Chooch stayed home from school today, which means I was able to get absolutely nothing done. It was basically one baby taking care of another baby.

I really knew he was sick when he asked to watch “Twilight,” never mind the fact that he was up puking most of the night.

Don’t worry, he’s already halfway to his healthy douchebag self.

I know this because he just said he wants the Crapitals to beat the Penguins.

Little fucker.

Janna and I took Chooch to the playground so Henry could clean the house. It was apparently Dad Day there, presumably because all the moms were out fighting bitches over Black Friday bullshit.

One of the dads was super cute so suddenly I didn’t mind too much that my kid was begging me to push him on the swings.

Anytime someone new would arrive, he would rush over to them and start his interrogation, demanding to know the kid’s name and age. He waked back over to us at one point with Jack (3) and Jack’s dad, who had already been acquainted with Chooch as evidenced by the way he casually said to his son, “Riley wants to play with you Jack, go ahead.

”

I don’t know where Chooch gets it, because Henry and I surely are not socialites.

Then I got to witness Janna’s Special Olympic attempt at hopscotch and laughed so violently that I almost puked up the two apples I had previously eaten. (Tell me what your favorite apples are; I’m trying to eat them all.)

We actually talked about apples a lot at the playground, but you’re probably not surprised. I think Janna was tiring of the subject; she did, however, alert me to that fact that some places offer apples tastings so I will be researching this phenomenon soon.

Later, Henry took us to Pizza Hut, which is one of my least favorite places but Chooch got a certificate for a free pan pizza through the Book It program at school. Our waiter was some mentally-arrested man who was dying to tell someone that a lady, in the throes a Black Friday hysteria, pepper-sprayed other shoppers in some state that is not ours.

So he told us and none of us cared.

But Janna at least pretended to.

Chooch was begging for quarters for the claw machine, but I dared him to eat hot pepper flakes first, so he licked the top of the shaker which I think is even more gross so I gave his stupid ass the quarters.

Friday Night Ice Cream Club!

Henry had his own ice cream club with Marcy and it sickens me.

Later in the night, Henry picked up his mom who was spending the night since she’s watching Chooch today. The Penguins game was nearly over, with like, three minutes left in the third.

We were up 6-3 and his mom was sincerely concerned that we might lose. Then I gave her a glass of wine and she started divulging all kinds of stories about her past lovers and also some scintillating tales about Henry’s ex. Henry wanted no part of that little wine fest. I love buzzed Judy.

And now Henry and I are en route to Cleveland, where we will be gorging on greasy gourmet grilled cheese at Melt with our friend Jason and then heading to the House of Blues for the last night of the AP Tour. I’m so stoked to see Sharks again.

If my blog remains un-updated for more than 2 days, please assume that Henry purposely drove our car over a ravine.

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 don’t feel like writing about Halloween just yet, so here are some iPhone pictures of Chooch in costume. His least favorite part was when I slathered on lipstick and kissed his cheek.

This costume cost $0.00.

The last time we took Chooch to Castle Blood’s daylight matinee, he was three-years-old; The Lost Boys was still his favorite movie; he was super-enchanted by one Jason Voorhees; and we still spontaneously flinched every time he opened his mouth in public, praying the word “Asshole” (or worse) wouldn’t come rolling out. He spent the whole goddamn tour of the castle bitching about Dracula’s absence.

The denizens had been waiting for Chooch and his silver-tongue to return and we finally had a chance to take him last Sunday. This was my friend Laura’s first October in Pittsburgh so I insisted that she come along because everyone needs to experience the Castle, even if it’s in daylight. Chooch never STFU once during the 40-minute car ride, and guess who was in the back with him? HIS WEARY MOTHER. We eventually joined “Are we there yet?” forces and Henry wanted to blow his brains out. He’s the only one who hates me sitting in the backseat more than me.

When we arrived, some of the denizens were milling about and suddenly it was all, “Chooch! Is that you? Chooch is here!” and he took a giant step behind my back because I guess he thought I was joking when I told him that they were all waiting for him. Normally he handles attention with way more panache than me (I go through life hiding behind Henry’s back like a kicked puppy), but I think the costumes were throwing him off. One minute we were just walking down a sidewalk in a quiet town and then bam—there’s a bunch of dead people in gowns with the facade of a castle behind them.

We got in line after formally introducing Chooch to everyone, and he was sort of starting to get that smart-ass Chooch attitude back while being asked questions by the denizen guarding the entrance, like he was so put out and exhausted having to talk to someone and he kept turning away from her but then I realized he was blushing through his zombie flesh-wounds, most likely because he was trying not to look at her boobs.

