I can’t believe Chooch is in Kindergarten. But then he retorts with things like “touché” and I think, “How is he only in Kindergarten?”

Now that he’s in school for a full day as opposed to half, I have no idea what to do with all this free time, all this glorious, scandalous, COMPLETELY DANGEROUS IN MY HANDS free time. Today, while sad (I promise I was sad! I even called Lisa and made her talk to me because it was ominously quiet in the house), I sat around with steepled fingers and a mischievous grin, wondering what to get myself into first.

Turns out, Tuesdays are not very adventurous days for me, so all I did was watch the RW/RR Challenge reunion show on MTV.com, exercise and then make a salad. Insert also lots of staring at the walls in between those titillating activities.

I’m thinking though that with all this extra time, I just might start painting again. I would have done that today, but I spent countless minutes last night applying those stupid Sally peel-on nail art things and by the time I was done, I had heart palpitations. So until I score myself some latex gloves from the serial killer depot, I guess I will just stick to tormenting the cats and watching Dance Gavin Dance videos on YouTube. (Which I actually haven’t done in awhile. Vacation broke me!)

(Speaking of vacation, I have so much more to tell you! And by “you,” I mean the Ukranian girl with the back brace who I like to imagine reads this in between milking goats and pulling her father off all the malnourished neighborhood girls.)

Chooch: “What does ‘selfish’ mean?”
Me: “When you only think about yourself.”
Henry, at the same time as me: “Erin Kelly.”
**********
Apparently, we’ve only been doing what I want to do, but hello—if I left our itinerary up to Henry, I’d probably be in a tent right now, unable to update my blog.

Gross.

We did agree on one thing though—Clingman’s Dome. It’s an observation tower about a 45 minute drive up into the higher elevations of the Smokies. We decided to wake up early to do this in case Bill and Jessi had any plans for us in the afternoon.

This entailed waking Chooch up. When it comes to slumber, Chooch is a little divo. You let him wake up on his own, else you’ll have a snapping piranha on your hands.

Which we did yesterday morning. However, at least we made it to Thursday before our child to returned to his old ways of being a noncompliant asshole. What a great run we had.

The whole way up the mountain, he made his presence known in the backseat as he bucked and kicked at the back of my seat and allowed Satan himself to use Chooch’s mouth as a death threat portal. There were several times I had legitimate chills.

If you’ve ever seen Back to the Beach, think of Bobby in the backseat, only younger and way more sinister than sarcastic. Henry even turned around a few times a la Frankie Avalon and threatened to bust him in the mouth. IT WAS AN AWESOME JOYRIDE UP THE SIDE OF A FUCKING SCARY MOUNTAIN YOU GUYS. My nerves were not shot at all.

We saw another bear though!

“Oh shit, that’s a cub. Bye!” Henry yelled, flooring it.

It only got worse when we reached our destination and freed him from his cage. Thank god there was barely anyone there when we arrived because he was being so loud, so disrespectful, so spoiled-5-year-old that I came very close to making him a permanent fixture of the Smokies.

And this was before we realized it was a half-mile hike uphill from the parking lot to the tower. Oh, how he wept and shrieked, “MY LEGS HURT OMG IM DYING!” after taking two steps.

The elevation was 6600 feet and we quite literally had our heads in the clouds. It was so hard to breathe to begin with, and then you add in the accelerated heart rate that Chooch had given us and we both were sure we were going to go into cardiac arrest.

He finally stopped screaming near the top, only because two hikers emerged from the woods and Chooch is extremely vain just like me. But he refused to go all the way up to the tower because there were about 8 people there, opting instead to hang back on the curved ramp with his arms crossed and the surliest visage I think I have ever seen on him.

And of course we couldn’t see shit through the clouds, but despite that and the fact we have an asshole kid, it was still cool to be there, inhaling clouds.

Chooch was fine after that because we were leaving which is what he wanted.

Captain Surly-Sack.

This will probably be the only thing about this vacation that Chooch remembers when he grows up, creating a vitriolic aversion to Tennessee. I’ll be sure to blame it on Henry.

Sweating at the fair.

Chooch is going through a shirtless phase (again) so all week, I’ve been getting dropped off at work by Henry and my hillbilly son. This is how I noticed today that Chooch had some red spots on his stomach.

“Are those bug bites or chicken pox?” I asked him, because all five-year-olds can properly diagnose themselves.

“Oh my god!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never been bitten by a CHICKEN before!” Finally, my kid said something age appropriate and swear-wordless—-something that normal kids would say!

