-old. And she sounded so happy talking to her son, praising him,  repeating over and over that she loved him and would be home soon. I remember those days, too. And they seem like they happened forever ago. When my co-worker hung up, she said to herself, “I love being a mother.”

Fuck you.

Most days I’m too stressed and disgusted to “enjoy” being a mother. The five hours a night I spend at my job, in a clean and quiet office, is what I enjoy.

And that makes me feel like shit.

So I’ve been looking at baby pictures. Reading old LiveJournal posts from when he was in his first year. It’s been helping. And he’s been good this weekend, like the old Chooch that I thought must have been devoured by zombies because it’s been so long since I’ve seen him.

***

Yesterday was really good though. He was actually sweet, cooperative, suggested going to the cemetery to take pictures. THAT’S the Chooch I used to know. I convinced Henry to give him a faux hawk because I haven’t been able to stand the way his hair has grown in from that horrible shearing Henry gave him last December. In my mind, his bad seed behavior can be traced back to that horrible buzzing his scalp endured.

“Ugh. I look like Jimmy Neutron,” Chooch said when he looked in the mirror. But I was like, “Well, I like it and that’s all that matters.”

I don’t know where Henry got those shorts for him. I don’t approve.

“And then JESUS….woked up from the DEAD….and saw a ZOMBIE! and then died again.”

Literally an hour later, he realized that his hair had been sculpted into a cement slab. [More photos here.]

***

I do love Chooch. That’s never changed. I just need to find a way to get back to loving my role in his life. Maybe I’m an asshole for having the audacity to admit all of this.

But hopefully, there are moms reading who maybe feel the same and now they know they’re not alone. Because god knows I know how much it sucks to feel alone.

We decided to take Chooch to the Evans City Cemetery yesterday, where Night of the Living Dead was filmed (even though at least 5 cemeteries in the surrounding areas of Pittsburgh claim to hold that title). I think he was disappointed that there weren’t really any zombies there.

There was, however, a freshly buried body, and two old men hovering atop the loose earth who stared at us suspiciously across the way. I’m sure the locals just love getting visits from assholes like us.

They’re coming to get you, Barbara.

It was about as anticlimactic as you can probably imagine.

Afterward, I was hungry, so hungry; the kind of hunger that’s so intense, it devours any shred of patience and rationality that might still exist somewhere within my dark self, and I turn into the type of woman who might yank the steering wheel from the hands of the driver, causing the car to careen over a bridge into some disgusting river, if only to prove her point that dead bodies do exist beneath the filthy surface.

“How about Hank’s?” Henry suggested. “It’s Mexican.”

He made to pull into the lot and I yelled, “Um, I am NOT eating at a Mexican establishment named after some guy named HANK.” Then I saw that you ordered through a window and were expected to eat outside, at dirty picnic tables. (So maybe I wasn’t close enough to actually see the surfaces of the tables, but I just know. I just know.) “Oh and I am NOT eating outside,” I added, crossing my arms and scowling out the window. This is truth right here, not hyperbole.

“You know, I think you only do this shit to me,” Henry said, on his way to poutsville. “I bet when you’re out with other people, it’s never this hard to find a place to eat.”

At least three dozen traumatic food-finding scenarios with Christina flashed through my mind, but I said nothing.

“If you did this shit to Alisha,” Henry added. “she wouldn’t still be friends with you.”

This is probably very true.

We settled on a stupid place called Ree’s Family Restaurant. It was bad enough the cheese wasn’t melted on my grilled cheese, but when you bring me a slice of blueberry pie and it’s been over-refrigerated to the point of coagulating into a pie-brick, and the crust tastes like the less-flavorful bastard offspring of one of those packaged Hostess pies, you can go choke on a dick, OK? It’s not often that I pass a piece of pie across the table after one fucking bite.

I should have just buried my food expectations in the Evans City Cemetery. Maybe they could make a cameo in the 8th remake of Night of the Living Dead.

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