Uncle Vlad soon appeared on the front steps and we were sent in with the family of four behind us, the parents of whom I had originally used my Ph.d. in Debasement to prejudge because the dad had a mullet and the mom appeared to be blitzed off Benadryl, but they ended up being pretty inoffensive, plus they had two little girls whose presence alone was enough to hold Chooch’s tongue through the entire tour.

That and the bountiful corsets of the female denizens. I finally found my son’s Kryptonite and it’s the same as every other boy in the world.

He walked through the entire Castle looking nervous and blubber-ready anytime he was spoken to, but this didn’t stop him from nearly knocking a bitch down anytime a candy bowl was presented.

Meanwhile, the mulletted dad would laugh and look to me for some sort of approval every time one of his little girls would say something that was mildly funny but not enough to have Bill Cosby come calling. The mom was always trailing behind with her eyes mostly-closed, laughing to herself and trying TO BOND WITH ME. Clearly my “Don’t even!” exterior is softening because strangers are trying to penetrate my anti-social bubble more and more. Sometimes EVERYDAY.

I need to start practicing that snarl some more.

Oh goodie, the Gypsy Room! There are these beautiful strands of beads that fill the doorway into the Gypsy Room and on that day, I learned that not only are they beautiful, but sharp as fuck thanks to HENRY whipping one at me. One of the half moons or stars, I don’t know which but it was something with SPIKES AND THORNS ON IT, punched me in the lip in such a way that tears spontaneously sprung to my eyes it felt like my top lip had been triple-shot with Botox.

Of course, I couldn’t bitch about it to Henry right away because I didn’t want to interrupt the Gypsy and get a talking-to from our (extremely intimidating) guide, so I sulked in the back and periodically checked with my tongue for blood. But you better believe as soon as we walked out of that room, I gripped Henry’s arm and yelled at him the best I could without raising my voice above a strained hiss. If it had been bleeding, I would have sued his broke ass for a hard copy of his entire SERVICE history because I know he did it on purpose.

Meanwhile, the mom of the two girls in our group kept slurring for me to go on ahead of her, probably because she needed privacy to huff beneath a gargoryl.

In the pirate room, Henry was volunteered by our guide to get up in there and show his bravery, which made me snort to myself because unless bravery involves reading Food Magazine and having a foot run over by a pallet jack with no retaliation, Henry had no business being up there.

But on the bright side, it helped him realize he has a pirate fetish.

After the tour, we hung around outside and talked to our new friends while I tried to appear as socially together as possible but inside my head I was screaming, “MY HANDS! WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY HANDS!?” I ended up just keeping them inside my hoodie pockets.

Someone mentioned that Chooch was way quieter than they imagined; Henry and I, nearly in tandem, said, “It’s because there are girls around.” Even Laura seemed surprised at how docile he had become.

This was all the knowledge of my son that Professor Scrye and Lady Die’s little girl needed to know before chasing him around and antagonizing him with little else but her femininity. At one point, I think he was trying to dive into a garbage can.

The good thing about Chooch’s voice being smothered by estrogen was that he actually paid attention in there and took something away other than candy for the first time. Granted, he was still too young the other times we took him to really grasp the concept. I think 5 is the perfect age for a trip to Castle Blood. 5 and surrounded by little girls.

“I thought those little girls on the tour with us had makeup on, but then I realized they were just dirty,” Henry laughed like we’re so much better than them, I guess forgetting that people probably say that about our kid, too. Yesterday I unknowingly sent him to school with half of his head still caked in fake blood and he usually has last night’s meal hugging the corners of his mouth. My eyes don’t start properly seeing until at least noon, OK?

Chooch ate his whole bag of candy on the way home without me knowing (and by that I mean I wasn’t paying attention) and then caused a scene inside the gas station, making everyone in there believe that he earned his facial bruises and contusions.

Today is apparently All Saints Day, which never would have had any bearing on my life except that now my child is in Catholic school and they throw parties for this shit.

The paper he brought home a few weeks ago said something about costumes being optional, and I thought it was a joke. Kids actually dress up for this shit?

Besides, Chooch has been in 4 different costumes  in the last week, so I opted out on his behalf.

And what the fuck do sinners know about saints, anyway? I only know St. Francis, and that’s because I’m a spoiled brat who got to go to Assisi four times as a child, though all I really learned there was:

1. don’t piss off monks, particularly monks near chains
2. the hot chocolate there sucks
3. when you break something in a gift shop, run

So, short of strapping a bird bath to the front of Chooch, I really had no other clues and sent him to school in his street clothes.

Two kids in his class were already there when we arrived this morning: one girl was wearing basically a white potato sack with gold ribbing along the collar; her mom is one of those broads who has to have her hands in everything so I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “Of course she’s dressed up.” Another kid hadn’t put his on yet. Chooch was looking at me with these sad eyes and asked, “Why don’t I have a costume?”

