While blowdrying Chooch’s hair this morning, I offhandedly wondered how many girls in his class have a crush on him.

“Probably none after today since you’re making me wear a sweater with OWLS on it,” Chooch muttered.

So what, owls are the new social suicide?

He does kind of look like I bought him at Ikea.

One of the things I hated about Chooch’s old school was that Halloween was treated like Satan’s bachelor party — to the point where it was called the “H-word.” The preschool classes were miraculously permitted to celebrate it. I remember, being a party helper, following the kids on their parade route through the school and hearing the other teachers saying, “No, don’t say the H-word! Don’t let [the principal] hear that!”

Give me a fucking break.

But apparently, some public schools are following suit. A letter was sent home a few weeks ago stating that in lieu of Halloween parties, the classes would be having “Fall Celebrations.” No costumes, no parade.

Shit, I was on a warpath, talking about spearheading a movement, writing letters, homeschooling my child (ha-ha, yeah right — that was just my angry estrogen levels doing their psycho pelvic thrust on that last part). Apparently, other parents must have complained because an amended letter was sent home saying that the parade was going to happen after all, and that all the kids could bring their costumes to school, but please no: weapons, masks, makeup and/or accessories.

OK, the weapons part I get. Especially being the city. But what’s left after you strip a a kids costume of makeup, accessories, masks?

This actually didn’t affect the first graders, because they had a pumpkin patch field trip that day. But thanks to Hurricane Sandy, the field trip was canceled, so I was left scrambling  to throw together a school-approved costume for Chooch.

[His actual costume is Daryl from The Walking Dead, but without a crossbow (weapon), dirt/blood on face (makeup), zombie ear necklace (accessory), and squirrel (accessory) hanging from his side, what’s the point?]

(I should also note that his Nerf crossbow — which I won with THREE SECONDS LEFT on eBay — isn’t scheduled to be delivered until tomorrow. Thankfully, trick-or-treating has been postponed until Saturday due to the horrible weather. So that’s one thing I can thank Hurricane Sandy for. She’s still a cunt, though.)

Short of sending Chooch to school with a sheet over his head*, he took a trench coat-type thing, his pin-striped vest and a fedora for the most half-assed, unrecognizable gangster of all-time. He must have asked me 17 times on the walk to school to remind him what he’s supposed to be.

(* The school probably would have considered this a tripping hazard, anyway.)

So, I guess no Halloween pictures until the weekend.  Here’s last year’s, in case you were really pining for some Oh Honestly Halloween bullshit (which I doubt):

************

Barb was nice enough to fill in for me at work so I could have the evening off to fulfill my quota of motherly obligations. And thank god, because Henry did absolute FUCK ALL as far as the costume went. In fact, he napped until about 20 minutes before it was time to trick or treat, I was so goddamn irritated.

“But my job is so hard! I don’t get very much sleep!”

Go cry to your mommy about it, OK Henry? Come back when you’re ready to be a real man and help put makeup on your son.

Thankfully, Chooch’s costume — zombie Justin Bieber — cost nothing. And thank god for that because Henry’s membership dues for the local Bronie chapter are late.

Thank you, Bieber, for being so easy to emulate.

I thought the lipstick prints were a nice touch, but unfortunately once the sun went down and it began to RAIN, I doubt anyone really noticed. Or bothered to wager a guess.

“You know what we need?” Henry asked, actually trying to get involved FIVE MINUTES before trick-or-treating started.

“A black kid to go with him as Usher?” I offered immediately, kicking myself for not asking our neighbor Toya’s son.

That was not what Henry had in mind, and I can’t remember what it was because it wasn’t very ingenious or memorable.

Chooch actually was using a much smaller treat bucket thing which Henry periodically dumped out in the Ugly Doll bag. We’re not that cruel to make him carry a tote bag half his size.

As soon as we walked out of the house, Chooch’s school buddy Nate and his older brother just happened to be at the house next to us, so they got to trick-or-treat together for awhile, but I feel like their aunt and uncle kept trying to ditch us.

I can’t imagine why.

At one of the houses, some guy who was maybe in his late teens/early 20s asked Chooch what his shirt said.Then to me, he said in this condescending tone of superiority, “I mean, I could see if he was a girl.”

