Incredibly, Chooch agreed to an impromptu photo shoot today when I came home from work and didn’t even ask for money or Skylanders in return. And I know exactly why.

Chooch has a “girlfriend” apparently. She’s someone from his class and before school ended, they exchanged Instagram names. So now he’s all about pictures of himself, so that he can post them and then tag her to see if she’ll say anything. Usually it’s things like, “You’re weird.”

So he was like, “Yeah let’s do this thang.”

His go-to pose.

His hair combined with his loud mouth make it easy to keep tabs on him when he’s out and about.

Obligatory Flock of Seagulls shot.

In other news, taking in-focus photos is becoming increasingly harder for me to accomplish because my eyesight is getting so horrible but I still haven’t made an appointment to get them checked because I LIVE DANGEROUSLY. Also because I constantly forget to do adult things.

Well, guys. I’m still obsessed with my succulents. Earlier tonight, I unwound by taking some of them outside for a PHOTO SHOOT. It gets really wild over here sometimes. And crunk, too, if anyone still says that. Anyway, I named this one Suzy Banyon.

One of the downsides to where I live is that there are ALWAYS people walking by and I kind of felt like I was being watched as I filmed a porno, you know? Because what I was doing was so INTIMATE. I’ve never been one to take photos of flowers and general objects of nature, so that’s how you know I am infatuated with my dumb plant collection. Henry’s mom was here today and right away I shouted COME LOOK AT MY PLANTS OMG. She agreed that Bae is pretty much the shit. 

This babe is Gossamer.

And you already know Bae! THIS IS A CLOSEUP OF BAE.

More Bae!

Sandworm, obvi. [Sidenote: I finally have a use for the root beer jug Janna bought me for my birthday at the Fayette County Fair a few years ago!]

My precious Panne.

PANNE AGAIN. I think Panne might be tied with Bae for my favorite.

Nipsy.

This one is still a John Doe. I have to stare at it intensely some more. EDIT: Monica has dubbed this one Stefano Dimera because, like his namesake from Days of Our Lives, he’s hard to kill! (hopefully.)

Gossamer’s nickname is Nun’s Vag.

Henry just walked by and sighed. That might be my cue.

I came home from work and started going through old pictures to re-edit, because it has been A Week, and playing with photos calms my nerves almost as much as wine. Obviously, I’ve been going through Chooch pictures because it’s his birthday on Saturday and I get so fucking weepy and nostalgic every year around this time. He’s almost old enough to be a latchkey kid! SOON HE WILL BE A TEENAGER AND THAT WILL MEAN I’M OLD TOO.

Haha, no it won’t. Peter Pan Syndrome 4 lyfe.

I don’t know. Enjoy some random photos of my kid.

2008 – I WONDER IF BLAKE STILL HAS THAT SHIRT. God, we used to drive Henry nuts with our constant need to listen to DGD in the car. I guess not much has changed, at least on my end.

2012

2006 – Cemeteries have always been his playground.

2011

2012 again.

Bonus: When Henry exhibited lightning-quick reflexes to catch Chooch before he pancaked across the ground, circa 2007.

Ugh, I can’t wait for the weeeeeeeekend.

Here are some pictures of things that happened today.

Apparently, I had just a smidge too much wine last night, because when I woke up this morning, I felt like I had spent the night at Burning Man, and not just hosting several friends for a Marcy memorial. Wine hangovers are my jam, if by that I mean that I just puked into a jar of Smuckers. Luckily, I recovered in time to be able to traipse around the cemetery with Henry while Chooch was at piano.

Traipsing.

The cemetery in which the traipsing occurred.

Me: “Why do you need a stick?”

Henry: “In case I need to hit a hipster on a bike.”

Valid.

Then we went to the mausoleum to pee and I wanted Henry to take fun and hilarious selfies with me but then I remembered that he’s against fun.