“Because we don’t do saints,” I whispered, pretending to lovingly smooth out his hair but really that’s our secret code for “STFU before you embarrass mommy.”

I am hard-pressed to believe that every single child is going to come trouncing into the classroom in some ridiculous robe. You can’t have saints without sinners, right?

I had Henry bake cookies last night so I’d have something to contribute to the party, thereby acknowledging that this is a day to celebrate fictional Biblical characters. Hopefully chocolate chip and sugar cookies will suffice. I don’t know what these crazy Catholic schools do and as long as there aren’t any goats or rams being slaughtered on stone tables, they can have a fucking ball over there playing saint-related games and singing Biblical ballads. I just don’t need any detailed accounts.

“He could have been zombie Jesus,” Henry said when we were on the phone a little while ago and I think he was only semi-joking. I also think he doesn’t know that Jesus isn’t actually a saint.

Maybe we’ll pull that one out for the Easter party. They already know we’re fucking idiots.

[ETA: Apparently there is a feast involved in this holiday and now my interest is officially piqued. Maybe next year.]

[ETA pt. 2: The teacher told Henry that when the priest went around asking all the kids what saints they were dressed as, Chooch said he was God. Also, judging by all the shit Chooch brought home, all the other parents treated this as a Halloween party. NICE TO KNOW. There needs to be a handbook for heathen parents who send their kids to Catholic school.]

My friend Carey from work had a kid-friendly Halloween party last night; Chooch and I were so excited that we did our makeup hours before we left the house and then proceeded to wipe blood on Henry while he was trying to take a nap.

Of course though, I waited until the day before to think to myself, “I should probably find a costume.

” I still don’t have my costume for the Trundle Manor party next week either, but for Carey’s party, I opted for an old tattered nightgown that I bought a few years ago from Goodwill specifically for the photo shoot portion of Chooch’s zombie birthday party. (That particular party was also the origin of “douche cup,” for anyone writing an oral history of Chooch slang.)

Thank god I never throw shit like that away.

I stuffed Chooch in his pj’s, equipped us both with a stuffed animal and slapped us with the Slumber Party Zombies label. I put minimal effort into everything I do.

It was a pretty weak concept, but Chooch’s doofus zombie act is worn out by now and I had nothing else to wear. Henry refused to dress up, so I told people he was our meal. (Because “douchebag” isn’t a costume, it’s his everyday uniform.)

Chooch took this for me. I’m actually being less zombie, more controlling camera freak in this picture. “YOU’RE NOT HOLDING IT STEADY ENOUGH!” He was like, “Damn bitch, take your own picture then.

“

Seriously.

We got to Carey’s and her partner Liz’s house and Chooch immediately walked off like he had been there a dozen times, helping himself to food and exploring the bathroom.

(He is fascinated by other people’s bathrooms.) Then Liz put the hockey game on and I became That Person who sits at a party and watches a sporting event instead of mingling. (I did talk to people though; Henry was proud. This was actually not very hard to accomplish because all of their friends were normal and nice and not once did I have to steal off to a dark corner and imagine certain heads exploding.) I caught myself at one point, during the last few minutes of the third period, literally cuddling my stuffed elephant and biting my nails, like I was for real at a slumber party watching a scary movie.

There were other kids there so Chooch ran off with them and Henry and I we mildly concerned at first because hello, it’s Chooch; but then I remembered I had a near-empty glass of wine and went back to being concerned about getting a refill.

Eating small meatballs. Carey had lots of vegetarian-friendly cheese possibilities as well. I love party food.

I think I was already half-drunk in this photo, and we had only been there 20 minutes.

This is Carey, as seen while Henry’s intrusive form engulfs the lens.

Cheating on FAYGO!!

When other guests found out I work with Carey, they would ask, “Oh, are you a lawyer, too?” and the absurdity of it would make me laugh quietly to myself. And when asked, Henry would tell people he’s a warehouse manager for a beverage company, at which point I would rabidly interject, “He delivers FAYGO!”

It never gets old to me.

I’m so supportive of him.

Chooch and his new enemy.

What a fun night. And Chooch didn’t do anything douchey, break any vases or cut their cat’s ear. Can it just stay October forever?

Here are some iPhone photos from Zom-B-Rama. (The rest can be seen in yesterday’s post.

)

Someday, I feel that Chooch will have his own set of bloody handprints on the Maul of Fame. Or on a caution tape-cordoned wall.

When I got pregnant in 2005, I had friends who were all, “Ha-ha, you’re not going to be able to do anything fun once you become a mom!” But pre-Chooch, I never would have done this shit. I guess having a kid with an aversion to age-appropriate television shows and a propensity for horror helps.