Really? Is it seriously that common for a girl to dress as Justin Bieber?

So of course, I fixated on this for another block and a half, totally psycho-analyzing this fucker’s statement and questioning the obscurity of my kid’s costume.

“Let it go,” Henry kept mumbling around mouthfuls of pick-pocketed candy.

BUT I COULD NOT LET IT GO.

I was so happy when I put the pictures on Facebook later that night and one of my guy friends commented with a simple “Bieber?” YES. YES, THANK YOU FOR GETTING IT.

Henry reminded me that the rain was preventing people from stopping to actually look at what the kids were dressed right as some home owner exclaimed, “OMG BOB THE BUILDER! HOW CUTE!” as the little fucker behind Chooch toddled up to punch his hand in the candy bowl.

If I really wanted to reach new heights as a Halloween pageant mom, I could have arranged for some of the girls in Chooch’s class to dress as his squealing entourage. This wouldn’t be hard to accomplish considering how much they fawn over him anyway. I could have just set them loose and they’d have chased him down the street like they do on any normal day.

(I have to take my vitamin now. Henry bought me an apple corer thing like Barb has, so now I am eating all of the apples and choking back vitamins. This is a New Erin.)

There was one (1) Baby Ruth in Chooch’s bag that night and I said, “All I want is that Baby Ruth. Please, no one eat it.” But then I guess I was too distracted by my new apple fetish so by the time I went back for it, Henry had already shat it out in the toilet.

I was just telling Henry who I would want to help me raise Chooch in the event of Henry’s death. (And by that I mostly mean “fill my man void.”)

“Who would you want to help you with Chooch if I died?” I asked.

“Uh, I wouldn’t NEED help raising him,” Henry said, reminding me in one short sentence that he’s basically both parents to Chooch already.

It’s nice to know that Henry wouldn’t be too crippled by grief and loss.

No need to send any casseroles, ladies!

And if you could’ve seen that frown…

Can’t really see it, but he’s wearing a Robert Smith shirt and making my heart melt!

On the way to Baby Q and Cyrus’s birthday party!

He tries to play hard to get with Wendy because she’s blond (and blonds make him blush faster than Snooki’s neighbors programmed CPS into their phones), except when she was the only one willing to teach him how to play pool on Saturday.

Birthday boy Cyrus!

He went to three haunted houses this weekend, which is good since he started his OWN HAUNTED HOUSE JOURNAL! Oh my god, you guys. Oh my god. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of him! However, the one I took him to last night really shook him up. He didn’t cry, but he was super pissed off at me. I can only imagine what that particular entry is going to be like.

Persevering through the Dick Ages (3-5) really paid off because six has been a pretty epic age so far. Six-year-old Chooch is totally my bro.

Even though he totally drew this Friday night:

At least he didn’t draw me fat.

I wanted to get one last mini-shoot in before the Law Firm Walking Challenge started. (Today! But don’t worry – I already racked up 12,000 steps before noon). I’ve had this loose little vision in my head for awhile now to use some of my old Alternative Press magazines in a photo shoot with Chooch, but didn’t really know where I wanted to do it, so we drove around and drove around for a good hour until I saw a closed-up ice cream shop and made Henry pull over.

The Boylan’s is going to spill in 3…2….

Two kids rode past us on bikes just in time to witness me blow up like a bi-polar director.  Henry and I broke up. I orphaned Chooch.

It was a bad scene.

Henry thought he was in the clear after I lost my temper for the 87th time outside of this ice cream in Monongahela and screamed, “THAT’S IT, I’M DONE!” But then my other personality piped up and bellowed, “NO, WE ARE NOT GOING HOME! I’M NOT DONE!” So I made Henry drive back to the first location we were going to use until I got too scared of squatters. At this point, if there WERE any squatters there, they’d have been afraid of ME. Oh, I was horrible yesterday. Yet Chooch is so unfazed by it.

This is the Boylan’s after it’s third upending. Chooch was actually trying to read the magazine and kept getting pissed off at me when I would tell him to stop turning the pages.

Boylan’s puddle to the left.