***

No stranger to the joys of making Henry’s life as annoying as possible, Chooch approached me last night and said, “I have a really great idea. Find a picture of Jonny Craig on your phone and then I’ll say, ‘Daddy, come look at this picture of a cupcake!’ but really, it’ll be Jonny Craig. Daddy will be so pissed.” Of course, I responded with a resounding, “Son, that is the BEST IDEA EVER” and together we sat on the couch emitting low-octave, throaty giggles approved by 9 out of 10 deviants.

When Henry came over after being summoned and saw that it was a picture of Jonny Craig, he was indeed pissed.

God, how we laughed.

***

I got a letter today from the Catholic Diocese regarding the financial aid for Chooch’s school (yes, we decided to keep him in Catholic school, and yes, I’m aware of this irony). I was reading the letter out loud in a devil voice, and when I got to the part that said “God bless your family,” Chooch asked, “What? Did we sneeze?” But the way he said it, it could have been Joe Pesci sitting beside me, not a fucking five-year-old.

If Chooch wasn’t so entertaining, Henry would probably be a single father by now.

***

In  other news (and apologies if we’re Facebook friends and you have already read this shit multiple times), we leave Saturday morning for a week in Tennessee and I love sending post cards; there is just such a satisfying feeling of scrawling out a ridiculous account of the time you’re having  away from home and bugging your dad (Henry) for postage money. Makes me feel like a kid at Disneyworld. If you want one (a postcard, not a kid at Disneyworld), please email me your addess (butgavincantdance@gmail.com); someone might even be lucky enough to get one from Henry’s eyebrow (it’s been known to happen)!

My week can be summarized in two parts:

• OMG MY BACK HURTS OW OW GRAB MY CANE
• OMG I LOVE JONNY CRAIG EVEN THOUGH HE IS A RODENT-LOOKING DOUCHEBAG

Let’s start with my back. I guess it’s a pinched nerve, I don’t know. I’m not actually a doctor (don’t tell those Mexican girls waiting in my basement for an abortion). Every time it starts to feel OK, I exercise (because I’m weight-obsessed, if you hadn’t noticed; please send tape worms to My House, Pittsburgh PA 15226) and then it gets all jacked up again and I have to listen to Henry say the words, “I told you so” which always makes me hate his face even more than usual.

If I’m lucky, I can get my lazy, uncaring son to walk on my back which floods me with relief, but I can only have him do this when Henry is home supervising, otherwise I might be typing this right now from a straw in my mouth. The other day, Chooch said to Henry, “I can’t wait for Mommy’s head to hurt so I can walk on her face.”

And then at the playground on Wednesday, he ran past me with a bunch of kids. With frantic jazz-hands he said, “My mom can’t play with us” and then in a shitty tone laden with sarcasm and packed with more condescension than any 5-year-old should be able to muster, he added, “because her BACK hurts her!” What a fucker. I yelled after him, “I wouldn’t play with you anyway!”

Five-year-olds are assholes.

Meanwhile, there were grandparents at the playground more able-bodied than me, running across tire-bridges and playing tag with their grandkids while I was curled up arthritically on a bench, looking all sad and pouty-lipped.

And in Jonny Craig news, it’s been getting really out of control in my house. I should explain myself lest anyone thinks I seriously AM 15-years-old: My mania is in large part attributed to the fact that it annoys the shit out of Henry. And what is my sole purpose in life? Annoying the shit out of Henry.

Jonny Craig is a HUGE douche bag. In fact, two years ago on this blog I wrote about him being a piece of shit, and it is to-this-day the single most viewed post I’ve ever written. The search terms for my blog every day are variations of “Jonny Craig is an asshole.” Random kids STILL comment on that post, sharing their tales of Jonny-woe. He is notorious in the post-hardcore scene. The only thing that keeps me coming back for more Jonny Craig is that I am absolutely head-over-heels in love with his voice. Literally, it will make me quake and get all stupid-swoony and light-headed and this concerns Henry because he cannot provide me with such ecstacy.

Therefore, Henry hates Jonny Craig.

So what better way to get under Henry’s skin than to project my love for Emarosa and Dance Gavin Dance onto their fire-crotched arrogant vocalist (ex-vocalist, in Emarosa’s case)? Jonny is already our desktop background and my iPhone wallpaper. On Tuesday, I made a special trip to Target to buy an 8×10 frame for the picture of him at Bamboozle that I tore out of Alternative Press months ago. It’s now hanging on our wall and Henry is very unhappy about this.

“Why don’t you just tape up some posters too?” he spat miserbly so I went on eBay that night at work to look for some.

