I made Chooch a sandwich after school (shredded cheese on white, melted in the microwave; a.k.a. Grilled Cheese a la Mommy) and then we sat down and watched CNN together. He was full of questions about today’s tragedy in Japan and while I struggled to answer some of them, it occurred to me that this was the first time he seemed genuinely aware that something very wrong was happening in the world. I made sure to point out to him how lucky he was to be sitting there, eating some piss-poor excuse of a sandwich, while so many people were having their world turned upside down and dropped in a barrel of rotten pandemonium.

“They shoulda just run,” he said, shoulders all scrunched up after he learned that there was a death toll. “Why didn’t they just run?”

I was left with the unenviable task of explaining that some natural disasters just can’t be outrun.

We must have watched the news coverage for at least an hour, and then after learning that Andrea and Paul were safe in California, Chooch said, “Thank god,” in a decidedly un-four-year-old tone.

Then he started asking me unlimited questions about CNN, ending with him taking a virtual tour on their website.

***

Henry had been home from a work for a few minutes when the day’s events came up.

“Yeah, did you know what happened?” Chooch asked Henry, eager to fill him in.

“I heard,” Henry said. “Earthquake.”

“No, about Japan!” Chooch argued.

“Yeah, I know. There was an earthquake.”

“NO. IT WAS A WAVE!” Chooch cried in frustration. He was really focused on the tsunami part of the package and desperately needed to inform his father.

“I heard about that too,” Henry promised. This was the WRONG answer. Chooch is apparently just as competitive with news-spreading as he is with Wii and winning impromptu races up the driveway, because he lost his shit.

“GODDAMN YOU!” he yelled, and then more calmly, he added, “I wanted to tell you.” But there were demon-eyes and crossed-arms that went along with it, so it was still pretty frightening.

Yikes.

I was trying to put Chooch’s coat on him this morning before school, when he quite earnestly asked, “What makes me have dreams?”

Great. Anything more than, “What is your name?” and  “Name the cast of the Jersey Shore” is too hard of a question to dump on me pre-8:00am. “I don’t know. Your brain, I guess,” I mumbled, struggling with the zipper.

Chooch made a very agitated noise, and then spat, “Well, I hate my brain.” He paused, (waiting for me to ask why, I’m sure, which never happened because I was too busy being gagged by a yawn) before explaining, “Because it made me dream about Dora.”

Poor child. I would hate that brain, too.

***

Today’s Show n Tell is for the letter S. I gave him my Sid & Marty Kroft Sigmund the Sea Monster plushie to take. I originally was going to let him take his play sword, but Henry was like, “Um, no. They’re not allowed to take swords.”

“What? Why? Where does it say that?” I asked, wondering if there was some bulletin I missed (which would pretty much be all of the bulletins).

“Um, they’re not allowed to take anything that resembles a weapon. It pretty much says that everywhere, in every school.” He said this using his “I’m talking to my 8-year-old daughter” voice, then he gave me that patronizing once-over with his eyes while shaking his head sadly.

Well, sorry that I clearly did not know that. When I was in kindergarten, I wore a charm belt to school and one of the charms was A REVOLVER. Twenty-five years later, and I haven’t shot anyone. Yet.

I found a stash of self-portraits on my phone that Chooch had snapped, featuring nothing more than his bare legs, a collection large enough to fill an entire coffee table book for lovers of nude limbs.

Too good to pass up.

I was going to write something along the lines of “content” today but then I spent all morning making a mix CD instead, which wins every time.

Oh well.

While reading this, I hope you could hear my total monotone in your head.

I have a bit of the malaise glaze.

ETA: This just happened:

I asked Chooch (whose legs are still unclothed) if he wants me to put anything in particular on the mix CD I’m making for Kaitlin, and he said, “Yes. A heart.” Which would have made for a really sweet story to tell everyone if only he hadn’t tacked on, “Or daddy’s furry weener.” (He is determined to alert the masses of the existence of his dad’s furry weener, by the way. Henry is thrilled by this.)

What better photoshoot conditions than a cold and rainy day. Henry wasn’t thrilled about it, but too fucking bad. I need him around to hold my lenses.

“That was kind of scary,” Chooch informed me just now as he walked past, looking for a cat to torture.

This was Chooch’s idea. I went along with it because I liked the angel/demon juxtaposition.