I was a little leery of getting Chooch all made-up for Zom-B-Rama since last year he wanted to leave after 20 minutes. But a year makes a big difference and proves that 5-year-olds can be less dick-ish in some ways than 4-year-olds.

(Don’t get me wrong, there are still at least 68 occasions a day when I cry to the gods, “WHY CAN’T HE GO BACK TO BEING 4!” before flipping off my ovaries. Especially now that there’s all these kid politics in Kindergarten.)

I gave his recent zombie dweeb costume a reprisal because I’m lazy and didn’t feel like thinking of anything new. I have a bad case of mental exhaustion. Anyway, it seemed to be a hit with his zombie brethren at the Monroeville Mall arcade.

We arrived just in time for a short performance by a zombified Rocky Horror Picture Show troupe.

“I hate this song,” Chooch mumbled as the zombie Eddie lip-synched to Meatloaf. But apparently, “Hot Patootie / Bless My Soul” be damned, Eddie’s performance really won over Chooch, who spent the rest of the afternoon coveting his leather jacket and emphatically remarking that he was the best zombie there that day.

My friend/zombie self-defense class partner Kristy was there with her little zombie lover-in-training, Sarah, so it was nice to be able to hang out with them in the downtime after the RHPS performance. Aside from several zombie-themed carnival games and the museum in the back (which we’ve walked through a thousand times, and yes it’s awesome! But not very time-consuming) there was little else to do but stand around awkwardly. Kristy and Sarah split after about an hour and wound up missing the scintillating 2:00 performance of Time Warp.

But by then, Wendy and her step-daughter had arrived so they got to be wow’d by the flesh-eating RHPS cast.

They really drew a crowd each time they took the “stage,” including random non-zombie mall-walkers, but then people would leave as soon as it was over. Hey Zom-B-Rama: NEEDS MORE ENTERTAINMENT! There was not enough to keep everyone stimulated. Give me a call, I have some (like, a million) ideas for next year.

(Not really, but if asked to think of some, I would.)

“Is that your kid?” some guy asked Henry and me. “Because he is seriously creeping me out.” All he was doing was roaming around, bored because we were talking to Wendy and not showering him with money to burn. But I took that as a big compliment considering I AM THE ONE WHO DID HIS MAKEUP while Henry just stood there doing nothing. I win yet again.

Chooch actually played games this year. Some of the zombies were letting him win, which I thought was super-sweet. He accumulated enough tickets to get some sort of cowboy gun that he apparently has always wanted. Since when? I clearly don’t know my kid.

Chooch was less interested in the zombies, more interested in spending our paychecks on the claw machines.Wendy’s friend won a ball and Chooch was dead set on winning his own after that. Finally, Henry threw his hands up in defeat and cried, “I will just BUY you a ball, Chooch! For Christ’s sake!”

After Henry’s epic defeat, Chooch conned Wendy into trying to win him something.

Alas, he’d have to be happy with the fucking cowboy gun.

Hiding from the only thing that scared him all day…

…Zombie Spongebob. Seriously? He was so afraid of it. Wouldn’t even get close enough for me to take their picture together, even when Spongebob’s acquaintance persisted.

It’s weird the things that actually scare him when the obvious ones don’t.

Around 2:00, our new friends Rick and Tammy showed up with their daughter Jamie, who took on Chooch in a game of air hockey so rousing, some random man stood and watched the entire game play out.

That’s when I realized how much alike Chooch and I really are. He is a little smarmy cheater! However, he still lost, whereas I would have won. So, not entirely alike are we.

Then Henry and Rick meandered around the zombie museum, sharing memories of what it was like when the mall was still lit by gas lamps.

He quickly picked up his panhandling again, going so far as to beg Rick for $40 to buy a collector’s pack of Cereal Killers mini cereal boxes. Later on, Rick told him that if he could remember his and Tammy’s names, he would give him the .

Chooch came so close, but hesitated too long on Tammy’s name.

I silently exhaled, knowing that Chooch would have demolished those cereal boxes within .005 seconds of being placed in his grubby mitts.

PLEASE GIVE ME QUARTERS!

This was Rick and Tammy’s first time meeting Chooch, and Henry was quick to point out that contrary to how it appears, we don’t actually mainline caffeine and rock sugar into him. This is just Chooch, au naturale.

“He’s either going to make you a lot of money,” Rick remarked. “…or need to be locked up.”

That was definitely the quote of the day.

After 2 and a half hours of standing around in everyone’s way and letting strangers take pictures of our son (seriously, Rick is right; where’s my fucking check?!), Chooch had reached his “enclosed space” limit and we parted ways.

It’s cool having events like this to go to. If there’s one next year, we will likely go and hopefully they will have amassed more entertainment for us ornery folk.