After Chooch’s piano lesson, we went to the playground in North Park, where Chooch managed to kick a soccer ball into his face, flip through the air, fall into a tree stump, and start bleeding all within 10 seconds. It was truly a sight to behold. Then he complained that he didn’t have anyone to play with and we were like THERE ARE NO LESS THAN 8 BOYS AROUND YOUR OWN AGE MILLING ABOUT AIMLESSLY JUST LIKE YOU’RE DOING, GO PICK ONE TO BE AWKWARD WITH.

Then after awhile I realized I hadn’t seen him for a good 10 minutes (there was some car race happening in the parking lot, and it was distracting me from being a parent).  “Where is our child?” I asked and Henry just shrugged. “I don’t know. Over in Pouter’s Field somewhere.” That’s when we found him sitting behind a tree like the Saddest Kid Ever, which was kind of apropos since it’s National Only Child Day (technically he’s not, but when your siblings are 14+ years older than you….).

And that is how Henry and I were guilted into kicking a soccer ball back and forth even though Henry has two broken Pallet Jack Feet and I was wearing TOMS. (Have you ever kicked a soccer ball while wearing TOMS? Feels fucking fantastic.)

Then we went to Kelley’s Dari Delite for ice cream and I changed my mind 18 times (seriously—hard ice cream or soft serve?! A milkshake or a sundae!?) but eventually opted for maple soft serve (maple is my everything) with crunchies and for once I felt pretty secure in my final decision.

Not actually whining.

And now I will leave you with my current favorite song from the new Dance Gavin Dance album, Instant Gratification, which comes out on Tuesday and you should go buy it. Borderline infatuated with it. OK fine, lose the “borderline.” I’m straight psycho for this record. I was trying to tell Henry earlier how perfect Tilian Pearson is for Dance Gavin Dance, and how it’s almost like Jonny Craig was never even in this band, but then I started to cry, because #emotions #posthardcoreprobs #scenekidsentiments

(That 2:07 mark, tho. Heart eyes for days.)

The Easter Bunny came back from vacation just in time for Henry and me to regress and sit on his lap.

Chooch just sat there eating carrots while Henry and I fought in between shots. But to be honest, I think this one of the most docile photo shoots we’ve ever done, somehow.

I have shorts on underneath here. I’m not that slutty. Ignore the writing on the bathroom stalls.

Chooch happily took our pictures. He was like fuck yes, the camera isn’t pointed on me for once.

God forbid we should ever just have a regular photo taken of us.

Happy Easter, you guys!

…Or “Chorey” as Henry accidentally portmanteau’d  them earlier.

Today after Chooch’s piano lesson (and a trip to Etna for the best pierogies I’ve had in some time), I met Corey at Jefferson Memorial to help him out with some updated headshots for his real estate business cards. Henry had to go craft shopping with the old ladies at the nearby Pat Catan’s, so he dropped Chooch and me off which turned out to be kind of frustrating because Chooch was straight sugar-rushin’.< I thought he had burned through some of his hyperactivity at his piano lesson, where his teacher Cheryl admitted that he's  actually well-behaved when Henry takes him and agreed that he feeds off my mere presence. She suggested that I sit in a different chair where he couldn't see me! Anyway, I'm getting too wordy as usual. I apologize. This post is meant to be just pictures that I want to share, because it's been awhile since I got some good ones of Chooch and his Uncle Corey. (For someone who claims that they hate having their picture taken, Chooch sure is a fucking master photo-bomber.)

Random flowers on a fresh grave.

It was really cold out there in the cemetery, but totally worth it!

As far as November weather goes, we were having a pretty beautiful Sunday here in Pittsburgh. We had nothing planned for the day, and even though I was fighting an annoying cold/allergy attack, I decided it was too perfect of a day not to go out and take pictures. Nothing major, I said. Let’s just, I don’t know…go to the grocery store first and buy a birthday cake. For no reason.

Oh just a simple, cheap cake, I said, giving the false impression that this was going to be a breezy, casual, in-and-out trip to the grocery store. Except that we got there and I threw a fit because NONE OF THESE CAKES LOOK RIGHT! NONE OF THEM MATCH MY VISION! THIS IS FUCKING BULLSHIT! I HOPE GIANT EAGLE GOES OUT OF BUSINESS!