Then I threw another fit and made Henry put everything back in the car, only to realize that we hadn’t taken any pictures in his second outfit. So doors were kicked up, trunks were slammed, various euphemisms for “vagina” and “person who engages in fellatio” were flung (possibly just by me), but the good news is that Chooch must have liked this outfit better, because he was suddenly very eager to cooperate.

So we kept taking pictures while Henry leaned against the car and pouted.

I swear to god, he’s not actually this forlorn. Almost all of these poses were his own idea, and he was running around happily in between shots. I SWEAR.

This wasn’t mid-motion, he was actually posed like this like a weirdo.

He said this was his “don’t even think about following me into my house” pose.

Rough life.

The “I just found gold” pose.

And then we were all bros again after that!

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Ever since Barb found out that Chooch blows a gasket when I get stuff in the mail (other than bills) and he doesn’t, she began sending him random cards and dollar bills in the mail, signed “Secret Friend.”

His perplexity seems to outweigh his delight in adding to his dollar collection. I am thoroughly enjoying watching him drag his hand through his hair, grit his teeth and yowl, “WHO IS SENDING ME THIS STUFF?!” And when she sent him a card wishing him luck on starting first grade? Holy shit, the apoplectic explosion was Pay Per View-worthy.

“HOW DO THEY KNOW I’M IN FIRST GRADE?

!!?” he wailed.

“Maybe I should stop,” Barb laughed when I told her how distressed this is making him. “I don’t want to cause any psychological damage!” (Yes, let’s blame Barb when Chooch grows up to be the next Unabomber, not me!)

“You should send him a picture of Gilad,” I instigated. (Gilad is the Israeli fitness guru behind the long-running aerobics program “Bodies In Motion” which, along with Slim Fast, helped me lose weight in time to be a junior bridesmaid in my aunt’s wedding when I was 12, after my grandma jiggled my underarms and flashed that disapproving frown I knew so well. Anyway, this show is still on in syndication and Chooch HATES HIM so bad that he has to leave the room.

)

I guess she’s too afraid of pulling the wrong Jenga block from his psyche, so she sent him more anonymous cash, which he got yesterday.

“REALLY!? ANOTHER LETTER FROM SECRET FRIEND!?” he huffed. Then he kind of growled and shook his head.

I feel like if I had been sent secret mail as a child, I’d have been filled with joy and hope that it was my real mom sharing with me the modest income she was earning baking baguettes in France.

Chooch wrote this message on the back of the envelope. I guess we’re supposed to put it back in the mail. Minus the money, of course.

Shit, you’d think he was getting cat livers in the mail, not cash.

This has been wildly entertaining for me.

March, 2009. God, I miss that hoodie. I mean, those days. (?)

As of September 2012, our Chooch is a 6-year-old 1st grader on the fast track to becoming Corey Feldman’s Mouth character in “Goonies.” His rapier wit is practically parallel to most adults I know, which is oft amusing, but mostly mildly worrisome and endlessly irritating.

“I totally don’t remember being this ridiculous when I was your age,” I yelled in defeat Saturday night.

“You probably weren’t,” Chooch answered from the backseat of the car in his patented infuriatingly smug tone.

I now have to bribe him with real American dollars just to take his damn picture. I miss the days of him being 100% at my mercy.

But let’s face it, those days didn’t last very long.

But he sure is good at pulling off an angelic face, that’s for sure. Little jerk.

Surprisingly, this rock was chucked into the river and not at my face. We’re making progress. (Baby steps.)

(And then Henry reminds me that he learned everything from watching me, anyway.)

As much as Henry hates these pants, he was even more relieved that the red ones didn’t come in Chooch’s size. (I only checked one store though, Henry!)

Everyone’s always going on and on about how much Chooch looks just like Henry. OK, whatever. I get it. However, he is otherwise so much like me, it’s almost like a horror movie. Yesterday morning, in the Murder House, he and Henry were arguing about something ridiculous and it just kept getting more and more heated (on Chooch’s end only; Henry continued to calmly make breakfast through all of the huffing and puffing and door-slamming). Finally, at the threat of not getting the Regular Show DVD he had been eying up over the weekend, he decided it would behoove himself to apologize; so he did, but it came out in a “Please call Father Karras and have me the fuck exorcized” snarl, at which point he became even more agitated because he didn’t like the way Henry said, “OK.”

So this started a new sub-fight.