Henry dropped me off at home and then went to the store with Chooch still scabbed and putrefied. Henry said some lady was all aghast and asked, “Was it a bike accident?”

Because that’s exactly where Henry would take our child immediately after the pavement fed off his face: the motherfucking dollar store.

Shit, this sure feels familiar: Little over a week away and we have no costume for Chooch because he won’t pick one.

The closest we’ve come to locking in an idea was at the pie party. I can’t believe I forgot to mention this in that particular post, as it was one of the highlights of the day for me.

The party hadn’t yet started and Chooch was coloring with my brother Corey and his girlfriend Danielle. Unprovoked, Chooch blurted out, “Corey, I’m going to be you for Halloween.”

This of course was followed by a Walton-esque moment pregnant with “Aw!”s and sappy smiles. I figured we could just give him a hair cut, toss on a flannel and give him a cane decorated with a gray-toned rainbow as a shout-out to Corey’s tragic color blindness. Costume complete!

“Yeah,” Chooch continued, intently coloring his page from the Star Wars coloring book. “I’m going to slice your face off and wear it.”

We all laughed nervously.

Of COURSE this wasn’t going to end as a sweet, adorable page for the family scrapbook. Not when it involves dialogue from my kid.

So when people at work ask what he’s going to be, I just shrug.

All you really need to know about me before jumping into this is that I hate doing shit with kids, so for the sake of my fingertips, let’s just pretend for a minute that there are already four paragraphs written in my usual long-windedly verbose style illustrating my hate for the pumpkin patch/kids/being around kids/riding school buses/moms/being a mom.

I somehow got suckered into being a chaperone for this year’s field trip. Last year it was mandatory that one parent accompany each preschooler, but they only needed 9 Kindergarten parent chaperones. I heard my disembodied voice saying, “Yes,” to the teacher’s aid and then vaguely recall her scrawling “Mrs. Robbins” onto the list of condemned parents.

(Never mind the fact that I am MISS KELLY not MRS. ROBBINS.)

A. The Sweetest Ginger

I arrived at the school in time to be cast out from the other chaperones.  I’m sure I wasn’t missing much there, as I picked up pieces of their extreme Yinzer-garble. Most of the parents just kept their backs turned on me. I was OK with that.

As the kids began filing out of the classroom and ran over to their respective parent, the teachers began handing off the rest of the kids so that some parents had an extra child to be responsible for. I assumed (stupidly) that the teachers are hyper-aware of my utter irresponsibility, but apparently my facade translates to strangers as Put-Together Woman Bursting with Empathy because they paired me up with Nate.

Normally, I don’t know shit about the kids Chooch goes to school with, and I like to keep it that way. But Nate is notorious because his parents died in the beginning of the school year, one right after the other. Totally traumatic and devastating; I actually cried when I read the letter that the school sent home about the mom and hoped it was a mistake when there was another letter a day later about the dad. I never learned the details, but a Google search brought up their obituaries and they died a day apart from each other in the hospital so I imagine car accident is the safest assumption.

Good job giving this poor kid to the most socially awkward mom there, you guys. Good fucking job.

Nate put his pudgy little hand in mine as we walked out to the bus together. Some little girl said, “Nate, sit with us!” but he opted to sit with me and was a friendly little chatterbox for the whole 30 minute ride.

“I think I know where we are!” as we passed a grocery store. “My mom used to shop there!”

I smiled awkwardly, the diarrhea-face kind, hoping that topic would go DOA.

While we compared animal crackers with other (the owls were our favorites), Nate looked at me innocently and, in a way that was remarkably upbeat, asked, “Do you know where my mom and dad are?”

OMFG YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. SERIOUSLY? TO ME, HE’S ASKING THIS, OF ALL FUCKING PEOPLE? I desperately yearned for a can of that liquid rubber shit to plug up my tear ducts.

I didn’t know how to respond to that. If I were my friend Lisa, who went to school to learn how to talk to people about death, I’m sure I would have reacted in such a way that made lilacs spring up from a meadow. But me being me, I just whispered “No…” in a frightened tone and then bit my thumb.

“They’re in heaven,” Nate answered nonchalantly.

I do not hate this particular kid so I acted like that was the most wonderful thing, to have parents in heaven. I was three when my own dad died from a car accident, but I don’t really have much memory from which to draw any life lessons. I don’t even remember when I first really understood that my dad was dead. What did my family tell me back then? Knowing my mom, she acted like nothing happened.

I sat there in silence, trying to process all of this while Nate quietly sipped from his Capri Sun beside me.

We talked about Halloween costumes for awhile (he’s going to be some train-friend of Thomas’s that I don’t care about) and then he dropped this bomb on me:

“Do you think there will be big pumpkins at the pumpkin patch?”

