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.

I’ve already bombarded Facebook with these photos, so now it’s your turn, Blog.

We stopped at Goodwill beforehand to snag a plain white buttondown and some dress slacks (which turned out to be a womens pair) for Blake. I found some paisley piece of shit thing that we attempted to use as an ascot. Too bad none of us knew how to tie an ascot.

Immediately after walking into Goodwill, Henry was accosted by some older man (older even than Henry, if you can fathom). Apparently, they knew each other. Their discourse was not interesting enough to massage my eavesdropping gene, so I very huffily scoured the racks on my own.

“Who is that man Daddy’s talking to?” I asked Chooch, who was bouncing back and forth between me and the conversating rejects.

“I don’t know, Outrageous, I think.”

Turns out it was Regis, whoever the fuck that is.

I decided we should take some “safe” pictures at the cemetery before introducing the blood and bones into the mix, just so I’d have something to show one of the boss-types at work, who has no idea what actually goes on around here.

We then went to my grandma’s for the action shots, because, well, it’s gloomy as shit back there now. I had major anxiety being there, though, since my Aunt Sharon is crazy-weird about people stopping by. We parked the car in the upper driveway and prayed for the best, trying to stay as far away from the actual house as possible.

“Try not to get any on my undershirt,” Blake said as we stood near a large tree stump, opening packets of Ketchup procured from McDonald’s. “It’s a vintage Penguins shirt.”

I expressed my approval at his hockey-geared fashion sense.

“It’s from 1991,” he stressed.

BITCH THAT’S NOT VINTAGE. Shit, I can’t remember the last time I felt so old. Perhaps when I was called MA’AM at a Chiodos show. That’ll do it.

“It’s vintage to him,” Henry argued. “It’s from the year before he was born.”

DOUBLY OLD FEELING.

Just another normal day at Grandma’s house.

Blake in any type of animal mask scares the shit out of me. I need to buy more animal masks.

Chooch was getting sincerely irritated by this point. He’s good for the first few minutes, but then the novelty of being bossed around and forcibly positioned in ridiculous and absurd stances kind of starts to piss him off a bit. These are probably the moments he wishes he had a normal mom who just take him to the fucking mall and pay $20 for a regular Easter portrait with a blood-free Easter bunny like all the kids in his class get to do.

I was on the phone today, and mistakenly let it slip  to Chooch that it was Sharon on the other end.

Raising his voice approximately eighty-seven octaves and acquiring an obnoxious lilt, he yelled, “TELL HER WHAT WE DID YESTERDAY AT HER HOUSE! TELL HER!” and I’m trying, one-handed, to use on him the things I learned last night at Zombie Defense Class, but his little-big mouth just kept flapping.

Fucking turncoat. Like he didn’t know what he was doing.

It was a nice day yesterday so when Chooch came home from school, I ushered him right back outside so we could take some pictures.

I like to try and post up-to-date photos of him on here whenever I can, on the off-chance that my estranged mother might decide to swing by the blog to get a refresher on what her grandson looks like.

Like that would ever happen.

He woke up two Saturdays ago with the most awesome (Biblical sense) bedhair I’ve ever seen. If Christofer Drew (Never Shout Never) had seen it, he probably would have tried to interrogate Chooch on the exact slumbering position which gained him such a scene rat-nest. It served as an intense impetus to get me to escort him to the nearest salon.

I kind of hate what the lady did to him, but I guess it’s better than it was. His sideburns were practically fluttering wings before BoRics intervened.

These were the only photos I got out of him before he started doing the pee-jig and we had to race to the house, at which point it took me approximately 87 minutes to help him finagle his jeans off because he was wearing a belt, the mechanisms of which I just can’t for the life of me comprehend and Henry was at work. Life is so hard when Henry isn’t around to bail me out.

One thing that drives me nuts about my kid is that he has this wanton need to monopolize everything in the house.

Spongebob is on TV, yet he wants to play games on my phone.

So I turn the channel, which flips his internal asshole switch and makes him scream, “I WAS WATCHING THAT!

“

“You can’t do both!” I’ll yell, snatching my phone from him.

A few minutes ago, he attempted to pickpocket my phone. When I started to protest, he pointed from the hockey game on the TV back to my phone and said, “You can’t do both.

One or the other!”

Well played, kid.

I want to be writing in my blog even though I’m sick. Henry is like, “GO LAY DOWN AND REST!” but I’m too stubborn. Resting is fucking boring, I’m sorry.

I’m so sick that I left work on Friday after an hour, bringing an end to my perfect attendance streak. (Seriously, I’m such a freak that I have not once called off sick since I started working there last April. With the exception of when I took off to go to Warped Tour in July, but I still neurotically gave like, two months notice.) Barb says that my streak was protected by the fact that I came to work in the first place on Friday and didn’t technically call off, but I feel as though I’d be living a lie if I accepted this loophole, and then we’d have to change the name of my blog to Oh 99.9% Honestly, Erin.

And now Chooch, who we thought was on the mend, is sick again, this time with an ear ache. Chooch has never had an ear ache before, not even when he was a baby (miraculously), so he has been sobbing intermittently about it. I’m sure it’s probably very scary, but he’s totally eclipsing my whining and I can’t help but feel that Henry is more concerned with taking care of him than me (even though he’s made four trips to the store in the last 12 hours for me).