Yesterday, I painted my nails and then etched Jonny’s name on my left hand.

It was supposed to be a surprise, I wanted to see how long it would take Henry to notice when he came home, but fucking Chooch the Snitch called him immediately and said, “Ugh, Mommy put Jonny Craig’s name on her NAILS.” Still, when Henry came home, I made sure to lovingly stroke his beard with my Jonny-hand. (And I do mean the beard on his face.) He kept shrugging me away from him. I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY.

Then at work last night, Barb, Sandy and I posted pictures of Jonny Craig on Henry’s Facebook wall, which gave me great joy.

“I need to find a real douchey one,” Barb said, Googling his name.

“Yeah, that’s not going to be hard,” I said.

Henry never said a word about it when I came home last night.

This one from Sandy was my favorite, so I made it my profile picture:

That moustache alone should get its own entry in the Douchebag Dictionary.

But back to my broken back: we’re supposed to be going to the Westmoreland County Fair tomorrow, so that should add a new dimension to the usual pain of the carnival rides. The last time we went to this one, I had a broken toe and the carnies had to help me on all of the rides, which was hotter than anything I experience at home with Henry. Perhaps he’ll let me interview him again! (Provided he doesn’t dump me for someone more age-appropriate before then.)

I never realize how much of a jerk parent I am until I say things out loud to co-workers and their fingers involuntarily look up the number for Child Protective Services.

The other day, Sandy and Barb were complaining about a co-worker who was coughing and sneezing all day.

“There goes Typhoid Mary again,” Sandy said, all annoyed.

“Oh, I know what you mean. Yesterday, Chooch sneezed like eighteen times in succession and I was like, ‘God, get a life!'” I said, feeling a real sense of camardarie.

“You told him to get a life?” Barb reiterated.

“Well yeah, because he was annoying me. I mean, who needs to sneeze that much?”

They both laughed, but I guess I kind of saw how maybe I could have chosen my words better. Or, you know, offered him a tissue instead.

***

I hurt my back today. I started to notice it while I was exercising, but I’m on an intense “I’m Fat and Should Die” kick so I sucked it up and continued through the pain. By the time I was done, I was laying on the floor, whimpering and unable to stand up.

Chooch took no pity on me.

“Stop being a crybaby,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt that bad, let’s go outside.”

So we went outside, where I writhed on the front porch and reminded him every 3 seconds of the excruciating pain I was in.

Then he scraped himself and got all Wounded Animal on me, but I scoffed. “You didn’t care about my back, so I don’t care about your scrape!”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. I only found that out when I came to work and told Barb and Kaitlin about how much of a bastard my own son was being to me while I clearly have a broken back.

“Erin!” Barb exclaimed. “Who’s the adult here?”

“But he hurt my feelings!” I argued.

“Yeah, but—he’s five!”

I mean, at least I’m not hitting him in the face with hot frying pans, right? Is that not good enough?

Well then, I guess tonight if you need me, I’ll be sitting in my room working on the parent rosary.

Chooch has lived in a houseful of animal masks since he was a baby, so stuffing a pig mask on his head in the middle of summer ain’t no thang. But when he saw that Kara’s not-quite-2-year-old son Harland was less than tickled with his new porky visage, it became a calculated game in torture and torment.

It’s probably for the best that I’m not giving him a younger sibling; the way he antagonizes other children makes me see so much of myself in him.

Henry is right: we are so similar it’s more alarming than cute.

This just happened while I’m stuck here at work. I MISS EVERYTHING!

Can’t wait to hear his Cindy Brady lisp.

Also, I would like to apologize for the lack of substance this past week (not that you expect quality from me anyway).

It’s very hot out theses days (it is summer, after all) which means sitting at the computer inside my un-air conditioned house feels approximately like being coddled by the Sun after slow-roasting in El Diablo’s oven for an hour in a baste of Snooki’s pap smear.

It is hot, moist and disgusting.

My sincerest apologies.

I made Chooch watch the British Open with me on Sunday. Parts of it, anyway. (I actually don’t know anything about golf;  I just really wanted to share with him my inexplicable love for Phil Mickelson.) Approximately 2 seconds in, Chooch had completely peaced out. I believe his exact words were, “Oh my god, STFU!” Let’s just say that me watching golf is akin to me riding the Caterpillar. Lots of from-the-gut yelling and high energy cheering. The only thing Chooch took away from the experience was the word “brouhaha,” which he heard one of the commentators say. Except he doesn’t believe that it’s a real word, but evil laughter.

