Chooch is going to be in for a shock when it comes time for school portraits and the photographer doesn’t pull out an animal mask or a tube of fake blood.

In other awesome parenting news, I spent a whopping two hours with him at the playground today. If this isn’t your first time reading this shitty blog, you should know how amazing and unusual that statement is. Being an anti-mom, I try to avoid any situation which is going to potentially pit me against other moms.

Playground Moms.  They are Massengill-filled sausages, I fucking swear to god. I can’t stand them. They are all sit around in snobby cliques looking down their noses at the other moms who aren’t cooze-y and granola enough to be included, like me and this other broad who was also sitting alone. And I have to say, if I was forced to interact with ANY of them, it would have been her.

Meanwhile, as the twatty hens were clucking away about apple sauce (I’m not lying), not one of them was watching their children and I had to go and herd a bunch of them away from the parking lot, all the while scowling at their asshole birth vessels on the way back.

Oh well. At least I got to work on my tan.

An hour ago, I was ranting about being considered a Mommy Blogger.

I’m not a mommy blogger! Here, have a photo of my kid!

Success is managing to photograph the subject without getting sprayed with milk and dirty boy spit.

Filthy disgusting boy-hands, all day, every day.

It is hot. We don’t have air-conditioning, except in the bedroom. Just putting four pictures in a post is making me sweat and it’s not even 10:00am yet. Words will have to come at a later date.

(And I have a lot of them, because Alisha and I went to the Big Butler County Fair, OMG.)

I grew up with an in-ground pool at my disposal and central air. Ten years I’ve spent in the hell that is this piece of shit house in Brookline, and I have come to the conclusion that acclimation isn’t a real thing. I actually wished I had to work yesterday, just to get a reprieve.

“You had a REAL pool when you were a kid, and all I get this cheap balloon-thing?” Yep, pretty much, Chooch.

People passing our house yesterday were actually willing Chooch to splash them.

Tomorrow, it’s supposed to be 96 degrees for Warped Tour.

But at least it’s open space, and not the brick prison I call home, which is essentially Hell with a lid on.

This photo has nothing to do with anything. You may continue.

You know what I hate the most about summer? Aside from my child stinking like he belongs at the edge of a creek, swigging moonshine with the Appalachians? Children. Specifically: other people’s children. My block is usually pretty quiet, but suddenly there has been some eerie influx of other people’s children milling about and I’m not happy about this.

Generally, Chooch will play with Hot Naybor Chris’s two grandchildren. The boy (whom Alisha lovingly refers to as Bobby Hill, a comparison I can’t deny) is two weeks older than Chooch, so they sort of play well together. Kind of. Lately, they’ve been butting heads, which I suppose is normal for four-year-olds.  Bobby’s older cousin, Madison (which is apropos because this child is always mad), attaches herself to me every single time she spots me. I’m an old lady! I just want to sit on the porch and sort of supervise, but not really. But as soon as Madison sees me, she screams, “The big girl is out now!”

And then it goes like this every time:

“Will you play volleyball with me?”

“No.”

“OK thanks!” and suddenly I’m  on the receiving end of a whaling, giant Spongebob ball.

Luckily, she only manages to make it through life three minutes at a time before winding up in the next Time Out round.

Meanwhile, Chooch is yelling at Bobby for speaking indecipherably.

The one day, I was sitting with the kids on the driveway when Toya came out to show Ruth some pictures. She started to retreat back inside her house, before doing a double take and saying, “Oh I’m sorry, Erin! I thought you were just one of the kids.”

FUCK. When do I get to graduate from the kids table? It was like this 10 years ago when I first moved into this neighborhood. Every child would congregate on my front porch like goddamn stray cats while all the adults got to sit around, drinking beer, and pretending they weren’t parents. (Not a big stretch.) It’s like kids can smell my disdain and that makes it more fun for them. “Let’s go bother the broad who doesn’t like kids!” Yes. Let’s indeed. They must feed off my sarcasm.

Lately, though, there have been new children. Two doors down, there lives an adorable little four-year-old girl with afropuffs named Naomi (the girl, not the afropuffs. Two afropuffs wouldn’t have one name. Don’t be stupid.). Every day starting last week, her two cousins have been visiting. Dwayne is probably around ten, and Little Ronnie looks like he is also around Chooch and Naomi’s age.  Now, I’d have no problem with Chooch playing with them if it was just the little ones, but Dwayne is suddenly the Kingpin of Pioneer Ave, so when he’s out there, Robin’s son Brandon emerges and so does some little bratty Mexican kid who lives with a foster family down the street. And these boys are pretty much the best everything ever, the quintessential “I Meant To Do That”s.