Chooch wailed, “You didn’t say that right!

No wonder why Mommy always fights with you!”

An innocent by-stander up until this point, I piped up and said, “Well, he’s not wrong, Henry.”

“Thanks, Erin,” Henry sighed, sliding a plate of eggs in front of me. I love how he multi-tasks.

FUN FACT: This is actually Chooch’s bed.

Today is Chooch’s first day of 1st grade at a real school! Good riddance, Catholic bitch-moms*! Goodbye, daily heart palpitations! Sayonara, judgmental glares!

Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make this all about me.

(*This is not directed at all Catholic moms. Even I am technically Catholic. Just the Catholic BITCH-moms from Chooch’s old school.

You know, the ones who follow “God’s Word” SO WELL.

Their example is the reason I consider religion to be a joke.)

Do you know how many kids came to Chooch’s birthday party last year? 4. Because those 4 kids have parents who didn’t hold my blog against Chooch. Almost no one else even RSVPd. Punish the kid for his mom’s sins. That’s awesome.

Chooch was so excited this morning.

He had orientation the other night and is thrilled to be going to a school that, oh I don’t know, looks like a school. And his little buddy from next door is in his class, so his dad suggested that we just alternate walking them both up the street to school. I am so all about that. Any day where I don’t have to put on a bra pre-8:00am is a good day.

No more tuition stress, being looked down upon, and feeling like the heathen outcast. And trust me, that was way before any of the blog drama happened, and I stand by every word I wrote that they so vehemently disagreed with – if you don’t want called out for being a dick, then don’t act like a dick. There’s a thought!

There is really nothing like a good, fresh start.

After I “ruined his life” on the bumper cars.

Henry and I took the day off today and while I’m sure he had grand visions of laying on the couch in his underwear all day, I planned his itinerary for him. Here, Henry is pictured frowning at the Jean Bonnet Tavern in Bedford, PA.

“You know, Henry, one day you’re going to wake up and realize you wasted your life being miserable,” I lectured.

“Yeah,” Chooch chimed in. “And having a girlfriend.”

This was Chooch, post-unicorn photo shoot. He is such a little snob.

Henry was gone all day on Saturday, helping out at Castle Blood. I thought, “Oh, this will be OK. Chooch and I can go off and have a cute little photo shoot, celebrate our independence, etc. etc.” But before Henry left, I called him back in the house to have him fetch the wheelchair and put it in the car for me. Independence could wait a few minutes.

“Do you think we can do this successfully?” I asked Chooch when we were on our way to the (damned) location.

He answered quite matter-of-factly, “By ourselves? No.” That kid knows what’s up.

Everything was great. We sang “Call Me Maybe” loudly and repeatedly en route. I even stopped at a gas station and bought him a drink! Look at me! Taking care of my kid’s needs! But then we rolled up on the designated site (Coulterville, an area where many of my photo shoots are located), and that was when I realized I had to lug a wheelchair; a unicorn mask; the camera bag; and a plastic bag filled with clowns, doll heads, an empty bottle of Old Crow and a jack in the box all on my own because my goddamn son is a fucking divo.

This is where Henry’s blue-collar arms would have come in handy.

Originally, I wanted to cross the train tracks and walk toward the river, because there are some really cool spots back there. But then I realized, “Holy shit, I can’t lift this wheelchair up to the tracks” so I started swearing and crying. We were going to take the pictures at the nearby cemetery and abandoned church after that, but Chooch was being totally uncooperative and we screamed, “I HATE YOU!” at each other with enough fury to raise the dead, and then not one but TWO trains passed us and we were both shook to the core because OMG WE ALMOST TRIED TO CROSS THOSE TRACKS AND WE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED.

That made me flip out even harder, and then Chooch started crying because he lost his (broken) sunglasses and I wouldn’t help him look for them because the trains were freaking me out so bad and all I wanted to do was push the fucking wheelchair back to the car (IT WAS ALL UPHILL, THANKS).

There are people who live around there. I sure hope they heard our histrionics. Especially when I threatened to orphan him and he snarled, “NOT IF I GO TO THE ORPHANGE FIRST.”