Later that day, we went to see Thor and in the middle of the movie, Chooch leaned over and hoarsely laughed “brouhaha” into my ear, which resulted in me cracking up after I had spent the majority of the movie shushing him.  (It also made me crack up when one of the scenes was a bunch of  galaxy shots, and when a particularly brown cluster of gross outerspace scenery was shown, Chooch said, “That looks dirty. Like daddy’s poop.” I totally lost it.)

***

While I was at work last night, Henry took his mom grocery shopping. It was raining pretty hard and I guess Henry’s mom jokingly told Chooch she was going to make him get out of the car and walk. (I’m sure he provoked this threat.) Then she said she was just kidding, that she would never actually try to get rid of him, to which Chooch responded, “Mommy would. She tries to get rid of me all the time.”

The boy speaks the truth.

And now if you’ll excuse me, Henry’s on vacation this week and if he thinks he’s going to sleep past 9:00 every morning, well, he’s about to find out how very misinformed he is.

Yes, he washed his hands after this. And another 87,000 times during class.

I enrolled Chooch in a cooking class at the Young Chefs Academy this past Saturday. I figured someone’s going to have to cook for me once Henry dies (or we break up, whichever comes first), and that someone is probably going to be my son.

Plus, when I asked him if he had any interest in learning, he seemed very enthusiastic. Probably because when he thinks of cooking, his dark mind conjures images of sharp knives.

He also loves it when Chef Ramsey goes ballistic on Hell’s Kitchen.

Chooch was wearing his Ask Me About My Zombie Shirt t-shirt (I swear to God, it does get washed between wears!), which made him an immediate hit with the two instructors. All the moms of the little girls in cutesy-couture sundresses grimaced. Suck it, yuppie moms. (There was a pregnant one who was the yuppiest of them all. Her husband came after the class ended and I immediately wanted to cough the word “douche” into my fist.)

All it took was Chooch putting an apron on to surpass my cooking skills. I mean, he was actually eager to do this! I am never eager to do anything in the kitchen except bark orders at Henry. Now that is something I excel at. And then three separate times, he yelled out, “DADDY, WE SHOULDA PAINTED THE KITCHEN LIKE THIS ONE!” and at first I was like, “God, child, shut your big mouth. You’re drawing attention to me while I’m trying to stew in the corner” but then I was like, “HENRY YOU SHOULDA PAINTED THE KITCHEN LIKE THIS ONE.”

God, what a happy land that could potentially make our house. It might even curb my suicide daydreams.

Some boy started crying and wailing, “I don’t want to do this!” when the instructor put an apron on him. Seriously? Give me a fucking break. I was having this scathing internal commentary about this crybaby bitch until I checked myself. I mean, really checked myself. Wouldn’t I too cry if some stranger tied an apron to my torso and told me I was going to spend a perfectly fine Saturday morning learning how to make my own fucking lunch?

Chooch just sat there on his stool, staring at this sobbing three-year-old. Then he looked at me, the kind of disgusted look that asked, “What is this asshole’s issue?” But I just shrugged sheepishly.

First they made Popcorn Crunch which was essentially a shoddy batch of Cracker Jack. The instructors passed out plastic pizza cutters and gave each child a small mound of peanuts. Then they expected them to use the pizza cutters to crush the peanuts.

Now, I’m no Alton Brown (who has the same birthday as me; no wonder why he’s so awesome), but that seemed to me like maybe not the best means to crush peanuts. And I was right! It failed miserably. Peanuts were shooting across the floor and kids were getting all frustrated. They switched to plastic baggies and rolling pins after that.

Meanwhile, Chooch and the kid next to him—Noah—began to hit it off. This means they both started talking stupid and ratting on each other.

“YOU JUST TOUCHED YOUR HAIR! NOW YOU HAVE TO WASH YOUR HANDS!

“

It was obnoxious. But at least those two were diligent with their sanitation. That’s more than I can say for most of those grubby raggamuffins.

The girl on the left started crying when it was time to eat their plate of germs because she didn’t like it. God, kids are so fucking childish.

Then other stuff happened with the popcorn. Things were added. There was a bowl at one point, with two big green plastic things that I thought were cacti but Henry condescendingly informed me that they were mixing paddles. I think. But they looked like plastic cacti.

Next on the menu was Curbside Sandwich, which was basically a turkey wrap. The kids got to spend the next 19 days grating carrots. I’m pretty sure they each got to use three different grating instruments. It only took Chooch 1 second to do it better than me. Only because I don’t think I have ever grated a carrot.

(Have I ever grated a carrot, Henry?)

(We watched this 1970’s French porn once that had a little bit of carrot-play in it. No grating, though, leaving me inexperienced still.)