And then from there it was JUST FORGET IT LET’S GO HOME FUCK THIS DAY RIGHT IN THE EYE.

I know this game, Henry said out loud, and instead of going home, he drove down the street to a different grocery store, smartly left Chooch and me in the car, and came back with the gaudiest birthday cake, complete with plastic clown head whose icing body was splayed across the top in a hideous, prostrate fashion.

It was fucking perf.

We took the cake, and a “just-in-case” rabbit mask, to Henry’s workplace which has always treated me well as far as photo shoot locales go. Henry was happy because my attitude had adjusted slightly with the purchase of the cake. (Although there was a brief argument in the over birthday cake candles, or lack thereof.)

Thank god we happened to have a random paper mache clown figure in the trunk of the car, too. (Our trunk is like the Mary Poppin’s Tapestry Bag of Animal Masks, Hats, and Other Assorted Oddities. We are always prepared for impromptu costume parties or induction into the witness protection program.)

My only direction for Chooch was “pretend like it’s your birthday party and no one came.”

I can do that, he said with a shrug.

He was very accommodating and easy to work with because I promised that I would play 10 (ten!!) rounds of Call of Duty when we went home. (Mostly because I am really beginning to like playing even though my skill level is not improving.)

The stages of being blown off on your unbirthday.

Now pretend like you don’t give a fuck and just eat the everloving SHIT out of that cake, I said to Chooch, always ready to provide direction.

And then I got to smash cake in Henry’s face because who knows if I’ll ever have a WEDDING DAY. Henry wasn’t very pleased about this, but Chooch and I were laughing so hard that he eventually cracked the tiniest smile while muttering, “You just wait, little bitch.”

It’s been awhile since Chooch and I got along during a photo shoot. I think it was because I mostly let him do whatever he wanted. Plus, the cake. He got to eat cake.

I don’t always go into these things with some high-brow, art student intentions or subtle nuances suggesting a deeper message. But while I was editing these last night, my brother texted me something along the lines of how it makes him happy that even though we were dealt a pretty crappy hand as far as families go, we were still able to have a strong sibling relationship where we can go off on random adventures and laugh to the point of an ugly-cry.

So, I guess this photo series has a cheesy moral to it after all. Um….: When things don’t go the way you intended, try to make the best of what you’re given, eat some cake, etc etc.

Or just go and cut someone. Whatever makes you feel better.

It rained most of the morning and afternoon here in Pittsburgh, so I treated myself to a binge-session of the new (and final) season of The Killing. (This TV series has seriously affected me in some mysterious ways and I am so happy that Netflix revived it long enough for the series to get a proper wrap-up, but also devastated that it’s donezo.)

Then the rain broke, so I made Chooch go for a walk with me to try to balance things out. I hate being even a little sloth-like. This is why, even when I’m sick, I don’t rest. I brought my camera because I’m trying to get back into the habit of taking pictures of Chooch. I’ve been L-Z when it comes to using my camera lately, and then when I’m like, “Henry I want a new camera, buy me a new camera, Henry” he’s like “Why? You barely use the one you have.” True story. So if you’re ever thinking, “Why is she getting worse at this instead of better?”, well, that’s why.

But at least I’m getting a little better at remembering to bring the camera with me. Baby steps!

We walked to the abandoned Bradley School, which used to be a school for deaf kids. (Or blind? I’ve been there often enough, kicking around shards of broken glass, that you would think I would know this.)

This was Chooch’s idea. “Take a picture of me looking evil, and then photoshop a dead girl behind me.”

Chooch wants me to call this one “I’m Beautiful and Fabulous.” Done.

It occurred to me, halfway through our fauxtoshoot, that no one knew where we were. So I texted Henry and told him “you know, in case something happens to us.” And all he said was “ok.” No “good luck” or “please be careful” or “OMG I”m so afraid for you” or “PLEASE DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS.”

Not even a reminder to be mindful of the “CAUTION: ASBESTOS” signs posted all over the property.

Don’t worry: we kept out.

