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!

Or: Breakfast at Tom’s Diner

I wanted a real breakfast, and it was all I could think about last night at work. So when Henry and Chooch came to pick me up last night, I informed Chooch that he and I would be going to Tom’s Diner the next morning so mommy could stuff her nutrition-deprived face with nutritional eggs covered in grease, grease, cheese, and grease. He immediately protested — what a sonofabitch.

He never wants to do anything I want to do!!

But by morning, I was able to gently coax him into putting on his shoes and walking the several short blocks to Tom’s. On the way there, he randomly posited, “What if there were Chooch seeds, and when you planted them, a bunch of Chooches were born?” At first, my response was, “I would scream and run” but then some of my friends pointed out later that my pedometer wouldn cheat me out of steps if I ran, so I guess I would maniacally march — straight to the BANK after I sold those newborn bitches!

Chooch reads everything now. Signs, newspapers, magazines, Henry’s Craigslist ads for “Clean Buxom Ginger Wanted For Discreet Playdates,” and oh yeah — books too. At Tom’s he read aloud the “Watch Your Step” sign that was behind me and of course I half-assedly praised him while shoveling my maw with a plate of oily A.M. food fare that I really couldn’t even taste but my body was screaming CARBS!!!!!!! with sheer, shoulder-shimmying ecstacy.

And then Chooch burped. Loudly and with great gusto. I reprimended him and said, “I’m going to tell daddy!” and I don’t know why I always resort to that because Lord knows Henry ain’t no threat, ya’ll.

“Don’t you dare,” Chooch warned. And then, in this deep and low tone pregnant with menace, he growled, “Watch your step.”

OMG.

There was some construction worker sitting a few booths over that was basically choking on his food trying not to laugh out loud at our exchange.

After breakfast, Chooch bought me a revolver keychain out of one of the gumball machines!

Now the other one we use as a Christmas tree ornament will have a  mate. Oh my god, it’s practically a set!

On the way home, we saw Purple Pants, who was not wearing her purple pants but was wearing a red sweatshirt that I have never seen her wear before! Chooch managed to get her to bark a terse “hello” and you would have thought some asshole politician just kissed his head, he was so excited.

Me: If you had to see Daddy poop his pants on one ride, what ride would it be?

Chooch: Jack Rabbit because of the double dip!

(We both pause here to relish the image of Henry pooping his pants, leaving his seat, and then smashing the poop upon returning to his seat. We’re all children here.)

Me: Why do you like Garfield’s Nightmare? That’s the worst ride there.

Chooch, making a super angry face: WORST?! It has all those statue stuff!

Me: Aren’t you afraid the boat is going to tip over? (That might actually salvage the fun factor, really.)

Chooch, shaking his head like I’m a fool: No.

Me: How safe did you feel riding the Jack Rabbit with your brother, Blake?

Chooch: Why do you type my name as ‘Chooch’ on everything?

Me: Because that’s your name. Just answer the question.

Chooch, making some gross boy noise: It’s cold in here, don’t you think?

Me: Stay focused. (Repeating the original question.)

Chooch, sounding extremely unsure: Really safe?

(That means NOT SAFE.)

Chooch, seeing this picture: Oh, crap.*

Me: Talk about riding rides with [our friends’ daughter] Katelyn.

Chooch: Aw, come on. Not fun! [Laughing giddily, which means OMG ALL OF THE FUN.]

Me: Then why did you get mad when her cousin wanted to ride with her?

Chooch: No I didn’t! I did not! ….how did you know that?

Me: Seriously, how badly did you want to put your arm around Katelyn on the baby roller coaster?

Chooch, blushing furiously and smiling while struggling to maintain his faux-anger: I did not!

(*Chooch, after re-reading this, cried out, “I did not say ‘crap’ there! I said ‘shit’!” Trying to keep Child Services out of our house, OK KID?)

mommy took a picture of grandma who was annoyed of mommy

Me: How pissed off do you think grandma was having to spend a whole day with us idiots?

Chooch, laughing: Uh, fucking* pissed off. Grandma wouldn’t go on everything. Probably because her foot hurts.

(*Seriously! Child Services, kid!)

Me: Look at Laura in the background!

Chooch: Looks like she’s drinking something out of a pee cup.

Me: What do you think you were thinking about in this picture — Katelyn?

Chooch, panicked: No! Now you made me forget what I was thinking because you had to type in Katelyn, thanks a lot!

Me: Talk about how dumb daddy looks in this picture.