As the one instructor passed out turkey slices, someone called out loudly, “People KILL turkeys, you know.” The other moms tittered nervously.

“Who said that?” I asked Henry, because I had been busy Tweeting my suicide note. (You guys, it was so boring there.)

“Who do you think?” Henry muttered.

Apparently, he and Henry had JUST watched something on TV about people killing turkeys. Thank god for perfect timing.

Noah and Chooch being creeps.

Chooch made me taste the popcorn. I almost puked it back up just thinking about how many of those filthy hands had touched it.

But then Henry reminded me of all the filthy weeners I put in my mouth to which I politely replied, “HAHAHAHA YOU’RE RIGHT HENRY THANK GOD I HAVE ORBIT IN MY PURSE.”

Goddammit.

Then Chooch harangued Noah for not liking lemonade, which hopefully will give him a complex, since I had at least 59 dozen complexes growing up and firmly believe all children should experience what that’s like. It makes you stronger, children! Miss Erin promises! Better get used to the taste of Slim-Fast now while you’re young!

On the way home, I was recounting all the ladies I didn’t like (including one mom with her pedicured whore-toes shoved into athletic sandals, whose daughter dropped her sandwich on the ground and made me laugh out loud).

“Good thing you don’t judge people,” Henry mumbled.

Chooch claims he had “so much fun” so why am I still struggling to serve him cereal and salami sandwiches everyday? What do I get out of this deal?

If you see me at the grocery store, rubbing elbows with Domesticates and Elderlies sporting open wounds, then you know I have to be there for a very good reason. This girl don’t shop for food otherwise.

On this particular Saturday, the reason was: popsicles. REAL popsicles to be made using the Zoku Quick Pop maker that my aunt Susie got Chooch for his birthday. She said she wanted us to have it because she knew how much fun we had making chocolate lollipops together as one big happy 1950’s TV family and figured we’d also take great delight in preparing our own frozen treats as well.

I’m sure she also probably knew that no way was I going to settle for popsicles made solely of Everfresh juices. I wanted the gourmet shit that I saw on the Zoku website. Henry let me choose two recipes and then we went to the grocery store where I complained the whole time and had panic attacks every time I got too close to meats and people.

Grocery stores are gross, you guys.

Even though the recipes I chose only called for lemons and cantaloupe, I decided we needed many more varieties than just those two pedestrian fruits. I’m a sucker for melons and there was a pile of like, 6 different species. (Brands?) I couldn’t remember which I liked the best. Thank god Henry keeps track of these things (only because he knows better than to ever buy for a second time something I hate) and loaded a Santa Claus melon into the cart.

God those things are like pure, unadulterated candy.

We also needed exotic things, like AGAVE NECTAR, and I complained that the aisle housing these sweetening novelties smelled weird, like a Mexican abortion clinic, which triggered Henry’s official look of STFU Spoiled Bitch. Turns out AGAVE NECTAR is like honey for cooking snobs. (But what the fuck do I know about things that people buy as ingredients. I’m an eater not a cooker.)

(I may or may not have spelled out the word “AGAVE” every time I needed to say it because I don’t know how to pronounce it.)

Henry’s favorite part of having me tag along is when I hold up food products and ask, “Do I like this?”

“Not for $8.99 a pound, you don’t!” he spat when the item my delicate hands clutched was a bag of rainier cherries.

This is how I learned that fruit is expensive. I have no basis of comparison when it comes to these things, especially since I was raised on fine food fare, so I will take Henry’s word for it. Especially after I said, “Wow, that was cheaper than I expected!” when the grand total came to $70-something and he nearly sliced out my tongue with his travel toenail clippers.

“This was all shit for popsicles and like, two frozen meals for YOU. Chooch and I got NOTHING,” Henry argued. Oh wah wah, go order a fucking pizza then. (He did, too.)

The popsicle maker comes with a fun face-maker kit, so I cut some bananas (the only fruit I sort of know how to slice) and started using the shapes to make eyes when Chooch pushed me out of the way and yelled, “I WANT TO DO IT TOO!” which made me yell back, “NO YOU’RE RUINING IT! HENRY, HE’S RUINING IT!” which made Henry yell, “OMG BOTH OF YOU GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!

” Henry was apparently doing the “important” part, which was actually mixing all the ingredients together so we could have something to even put the fruit slices in.

Henry is so smart like that.