I pretended to consider this. (I think that is what you have to do when dealing with children: pretend. A lot.) “I imagine there will be pumpkins of all sizes,” I said.

“Well, I want to find the biggest one and throw it up to my parents in Heaven.”

WHY. WHY WHY WHY WHY.  The fissure forming on my heart reminded me that, OMG—I have a heart, and I suddenly felt inspired to give up my hateful blogging, love Jesus and adopt 18 orphans.

You guys, this kid kind of made me feel a little bit human.

B. The Worst Best Friend

My own kid sat with the boy who, one week ago, said to me, “I wish there were no Rileys in the world,” in a mean tone, in front of my kid, prompting me to have a little talkie with the principal because I’ll be damned if I’m paying to send my kid to a school where hate is something that kids can get away with. If he’s saying shit like that when he’s FIVE, what’s he going to be doing when he’s FIFTEEN? You can tell me I overreacted, but I’d rather nip that shit in the bud than blow it off and have something worse happen down the line.

(You should know that I’m not one of those moms who get all up-in-arms every single time someone blows a hair on my kid’s head.)

This kid, Anthony, is such a motherfucker that the principal already knew who I was talking about before I even said so. His mom was made aware of the situation (as well as the mom of another kid who appears to be Anthony’s sidekick in hate) and profuse apologies were made all around.

Now Chooch is calling him his “best friend” and wanted nothing more than to sit with him on the bus.

“Sit with Nate and me,” I pleaded.

“Anth is my best friend,” Chooch shot back, sliding into the seat across from me.

Anth? You have got to be fucking kidding me.  This Anthony kid is such an ADHDick. Several times, I was forced to lean over Nate and hiss at Chooch to knock it the fuck off because Anthony’s mere presence was making him act like he was running on Pixi Stix and Starbucks. I really need to get him away from this Anthony kid before he starts verbally denigrading other children worse than I do to Henry.

Anthony’s mom is much older and has a weary face that screams, “I AM SO TIRED OF YELLING AT THIS FUCKING DICK ALL THE LIVELONG DAY.”

I kind of feel for her.

As soon as the bus pulled into the farm’s lot, Anthony was out of his seat and pushing kids out of his way, provoking one of the teachers to open her mouth and blow him back into an empty seat with nothing more than her militant tone.

It was fucking awesome. Everyone paraded past as Anthony (and his sidekick, who actually wasn’t doing anything wrong other than associating himself with this delinquent) sulked in his seat.

Somehow Chooch avoided punishment even though I’m pretty sure I witnessed him being a pushy asshole. It’s obviously because he’s a cracker.

C. Father of the Year

Henry met us out there this year and I was so thankful. Since I had Nate obediently clutching my hand, Henry kept an eye on Chooch, who was following Anthony like a puppy. Several times, Henry tugged Chooch back to us by his hood and gave him low-pitched yet stern talks about how he needed to not worry so much about Anthony.

Kindergarten and this shit is happening already. KINDERGARTEN.

Meanwhile, Henry completely skirted the $10 admission and not once did a farmhand approach him and ask around a straw of hay, “Sir, you ain’t wearing a sticker on your breast. Why?”

D. The Stupid Pumpkin Diorama Tour

I hate this part of Triple B! It is row after row of fictional characters with pumpkin heads. WHO THE FUCK CARES. And then they throw Moses floating downstream in a basket just on the off chance some douchey Catholic school kids happen to stroll on through and all the parents clap and laugh happily and it is so obnoxious.

“OMG Bible shit, you guys!”

This may have happened when I was there.

Nate loves Thomas the Tank Engine, so I took this photo for him. I figured I’d have it printed for his grandparents who bring him to school everyday, adding some shine to my halo. (Or, if I were Barb, I guess you could say my halo might then be all TRICKED OUT.)

It kind of made me sad how few of the dioramas he was able to figure out.

Which brings me to….

E. Aging Hipster Dick

One of the girls in Chooch’s class was behind Nate and me with her dad.  I hadn’t been paying much attention to him until we approached the one diorama that stumps me repeatedly.

“Oh look,” he said to his daughter, “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub!”

I laughed to myself because it was so obvious. Over my shoulder, I said laughingly to him, “I totally could NOT figure this one out last year!”

“Oh,” he said in this tone that was steeped with a bold combination of ambivalence and superiority. “I guess you just learned something then.”

No, this tone just did not sit well with me.

“Yeah….I guess,” I mumbled, and from that point on, motherfucker was on my radar.

From then on, nothing I did could drown out his ridiculously uber-serious reciting of every fucking nursery rhyme diorama we shuffled past.