Spoiler alert: we made it home safe and sound and Henry was like “ok.” Then I watched the series finale of The Killing and bawled my little bitchy eyes out. I’ll miss you, Linden and Holder. :(

Throwback to last Friday when my son wasn’t acting like a 2-year-old crack baby who had just been uncaged in front of a bunch of my co-workers and making me want to melt into a puddle of humility. Apologies to you, my work friends. Sigh.

We let him experiment with some colored hair gel to see if he wants to dye his hair for real. Henry was all, “I’m not going through the hassle of bleaching his hair just for him to change his mind.” I love that Henry just knows this would be his responsibility.

Contrary to popular belief, this is not actually our house in front of which Chooch is posing.

Ours is a little smaller.

****

Still collecting my thoughts on the two shows I went to this past week. Hopefully tomorrow I will slap together a muzik post. Maybe you’ll read it. Maybe you won’t. I probably won’t find out. (BUT MAYBE I WILL.)

My criteria for planning a road trip is pretty simple:

• Are there friends along the way that I can impose upon?
• Does my Roadside America app approve of this route?
• Are there amusement parks in the vicinity?

I’ve wanted to go to Indiana Beach (fun fact: not actually a beach) for awhile now, and it seemed logical to combine this with a long overdue visit to Michigan to hang out with Bill, Jessi and Tammy and also meet up with some other ladies I have been Internet friends with for YEARS. (More on that later!)

We had to drive through actual farmlands to get to Monticello, Indiana, at which point a man of about 100 years of age collected $7 from us and told us where to park.

Which was “anywhere in the wide open, empty parking lot.”

We got there right when the park opened, and not only was it a ghost town, but none of the rides were running. We roamed around for awhile, getting turned away from the Hoosier Hurricane and wasting time at the shooting gallery. Also, the humidity was so bad that it felt like Hell with the lid on; my face took on the sebaceous sheen of a glazed Christmas ham in no time. It was disgusting. But not so disgusting that I would consider visiting the dilapidated water park portion of Indiana Beach, which was included in regular admission because the lazy river wasn’t running. God only knows why not.

No thanks, dirty pastel water slides. God only knows what kind of fungi you’re getting ready to launch into my vagina. (I have phobias, OK?)

Chooch killed some time at the shooting gallery, while I paced around, waiting for the adjacent Frankenstein’s Castle to open their dumb doors already. I refuse to partake in the shooting galleries at amusement parks because HENRY won’t teach me how to aim. So I almost never hit anything. And then I pout, which morphs into an inevitable Hulk Rage later on.

Fuck you, Henry.

Lame Henry didn’t get the ride-all-day wristband because he’s too old to have fun at amusement parks now. But he sure does enjoy the ones with free general admission so that he can walk around and complain for nothing. I promise you, we broke up at least 87 times that day.

The main (OK, the only) reason Indiana Beach made my list is their staggering collection of THREE dark rides. Two of them, The Den of Lost Thieves and the most-anticipated House of Frankenstein were basically the last rides to open that day. But oh, were they worth the wait.

The Den of Lost Thieves is a shooting ride, which I generally do not enjoy. Kennywood took out a great dark ride, the Goldrusher, and replaced it with a modern shooter-type dark ride and the only thing remarkable about it is how incredibly boring it is. I would gladly bypass this one every time we visit Kennywood, but Chooch always drags me on it. I hate waiting in line for it too! You wait and wait and wait only to get put in this holding room, like a foyer, where they force you to watch some animated portrait on a wall telling you the story of Ghostwood Estate and then the door opens and it’s a fucking free-for-all. Everyone pushes their way through so even if you were the first one in line before entering that room, chances are you’ll take a fanny pack to the groin and wind up 17 people back.

So when I realized that the Den of Lost Thieves was also a shooting ride, I was like, “Damn, we drive 8 hours for this?” But it turned out to be FANTASTIC! Old, musty and full of old-school scares. I loved the shit out of this ride. Especially since I got more points than Chooch.

Another dark ride in the park doubled as a coaster! It was called the Lost Coaster of Something I Forget Who Knows. There was no one in line when Chooch and I walked past, so I shoved all of my belongings into Henry’s chest and bolted for it.