I guess our sibling-like bickering was impeding Henry’s ability to properly mix up a batch of girly lemon cream, in which he added LAVENDER because he knows that’s my favorite flavor (not really, but close) and he’s been kissing up to me so I don’t pack a bag and GTFO, which is what I’ve been threatening to do lately. Oh go on, laugh. We’ll see if you’re still laughing when me and my hobo sack show up on your front stoop, asking to pitch a tent in your living room.

OMG I’LL NEVER BUY POPSICLES AGAIN

This Zoku thing is genius. You would think, since I had a hand in preparations, that at least the first few batches would come out looking like molten shit on a stick; maybe some would break off inside the machine; maybe at least one would have hemlock in it, making all of Henry’s wishes come true. But no, the inaugural batch and each one after turned out perfect. (Although Henry will argue that I jacked shit up when I tossed in a handful of Froot Loops to the cantaloupe mint mixture.)

Did I mentioned that after Henry diced it, I pureed that all by myself (after Henry showed me exactly which button to press and then hovered over me to make sure nothing fell in, like my face or a brick of cocaine)? Anything that is Erin-proof is a dream contraption. Go get one.

We had so much fun that I demanded we go to Williams-Sonoma that very same night to buy more sticks for the damn thing. Ours came with four and after making two of the lemon popsicles, it quickly became clear that we would need as many  more as we could possibly get (though Henry said one box of 6 would be fine). I have never been inside of a Williams-Sonoma (what reason would I have?) but luckily, before I could break out into fear-of-cooking hives, Chooch led us straight to the Zoku display. At least he’s good for something.

We didn’t have the ingredients on-hand to make fudgesicles and Henry started bitching about not wanting to leave the house again, so instead he improvised and concocted something akin to frozen Mexican hot chocolate. I approved.

Chooch and I made striped ones today, ALL BY OURSELVES! Literally anyone can use this thing without fucking it up!

But seriously, the grocery store, Willams-Sonoma and then a trip to Home Depot on Sunday? No wonder I feel so suicidally disoriented today. At least my freezer is stuffed full of frozen wonders! (The popsicles, not sperm and phalanges.) The cantaloupe mint is my favorite. I’m going to go fellate one right now.

It’s been a busy day/week. I want to tell you guy(s) about my absinthe experience and I also have an old school Henry & Erin video that does not feature any nudity or any acts even remotely resembling fornication, contrary to what Henry’s ex might want you to think, but it’s taking Henry like a month to finish editing it because apparently he has “more important things to do.” Like what? Like watch NCIS on On Demand, is what.

So here are some photos from last Saturday when Henry and I got brave and took our child downtown for the annual art festival, even though we know from past years that this is A Big Mistake because hello, Chooch in a China Store, OK? I’m pretty certain Pittsburgh as a whole hated us after that. Chooch can be such a fucking dick, it’s not even funny.

I’m a fan of juxtaposition.

I call this one: Douchebag with an Ice Cream Cone.

One of those fucking awesome bridges I love so much.

These people are just really fabulous, super-religious, anti-white race zealots with their own show on public access that I enjoy watching when I can’t find any good horror-porn on cable. One night when I was leaving work, they were filming their show on a sidewalk outside of the Law Firm and I had to walk past them. They were hootin’ and hollerin’ about Scripture and waving about Christ signs; it was scarier than an un-inspected ride at the county fair, but I was most afraid of the chance I was going to show up in the background of one of their hostile telecasts.

On this particular day, they were starting race wars in Market Square.

“Don’t take their pict—-” Henry started to plead, but he was cut off by the snapping of my camera.

Afterward, we ate dinner at Mexico City. I checked both Henry and myself in on Facebook, but couldn’t resist adding, “Stuffing Henry’s asshole with satchels of cocaine.”

“Another restaurant we’ll never be able to come back to,” he mumbled when he saw it on his phone.

Burning off pent-up brat-juice at Bessemer Court.

Henry had to literally drag Chooch, kicking and screaming, through the parking lot afterward. It was really fucking awesome, not exhausting or exasperating AT ALL. Five-year-olds are fucking dickheads. Cute, but fucking dickheads.

Chooch graduated from preschool last Wednesday. I even convinced Henry to take the day off work so he could be there for the assembly and then join us for the zoo field trip afterward, not because I wanted him to be there for his son, but because there was no way in hell I was doing another one of these parent-fests alone. So don’t get it twisted.

The parents for all the 3- and 4-year-old preschoolers crammed into the hot classroom and I started to fear it was a ploy to get us to sweat out our demons and how embarrassing would it be when I was the only one it happened to.

In other words, it was fucking hot in there.

I stood awkwardly in the back of the room by the coat rack. That’s kind of where I always stand and at this point in the game, no one tries to bother me.