Now, Dwayne is full of pleasantries and respect for me. He calls me Miss Erin and says things to Chooch like, “Riley! Your mama is talking to you! Go to your mama, Riley!” and you can just tell that Chooch is bursting at the seams to curse at him, but instead he just laughs and looks at me like, “Who, her?! She ain’t gon’ do SHIT, boy.”

Dwayne wasn’t too bad at first. The first day they all played with water guns, which was great until somehow I found myself kneeling on Naomi’s sidewalk, filling up squirt guns from two buckets of water per Dwayne’s orders, while Blake smoked a cigarette on my front porch and laughed at me.

Then Dwayne, catching wind that Chooch has a soccer ball, organized a little game of soccer and included all the kids in it. But then it turned into a showboating session, with Dwayne hollering, “Miss Erin! Watch this!” and apparently he thinks bending it like Beckham means to literally scissor-kick the air, missing the ball altogether while face-plowing the yard. And of course the ball would roll into the very busy street we live on, and guess whose job ball retrieval was? So much for sitting on the porch, pretending to watch my child. Now I’m IN IT. ALL UP IN IT.

Because who cares if the thirty-year-old dumb ass gets hit by a semi.

Unfailingly, it quickly goes from innocent ball-fetching to straight-up, “Miss Erin, be the goalie!”

Oh my god, it’s because I’m fat, isn’t it?

Yesterday, Chooch brought his ball out and Dwayne swooped in and confiscated it so he and the Mexican foster jackass could pretend to be the most amazing ball-kickers ever to walk the planet (when we all know that’s me).  The Mexican asshole kept kicking the ball into the street and I was about to chop his ass until his foster dad called him home because he had to go to Target with his mommy. I was like, “Ooh, look at the tough guy, going to Target with his mommy. Go bring me back some juice boxes, asshole.”

So now Dwayne was alone, one big kid against three small kids. He saw that I was softly pitching a Nerf ball to Little Ronnie, who wasn’t really doing too well, but he looked cute trying. Dwayne decided he needed in on this action. He wrenched the bat from Little Ronnie and I immediately began to protest. However, Little Ronnie looked like he was used to this and wasn’t do much in the way of throwing a fit, so I was like, “Fine, one pitch, then it’s Ronnie’s turn again.”

“Ball!” Dwayne shouted. “That was a ball, so it don’t count. Pitch it again, Miss Erin.”

“No, this isn’t goddamn regulation baseball. It’s Little Ronnie’s turn.” And I stamped my foot, completely negating any chance I had of finally getting that Kid Table graduation party.

Dwayne dropped the bat to the ground, all dejectedly. Bitch, please. I guarantee the kid was getting more attention at that very moment than he does at home in an entire week.

Chooch grabbed the extra bat and asked if he could have a turn, too. I was about to toss the ball to him when Dwayne shouted, “Riley, did you ASK if you could use Naomi’s bat?” Meanwhile, Naomi was two sidewalks down, playing with a broken jump rope. I was inclined to think she didn’t really give a shit.

Dwayne ripped it out of Chooch’s hand.

Chooch looked alarmed, and also confused because I’m sure he didn’t understand what he had done wrong.

“Oh, just like how you asked to use his soccer ball?!” I yelled. “Let him use the damn bat.” But Chooch had marched inside the house. I thought there was going to be a meltdown, that I might have to start reading all those perfect mommy blogs out there to find out how to handle this. But instead, he came bounding out of the house with his Jason mask on.

That was great that Chooch bounced back, but you know what? I hadn’t bounced back. In fact, I was pretty much fucking over it. I grabbed the soccer ball and announced that we were going back inside.

And when I say ‘announced’, I really mean I yelled, “SCREW THIS, YOU’RE SO MEAN, GIVE ME BACK THE FUCKING BALL, GOODBYE.”

“Wait Miss Erin! Watch how great I am at jumping rope!” Dwayne begged, desperate to retain his forced audience. I paused long enough to see that he really fucking sucked. Like, worse than sucked. A paraplegic could do it with more grace.

I sarcastically applauded and shut the door.

Would you believe later on, he and that Mexican mother fucker had the audacity to stand outside my front window and ask to borrow Chooch’s soccer ball? And you know what I said? GET YOUR OWN GODDAMN BALL.