“Um…it’s gonna take a few minutes,” the older, orange-shirted ride operator said. “It got stuck, and I’m waiting for someone to push it back out.” Oh OK, no big deal, you guys. Rides get stuck like all of the time, right? And probably not back-to-back times, right?

He said something about the cars not being “properly weighted” and I was like, “Oh well if you’re looking for all of the weight, you’ve come to the right thunder thighs.” Four more people joined us right as a mechanic came grunting out of the fake cave, pushing the double mine cars in front of him.

The ride operator seemed confident that we had enough bodies to successfully propel the mine cars from start to finish, so we loaded up with me and Chooch and some lady and little girl in one car, and a guy and kid in the one behind us.

Awkward thing about this ride: four people fit in a car, but the seats face each other, so unless you’re with three of your homies, you get to stare at strangers for the next two minutes and I hate that you guys. Looking at people who are looking at me, it’s just…ew. Not for me.

This ride was pretty thrilling and volatile, just like a relationship with me! All of the ups and downs and whiplash and violent shoves.

Will you need a PFA? Maybe! And then…nothing. It just stopped, right in the middle of the dark cave.

“Is it supposed to do this?” I asked the people in the car with us.

“I DON’T THINK SO BUT THE STEEL HAWG GETS STUCK ALL THE TIME,” answered the little girl in an octave only little girls can manage.

****Mental note to be wary of the Steel Hawg. (Which never opened that day anyway, so moot point.)

Anyway, guess what guys? We were stuck! I think this may have been my first time ever getting stuck on a ride, too, so thanks Indiana Beach! That’s a cherry I sure needed popped.

As if it wasn’t hot enough that day, now we were stuck inside some muggy faux-cavern, in a near-enclosed car, with no rescue in sight. I had sweat rolling into my eyes and mouth, I could feel it dripping from the backs of my knees, my whole person was slick with the moist essence of PANIC.

And I had these strangers staring at me and I had nothing to say other than nervous laughter and then the kid in the car behind us started to cry and his dad was mouthing off about how this was such BULLshit and Chooch kept meowing and I was like, “WHY IS NO ONE TRYING TO COMMUNICATE WITH US OVER AN INTERCOM OR MORSE CODE OR CROP CIRCLE?!” And then finally, after a good FIVE MINUTES OF NOTHING, that same disgruntled mechanic came trudging up the track behind us, shouted an answer to a garbled voice over his walkie talkie, fumbled with some switches in the breaker box next to us, and then said “Enjoy your ride” just as the motor kicked in and we went STRAIGHT DOWN A HILL. Oh that’s right, we were stuck on the zenith of a hill and had no idea because it was so dark in there. So…that was definitely a thrill.

Meanwhile, Henry had been dreaming of buying a taco all day. That’s what he’s thinking about in this picture, as a matter of fact. Indiana Beach has a taco stand that was apparently featured on the Food Network for some reason. I love me a good taco, but I knew that Indiana Beach was for sure not going to have a meatless option. So Chooch and I decided to get pizza and then Henry was going to get his coveted taco afterward.

Except that Chooch only ate one slice of his personal pizza and Henry acted like a motherfucking martyr and ate the rest of it. Like, who cares? Sometimes I think he does this shit on purpose, like he’s some Leftover Scraps Hero. OK, you ate three small slices of crappy pizza, good for you.

Oh, you ate the rest of Chooch’s waffle for breakfast? Well, FUCK Henry. Thanks for taking one for the team. Shit.

I knew all of his moaning and groaning over this would eventually paint a bigger picture, and I was right: Now that he had eaten Chooch’s pizza, he was “too full” to get a taco, and that was ALL THAT HE WANTED, you guys. A fucking taco, but now Chooch and I had ruined his life by having the audacity to get pizza for our own lunches. Last time I checked, no one was forcing pizza down Henry’s enlarged hatch.

I kept coaxing him to get a taco, but he was being such a bitch about it. He was acting offended almost, like he was on a porn diet and I was trying to get him to succumb to peer pressure by showing photos of naked broads going to town on tacos.