Chooch’s teacher walked past me and whispered, “I was just over by the office and they asked me to send you over.” She had a big smile on her face, but I saw right through it.

I knew exactly what this going to be about and my heart thumped irregularly the whole way down the hall.

I’m not sure if I ever got into the back story here before, and I’m sure it must seem strange to some people that someone like me is sending my child to a Catholic school. But in the beginning, it actually wasn’t what I wanted, nor was it my idea. Henry and I had spent most of the summer freaking out over where to send him. (OK, I freaked out while Henry was basically the poster-douche for “whatev.”) But then my aunt Sharon (the crazy one) had taken it upon herself to call the school across the street from me and essentially get the ball rolling for enrollment. I was definitely against it at first. But she sang the praises for this school, telling me how great the principal was and that they wanted me to come over and get all the paperwork.

“Grandma and I are going to handle the tuition,” she stressed, stating that they felt like they hadn’t done enough for Chooch and this was something that they could contribute.

This sounded like a debt, if you asked me. And Henry was also very skeptical, getting into bed with my family. But being a one-car family, and the start of the school year fast approaching, convenience won over and I enrolled him.

Sharon was supposed to make a monthly payment. But when Chooch started bringing home invoices, my good old friend Disappointment draped a heavy arm over my shoulder. Conveniently, Sharon quit returning my calls so I started making the monthly payments myself.

Then the end of December happened: another big blow-out with my mom, which further isolated me from Sharon; and my own student loans caught up with me, resulting in garnished wages. I could no longer afford to make his tuition payments.

But the invoices stopped coming after that so I thought, hoped, prayed that Sharon was actually pulling through. A bit uncharacteristic, but it helped me sleep better at night to believe that.

Then the bookkeeper called me in the beginning of May. Nothing had been paid since the last check I handed over in December. Sharon and I had been on speaking terms again since April, because of my grandma’s waning health, so I called her in a panic and asked her what was going on. She said she would call the school and take care of it, that she had some sort of retirement check coming in the next week.

The last time I heard from her was on Mother’s Day.

So there I was, waking down to the office, my legs shaking and my chest hurting. The principal came out immediately and, with old lady fingernails, beckoned me into her office. She wasn’t mean to me, not even stern, but I was already emotional that morning to begin with and had teared up once already, so when she showed me the index card that had the remaining tuition balance scrawled on it, I lost it right there in her office.

I’ve never cried in a principal’s office before.

The guidance office? Yes.

The school social worker’s office? An embarrassing amount of tears shed.

And now, thanks again to my family, I can add principal’s office to that list.

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean to distress you,” she murmured, running off to get me a tissue. But the kinder she was to me, the harder I cried. All I could manage to say was, “My family does this to me all the time.” She told me not to stress out, that even if I just paid a little at a time, that would acceptable. We work something out, she promised.

“I’m certainly not going to prohibit your son was participating in the program this morning,” she assured me, patting my back.

And on that note, I was sent back out into the school, but I couldn’t convince my body to stop producing more tears. I went outside and called Henry, who was still in the classroom with the kids.

“I can’t do this. I have to just go home,” I sobbed, pushing the camera and Chooch’s extra shirt into Henry’s chest. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get myself to stop crying. All I could think about was my own preschool experience, all the times my mom would forget to pick me up and my Pappap would have to come and save me from sitting with the nuns. I hate that I get myself to the point where I’m done, over it, completely convinced that nothing will change, only to have Sharon come at me with her smooth-talking and reel me back into the dysfunction. I let the fact that maybe a good three months of her acting fairly rational had gone by, so maybe things would be different; maybe I could trust her.

I walked across the street, crying freely now that no one was around. I fumbled with the lock on my front door and I stood in my living room, trying to train my breath to go back to normal. I saw my favorite cat Marcy watching me from a dining room chair, and that helped me calm down. What I really wanted to do was curl up in my bed and indulge myself with a full-scale pity party, maybe break out a bottle of wine and a rusty razor. But if I didn’t go back to the school, I was only going to let my own disappointment turn into my kid’s disappointment, and that wasn’t fair to him. It’s not his fault that I come from a family of fuck-ups.

Instead of going back to the classroom, I went straight to the church, sunglasses hiding my blotchy eyes, and sat alone on a pew. I hoped no one noticed my sniveling demeanor, but I’m pretty sure I looked like a walking Lifetime movie; I was moving like I had the weight of 87 scorned women on my chest. A few minutes later, Henry and the other parents came in and the assembly started, which gave me an opportunity to cry outright along with the other sentimental mommies.

