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.

Alternately titled: Where We Torture Our Kid Under the Guide of “Art.”

I’ll tell ya, we’re met with more and more resistance every year when it comes to picture-taking. I got all exasperated, which is my usual go-to response to adversity, followed quickly by the ever-popular solution of “I QUIT.

” But then right as I was about to pack it up, Chooch started to use an old guard rail as a balance beam, so Henry fulfilled his quota of “one bright idea every five years” by tricking Chooch into having his photo taken while “doing things.

”

Then we dared him to run as fast as he could to another spot and then suggested he sit down amidst the leaves after he hurt his ankle.

Henry encouraged him to hurdle over headstones, which of course resulted in Chooch eventually catching his foot on one and falling, leaving him with a handsome bruise on his leg.

BLAME HENRY.

Then we paid him all the money in our pockets* to take his coat off for approximately 3 minutes so we could get some shots of his sweater, since that day’s outfit was a happy accident. (All three of us blindly picked out one component of the outfit, and somehow it worked.)

*(This amounted to $7. I actually had $4 in my pocket only because it was change from when we went to see Gremlins last week. I usually never have cash. Seriously, don’t ever bother mugging us.)

He looks thrilled, right?

This last week has been TRYING as far as parenting goes. I definitely feel like I’ve been screaming at Chooch more than anything else, because he is so fucking bull-headed (i.e. SO UNLIKE ME). The whole “There goes another Christmas present!

” tactic totally doesn’t work anymore, by the way. I guess I’m going to have to swap out “Santa” for “Satan.”

“SATAN’S WATCHING YOU, YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE!”

And he definitely still believes in ghosts, so I can always go that route too.

Mornings and late evenings are especially bad. Sometimes he wakes up as Contrary Chooch and will battle me on EVERY LITTLE DETAIL down to the SOCKS I laid out for him to wear. My response is usually, “YOU ARE FUCKING 7 YEARS OLD STFU AND GET DRESSED.” Sometimes I try to kill him with kindness or make jokes, but in the end, I usually end up losing my temper and yelling.

I hate power-struggles. I HATE PARENTING!

Last Wednesday night, I was walking home from CVS and he was outside waiting for me. I KNEW he was going to try to bombard me with snowballs so I sternly said, “Do NOT throw snowballs—the snow is too icy!” But that son of a bitch whaled one right at my fucking face and it slammed hard into my temple. I instantly started to cry because that HURT, OK?

And once Chooch saw that I was straight sobbing (I’m pretty good at embellishing), he got scared. He knew he done fucked up, but god forbid he should apologize. Instead, he starts making excuses and laughing nervously, and by the time we fought each other to storm through the front door, we were both SCREAMING hysterically and Henry came out of the kitchen like, “WTF?”

I stood in the middle of the living room screaming, “I THINK I’M LOSING MY EYESIGHT AND HE DOESN’T CARRRRRRREEEE!!!” and Chooch is yelling, “SHE HATES ME!!!!!!” simultaneously and the neighbors probably have their fingers poised to dial that last 1 in 9-1-1.

It’s been that kind of week.

But then there are really sweet moments, too. And wine. And those are the things that keep me from getting that artists loft that I keep dreaming about. Like the one BO BRADY had in the 80s on Days of Our Lives. But seriously, how great would that be? I’d fill it with old mannequins and pretend like they were my friends. :(

Oh, right. Sweet moments. Like last night when Chooch was talking about the Santa Shop that’s happening this week at school. He wants to get something for our friend Andrea, but he became very perplexed because “it’s not like they’re going to have any death there.” Henry and I started cracking up but Chooch was very serious. He should write a letter to the paper about how the Santa Shop discriminates against people who collect dead things in jars.

Unless one of us kills the other before then, Chooch and I are going to see Never Shout Never next Wednesday in Cleveland. Henry isn’t sure if he can go because his job is stupid and I am PANICKING about this. Chooch and I haven’t gone further than like, 50 miles away without Henry. And that’s probably a gross exaggeration. Maybe closer to 25 miles? Sometimes it’s just really hard for me to get into Responsible Parent Mode. I like it better when Henry can just deal with that and I can skip around being flighty and immature. Because that’s my true nature.

If you live in Cleveland and see two dummies flailing about in Lake Erie, send the Coast Guard because I clearly drove off the map.

(PLEASE DO YOUR RELIGIOUS SPELLS SO THAT HENRY IS ABLE TO GO WITH US, OMG.)

Look, no one wants to put their kids on blast, but it is important for me to write about the lows and not only the highs. Because having shit like this to look back on makes me appreciate the highs that much more. This is real life.