How apropos.

I asked, in a kind of huffy tone, “Why do you always have to pose like a goddamn zombie?

”

“Because we’re in the cemetery?” Chooch answered, hands raised. Then he shook his head and gave me the “You’re so stupid, Mommy” laugh.

I was going to take some pictures of Chooch outside yesterday, but the sun was one deceiving motherfucker. It was so windy and cold, so we took the ‘shoot to the bathroom, which I’m sure chagrined some people who absolutely HATE it when people take photos in their bathroom. (Seriously, this was a discussion on Facebook the other day.

I mean, excuse me if that’s the best-lit room in my house. Sorry that my STUDIO hasn’t yet been erected. Jesus Christ. And yes, we DO put on our makeup and fix our hair just to take pictures for Facebook, because photography = art.

Owellz0rz.)

Total Creeper.

Me and my passive aggressive attitude are going roller skating now.

Peace out, girl scout.

I try not to get too hung up on that whole Valentine’s Day bullshit, but when Chooch came home from school on Monday with a Valentine for his DAD, I kind of lost my shit a little.

Chooch gave a blase shrug and a mumbled, “I don’t know” when I asked him why he made one for his dad and not me.

“IT’S BECAUSE YOU LIKE DADDY BETTER! YOU HATE ME!” I wailed, because this is how really extraordinary,  properly emotional and not-at-all competitive moms choose their words.

Quickly realizing his entire childhood was on the verge of going up in flames, he very desperately pleaded, “No! I LOVE YOU!” and then threw his arms around me in a hug fraught with fear and regret.

I made sure I reminded him every chance I got how this MISTAKE of a Valentine had decimated my already fragile feelings.

“You’re overreacting,” Henry laughed after receiving my hysteric phone call in which I tossed out promises to hedgeclip his ballsack when he came home from work. “He was probably sitting with the girls and they probably wanted to make one for their dads, so he just followed along.”

WHATEVER.

That child must have reminded me 100x yesterday that he loves me.  And when I came home from work last night, he was so excited to give me my Valentine’s Day present, which he had picked out all on his own. I guess he felt this was his penance, I don’t know.

An iCarly messenger bag! I was elated. I can’t wait to use it at Warped Tour this summer. He did such a good job that I decided to let him off the hook. But I was still hating on Henry, because everything is his fault.

EVERYONE LIKES HENRY BETTER. God, I can’t stand it. I am super competitive when it comes to Henry, and I will elaborate on soon, in another post.

Chooch drew a heart on the envelope to my card and I was really kind of smitten with the fact that he emulates his heart after my own.

(Except I usually have a little tail on mine, but that’s probably too sophisticated for him to handle.)

This new strange, loving behavior carried over to today when he gave me a spontaneous kiss in the middle of purposely letting me die in a very irritating game of Super Mario Bros. on Wii. I probably scared the shit out of that kid. He’s never going to want to do anything nice for Henry ever again, for fear of me shipping him off to an orphanage. On Father’s Day, he’s going to frisbee Henry a card and scream, “HERE’S YOUR CARD BUT I STILL LOVE MOMMY BETTER!” while flinching in fear of my reaction.

Fuck, I’m such a fantastic mom.

My Pappap was friends with the guy who owns Blue Flame, so we spent a lot of time there when I was growing up. It’s the sort of establishment where the food is consistent and if you go there enough times, you will eventually hear a Chuck Mangione tune. There used to be this  section of two large round goldenrod booths that were sort of separated from the rest of the restaurant by low wooden walls; that’s where we would sit if my Pappap’s friends were there, and I always felt like I was sitting with the Mob, like I was a real 4-year-old big shot.

All the waitresses knew my Pappap, so he would be real obnoxious with them, thwapping a fork off the side of his water glass to get their attention. They’d roll their eyes and exasperatedly ask, “What do you want, John?” but they’d always lose their faux-attitude long enough to dote on me, the shy little blond who was always there with her Pappap and treasured stuffed dog, Purple.

I never even had to say what I was ordering. They just knew: grilled cheese. Every goddamn time.