Chooch: Oh, I got a great one. It looks like daddy is eating that pizza and he’s going to poop in his pants. And Blake is laughing and smiling because daddy looks like he’s going to poop his pants.

Me, laughing: I mean, look at daddy’s face!

Chooch, pointing in a demonstrative manner: I know, it looks like he’s pooping in his pants! I already said that!

Me: How bad does daddy suck at playing games? Isn’t he the WORST DAD EVER for not winning you all kinds of BIG MAJESTIC stuffed animals?

Chooch: It made me sad.

Me: He totally sucks. I bet Jonny Craig would have won you the BIGGEST STUFFED ANIMAL THERE.

(Probably because he would have needed something to transport his heroin & ego in.)

Me: What was your favorite ride?

Chooch: Uh, the Jack Rabbit.

(I think this is the only ride whose name he can remember.)

Me: Even after you fell down the ramp and scraped your knee and cheekbone?

Chooch: Blake fell too!

Me: Did he really?

Chooch: No, he didn’t really. I just like to say that.

I wanted to stay there at Kennywood but daddy would not let us sleep over at Kennywood.

And this concludes Chooch’s first Oh Honestly, Erin guest post, mostly because we have both lost interest.

I’m starting to think that Chooch acts like an asshole on Saturdays because he goes all week with being with just one of us since I work at night, and then all of a sudden Saturday arrives and it’s a parental double team on his bitchass.

He’s fine until the evening, at which point he totally overdoses on our dual presence and suffers an emotional meltdown.

First, his nemesis was Henry, so he vowed to have a yard sale in order to pawn him off on some poor fatherless sucker.

“And then hopefully Jonny Craig will drive by and be our new dad, RIGHT MOMMY?

!”

I was about to agree with raucous cheering, but Henry interjected snidely.

“Is he even allowed to drive?”

That’s a good point, although he does have a song called “I’m Jonny Craig, Bitch, and I Drive In Reverse” (Hi, I’ve been telling the Internet since 2008 that he’s a douchebag.)

Anyway, then I had the nerve to laugh at Chooch who was sitting on his little Cars chair by the front door, yelling about how he legit hates his life and this is THE WORST DAY EVER, so he angrily grabbed another piece of paper and drew up my walking papers.

“They can take BOTH OF YOU for two cents!” he spat as he scrawled out the new for sale sign with a fistful of fury. And then, “Stop LAUGHING AT ME!!!!”

He taped them to the front door and began screaming to all of Brookline that he had put both parents up on the market.

I like that I’m referred to as Erin, not Mommy.

Me: I’m going to start calling you Surly Shirley.
Chooch, totally spitting vitriol: Then I’m going to call you Jersey Shorely.

Damn. I don’t even know what that means, but sick burn, sonnnn.

The waitress at Sylvester and Tweety’s gave Chooch this drawing thing to entertain him (news flash: nothing placates my child).

“Here, let me write something,” I said, swiping it from him.

“Oh, please don’t write Jonny Craig,” Chooch sighed with exasperation right as my hand was perched to draw a heart with Jonny’s name inside.

“Dammit!” I cried out dejectedly, and then, “How did you know?!”

“Oh, come on,” Henry mumbled, insinuating that the whole Internet would have guessed what I was going to write.

I guess I need to work on my predictability.

People on Facebook keep posting a link to an article about “Could Your Child Be a Psychopath?” or something similar, but I refuse to click on it because I’m afraid it’s about my own kid.

Chooch was having a really emotional, angry night. He oscillated between being hyperactively fidgety to over-sensitive and touchy to blood-curdlingly fearsome. At one point, he wailed, “You used to be my best mom, but now you’re just the WORST!” before running away from Henry’s soothing pleas to calm down.

I heard him come out of his bedroom long enough to bellow, “STOP TALKING TO ME! I’M STRESSED OUT!” and then he slammed his door.

Boy. That was really great.

He’s not a psychopath. I know. However, he is highly theatrical with a loose grip on his emotions. And then he calmed down and went to bed.

But I still won’t click on that link.

Earlier at work, Lee said to me, “How pissed would you be if Chooch woke up on Mother’s Day and said, ‘I wish we could have two Father’s Days instead’?”

“I would be so pissed!” I cried. “I’d pack a bag and leave, sleep in my car if I had to.”

Amber chimed in to tell Lee to stop being mean to me, and he defensively said, “I’m not being mean! Chooch just likes Henry better!”