We argued the whole time we were in the cemetery on Sunday. But then by that night, we were able to co-exist peacefully on the couch and watch the mid-season finale of The Walking Dead together. (OMFG THAT SHOW IS KILLING ME.) And then the next morning, we were walking to school behind our Morning Nemesis and she was SCREAMING at her kid for pretty much no reason and that kind of made me take a step back and appreciate that at least Chooch and I can walk to school together without putting our disputes on display. That’s a small victory, right?

So no, things aren’t perfect around here. But I guess they’re not really THAT bad either. And when I do start to lose the will to parent, I just go back and look at pictures of Chooch being, well, Chooch. And then it’s not so bad.

(That fucking snowball did really hurt though!!)

We roped into Blake into hanging out with us on Saturday so I could get some updated pictures of him and Chooch. We got a late start though and were racing the sunlight, so we decided to get the pictures out of the way first before eating, which wasn’t the greatest plan because we were all fucking hungry and on edge. And the location I picked was muddy and overgrown with jagger bushes, so that was a shit ton of fun, especially when right off the bat I sank down into a mud bog while wearing white TOMS. If Blake hadn’t been there, I probably would have murdered Henry over it. But I was trying to be a good girl!

We wrapped it up within fifteen minutes, which might be a new record as far as me and photo shoots go. I didn’t get a chance to force a sweater on Chooch, so he rejoiced about that.

“Take a picture of me so I’m like blurry,” Chooch demanded.

We made Blake wear Chooch’s second Christofer Drew-inspired hat.

On the way back to the car, Chooch stepped in a huge mud puddle (that place is like a goddamn swamp, and it STINKS too) and wound up with his leg coated in gooey mud all the way up to his knee. Henry was so pissed, so Chooch made sure to say it was Blake’s fault. So then Blake and Henry got to work, trying to scrub Chooch off enough for him to be able to walk in a restaurant afterward because WE WERE FUCKING HUNGRY. Chooch saw this as an opportunity to go buy new shoes, but Henry barked, “I WILL WASH YOUR SHOE.”

We ate a late lunch at Wagner’s in Elizabeth, where Henry shot daggers at Chooch from across the table for being inappropriate and I just laughed as usual.

Chooch declared this “the best day ever” until Blake threatened to throw Bunny out the car window, which resulted in Chooch sobbing to the point where he almost puked. Wouldn’t be the same if a hangout with Blake didn’t end in tears! Brotherly love. <3

Chooch didn’t have school yesterday so I paid him $10 to write in my blog and then a half hour later, I said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you that $10 includes a photo shoot, too.” He WISHED he had school yesterday. We were only out there for about 20 minutes and the compromise was that he got to wear his Never Shout Never shirt, so everyone was happy in the end. It’s pretty shameful how infrequently I have been using my real camera. I guess it’s mostly because it’s kind of a senior citizen now as far as cameras go and DSLRs just don’t become “hip & vintage,” I’m sorry. Every time I get close to getting a new one, I decide I want something else instead. Or the car needs fixed. Or we need to pay rent and but groceries. You know, all those pesky problems. Oh, and we upgraded to a newer version of Photoshop which most people would stoked about me, but not me. I HATE CHANGE. IT IS DIFFERENT! HARDER TO FIND THINGS! I HATE IT. (I also have barely given it a chance. Chooch’s birthday party pictures from last spring are still sitting in a folder waiting to be edited because that was when The Photoshop Upgrade happened and I almost tossed the computer out the window.

Anyway, who cares about my first world camera drama. Here are some current non-iPhone snaps of Chooch as a seven-year-old Never Shout Never addict.

Mouth open, mid-bitch.

“Do you think Christofer Drew knows how much I love him?” Chooch asked me yesterday. Never Shout Never is doing a small tour next month to support their upcoming Christmas EP, so we’re planning on taking Chooch to the Cleveland show. It’s not a surprise this time, god forbid. But maybe Chooch will get to meet him this time and tell him all about how he wishes he was his dad.

On Sunday, we were driving to the mall and passed a furniture store that had a very dramatic CLOSING FOREVER! sign out front. Chooch got really sad about this. I asked him why and he said he was sad for the people who bought all their furniture there. He definitely inherited my whacked-out emotions. And then of course I became sad for the people too. Henry was just like, “Jesus Christ,” and kept driving with a frown on his mug.

We went to the mall to buy Chooch some more school clothes because I acted all shocked that he has grown out of his long-sleeved clothes from last year, which prompted Henry to explain to me that growing is a common occurrence with children. But since we were there, Chooch and I dragged Henry to Hot Topic where I got the new Dance Gavin Dance album and then to FYE where Chooch found the “Year One” Never Shout Never compilation and also, sadly, a Backstreet Boys CD for $3. I wont ever deny the kid music, but I asked him to just please only listen to it when I’m not in the car. (I was an N*Sync fan, OK?)

FYE sucks.