And even when dining in a family restaurant, my Pappap would always order his glass of Lambrusco. We would go there often after church on Saturday nights, usually accompanied by my best friend Christy. She and I would always order the same thing, prompting the waitresses to call us the Bobsy Twins and causing my Pappap to rub his eyes tiredly and say, “Why don’t you girls try ordering something different. There’s an entire menu.” Then, Christy would almost always fail to finish her food, resulting in a good-natured chiding from my Pappap. God, I miss those days. (And not just because it was my pre-vegetarian times and that meal Christy and I always ordered in unison was a cheeseburger and fries. It was only a phase though, and I would soon go back to my true love – grilled cheese.)

Eschewing the five-star restaurants we could have easily chosen, Blue Flame is where everyone went after my Pappap’s funeral in ’96. We had the entire back room reserved and the waitresses (Monica was always my favorite) were absolutely beside themselves. A bunch of my friends were there with me and I remember feeling OK. It felt like the right place to be, full of comfort and familiarity; after the nightmarish days following my Pappap’s death, it was the one thing that had a calming effect on me.

I continued to go there in high school with my friends, but never with my family. It had always been this giant brick receptacle of good memories for me, all involving my Pappap, that I couldn’t bear to stop going there. I just couldn’t let go of it.

I think the last time I was ever in that big back room was the summer after my Pappap’s death, when Lisa and I paraded through with about fifteen of our friends and, much to the chagrin of every waitress on staff that night, pushed about five tables together and held (a very obnoxious) court right there in that same room where everyone had gathered post-grieving a few months prior. I was a little on edge, because the Blue Flame people knew me, and I didn’t want them to think I was an asshole, that my friends were assholes. Even though we were, of course. Since this was the height of my obsessive camcorder-carrying days, I have video of Lisa standing by the door as our friends filed into the room, repeating, “Erin said to be good. Erin said to be good.”

No one was good. We were complete fuckers and I have no idea how we weren’t kicked out that night.

Blue Flame has kind of gone downhill over the years. Not so much the food, but more of its popularity. The sons took over and there are times when I drive past and it looks like it’s closed for good; my stomach falls every time. Henry and I take Chooch there several times a year and, in a land of chain restaurants and fast food joints, never fail to be close to the only patrons who chose this hashery on Rt. 51 as the place to be fed. It makes me sad because I can vividly remember it being loud and bustling, so busy that all of the sections are open. Now, the back room almost always has the doors shut, with a sign propped in front that says “Section Closed” and the private little boothed-area has long since been gutted in favor of a salad bar. One of the worst things that place has ever done, if you ask me.

I miss that little section with every last 1980’s-surviving piece of my heart.

***

Earlier in the week, we became aware that Chooch has two loose teeth. His dentist told us this over the summer, that they were slightly loose, but it didn’t seem noticeable to him so we sort of forgot about it. But last week, Henry and I both noticed that the two in the front had become VERY loose. Like, hopefully-he-doesn’t-swallow-them-in-his-sleep loose. He’s been messing with them all week, aggravating them with his finger, prodding them with his tongue.

We ate at Blue Flame for lunch on Saturday, after our first two choices were too crowded. We were in the area, and I shouted, “Oh, duh! Blue Flame!” We pulled into the lot and I was surprised to see it almost filled to the brim. Turns out it was just because there was a baby shower in the back room. (That’s almost where I had my baby shower, by the way, until someone snagged me a private room in a fire hall, where I could be more free to carry out my weird Halloween-themed activities. In March.)

Sometimes I still the old waitresses, like Monica and Mae, but typically they’re only there during the weekdays. Weekends are made up primarily of young high school waitresses, which is kind of a bummer. But on Saturday, we had this cute and extremely attentive quasi-scene girl waitress who didn’t fuck anything up and was always there when we needed her. She even made really non-irritating small talk and caused Chooch to blush and bury his face in my side.

And then, while eating his cheeseburger and fries, Chooch pulled out one of his teeth. Just gave it a good hard yank, and there it was, in between his two fingers, held up high for us to see.

I gagged a bit and Henry gave me that stern “DON’T SCARE HIM!!!” look that he’s had no choice but to master over the years. But Chooch wasn’t freaked out. In fact, he was pretty stoked and asked, “Am I a grown-up now?” Then the waitress came over, noticed the commotion, and exclaimed, “Did you lose a tooth?!” Chooch looked so proud. And also extremely embarrassed, as he always does when pretty older girls pay attention to him.