Some of the kids had solo lines to recite in the microphone. Chooch was one of them, and also the only one who knew what to say without being told.

“What did he say?” the mom of a 3-year-old preschooler hissed to her cop husband in the pew in front of me. I wanted to wrench her back by her brassy hair. AT LEAST HE DIDN’T HAVE TO HAVE HIS LINES WHISPERED TO HIM 29 TIMES.

For most of the assembly, Chooch in the last row making zombie faces and punching himself in the face. Exactly what I hoped wouldn’t happen, but I was too emotionally drained to care anymore. I was too distracted being That Parent, the white trash one, trying to think of how the fuck I’m going to pay the remainder of his tuition.

There’s always prostitution. Grab a corner, Henry.

Afterward, we all went back to the classroom, where the teacher announced to all the parents that the “beautiful handwriting” on the certificates was done by me, so everyone did exactly what I didn’t want to happen and LOOKED AT ME with my tear-streaked face and sad dog eyes.

And then we got to ride a school bus to the zoo, but that’s another story. Rough day.

Henry’s mom Judy babysat Chooch for us last night while we were soul skating. As soon as we came home, Judy said in a worried, apprehensive tone, “There’s something you should know.

”

Apparently, Chooch had a lovely conversation with our neighbor Toya (the Mr. Wilson to his Dennis the Menace — he is seriously all up in that woman’s grill while she’s trying to garden).

“He told that nice woman over there that you painted a picture of her,” Judy said, looking nervous.

My first thought was that Toya probably thought I was in love with her. That I had some grandiose portrait of her above the bed and made out with it every night before stirring my vat of black market love potion.

“She asked him if it was a nice picture, and he said no,” Judy continued.

“Chooch!” I yelled. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s a monster,” he reasoned.

Judy said Toya was all, “OH REALLY??” And then Chooch tore the house apart, trying to find it.

“I didn’t know what to say!” Judy cried. “I couldn’t think fast enough. So I just told her it probably was very nice and that she should come over and ask you to see it.

”

Three years ago, when I was on that monster-painting kick, I had just finished one and it needed a name. So I asked Chooch to name it. He had just got done pestering Toya from the side window, so naturally he wanted to name it after her.

THREE YEARS AGO.

But Toya probably thinks I have some hideous interpretation of her, hanging on my wall, and that maybe sometimes I fling cat shit at it to relieve my deep-rooted frustrations.

So now I’m going to have to seek her out today and show her this stupid painting of a stupid monster and explain that no, I don’t think she’s a monster, or looks like a monster, or acts like a monster; that my SON is the one who named the fucking thing in the first place.

It doesn’t help that she and I started off on the wrong foot when she moved here 4 years ago.

Still, this is decidedly not as bad as the time he told our other neighbor that I hate her. (Truth.) Thanks, son.

Kaitlin had a whole Macy’s box full of leftover macaron shells that were no longer good enough for her to use (but still edible, and trust me, we edibled them) so she brought them in for me to play with.  I am a huge fan of her macarons, so it was an excruciating test of restraint to not tongue the entire box right there at work. Then I had to live in the same house as them for TWO DAYS.

Henry, Chooch and I took them to the cemetery yesterday for a little photoshoot, and the whole time Chooch whined, “NOW can I eat one?”

He really wanted one with sprinkles, but there weren’t very many of those ones so I definitely wouldn’t let him eat any until I was done. I’m the meanest mom ever.

Henry wouldn’t help me AT ALL because I yelled at him on Friday when he walked out of the kitchen with a macaron shell hanging out of his mouth, dribbling crumbs all over the floor.

He probably would have consumed the whole box before I got in a single shot if I hadn’t been watching that box like your uncle Cletus watches porn.

When we came home from the cemetery, I finally let Chooch indulge himself.

He’s such a cookie creep.

These have got to be among the filthiest hands to ever handle a French macaron.

Just now, I was sitting at the dining room table, talking to Henry about amniotic fluid while he eats his dinner.

Chooch came over with my phone and said, “Wait until you see this, I got to the next level. I jumped over—-”

While Chooch was droning on about what was happening on the game he was playing, I noticed that Henry was trying not to laugh, and also that my phone was aimed directly at me. A (very dim) light went off in my head, prompting me to snatch my phone from Chooch.

That little fucker’s “game” was just a ruse to take my picture.

My annoyance only made him crack up harder.

“What an asshole,” I muttered to Henry after Chooch walked away.

“A smart asshole,” Henry corrected.

And I can’t even be mad because he learned this shit from me.