This morning when were walking to school, two people stopped to tell him that they liked his hat. He was SO FUCKING SMUG about it and said with a shit-eating smirk, “Ha! Just like your PURSE, Mommy!” He hates it when people stop to compliment me on my holographic eyeball purse.

We might not have the conventional mom/kid relationship, but it works. I had the best October now that he goes to haunted houses with me and I look forward to Sundays so we can watch The Walking Dead together and then we have discussions about it the next morning while walking to school. He might piss me off 870000 times a day (like this morning when we had a mild argument over what shoes I thought looked best with his outfit #OhHonestlyErinProblems) but I’m so glad he’s mine. AND NOT HENRY’S.

J/K. But he totally likes me better.

Now there are two people in the house whining about how they can’t wait for the next Warped Tour. And Henry is thrilled.

This last week, I’ve been thinking a lot about my family, and how grateful I am that my brother Corey and I have managed to maintain a good relationship through all the bullshit and drama. My hope is for Chooch & Blake to stay tight in spite of their great age difference.

That being said, I think it’s time for a new brotherly photo shoot! These photos are from last November. It was a good day.

This was very necessary, though neither Marcy nor Henry seemed to think so.

Saturday was all furniture painting, parenting and “Weeds” marathoning. Nothing too exciting there.

Sunday was all ICE CREAM and SUSHI:

Stopped at Dari Delite after making Henry buy girly fabric at Joann Fabrics. Don’t think Henry was all bent out of shape having to go to a fabric store—I was ready to leave after five minutes, but we were there for OVER A HALF HOUR because of Henry’s desire to browse every single aisle. I have no idea why he’s slinging Faygo and not teaching middle school brats how to sew.

We were originally going to stop at some place that has gelato, which I’m a whore for, but I gotta tell you, I’m really into soft-serve these days. Dari Delite’s was good, but I did not approve of their sprinkles. They tasted waxy or something, I don’t know. But it’s not like it was so bad that I scraped them off on the edge of the picnic table. I mean, sprinkles are sprinkles. (I will never call them jimmies.

)

“I was going to get the Monkey in the Middle,” Henry mumbled dejectedly after joining Chooch and me at a table behind the building. We always ditch him at the ordering window because we want him to serve us, you know? I asked him why he didn’t get it and he said because too many people were standing behind him and he got nervous. God, I’m dating an ice cream wuss.

I guess Chooch is really into chocolate milkshakes now or something.

I don’t know what we’re going to do for my weekend splurge once it starts getting colder (yes, “mine.” Those assholes eat whatever they want 7 days a week). I’d say cupcakes, but this is Pittsburgh and good cupcakes are A LOT harder to champion than ice cream, that’s for sure. I’ve had a ton of bad cupcakes in this city (*cough*DOZEN*cough*). Donuts, maybe? I used to not give a shit about donuts, but that’s the beauty of Weight Watchers: pretty much anything made with sugar is something I’d like to eat. Cronut road trip, maybe.

Plus, I could still get my sprinkle fix….

?

It’s just nice to have something to look forward to, OK?!

Sunday evening, Laura and I had sushi and fiery drinks at Yamato.

OBLIGATORY SUSHI PHOTO, OMG. I didn’t post it on Instagram though, so I just lost hipster cred that I didn’t even have.

That’s Laura in the background, bagging up molly.

Went back to Laura’s place to basically sit on the couch with Mike while Laura packed up boxes of books and kept trying to give me things that I don’t need. She DID give me this hot ass rabbit mask though, which she bought for me while she was in Seattle. My old rabbit mask has seen much better days, so I’m happy to have a new one! I LOVE IT.

And then I got new TOMS. The end!

Yo. On this day of rest, I am going to share some random photos taken during the week. And then I might read a book or something, followed by a brief pouting session when I remember that tomorrow is the start of the last week of summer for Chooch. :(

You can’t tell but this is totally a lemon Rice Krispies treat and, unless you hate lemon, it was a million times better than the classic, which is hereby too plain for me to ever even think about eating again.

This was the exchange between Henry and myself after I told him one of my co-workers was collecting money for the Wounded Warrior Project. Touché, Henry J. Robbins.

This is how I get Henry’s attention.

He was being a dick later on so I told him I take it all back.

“Oh no,” he said drolly. “Please, don’t take back the clouds and lightning. Not the poop!”

I’m going to miss leisurely weekday breakfasts with Chooch, where we explore Brookline like we’re new to town.

We just had breakfast at Eat n Park on Friday and Chooch stopped talking about kitty videos long enough to shit talk the man behind me for not saying “please” to the waitress.

After I almost died at a county fair yesterday, we ate dinner at Brown’s Country Kitchen, which was nothing really to write home about but the walls were plastered with mildly amusing wooden signs which entertained me and Chooch.