I was NOT going home. Not after driving all the way out there. So we stopped at McDonald’s (after I flipped out for the 79879876th time because the gas light was on and I couldn’t find a gas station and then when I did, I had to make an illegal turn to reach it) and I said out loud, “Fuck this. I’m getting a frappe. I goddamn earned it.” But first we had to wait for the oldest woman alive to send back all of her food and then proceed to sit there in her dumb minivan even after she got the right stuff, and I started yelling at her which made Chooch laugh to the point of tears, but then seriously say, “Mommy, she’s just an old lady.”

AND THEN THEY GAVE ME MY FRAPPE WITHOUT A MOTHERFUCKING STRAW. I didn’t want to park and go inside to get one, because I couldn’t leave Chooch alone in the car (I checked the manual real quick for that one) and he didn’t have his shoes on plus I was all sweaty and tear-soaked and had dirt all over me from god only knows what. So I drank that bitch without a straw and had chocolate syrup all over my face; I can assure you I didn’t really care at that point. I had accepted my new role as the poster woman for Defeat.

Did I leave out the part where I called Henry 87 times while he was trying to cut doors in walls at Castle Blood, screaming at him because I didn’t know how to fold the wheelchair and it was THE WORST DAY EVER and I might as well just KILL MYSELF? Oh, well that totally didn’t happen.

We ended up going to the place where the Easter pictures happened. (Click that link if you haven’t seen those photos; Henry has on makeup in them!) At first glance, I thought the abandoned structures had been demolished, but really it was just because the area was so overgrown with frondescence that it was no longer visible from the road. Where was my machete when I really needed it?

I think I lost 10 pounds that day from crying, sweating, raging & hiking thru weeds and mud with a wheelchair. And we both have cuts and scrapes all over us from trampling through walls of jagger bushes, with Chooch wailing, “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE MAKING ME DO THISSSSSS” and me screaming, “IT’S FOR ART, STFU!!”

By the time Henry came home, Chooch and I were both languid on the couch, eyes glazed over, looking extremely pathetic. “Can we go out to eat?” Henry asked. “I worked so hard today and I’m starving.” With my eyes, I mentally castrated him.

Later that night, Chooch was telling Henry something unrelated to the photo shoot, and added, “I think that was when Mommy was in the car, crying.”

This was a nice, low-key weekend which for once consisted of NO FIGHTING! And I mean between Chooch and me. It was nice to relax and be languid instead of being all GO GO GO like I usually am on weekends.

Olympics, horror movies, cemeteries and red velvet milkshakes.

Yes. That was all I needed.

Chooch started nosin’ through some of my old stuff in the bedroom while I was focusing on ruining Henry’s nap, when suddenly he laughed behind me and exclaimed, “What IS this?!”

Oh god, please don’t let it be some archaic vibrator or drug paraphernalia, I thought.

But it was just an old Bobby Brown cassette single, probably purchased at my favorite record store, Waves.

“Oh shit, we have to play this!” I screamed, while Henry was trying to convince Chooch we don’t have a tape player because he didnt want to deal with it. (You know, trying to nap and all.)

So then I spent the next 15 minutes struggling to mend an old tape player while Henry begged us both to just go downstairs. Finally, I achieved success! (And also a large quotient of dust in my nostrils.)

Finally, my bedroom was pregnant with the tinny tones of Bobby Brown crooning about humpin’ around while Henry rolled his weary eyes.

“Mommy, what’s this?” Chooch asked innocently, handing me a holographic bullet-like object, which for a moment I actually did mistake for a lady toy.

“Oh, that’s just a lighter that doesnt work anymore,” I said, but as I absent-mindedly struck it, a flame squirted out. “Oh, shit, it does work!” I laughed, tossing it back at Chooch’s chest.

“Yeah, so give it back to him, that’s great,” Henry mumbled, dragging a hand down his dark eye circles, at which point Chooch chucked the lighter at his face and we died laughing. And by “we,” I of course just mean Chooch and me. Henry has to relearn that function after the accident. And by “accident,” I of course mean out relationship.

There was no point to this, but Andrea is coming to Pittsburgh this week (she arrives after midnight!) and I am hyper! And I have at least three posts to write about my beloved Big Butler Fair but can’t find the time so I’m all stressed out but then I remembered, wait—this isn’t my job and no one cares.

Speaking of my job, I’m off all week!