Every time I was near him after that (which was pretty much always; god, go stand with your WIFE), I had to fight the urge to heckle-cough “Douchebag” in his general direction. Fuck off with your lame short-sleeved flannel. Go sit in your hybrid and listen to some Iron and Wine and leave the pumpkin-picking to the fuckers who care. (I am not one of those fuckers but I assure you I’d rather pick a fucking pumpkin than listen to anything on his iPod.)

On the hayride, he all but SAT ON MY LAP and proceeded to shout over the dirge of the tractor’s engine to his wife who was sitting FIVE PEOPLE away from him about how much he spent on apples at another farm.

“$8 for 8 apples! That’s practically $1 an apple!” he shouted in his deep dick-swallowing voice.

That’s not “like” a dollar an apple; it IS a dollar an apple.

Sometimes his wife would snap, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Because, you know, not everyone is trained to hear bored, husky tones over top of a chugging tractor pulling 35 screaming children.

He was so close to me that I feared I would disembark the wagon with the sudden druthers to wear a belted (vintage) tunic and swap out my photos of Jonny Craig for Colin Meloy. (Whom I do enjoy on occasion, but still.)

(Hopefully I don’t offend my hipster friends who are neither aging nor dicks.)

Meanwhile, I found myself having an enjoyable conversation with Momesis, and considering we also ran into each other at the playground in August and wound up chatting for 90 minutes while our kids played, I suppose I should just call her Amy. Besides, I now have a Dademy to replace her.

“I decided to tell him about how I didn’t know that was Three Men in a Tub last year. I was just trying to keep it light-hearted, you know how I do.”

“No,” Henry said. “I don’t.”

And this is why I don’t often initiate small talk.

F. The 5-Minute Hayride

Just like last year’s 5-minute hayride, now with an Aging Hipster Dick sprouting out of my torso.

Yes, Nate; that is exactly the look of fucking disdain I too would have if Anthony were hugging me into him.

 “Mommy, can I have a hoodie that says Sinister all over it like Anthony?”

G.The Pumpkin Picking

After sitting through the SAME EXACT program about DIRT put on by Mrs. B. in the School Barn, we finally got to head out to the small, forlorn patch of puny pumpkin rejects that’s there specifically for school field trips. I guess $10 a person only promises the adoption of a pie pumpkin.

This is my favorite part because it means it’s almost time to leave.

Nate was off getting his picture taken by the teacher, and Henry was too busy checking out the other moms bending at the waist of their mom jeans to be of any assistance, so I had to tiptoe through the mud while Chooch kicked disinterestedly at a pumpkin that maybe he might have wanted, who knows, what did he care. He was still sulking because I wouldn’t let him sit next to Anthony during the dirt assembly.

Nate came back from the school photo-op and Henry decided to actually pull his eyeballs off the MILFs’ applebottoms long enough to drag Chooch to the entrance while I assisted Nate in choosing a pumpkin. Of course, he picked one whose stem that was still attached to a 10 inch-thick vine and I unfortunately shorted the remote that turns my right arm into a hacksaw. Sorry, buddy.

He picked a comparable gourd and proceeded to immediately break the handles of the plastic bag he was given. I kept offering to carry it for him, but he stubbornly cradled his bag-swathed pumpkin in his arms, dropping it every three feet. It was fine. I wasn’t getting agitated.

No really, it was fine.

Just fucking dandy.

H. THE FINISH LINE

Henry got to drive home in the nice, quiet, CHILDFREE car while I was shackled to my chaperone status for one more bus ride into the horizon. I got to sit alone at least, while Nate, Anthony and Chooch all crammed into one seat.

Nate quietly looked out the window the entire way home while Chooch leaned forward with his forehead pressed against the back of the seat in front of him. They were clearly tired. As were all the other children, except for Anthony, who was practically sitting upside down in his seat, singing “Georgie Porgie*” the entire way while his mom bitched about not having time to shop.

(*Seriously? My kid must be the only one in that class who doesn’t give a shit about nursery rhymes.)

When we got back to the house, Chooch threw up and I was really pissed off because that’s what I wanted to do.

I. Henry’s Day at the Farm

I decided to try and act like I genuinely cared about Henry’s pumpkin patch experience, but he replied to my initial text inquiring of his favorite field trip moment with a misspelled and curiously punctuated: “Your [sic] not interviewing me again?”

“No, just wondering,” I texted back. “Also, what kid did you hate the most and what mom was the most MILFish?”

Henry: “LOL, most MILFish.”

Me: “Seriously, answer me. Which mom-bitch did you want to poke with your pumpkin stem?”

He kept ignoring that particular question, which makes me believe it was Aging Hipster Dick he had eyes for. And he told me later that he “doesn’t hate any kids.” What the fuck is wrong with him?

Me: “When you pick pumpkins, what are things you look for?”

Henry: “Size and color.”