I was already starting to bristle, but then Lee added, “It’s because Henry is a better roller skater” and then I almost died of boiling fury.

Henry, Henry, Henry!

***

In “I Have a Child” news, Chooch has been really been a literate whiz these last few months. His teacher has stopped to tell us multiple times about how much he’s advanced with reading this year and it definitely shows at home. He wants to read EVERYTHING. When Bill, Jessi and Tammy were here for his birthday weekend, they took him to the Pittsburgh Comicon and he came home with several comic books, which he has been devouring ever since.

I can’t even tell you how happy this makes me. He’s already more advanced than Henry!

I found one of the extras in a kitchen drawer last week and my fingers spontaneously cramped at the memory of the labor. It took so long to make these, but it was so worth it. It was Chooch’s first birthday after all! I can’t wait until he’s a teenager and tries to pull that “You’ve never done anything for me!” bullshit, so I can scroll through my blog and show him pictorial evidence of EVERYTHING that spoiled kid has had done for him. You know, since he is so endangered and neglected.

***

It’s the moment no one has been waiting for: all of Chooch’s birthday invitations are securely hot-glued together into a foam sandwich and have been mailed off to their respective recipients. For as much anguish as these little monsters cost me, I have to admit that I miss them and I was very sad to see them go. When I handed the last batch off to the postal worker, I felt a lump rise in my throat and memories of the past few weeks bled into my mind — the good, the bad, the extremely painful (glue guns hurt). It was like sending off 23 kids to college.

I free-handed them from foam and made each individual face, and then Hoover’s Big Assignment was to use one of those big bad exacto knives that make him feel like he has a big weener to insert each tongue, which includes all the party info when pulled down.

Hopefully, everyone keeps theirs and then in a year or two we can orchestrate a reunion and play catch up while noshing on Russian tea cakes and whispering outrageous slurs behind Janna’s back.

[In light of recent activity, I have been struggling with whether to keep this blog up or take it down; I ultimately decided to keep it up because I haven’t done anything wrong; but this post, however, is password-protected* since it involves Chooch’s school friends and not these particular parents, but other parents in that class, have beef with me.]

[*Oh, fuck it. I don’t care who reads this shit anymore.]

Chooch decided a few months ago that he wanted to have the same birthday as his awesome mom. I mean, who can blame the kid for wanting to emulate such a loose cannon like myself. Hopefully, he develops a taste for foot and crow soon, because if he’s going to follow my path, he’s going to be dining on a lot of that.

So we rented out the rink for the kid and invited all his friends, most of which just happen to be grown-ups. I have never known a child to have so many grown-up friends. Which to me, that sounds like the opposite of a neglected, unloved child. But what do I know. I’ve only been a mom for six years.

Guest List

• My brother Corey and his girlfriend Danielle
• Henry’s mom Judy
• Henry’s sister Kelly
• Zac
• Steph and Kian, + a green-haired girl whose name I never got
• Danielle and Ean
• Lindsay, Anthony and Tiffany
• Lauren, Randy, Dean and Olivia
• Barb
• Lee
• Amber
• Wendy and Shawn
• Kaitlin
• Kaitlin’s famous cake
• Kristen
• Ricky, Chris, Kari and Katelyn, reppin’ Castle Blood
• Carol
• Laura
• Bill, Jessi and Tammy
• Mikayla, her sister and parents
• Nate, his brother and uncle
• Jacob, his sister and mom
• Emyle, her mom and cousin
• Bria, her sister and parents, who came from a wedding and changed in the bathroom, that’s how all about it they were
• Lisa and Matt
• Shawn, Cosi and Anais
• Peaches and Drake
• Our neighbor D and his friend who wouldn’t talk to me

Pretty sure that’s more people that came to my party. It’s hard being in the shadow of a six-year-old sometimes!

I. The Mix

I slaved over the perfect skating mix all week, staying cognizant of the fact that there would be Catholic school children in attendance, and let me tell you something: Rick Ross radio edits just don’t exist. EVEN IF IT SAYS “RADIO EDIT,” listen to that shit first, because I promise you it will all start to unravel by the end and you’ll find yourself clawing your way out of ramparts and carnage of “pussy” and “fuck.” Unbelievable that I actually rose to the occasion and did my due diligence on this one.

