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.

Yesterday, Chooch and I were standing near the computer when he happened to glance at it. My blog was up and the current post at the time had a picture of him being chased by his school friend Emyle.

“Wha—-take that down. TAKE THAT OFF YOUR BLOG RIGHT NOW!” he yelled furiously.

That’s the first time that’s happened. (I mean with Chooch. Trust me, plenty of people have furiously demanded that I take things off my blog in the last 10 years.)

Chooch was kind of being a dick today, which is why I felt obliged to post this picture: the aftermath of the chase. Can’t wait till he’s old enough to read all these posts about him.

VI. Balloon Sweatshop

Henry wanted to hire some form of entertainment for the party, forgetting that 5-year-olds are pretty much good with some grass to run on and slides to slide down. Unfortunately, the only party entertainment I could find that catered to poor-folk like us was a clown whose sole review said: CON ARTIST!

Part of me thought it would be pretty awesome to hire her and watch as she picked the pockets of the preschool moms, but my luck she’d pick that day to graduate to armed robbery.

But then Bill mentioned to me that he used to be pretty savvy with balloon twisting. Hired!

I caught him pacing around the pavilion, watching tutorials on his phone. He was really taking his role seriously, which I appreciated because I wasn’t going to let him eat until he entertained some fucking kids.

It’s amazing how excited kids get over balloon swords.

Everything was going great until one little brat decided that swords were yesterday’s news and began requesting other things. Like puppies.

Thank god for Bill’s secret weapon: Jessi. She began twisting the fuck out of green and yellow balloons until they were these perfect, precious daisies. I gave one to Momesis’s daughter and I was sure she was going to faint like Perez Hilton meeting Lady Gaga for the first time. Momesis and I laughed together until I realized that we were having a moment so I walked away.

Stripper’s daughter must have requested a sword in every color, thrice, only to take five steps away from the pavilion and stomp it to death. Pretty sure Bill and Jessi wanted to cut her off.

Or just cut her.

At one point, I caught Bill trying to eat while a line of balloon-addled children formed to his right. What, you want a break? You’re tired and hungry from driving all the way to Pittsburgh that morning from Michigan? Boo-hoo! You’re not here to enjoy yourself! You’re not a guest, you’re the HELP. And if you want to know what that entails, go ask Janna.

Then I felt bad and decided to intervene. I’m not really good with talking to children*. My first inclination was to flick the kids on the forehead and tell them to beat it, but their moms were near by so instead I just said, “Bill’s taking a break. Come back later.”

(*Like when I told Kara’s baby Harland that the grill was there for cooking babies, which caused Henry to give me a disgusted look. What? Harland’s young enough still for me to get away with that. But if he grows up into a serial baby-griller, then it was really Henry who said it.)

I DON’T SEE ANY BALLOONS IN YOUR HANDS!

VII. Douche Cup

Toward the end of the party, I was sitting at a table with my friend Lindsay. “We learned a new word over at the playground,” she said to me in such a way that I:

• knew my kid definitely was going to be a character in this story
• knew that it definitely wasn’t going to be church-appropriate

“Douche cup,” she said, snickering.

When Bill and Jessi were here last year for Chooch’s party, Bill and Chooch were putting together a Spongebob Lego set. But Bill had the audacity to eschew the directions and build his own things. Chooch didn’t like that at all and that is how Bill became known as Douche Cup.

I guess being around Bill again jogged Chooch’s memory, and the day became a douche cup free-for-all. Barb mentioned that he ran past the table she was sitting at and everyone was like, “Did he just say—-yeah, pretty sure he said douche cup.”

Later, Jessi told me that she overheard one of the preschool moms saying, “I think he wants a juice cup?”

Yes, that’s exactly right! My kid REALLY likes his juice cups.

Douche cups.

VIII. The Guests

We had a small Labor Day cookout at my mom’s last year. I only invited three of my friends, and two of them couldn’t make it. So it wound up being Blake, Henry’s mom, my two brothers, and Jessy* and Tommy.