Seriously, what a perfect place for him to lose his first tooth – in a restaurant that already is bursting with memories and affable childhood ghosts. I kept tearing up all day when I would think about the poetic happenstance of it all. (Sort of crying a little right now, too.)

Luckily, I almost have at least one empty plastic gumball toy container in my purse, which ended up being the perfect tooth vessel. (Especially later that night when his second tooth fell out in the car. He officially has a Cindy Brady-lisp now.)

We were walking to the car after I paid the bill when Henry said, “You left her a big tip, didn’t you?” When I just silently shrugged, he said, “You did,” and then laughed. What? She was an awesome, young waitress who was there to see my kid lose his first tooth. It’s what my Pappap would have done.

Chooch finally exchanged his Christmas gift duplicates. Henry and I kept trying to give him helpful suggestions, but always he’d gravitate right back to the goddamn Mighty Beanz aisle. He has wanted Mighty Beanz for months, but I’m usually able to distract him with something shinier and more useful, but not on this day. It was Mighty Beanz or nothing.

“Just let him get them,” I sighed to Henry. “I don’t even care anymore. It’s whatever.”

What are Mighty Beanz, you ask? Fuck if I know. But I can tell you that I’m very stressed out trying to make sure they don’t become estranged from each other. “PUT THEM SOMEWHERE SO THEY DON’T GET LOST!” I keep shouting to Chooch as my brow becomes dotted with beads of OCD.

In other news, Chooch piped up from the backseat the other day with a firm and decisive, “This is my JAM!” I can’t even remember what song it was now, but he is totally my kid.

“What about ghosts?” Chooch asked after Henry urged him to stop putting his weener on things.

“If you can find one, fine,” Henry said tiredly, followed by a sigh and exhausted eye rub. Henry knows when to avoid an argument; living with me for all these years has made him a seasoned pro at it. He knows that had he said “Not even on a ghost!

” Chooch would have just continued on down the line.

“A hot air balloon?”

“No.”

“Jason Voorhees?”

“Not if you want to keep it.”

“Sarah Palin’s eyeballs?”

“Ew no!”

It’s a futile war we’re fighting. Chooch is a boy, for Christ’s sake.

Ain’t no way, no how, he’s going to stop using everything at his fingertips as a weener rest. I know I wouldn’t. I’d have mine cloaked in a fur pelt and stuffed inside the hose of a vaccuum cleaner RIGHT NOW.

Jessy just put this picture on Facebook and I couldn’t stop laughing. It was one of the myriad of times one of us four adults had managed to piss Chooch right the fuck off.

Actually, I think Jessy is the only
one who stayed on his good side. She needs to share her secret. Apparently, I did something really terrible. I probably ate a chip that Chooch was looking at for himself, took one too many breaths
in a minute, adjusted my bra strap. Who the hell knows what sets that kid off anymore. But I am waiting for the day he starts incinerating shit with his mind.

I also love how all the boys are wearing navy blue, like they planned it, and how Henry is standing back there laughing and silently willing Chooch to plant a hatchet between my eyes.

It’s scary being yelled at by Chooch.

I try and act like it’s no biggie, like my heart is swoll with courage, but really I’m just trying not to poop my pants.

“It’s nice to know you made a sandwich for you and Chooch, but not me,” Henry said, peeking inside the Iron Man snack pack Chooch uses for school.  Hey, I never promised him a ribbon-topped box of consideration for Christmas. Chooch and I waited impatiently for him to make a sandwich and then we finally set off for our (my) favorite cemetery on the Northside of Pittsburgh.

Henry was worried that our car would get stuck on the unplowed cemetery lanes, which is his way of saying, “I think this is the dumbest tradition ever and sandwiches don’t taste good when eaten while my dick is getting frost-bitten.” I knew that the dead people wouldn’t let ourcar get stuck.

NOT ON CHRISTMAS! Who the fuck else is going to visit these old, forgotten bones?

Chooch loves going to the cemetery on Christmas.

I  mean, I used to always just  assume he did when he was too young to really have a say, but now this brat is so strong-willed that I know he would be all, “Oh hell no!” if he really didn’t want to do something. Because that’s what he says.

“I don’t look pissed off enough,” Chooch said. “Take another.”