Reminding myself that it wasn’t MY party, I put on Chooch’s favorite Eisley song, which he totally missed because it came on while he was opening his presents. He asked for Frank Turner’s “Photosynthesis” (what 6-year-old requests that song, really), which proved to be horrible to skate to, but whatever – not my party. He threw me a bone and said I could put on “The Past Should Stay Dead” by Emarosa, but then when it came on, he switched directions just to clomp over to me and say, “Really Mommy? Emarosa? Really?” like he was totally disappointed in me WHEN HE GAVE ME PERMISSION! God, he’s always trying to make me look the fool.

But at least it came on after Lee and Amber were already there, so they got to hear what the true honey-tinged voice of a male siren sounds like. Even Lee admitted that he wasn’t that bad, for a drug addict.

That morning at breakfast, “Sussudio” came on, which made me, Tammy and Jessi laugh since we had just listened to an angry Phil Collins singing it the night before at my house.

“Well, this definitely has to go on the mix now, ” I laughed. AND IT DID.

And then after that, I mostly just threw on some 80s synthpop, Skrillex (unashamed dubstep fan in this hizzy), Britney Spears and some current r&b jams. At one point, I skated past Jacob’s mom, who was sitting on a bench talking to Bria’s parents, when I overheard her say, “And this music is so good. It’s really taking me back!”

That gave me the courage I needed to broach conversation with the enemy. Actually, these parents aren’t the enemy. Those parents were too cowardly to bring their children to the Evil Woman’s son’s birthday party. More on that at a later date. (And that is only one of the reasons this post is password-protected. For now, anyway.)

“I made this mix!” I shouted over top of the Breakfast Club’s mostly forgotten track “Right on Track.” And then we all had a really nice conversation about Spinning Wheels, the local rink that was poppin’ back in the 80s, and how much we miss it. It’s a Busy Beaver now. Get fucked, Busy Beaver.

They all gushed (yes, they gushed) about how they were having such a great time and thanked me for inviting them. (We put on the invitations that the entire family was welcome to come, admission was free, and skate rental was comped for the kids. Yeah, I know what that’s called. Sucking up. And I’m not beneath it.)

“Good,” I gloated to myself. “Now go back and tell those other bitch moms.”

II. Henry is the Best Skater

Cue the trumpets! Roll out the red carpet! Henry is about to take his inaugural roll around the rink and HE IS THE BEST SKATER EVER says everyone at the goddamn party. I know this based on the amount of times I skated away from people in a huff. Yeah, he’s the best skater ever, if that means he’s nearly 5o and able to skate to the tune of Peaches and Herb in his head while maintaining absolutely no rhythm, yet not falling. Bravo. Name a rink after this man, already.

I was crying about it to Barb, Lee and Amber, who all said that they were actually just commenting on how good of a skater I am, and then proceeded to stick out their arms to collect high fives from me the next time I passed their side of the bench. This appeased me, though they were probably just sucking up because they knew they would have to hear me cry about it all week at work otherwise.

Seriously, Henry is not all that. Sure, he’s a better cook, aircraft-identifier, moss expert, parent and person than me, but can’t I at least have something that I excel at? Jesus!

I am never skating with him again.

My Color Blind Brother Corey & His Girlfriend Danielle. They Will Never Be Able To Admire Rainbows Together.

III. Ultimate Party Foul

I was in the snack room when I noticed my friend Lauren’s son was crying and holding an icepack against his wrist. She told me they were taking him to the hospital and I totally felt like the biggest asshole ever.

“Why?” Lauren asked. “You didn’t push him!” She was so calm about it too. I would have been puking in my purse. After they left, Wendy’s husband Shawn was like, “His arm is totally broken” which made me feel even worse. Later that night, Lauren posted a picture on Facebook of Dean, sitting in the exam room with his entire arm in a cast. At least he was smiling, though!

First, Dean had to spend two hours with me last fall while I took pictures of him and his sister, and then he breaks his arm at my kid’s birthday party. That kid is probably so adverse to me.

Of course, one of Chooch’s big mouth friends went to school and told everyone about it, so now all the mom’s have new fodder. “Kids get broken around that evil family! This is the work of SATAN!”

IV. Pictures of Children

Some of the moms at Chooch’s school found my blog. This happened in February. The first wave of confrontations came through the day before Valentine’s Day; I took it in stride and still found the will to bake that fucking cake for Henry. The biggest problem was that they saw what I had written about them (in various field trip posts), but they also made a stink about their kids’ pictures being on the Internet. So I took everything down and apologized. Still, this is not the reason this post is password-protected. Yes, something even worse than that happened. A story for a rainy day, though. (Although I will say my favorite part was when one of the moms said, “And I looked at some of the other stuff on your website and I just don’t want my family associated with ANY of…that.” I took that as a compliment.)