(*Not to be confused with Jessi from Michigan, who is a much better example of a friend.)

Nothing major, just a small cookout, during which I expressed interest in having a Halloween party.

“Um, have you SEEN how your parties turn out?” Jessy sneered, waving an arm around the table of limited guests.

It hurt my feelings real bad. Too bad she’s a dumb bitch and wasn’t invited to this party, which ended up having a total of 62 people show up.

There were old friends, new friends, faraway friends, high school friends, my favorites from the Law Firm, family I haven’t seen in forever (like my cousin Danielle and Aunt Susie, who brought embarrassing pictures from when Christy and I were junior bridesmaids in her wedding), my dad, Henry’s family. And of course all the preschool kids. There were so many kids, surprisingly none of which were crying kids. Not even Jacob, who unfailingly cries before school each morning.

That was my favorite part of the day, knowing all these people cared.

And the moms didn’t even bother me too much!

Kaitlin, Kristen and Danny. This was Kaitlin’s first time meeting Henry and she said watching us together was like reading my blog in real time. This made Henry frown, because he knows it’s true.

IX. Fuck a Pinata

Hey, did you know that you don’t pulverize pinatas with a baseball bat anymore? Apparently, the Mothers Against Dangerous Party Games banded together to eradicate these festive abominations and now pinatas come with a bunch of ribbons dangling from its anus, and each kid gets to pull one.

Chooch went first, and naturally pulled the one string that was rigged to break open the bottom. Total party foul. Except it was stuffed tighter than 4 bodies in Bundy’s trunk so only three pieces of candy flittered to the ground. Then we had to go through the motions of every kid yanking a ribbon, which clearly wasn’t going to do anything, but Henry insisted that every kid have a turn. He really took this seriously. Probably because it was his only responsibility of the day.

I honestly thought Henry was going to backhand J.T. for trying to pull a ribbon before Chooch. J.T.’s mom was right next to me, so that wasn’t awkward at all. It’s probably why she snubbed me on Wednesday when we were picking up our kids at school.

Random gun. I’m sure one of the moms had a problem with that. SO GO WRITE A LETTER.

There’s the Baby Grill in the background. I hope you brought some buns.

X. Cake, Part 2

Stapler makes a cameo.

I feel like I missed the full glory of Chooch’s embarrassment at being serenaded because I was too busy tripping over myself trying to take pictures. This was also right about the time the fucking camera battery died. I hate taking pictures at parties because I just want to enjoy myself but I can’t trust Henry to take pictures (I asked him 87 times to take pictures of the kids at the playground but he refused because it was “creepy.” NOT WHEN IT’S OUR SON’S BIRTHDAY PARTY.)

And then everyone (myself included) stood around after the candle was blown out, anxiously awaiting the cake to be cut. But Henry just up and left, fucking walked away like leaving a cake to fester beneath hungry eyes was no big thing. I literally had to chase him down, chanting, “When are you going to cut the cake, when are you going to cut the cake, when are you going to cut the cake, I’m going to slit your throat tonight, when are you going to cut the cake.”

“You told me to find the other camera battery!” he yelled. “What do you want me to do first?!”

“Um, cut the cake.” Obviously.

So he cut the cake, but then never gave me a piece, which of course is a silent, yet LOUD, way to say, “The last thing you need is a piece of cake, Chubs.”

In addition to the cake, Kaitlin made French macaron lollipops. Suck on that, preschool moms. How many 5-year-old have such culinary riches at their parties? Suri Cruise probably does, but she also probably has mimes handing out Scientology pamphlets.