Me: “Like when you’re looking for dicks on the Internet? When you were in the SERVICE, did you ever cut glory holes into pumpkins?”

Henry: “Interview over.”

Me: “Did you leave some of the pumpkin guts inside to give it a nice, squishy vaginal effect?”

No answer. Obviously that means yes.

My goal for 2012 is to kidnap/marry Jonny Craig. And also buy a better camera and learn how to use it.

I’m working backwards here, but I couldn’t wait any longer to post these. This definitely turned out to be my favorite cemetery photo shoot ever.

Chooch could have stood to be more cooperative (children! ugh), but it was overall a really fun day. Wendy even came out to spectate and then wound up a victim. Meanwhile, Henry leaned against the car for most of the time, playing Words With Friends and being annoyed.

It was awesome!

[Majority of the makeup effects were achieved using My Pretty Zombie cosmetics. Look for the limited edition Zombify set coming soon!]

I’m really not cut out to be the mother of an elementary school-aged child (just as I wasn’t cut out to be the mother of an infant, toddler or preschooler). Chooch has been bringing home such staggering amounts of fundraising bullshit, financial forms (I cover my face with my hair every time I walk past the office) and parent questionnaires (and HOMEWORK OUT THE ASS) that I’m feeling so overwhelmed. I cringe each time I open his backpack now.

On top of the fundraising shit (anyone in the market for a curling iron cozy or Jesus dish towels?

), there are unlimited papers begging for volunteers. Market Day volunteers, holiday party volunteers (never again), other volunteering options that I can’t remember because I never finished reading the forms. But my favorite was a sign -up sheet for parents who are willing to come to class and speak about their occupations or talents.

Even if I weren’t petrified of interacting with waist-high children, what the fuck would I have to offer? Seriously. Talking about my occupation would take approximately 30 seconds.

“Hi, small children. I scan papers at a law firm. Sometimes I scowl at a spreadsheet. Then I blog on company time. I’d probably have really awesome things to tell you right now but instead I CHOSE TO HAVE A KID.”

Seriously, the end.

And talents? What talents do I have?

“Hi, small children. I write Christmas poems about serial killers and photoshop weeners all over pictures of my boyfriend.

YES THAT’S RIGHT, YOUR FRIEND RILEY [see also: Chooch] IS A BASTARD. I also excel at character defamation.

”

Maybe Henry can just go and talk about driving a fork lift.

Hey, did you know we went on vacation? Oh. Of course you did. Am I being that annoying about it?  SORE-Y.

Anyway, here are the companion photos to this post, from our first full day in Tennessee. Look at them or don’t look at them; they’ll never know the difference.

I miss this stupid porch.

This was moments before The Accident. It’s all fun and games until somebody gets punched in the face by an overhang.

Minutes later: friends again. Are you serious? I’d have made Bill beg for it. Chooch is way too forgiving and he so does not get that from me.

He at least got an ice cream cone out of it. I’d have asked for more. Like maybe money. Lots of it. OR MAYBE HIS WIFE.

On a weener prowl.

Every other store was Jesus n’ guns. Henry was getting some pretty big ideas.

Trying to DROWN my kid now.

The courtyard inside one of the little shopping areas in Gatlinburg.

It made me wish I was wearing a Snow White dress.  Or at the very least, a tutu.

There was even a shoe store that sold TOMS. I had to hold back from buying a houndstooth pair.

So, this was an interesting week for Chooch and telephones.

We’re one of the many families that have eschewed a landline for cell phones, so Chooch has never known anything but a cell phone. However, he quickly caught on that if he knew Bill and Jessi’s room number, he could call them from the phone in our room. Trust me, he memorized that shit quicker than the Situation memorized the number the STD clinic.

But then this happened one day:

Chooch, holding the receiver out: Oh shit. I dialed the wrong number.

Me: Then hang it up!

Chooch, slams it down and then picks it back up: Ew, what’s that noise?

Me: Well son, that there is what the pioneers call a DIAL TONE.

It’s just so weird to me that  landlines are becoming so archaic that my 5-year-old is as confused as you or I would be if we had to send a telegram. Also, when I was five, I was playing on a motherfucking Speak and Spell, not a computer.

Now imagine his double-excitement when he got to stand inside a payphone.

Chooch wants to be photographed everywhere now, and he can be a little bitchy divo about it. “Not on THOSE rocks, THESE rocks!”

I’ve created a monster.

Chooch and Bill inside a genie’s bottle at some Optical Illusion attraction that was good for a few laughs.

Stupid me, I almost didn’t take a picture of him hugging the fiftieth wooden bear sculpture, but he made sure to school me in front of a bunch of strangers. Everyone laughed and thought it was so adorable. I was tempted to lift my shirt and show them the welts from where he beats me with a scalding poker.

Pretending to like each other.