A much better depiction of my child

For the forty-five minutes we spent amongst the dead, I was completely at peace and stress-free. But there were family-obligations looming ahead, so I should have known that wouldn’t last long.

I woke up Christmas morning to some Prince video marathon on VH1 Soul. It was Purple Rain-era, so I left it on, because nothing says Christmas morning quite like velvet blazers, jheri curls and lewd guitar stances. Finally, I couldn’t take the anticipation any longer and decided to coax Chooch out of slumber.

“Santa was here!” I yelled, pushing him back and forth on the bed with one impatient arm.

He mumbled some string of slurred profanities at me, shrugged me off and rolled away from me, falling back asleep.

What non-orphaned child doesn’t want to wake up on Christmas morning!? I went back downstairs and watched more Prince videos.  We had moved from “When Doves Cry” to CREAM-era by the time Chooch and Henry finally decided to join me. I was a little annoyed, but determined not to let it ruin the day.

He tore open gift after gift like a forgotten Looney Tunes character, arms blurred and paper shooting out behind him in a discarded pile. He needed no reminding of Christmas morning protocol.

I thought it was really sweet that my far-away friends thought of Chooch and sent him gifts. He got a Thing doll and some Ben 10 comic books from Bill and Jessi, causing him to rejoice in that high-pitched way children are wont to do.

I kept waiting for Henry to emerge from the kitchen with a silver tray stacked with hot cinnamon buns and some mimosas. But I guess he would have had to lift his old man bones up off the couch in order for anything short of cereal-pouring to happen.

Andrea got him a Jason wall grabber, which I can’t wait to use to cover the Sharpie art on his bedroom wall.

And then my Floridian friend Octavia saw this pull-apart zombie doll and thought of Chooch immediately. It arrived a week before Christmas, so we all had to sit around and stare at this odd-shaped package; she wouldn’t even tell me what it was. Torture!

Chooch accidentally opened Marcy’s gift, so I tried to dupe her by sliding Speck’s under her nose. She looked at me like, “You think I was born yesterday? Nice try,” so I had to unwrap it for her. And remember how Henry only bought two packs of cat treats because “Only two of the four cats eat the fucking things!”?

Yeah, good job, Henry. Because we all know how awesome cats are at sharing.

I’m so glad I bought the little fucker a Wii, when a fucking $10 Zombieland DVD elicited the biggest response from him. Seriously, it was like giving a blind bastard back his eyesight, he was so amped.

I had to beg him to put pj bottoms on so he wouldn’t be half-nude in all  the pictures. It nearly started a war, until I desperately yelled, “IT’S SANTA’S RULE, NOT MINE!”

The entire Series #5 of Homies! Next year’s gingercrack house will be even more balls out. We’ll probably have enough left over to make a manger scene, too!

Zombie loot.

Henry knowing his role on Christmas morning. Prince videos in the background.

The most adorable renditions of horror movie stars.

Halloween wristlet from Bill & Jessi; more awesome makeup from Andrea!

After all of our (Henry’s) hardwork was ripped to shreds and left in a wilting, used heap on the floor, Chooch was busying himself with his new Imaginext playsets, the Prince marathon had graduated to The Artist Formerly Known As Prince-era, and Henry and I were relaxing on the couch.

“Isn’t this the cutest thing ever?” I said, holding up Chooch’s new “10 Little Zombies” book.

“No, you are,” Henry said, and it seemed sincere! It totally made up for his failure to buy me a Christmas present.

Almost.

Tonight is Game Night which means Henry is grumpily cleaning the house and threatening to kill me and Chooch. Scary times. In order to build the dam against impending bloodshed, Chooch and I went to the craft store so I could get more wood blocks for my bathroom plaques and candles to mask the perpetual cat stench in our house. What really happened was that I offered to go to the grocery store to pick up stuff Henry needs for his spinach dip; when I suggested this, Henry’s face went slack and practically served as a projector screen of the montage of me fucking up that was spooling through his memory. So we mutually decided on me sticking to a store I couldn’t get lost in or accidentally purchase sardine juice.

In the car, I was playing the new Circa Survive Appendages EP.

“Who is this?” Chooch asked from the backseat, carefully forming the words around the protruding candy cane which he acquired from the cashier at the liquor store after successfully managing to not touch any daunting pyramid displays of wine bottles.