XI. Presents. Or: The Best Part of the Day, as declared by Chooch.

I had every intention of writing down what everyone got him, but guess what? He started opening the presents right when I FINALLY got a piece of cake. (I made Henry’s mom cut it for me. I don’t do cake-cutting.) So it was either set the cake down for later or stand there worthlessly, shoveling it into my maw while all the moms watched me only half-care about my kid. Every now and then, I’d mutter the obligatory, “Whoa, buddy. Cool gift!” while cake droppings cascaded from my lips.

The cake totally won.

Bria was all up on him, telling him which one to open next. I wanted to be like, “Let the guy breathe, Jesus Christ!” Until I realized it was like watching a mini Henry and Erin.

I liked when he started pulling out zombie and Jason Voorhees memorabilia in front of all the moms who played it safe with age-appropriate toys.

Bonecrusher zombified this Batman doll for him!

After the presents were opened, all the preschool kids left. On their invitations, I put 2-3:30 as the time of the party, when it was actually 2-6. (Sometimes I’m smart like that.) Henry was acting like a jazz choreographer on speed, trying to get everything out of the way in the first 2 hours.

“PINATA! (jazz hands!) CAKE! (boomkack!) PRESENTS! (step ball change!)”

With all that out of the way, I got to relax with my friends for the second half. I love my friends. And there were still plenty of kids there, which meant I didn’t have to entertain my own child.

After the party, Jessi told me that she heard one of the moms say this was going to be the party to beat. Success! Thanks to everyone who helped make it the best party Chooch has ever had!

Right as we were leaving the park, a bird shit straight down Chooch’s back. Happy birthday, Chooch! Better you than mommy!

We took Chooch to the playground on Sunday and after a few minutes we began hearing, “Riley! It’s me! Emyle! From preschool!”

“I think that girl knows Chooch,” Henry deduced, Master Thinker that he is.

So Chooch spent the whole time running from her. One day, he’ll enjoy this activity. (Or maybe not, and that’s OK, too.

) She’d look at me and I would point which way he went, which Henry said was mean but girls have to stick together.

Chooch started playing with her younger sister. (He likes kids that are either younger or older than him, not usually kids his own age. I have no idea why.) This caused Emyle to lean against a pole with her arms crossed and head down.

Spitting image of me.

Before we left the park, she chased him down and made him hug her. It was pretty fantastic for me, as a mom, to watch this monster who ruined me during pregnancy/child birth squirm under the extreme discomfort of the situation. I was completely rooting for Emyle.

We went for a walk yesterday when he came home from school. Three minutes after this picture was taken, Chooch decided he was old enough to cross the street by himself. That ended THAT walk pretty quickly.

In work news, Grandma Cleavage has business cards for her “jewelry line” now. It has her phone number on it, which is all I care about. Manuel will be placing a bulk order for sure.

I was going to write more about the party today, but time is not on my side. I did, however, finally get my camera battery and charger back, so now I at least have the pictures. Which, when you’re as tightly wound as myself, is a small weight lifted.

For as shitty and stressful the preceding days and hours were, the party itself shaped up to be pretty rad. The rain never escalated past a drizzle, and even that only lasted the first twenty minutes. The rest of the day, for the entire four hours, the sun shone. It was a goddamn Christmas in May miracle. Bill and Jessi, who had driven to Pittsburgh that morning from Michigan, said this was because of some crazy Christian grandma they encountered at a rest stop who was urging her grandkids to pray to Jesus that it didn’t rain.

So thank you, religiously-bullied children. And Jesus, too, I guess.

Please note the one (1) Star Wars tablecloth. This was supposed to be the kids table, but no kids sat down. Ever. They’re probably still not sitting, wherever they are.

I. The Parents

The aspect of the party I was most freaked out about was dealing with the preschool parents. Of course Henry wasn’t there when the kids began arriving, because he had to go pick up Blake, leaving me to greet the parents on my own. Jacob was the first to arrive with his aunt, who seemed young-ish and not too much of a threat, so I broke the ice by regaling her with the trials and tribulations of the Jaguar.