Marcy rejected my flowers. :(

Hope everyone’s enjoying the weekend! I’ll be back tomorrow with all kinds of words about Mexican beverages, carnies and other assorted bullshit.

It’s been kind of a long time since I took “real” photos of Chooch. Not that I don’t love my iPhone snaps of him, since those are the most candid, but I just feel like my stupid “real” camera has been sitting here, collecting dust because it’s so goddamn easy to fall into photography-apathy when you have the convenience of a tiny camera phone that fits comfortably in your palm.

I guess it was at my birthday dinner last week when I looked at him, like REALLY looked at him, and realized that he has grown so much since the last time we had a little photo shoot thingie. (God, I think that was in Decemeber. I’m a slacker.) And he looked so handsome in his little castle dinner attire that I decided we needed to take photos ASAP.

Henry was happy because it didn’t involve 87 trips to Goodwill, looking for the perfect costume or tea cups or animal masks. It was just Chooch and a guitar. (Although, Chooch really wanted to paint lines on his face, a la his new idol Christopher Drew, but CVS didn’t have thick brown eye liners that weren’t less than $10 and I didn’t feel like digging through my crap at home. Seriously, Wet n Wild, where’s your damn thick brown liners?!) However, it did involve a very Erinlicious temper tantrum and a moment that Henry told me later almost ended our 12 year run. (He is SO DRAMATIC though.) We were in this park—the same park where we letterboxed back in 2009, actually—and I just lost my shit because I hate when I ask Henry for help and HE DOES NOT HELP ME so I started coldcucking his face with death threats, and we made it MAYBE 10 minutes in the car, driving in silence, before we both started cracking up and I said, “Hey let’s just go home and eat lunch and then do this thang for real in the cemetery” and he was all, “Oh ho ho ho, I love you, my pretty princess” and the rest of the day was just a regular ol’ jubilee, you hear me?

EXHALE.

This is the lone photo I was able to salvage from Take #1 in the park. I was all angry because there were so many people who kept trampling by while I was TRYING to murder Henry with my silver tongue, but Henry was like, “Yeah. This is a PARK, Erin.”

You can see, reflected upon Chooch’s face, the utter disdain felt by all. Henry even accidentally made Chooch cry (he supposedly hurt his back when he was lifting him up onto a log, but I think Chooch was just feeding off of our Amityville-caliber hatred for each other) at the precise moment a mom and her four kids walked past us, which is like, OK, whatever, but considering that my shrill motherfuckering mere moments before likely echoed through the valley, this entire brood was probably like, “OMG I hope our nice afternoon in the park doesn’t end with us having to call 911 on this lunatic woman.”

Thankfully, we were all in much better moods by the time we ate lunch and arrived at our favorite cemetery.

If you read Chooch’s guest post from Friday, then you already know he is REALLY INTO THE SUMMER SET all of a sudden. The funny thing is that they were at Warped Tour but we didn’t see them there and he didn’t realize that he liked them until one afternoon last week. So now it’s my fault that we didn’t see them at Warped Tour, of course, and I’m like, “WTF kid, they’re not my priority.” But anyway, Henry took him out to buy their latest CD and it’s OK, I don’t mind it. It’s pretty catchy pop-rock, I guess. I’m just thankful it’s not like, Miley Cyrus or something horrible. He sits in the backseat, poring over the liner notes, and singing along.

It makes my heart swell. PLEASE BE IN A BAND WHEN YOU GROW UP, CHOOCH, OMG PLZ. I would 157% support that.

Our neighbor Toya gave Chooch this old kids’ guitar when she was moving out.

He doesn’t actually know how to play it, and now it needs restrung, but he has expressed interest in learning so I’m all over this. ALL OVER IT. I won’t lie—there is a huge part of me that is praying (and I don’t pray!) that Warped Tour sticks around long enough for Chooch to make it on one of those stages OMG CAN YOU IMAGINE. I would be the proudest mom in the entire world. I’m totally not above riding on my son’s coattails.

But, you know. I’m trying not to be some big, asshole-y stage mom about it. Just like I’m letting him like the bands he wants to like, even though they’re not bands I’d necessarily be excited to see.

To see him get excited is enough for me!

How Chooch does an arm party.

We were at Hot Topic on Saturday and when I saw this cat-head bow tie, I bought it STAT.

We did one wardrobe/location change but it was hot and we were all getting on each other’s nerves again so I pronounced this photo shoot dead. And then we got ice cream, but of course first we had to fight about WHERE we were getting ice cream. Yay, Sunday!

(Seriously, it’s hard to enjoy your orange cream cone and the soul-soothing tones of Christopher Cross’s seminal hit “Ride Like the Wind” when your company is sitting across from you arguing. GOD, GET SOME COUNSELING HENRY AND CHOOCH. See? My life is far from perfect, my friends. But that’s kind of how I like it.)