So bizarre. Maybe he’s trying to fit back into his SERVICE costume?

Wistful thoughts over the taco stain on his shirt that could have been.

Dreaming of brushing a taco with his moustache bristles to the tune of a Selena song.

He had his chance right here! Going, going….

Gone. This was right after he said, “I DON’T WANT ONE NOW. JUST FORGET IT.” Oh wow, someone’s come down with a case of the Erins.

Imagining a lake where all the sailboats are tacos and he’s a great, venerable taco sailor.

Not buying a taco.

Yeah Henry. Don’t forget. Bitchbaby motherfucker.

(I think Mexico might find it hard to believe that the world’s best tacos are in Indiana.)

We did our obligatory Easter bunny photo shoot over the weekend. The “DIY”approach started when Chooch was four and my mom made me feel like a shitty parent because we hadn’t taken him to see the Easter Bunny at the mall. LUCKILY I always keep animal masks in the trunk, so we dragged my mom’s rocking chair outside and made Henry put a rabbit mask on.

It’s been variations of that ever since.

And since today is the start of the Law Firm Walking Challenge, I will leave you to a bunch of pictures and no more words. What a nice change, right?!

His one vest button came unpopped and I didn’t notice until we got home. I was going to Photoshop it, but it’s way more “Chooch-esque” this way, I think. There’s always something slightly off with him.

Everyone was happy because these were taken literally a three minute drive down the street at some abandoned school for blind kids. Usually I pick a location way off the beaten path with no cell service so Henry can’t call the police on me, ever.

It was exhausting.

P.S. Chooch’s rate these days is $10 + ice cream.

I know, a thousand trillion pictures of Marcy, nothing new. But she’s my babe and I wanted to share.

****

I’m listening to Black Lab on Spotify and suddenly it’s 1998, Marcy is a kitten and I’m sun-tanning on my porch with Crisco because I can’t find my tanning oil. But the important question here is: why did I even have Crisco in my apartment to begin with? I only used the stove once and it was to make Spaghetti-O’s with Janna and then we left my apartment for an hour while it was cooking because it’s easy to forget you’re cooking food in a pot in a townhouse with literally one giant open room.

Oh, to be 18 again, not caring about skin cancer or turning townhomes into tinder.

Spent the afternoon taking engagement pictures for my friends Chris and Monica. It was extremely cold, but totally worth it because they’re awesome!

More later!

Another goddamn snowy Sunday.

Henry wouldn’t take us anywhere yesterday because oh no, snow. The big difference between Henry and me, aside from that one us doesn’t have a weener (I know, that could be either of us), is that Henry is fine doing NOTHING all the livelong day. Not me. I need action. I suffer enough throughout the week to feel pretty damn entitled when the weekend rolls around. And I was really looking forward to this particular one! I had a breakfast date with Wendy and Jeannie, Chooch’s piano lesson, Kristy was going to come over Saturday night to teach me how to drink beer without looking like I had just let someone ejaculate in my mouth for the first time, and then we were going to go to a different skating rink on Sunday. BUT THEN: SNOW.

I could only take so much before I went to Chooch’s room, threw together a random outfit, and said, “PUT THIS ON, WE’RE GOING OUTSIDE FOR A PHOTO SHOOT” and he was all, “NO I HATE YOU” but then I bribed/threatened him and of course I got my way in the end.

See? He’s fine! Totally content!

I asked him not to smile for this so please don’t call Child Services on me, thanks. (You know who you are.)

I know I probably shouldn’t say this about my own kid, but he reminds me so much of a young Jeffrey Dahmer in this photo, I can’t stand it. But then my friend Brandy called him “Darling Valentine” on Instagram, so let’s just go with that.

OK, he may have been shivering here. But we were only outside for < 10 minutes. I’m not that mean.

Henry was in the basement sanding a jewelry cabinet for me, so he actually had no idea this was going on. I guess what I’m saying is: we were unsupervised and no one got frostbite or cannibalized the other. In my world, we call that success.

Aside from that, this weekend was pretty worthless. Oh well, at least Katy Perry didn’t win a Grammy last night.