Actually, I think that was my opener for at least 80% of the conversations I had that day. Clearly, the twenty-minute pavilion drama was intense enough to make a strong impact on me. If I ever go on a game show, that’s how I’ll be annoucned.

And here’s Erin from Pittsburgh! She loves uncooked tortellini and once nearly lost a rented park pavilion to a man driving a Jag.

Guess who came next? Momesis and her daughter! The husband was also in tow and I tried desperately to peg his profession. It’s something douchey, I know it. Luckily, I only had to talk to them for < 30 seconds before Momesis suggested checking out the playground. Jacob’s aunt went with them, leaving the pavilion parent-free. I exhaled real dramatically and yelled to Janna, Bill and Jessi, “THAT WASN’T SO BAD RIGHT? I DIDN’T DO SO BAD?”

It’s hard to believe I was once a socially capable, popular girl who loved to invite perfect strangers to parties.

Because I make Henry go to all the preschool birthday parties in my place, I don’t know many of the parents. Some of them I see briefly in the mornings when I drop Chooch off and pick him back up,  but some of the kids are there for a full day so I never see their parents. Like Caitlin’s mom, who asked if Robbie and I were Chooch’s parents. I guess I should be flattered that I look young enough to be linked to 20-year-old Robbie, but it was still pretty awkward.

Not awkward at all was when Blake arrived and Chooch, spotting him from the playground, shrieked, “Hey, it’s my brother! My brother’s here! Come meet my brother!” and all the parents turned around in time to see this kid traipsing down the hill toward the pavilion, decorated with tattoos, piercings and gauges in his ears large enough to transport the thickest, meatiest German schwarzwurst your obsolete Deutsche Mark can buy.

I relished that moment. You’re in my world now, bitches.

I think the only thing I really said to any of the parents was, “Have some food! Here is the food table! Hey, did you have any food? Did you know we almost didn’t HAVE any food here at ALL? PLEASE EAT SOME FUCKING FOOD BEFORE I MAKE YOU CHOKE IT DOWN.” (And seriously, thanks to Janna, Kara, Gina, Kristen, Kaitlin and Jessi for helping me out on that front. I mean, not choking food down the throats of anal-retentive preschool moms like it’s some epicurious suburban housewife porn, but for making food and placing it atop the food table.)

But hey, props to Momesis for setting the precedent: all the moms arrived with their kids, put the gift down at the gift table, and then accompanied their child to the playground.

Except for:

II. The Stripper

Mom to Chooch’s girlfriend Bria, she arrived with her long copper-tinged platinum hair in loose curls; hot pink, skin-tight tank top; borderline inappropriately short jean shorts.

And Sketcher mules.

Bria ran off to join the other kids, but Stripper (whose name I didn’t catch but I’m sure it was Kandeeeee) hung back in the pavilion with the rest of us.

“Sorry, I’m not a morning person,” she said in a definite smoker’s voice. “I work nights.” Her hands were in her back pockets and her pelvis was jutted out just enough to be suggestive. I think it was aimed at Janna.

Last week, I ran into her when dropping Chooch off for school and she was wearing Applebottoms. She probably listens to Flo-Rida and Nelly on repeat while twirling down the stripper pole her husband installed in the kitchen.

Henry, stripper authority extraordinaire, argued that she was probably just a bartender (in a strip club) and now I’m certain he’s had her dance on his jock while he shoved fistfuls of Faygo coupons between her tits. But when my friend Bonecrusher arrived, I didn’t even have to point her out before she said, “Oh, totally a stripper.” I trust the judgment of anyone wearing a naked Burt Reynolds belt buckle over Henry any day.

III. Camera Died

The camera peaced out sometime between the failed pinata experiment and singing Happy Birthday. I whined about it, made Gina check to see if she had her camera in the car, and then kicked Henry’s shins approximately 5.3 times before settling on using my iPhone, which is really all I use anymore anyway so I don’t know why I was crying about it. To bring the attention back on me, me, me I guess. OH POOR, ERIN. ALL THE BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO ERIN.