(Mostly this was due to the fact that every one of his fingers was stuffed into finger puppets, preoccupying him while I calculated the ratio of how much I like my friends : how much money I wanted to spend on wine.)

“Circa Survive,” I answered. But god forbid I should stop there! “The singer is Anthony Green. You know who he is. He’s in that picture with Craig [Owens] that I have hanging on the wall behind the chair.”

“Oh,” Chooch mumbled. “Yeah, I know Anthony.”

“Daddy hates Circa Survive,” I instigated, hoping this could be something that Chooch and I could join forces on in order to make Henry’s life even more miserable.

“Yeah well, I’m going to take Daddy to see Circa Survive and then tell Anthony to punch him in the face,” he spat aggressively.

I don’t know where Chooch gets his aggression,  but I honestly thought he was going to cut me the other day when his person lost on Hell’s Kitchen and my person won.

Excited that Chooch was expressing interest in this, I blurted out, “Do you want to watch Circa Survive videos when we get home?”

“No,” he said haughtily, as if he couldn’t believe my audacity to suggest something so lame to him.

I’m placing an ad on Craigslist today for a friend who will sit around and watch music videos with me.

The other day, Chooch’s class got to do the Santa Shop thing. I took him to school with a check in the envelope the school sent home with him, which had room to list who we wanted the kid to shop for, and how much to spend on each person.

Henry figured $3 was enough for everyone, but I wanted very badly to scrawl “Sky’s the limit” next to “Mom” and “.05” next to “Dad.” We also included Blake, Henry’s sister and mom, and Tommy and Jessy got to go under the “special friends” category. Special friends? Isn’t that what the dirty drunk down the street says to all the little girls to get them to lift their dresses?

I have no idea what was going through Chooch’s mind when it was his turn to peruse the tables of merch. He brought back a bag of crap, obviously – I wouldn’t expect anything more from Santa Shop – but the problem was that I wasn’t sure how the crap was supposed to be distributed. Whatever he got for me (and it was the most expensive thing he bough according to the tally on the returned envelope!), he immediately snatched and disappeared into his room with it.

Then there was a hot pink rubber popper, the likes of which I haven’t seen since 1989-era gumball machines.

“That’s for Tommy!” he yelled. Of course it is! He’s a hunter, I’m sure he can find a use for it. (And once he does, I’m calling PETA.)

A tiny alien attached to a parachute, just what Blake always wanted.

Some small stuffed toy, which was originally for Aunt Kelly, but then it was for Grandma Judy. In the end, Chooch seemed to have claimed it for himself. So I don’t know.

Jessy got probably the nicest thing out of the lot – a set of very kawaii erasers, which I’m sure is something she waits for every night on QVC. “Oh please let Smiling Ice Cream Cone Eraser hour be on tonight!” I imagine she says every night when she dons her Hello Kitty robe and curls up with her manga collection.

And of course – cat toys. He went .50 cents over budget for motherfucking cat toys! Ew, I was so pissed.

“It’s not about the gifts or the money,” Henry reasoned with me over the phone. “It’s about the learning experience and independence of shopping alone.” Oh well look at Mr. Parenting Handbook. Easy for him to say when he’s not the one who wrote the fucking check to fund this educational experience!

The cats fucking loved their little plush mice, though.

Thirty seconds later, Chooch ripped the tail off one (a toy, not a cat) and then also broke his stuffed toy. (It’s some garishly colored insect – a dragonfly maybe?)

When I was a kid, I bought much better gifts. What? I did! And I’m sure none of it ever turned anyone’s skin green.

“Hey,” I said, holding up the bag. “You didn’t get anything for daddy?”

“Yeah I did,” Chooch replied snottily, sitting on the couch eating a candy cane.

“Well what is it?” I asked, looking in the bag again to see if I missed something. Like an invisible fence for daddies.

“This candy cane!” Chooch said irritably, plucking it from his mouth to show me.

***

When Henry came home from work that day, Chooch wanted to show him what he got me so he brought it back downstairs all secretly. Then, standing three feet away from me, he hoarsely whispered to Henry, “It’s for mommy.”

“I know,” Henry whispered back.

“It’s a snowman!” Chooch continued in a loud whisper.

“I know,” Henry answered, not bothering to whisper now.

“Don’t tell her what it is! It’s for Christmas.”

At least he brought home change.