Now, none of the parents who came to the party are the ones who create phalange crosses and hiss when I walk into the room. But still, I wanted to show respect for those parents who allowed their kids to attend a heathen’s birthday party, thereby editing out the faces of their children before they even have a chance to cry foul.

It’s a moot point now that I made this post password protected.

(I left my friends’ kids intact, because I think you have to assume that if you attend one of my events, you’re going to have your picture taken. However, if anyone reading this is angry about it, say so and I will Jonny Craig your face, too.)

V. Afro Rink Douche

In lieu of Henry’s man-crush Paul the Rink Ref, two of the younger staff members were out there, flashing their skating prowess in their blue Neville Roller Drome shirts. At first I was like, “Thank god for built-in entertainment, now Bill & Jessi won’t have to pump out balloon animals like at last year’s party.” Except that the one with an afro took his job way too seriously and lambasted Bill for “going too slow” when it was his first time skating EVER. God, way to not only embarrass the guy, but make him not want to ever try skating again.

He also yelled “Keep moving!” to Amber who was leaning against the wall while on the rink and talking to Lee. Hello, I didn’t pay all that money renting a rink to have my friends yelled at by some neon-skated prick with a superiority complex.

(Although, if I were Amber, I would have totally blamed Lee.)

Next time I see that guy, I’ll have his Afro on a plate.

VI. Cake & Presents

Kaitlin went above and beyond as usual and made the most delicious white batter cake with this ambrosial lemon filling. She is just MAGIC. And I asked her to maybe decorate the cake with monsters, but you know what she did? She made RED VELVET CUPCAKE MONSTERS. Of course, this made the children (all the girls, natch) argue over which one they wanted, leaving Poor Henry as the official monster delegate. They were not pleased with him when he began quartering the monsters to ensure they each got a piece. And of course, there was one whole monster left over in the end. GOOD JOB HENRY.

Someone made a lofty remark about how I should be the one cutting the cake. What a fool. I wish I could remember who that was so I could call them a fool to their face.

And then Henry proceeded to cut orphan-portioned slices of cake for all of the guests. We ended up taking home HALF OF THE CAKE. My saddlebags thank you for your stinginess, Henry.

“This wasn’t on my list!” Chooch spat when he opened Barb’s present. This became the “You invited BARB!?” of 2012.

I really enjoyed that she and my cousin Danielle both stepped up to be present helpers, since I was doing other things. What was I doing? Tweeting and spinning on my stool, I think. And taking pictures! That’s important. That is a very important party task.

Corey, learning how to cut curmudgeonly cake slivers from the Master Miser.

My wonderful Michigan buds had to hit the road during Chooch’s snail-paced gift unwrapping session. As I hugged Bill, Jessi and Tammy goodbye, I noted that “Sussudio” was playing out on the rink. I think in Yacht Rock terms, that means we’re bonded for life.

Amber and Lee were competing to see whose gift Chooch liked the most. Apparently, Lee’s Skylanders warranted a “Daddy, look!” so Lee self-claimed the title.

I probably should have been writing down what he got.

Barb was smart and got me a Hot Topic gift card! She learned her lesson from my birthday party, when she was audacious enough to bring CHOOCH a present, making me cry out, “YOu didn’t bring ME a present to HIS party!” Even after I opened it, I set the small red gift bag on the table with all of his presents, just so I could sneer, “HA! That’s MOMMY’S present!” when Chooch reached for it.

And then I wonder why I’m getting accused of being a shit parent.

Chooch also got a card with a monetary gift from Rink Ref Robin, Roller DJ and Doorman Billy, who told me that they wanted to contribute to the party since Chooch always entertains them when we attend afternoon sessions. I wish I was as popular as my son. Actually, no. No, I don’t.

Two hours was totally not long enough. Before I knew it, Roller DJ was announcing that the session was over and Henry was counting out something to the tune of LIFE SAVINGS to pay the rink owners. Sophie, the owner’s wife, refused payment for the skate rentals, so we were at least able to eat dinner the next two days.

(If anyone was at the party and wants to contribute their own highlights and memories (and pictures too!), you should totally comment! It was such a whirlwind and I know I missed a ton. Like Bria sneezing on the cake, pre-Happy Birthday serenade.)