We realized the next day, after tearing apart the house, that the charger and spare battery is sitting in my estranged mom’s garage from when my brother and I failed at an Easter photoshoot. So since our card reader is also broken, I haven’t been able to get the few pictures I did take off the camera yet. And the Internet cheers. I GUESS THERE WILL JUST HAVE TO BE AN EXTRA POST FOR THE PICTURES.

The Internet groans!

IV. Star Wars Theme-fail

The only signifiers of this being a Star Wars party was the one (1) Star Wars tablecloth, plates and napkins that required the purchase of 3D glasses to properly enjoy, and a Darth Vader pinata (more on that later). My relationship with Star Wars is pretty casual at best, so aside from grilling burgers and calling it Ewok meat, I didn’t really have many ideas. I haven’t watched any of the movies since high school, which was how I would spend most Christmases after running home from my grandparent’s house in tears because I wasn’t getting enough attention/my dad was being mean to me/my brother Ryan got bigger gifts than me: sitting alone on the couch with a luke warm TV dinner, watching Star Wars. Comforting, yet pathetic.

Henry’s niece was supposed to come up with some Star Wars-themed games, but apparently that didn’t happen because I don’t remember seeing any games being played that didn’t involve 5-year-olds chasing each other with stray 2×4’s decorated with nails and crime scene tape. (This really happened.) So thank god for dangerous police evidence and the playground, am I right?

IV. Cake

Wait, we also had a cake with a Darth Vader candle. The cake itself was just an outer space theme because I was thoroughly underwhelmed at the picture of the Star Wars cake on the bakery’s website (only bakery I will buy a birthday cake from, I should add). Henry suggested just ordering a sheetcake and then cutting it into the shape of Darth Vader’s mask and then re-frosting it. Yes, because let’s spend $70 dollars on a delicious cake only to shit it up with store-bought frosting. Good thinking, Betty Crocker.

This cake was my idea. It turned out fine without Henry’s input. 

And it had almond batter with raspberry cream filling. Better than a wedding cake.

Or at least comparable.

I take cake-ordering extremely seriously.

My friend Ron asked me if Henry and I made the cake and I impregnated the atmosphere with my laughter. If Henry and I made the cake, it would be lopsided, splattered with blood, and one of us would be buried beneath the floorboards. (99.9% sure it wouldn’t be me.)

Oh, and it would taste like saw dust baked with dried-out vomit and mutual hatred.

V. Work Friends!

This is still something that’s kind of new to me: I invite people from work to my parties, and they come. This makes me think that in the past, it was less of me being uncool and more of my ex co-workers being squares.

“You invited Barb?” Chooch said to me in a tone drenched in annoyance. She said it was the most welcomed she has ever felt at a party! And Bill and Jessi brought her up later when we were hanging out after the party. I think the word they used to describe her was “nice,” perhaps even “friendly.” Yeah. They should see the signs she makes and the emails she sends out to the entire department at work, in her patented fits of rage. My favorite was the one addressed to the person who not only dropped a pretzel on the floor in the kitchen, but then stepped on it and left it there. It made me feel scared, but also glad I wasn’t the pretzel-stepper.

That night, I said to Henry, “I really need to stop referring to these people as my work friends, when they’re clearly just my friends.”

I’m going to end this party installment on that note, since it’s all gross and sappy and completely unlike me. Plus, I’m tired of typing and I need my other pictures.  There’s still balloons, presents and douche cups to look forward to. Try to sleep tonight knowing that.

Chooch has decided that the theme of his upcoming birthday party is Star Wars, which I suppose is an improvement from “carrots,” because I was having a hard time finding carrot-y decorations.  I have less than two weeks to think of non-gory, G-rated ways to entertain a bunch of fucking preschoolers. However, this is not my area of expertise*; my knowledge of Star Wars is very base at best, so suggestions are welcome.