We discovered Chooch’s new symptoms yesterday when we stupidly kept our plans in spite of my sickness to meet my sister Amy, her boyfriend Dick and her daughter Brooke at the Pancake Skate n Whirl yesterday afternoon. It’s a rink we’ve never been to, but it’s halfway between us in Pittsburgh and them in Wheeling, so we figured it was worth checking out.

I had grand visions of this rink being adjacent to some outstanding pancake shack, where patrons would be fork-fed fluffy bites of syrup-bloated pancakes by pony-tailed rink girls while some flour-dusted granny cooked up unlimited batches in the kitchen, some with blueberries, some with angel-dusted chocolate chips. (And I do mean the drug, not celestial dandruff.)

Then I learned that the town itself was called Pancake. There were suspiciously zero pancakes to be found.

The snack bar and arcade games were way superior to that of the Neville Roller Drome, so I was feeling optimistic.

But then I saw the rink. The floor was uneven, painted a pale blue, and had a surprise dip in the center that gave me rollercoaster-stomach when I unknowingly skated across it. I think it may have been the first roller rink in all of the world. I’m pretty sure one of the nicks in the floor that I stumbled across was a souvenir from polio leg braces and in one of the darkened corners, I felt the presence of small pox’ed ghosts.

I can feel things like this now since I am a member of a ghost-hunting team. I also suddenly excel at science.

The size of the rink was about half that of the Roller Drome and the wheels on everyone’s skates were so tight that you could basically just walk clunkily around the rink. Chooch didn’t even need his hand held.

Amy’s back wheel completely locked up at one point and some old broad had to come to the rescue with her skate tools. There were even people walking on the rink IN THEIR SHOES. Roller DJ would have been on his big boy mic in a hot second if he had seen that.

On my first lap around, I had the impeccable timing to be right behind Dick as he lost his balance and began windmilling his arms. His left fist hit me square in the face. My surroundings faded away and all I could see was a 4th of July display at Disney World. I was vaguely aware of Dick apologizing profusely and asking me if I was alright. That’s when I realized that my sinuses were clear (temporarily, anyway) so instead of pressing charges, I found myself thanking him. Then I congratulated him for being the first man to ever punch me in the face (surprisingly). Henry was not pleased that those honors went to someone other than him. That’s OK baby, you punch my dead-end future in the crotch on the daily.

I didn’t manage to skate much. I was overheated after the first three laps, had a sick sweat dotting my upper lip that screamed FEVER ALERT, even though the skates prevented me from maneuvering with my patented velocity. We all spent more time sitting on the benches, I think, until after about an hour and a half, Chooch started whining. This isn’t really like Chooch to whine in public. We thought it was because he had been playing air hockey and got his fingers smashed, but then his whining turned into sobbing and after staring at him for a few minutes, like he was a ticking bomb in a plexi-glass box, our parental bulbs lit up and we deduced that, “Hey, maybe Chooch is really sick.”

Chooch tries to tell us he’s dying while Henry unsuccessfully attempts to bring the page-boy back in vogue.

Which, obviously, he is. Because he is a four-year-old, not actually a pet, and is able to communicate his ailments to us. Sometimes it just takes us a good hour to process what he’s telling us before accepting it as truth.

We cut the afternoon short, which sucks because the last time we tried to hang out with them, we were at the Washington County Fair and it began storming. I hope they don’t think we have an aversion to them. Chooch sobbed the whole way home in the car while I openly wept about my sinuses and Henry considered driving the car into a ditch.

Chooch and I spent the rest of the day being miserable while Henry begged us to just take a nap. So I did, and he let me sleep until 9:30 last night, what the fuck, Henry?? So then I was up most of the night, watching Fuse’s Sexiest Video countdown. #1 was a huge disappointment. So was #2. I woke up this morning feeling as though I was smashed in the face with a frying pan, which would explain that “dream” I had of Henry cooking breakfast in the bedroom.

When Chooch woke me up yesterday morning at 4:00am, wanting to talk about his desire to be an octopus standing in a crowd, I wondered if maybe if he was getting sick. When he expressed concern that his entire body felt like it was covered in tattoos, I was like, “OK, he’s sick.

” I mean, saying weird shit isn’t at all unusual for him, but the sad, droopy eyes accompanying his random statements weren’t generally a part of his delivery.

“Do you want some medicine?” I asked him, fumbling for my big green glasses.

“Yeah, if it tastes good,” he said with attitude.

Later in the afternoon, he established an “Are You OK?” protest. I guess constantly asking him if he was OK every time he even half-coughed had gotten under his achy skin.

“What do you think?” he snarled after I felt his forehead for the 87th time (Sidney Crosby, holla). “No, I’m not OK! I’m sick.”

He’s still pretty delirious (and bitchy) today. We were sitting together on the couch when he said, in a very disgusted tone, “I haven’t watched Diary of a Wimpy Kid in years because daddy will never get off his ass and find it.” And then when I continued to just sit there–god forbid–he yelled, “Well?

Go find it!”

Oh, I found it. It’s at that orphanage outside of the city. Here, allow me to DROP YOU OFF THERE.

Fucker.

After watching his stupid movie, down to the very last second of credits,  Chooch turned his drowsy attention to “Suite Life,” which he has seen a million times. He asked in a sick drawl, “What, are they supposed to be twins or something?

“

“Uh, they’re not supposed to be twins. They are twins,” I answered, slightly alarmed that whatever illness he has had begun eating his brain.

“Oh. And do they know this?”

Oh my god, my kid is turning stupid.