(*Really, if it’s not inside the covers of Alternative Press, a sport played on ice with a puck, anything horror-related, or a show called Degrassi, I’m definitely not your girl. Go ask Google. I know very little about the world around me.

)

Things would be so much easier if he had just let me plan Zombie Party 2.0 like I wanted, but this is one of the few times I was able to step away from my inflated ego and admit that it’s not always about me, motherfuckers.

(Though it should be.)

Get fucked.

All the pre-school kids get to bring in treats on their birthday. Since there was no school on Monday, Chooch is bringing shit in tomorrow. I thought perhaps Henry could bake some cupcakes; Chooch suggested cookies.

But Henry went off on his own and decided to make chocolate lollipops. He bought three different sets of molds: pirates, dinosaurs and monkeys. Also procured were bags of white chocolate molding things, food coloring and paint brushes to help aid in a potential murder-suicide situation.

Because solid chocolate is too easy.

Before sitting down to “help,” I considered relisting* myself as “in a relationship with Henry Robbins” on Facebook so that I could re-breakup with him after fifteen minutes, because the two of us working side-by-side on anything involving food and arts and crafts is surely going to end with our home criss-crossed in yellow crime scene tape.

(*Technically, according to Facebook, I’m still single after Henry failed to take me roller skating Saturday night.)

Henry wasn’t even done setting up yet when Chooch spilled a jar of orange food coloring on himself THREE TIMES. This was partly because I was too busy perfecting my Negligent Teen Mom act and partly because no one ever listens when Henry says not to touch something, which would explain why I’ve found myself in so many philandering situations over the years.

So now my child looks like he was sired by Pauly D after a reckless night of beatin’ the beat in Snooki’s kuka with his spray-tanned guido venereal-rod. Have fun selling booty shorts on the boardwalk this summer, son.

Meanwhile, I managed to paint the miniscule crannies of a pirate skull, a pirate ship and two dinosaurs before completely flipping my shit.

“IT WON’T STAY MELTED!” I kept screaming at Henry, who would calmly tell me to “work faster.”

%&*%*^$*^%

Listen here, Wonka. Unless you want to see how fast I work when equipped with a sausage grinder and your dick in my hands, best BACK UP OFF ME.

Fifteen minutes — pretty lofty expectations on my behalf. I only made it ten before rage and a quickly diminishing temper had me demonstrating full-body palsy shakes before launching my paint brush into a death-spiral to Hell and stomping off to pout on the couch.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Henry murmured, hard at work filling his molds with plain milk chocolate and not even bothering to PAINT THE FUCKERS LIKE HE WAS MAKING ME DO, while I yelled a bunch of vulgarity-drenched death threats to the entire institution of chocolate candy and made promises to insert leftover lollipop sticks into Henry’s asshole while he sleeps tonight.

He’s currently in the kitchen, making exaggerated motions of extreme harriedness while I sit here listening to Emarosa, loudly and with my feet up, because I have no obligations to fulfill. Life is good.

Enjoy yourself, bro. This was all your idea, remember? If it were my choice, I would gladly just jam a stick of Juicy Fruit in each of those little fucker’s mouths and be done with it.

God, I hate doing things.

Nothing says Happy Birthday like half-assed chocolate shit on sticks born from rage, dysfunction and pure, unadulterated hate for life. Eat ’em up, kids.

Yay! We’ve managed to make it an entire half decade without killing our son/having him taken away from us! And contrary to popular concern, he actually does know that his real name is Riley and not Chooch. You can put down the fiery spires now.

Thrilled

This morning, after he had been up for about an hour, he looked at me and very seriously asked, “Wait—-so am I five now?”

When I confirmed, he quietly whispered, “Yessssss.”

I told him this means he can finally live alone in that abandoned shed we saw a few streets over.

I think he knew I was joking.

Or was I?

Happy birthday, Chooch! You are one goddamn celebrated kid.