Big kids were not meant to play with little kids. Without being overtly violent toward the young ones, Dwayne does everything in his power to let it be known who’s in charge.

No, Dwayne – I’mma tell you who’s in charge around here, OK? Me. Miss Erin, that’s who. And if that’s a problem, I’ll kindly take back my child’s ball and be seeing you hopefully never.

I’m about to seriously start a gang. I hope Henry will let me borrow his bandannas.

Hey, what do we do around here for Mother’s Day? Nothing. What do we do for Father’s Day? Oh, spend the day at an amusement park, no biggie.

But I don’t mind too much because it’s more for me than Henry anyway. He’s all, “I’m just happy I get to spend the day with the people I love” and, after barfing in a boot, I’m like, “Who, skanky teens in bikini tops and booty shorts? Middle-aged broads spilling out of their tank tops, boasting Tasmanian Devil tattoos and stretch marks?” Because these are the types of people with whom Kennywood is predominantly filled.

It turned out to be a miserable day. It was super hot, which I didn’t really mind, but I was worried about how much money we spent to go in the first place, never mind how much we’d be spending on food and beverages once inside. Blake wasn’t feeling well so I didn’t want to drag him on too many ridiculous rides, and Chooch was just being a wishy-washy cry baby bitch.

I wanted to start out easy by going on the super lame Garfield-themed boat ride that’s right near the entrance. I thought it would be a good first ride for Chooch, as it’s proved to be in years past. But I was vetoed because what do I know anyway, I’m a high school AND college drop out. Henry decided it was best to start him out big, so we took him on his first non-baby roller coaster, the Jack Rabbit. It’s a pretty non-threatening wooded coaster, but it does have a double-dip, and that’s what I was worried about for him. I kept imagining him being sprung from his seat and thirty years from now becoming an urban legend because no one actually remembers if some four-year-old actually did plummet to his death on the Jack Rabbit back in those crazy 2010’s or if it was just a story a clave of moms made up to deter their children from ever wanting to ride a roller coaster,  ever again.

I don’t really think Chooch knew what he was in for when Blake guided him straight to the front seat. Henry and I sat directly behind them, and I watched as Chooch scrunched up against Blake’s side for the entire duration. He didn’t cry, but I could tell, just by his body language, that he probably thought my threats of him going to Hell were finally coming into fruition. He seemed fine when we got off the ride, but when I asked him if he liked it, he very sincerely and sing-songily replied, “No, not really!”

It ruined him for the rest of the day, I know it did. We would get to the front of the line for the basest of family rides, like the types rides that pregnant women could ride and feel confident that they won’t get off leaving a trail of miscarriage in their wake, only for Chooch to say, “Um, no, I’m not riding this. Let’s go, kbye.” There were times when I wanted to push him, but people were looking. So we were good parents and left the lines with him every time, while threatening him in terse tones through taut lips.

I think I told him like 67865 times that he was ruining my day, and then Henry would have to remind me that mothers shouldn’t say things like this to their children and I was like, “Bitch, don’t you know I’m not a mother when I’m at Kennywood? I’m a fucking KID who wants to RIDE some mother fucking RIDES.”

We did, however get him on the Raging Rapids, which thoroughly pissed him off.

Slightly amused after a light sprinkle

Complained a lot about his new shoes getting wet

Not actually crying, but REALLY FUCKING BENT OUT OF SHAPE

Chooch was relatively mild-mouthed for most of the ride, until getting assaulted by the waterfall, to which he exclaimed in a very angry tone, “Oh, FUCK THAT.” He sounded so dire that I didn’t even have the heart to yell at him for taking his swearing side show on the road.

At one point, I tried on a suit of graciousness (it didn’t fit me very well, but at least I tried) and suggested that Henry and Blake ride the Phantom’s Revenge together because the line looked short. And you know, it was fucking Father’s Day after all. I figured Chooch and I could go on Noah’s Ark during that time. Noah’s Ark is just this large walk-through ride that thankfully doesn’t have the religious overtones you’d think it would. It’s like, every child’s favorite ride though, because it’s dark, fun, has moving floors and fake animals to look at.

Chooch has been through it three times in the past, but apparently he doesn’t remember because once we got in line, he deemed that it was going to be “too dark in there, let’s go.” I was like, “Asshole, this ride was fucking built for children! It is NOT SCARY! You watch motherfucking Friday the 13th and don’t bat an eye lash, but you’re afraid to walk through some lame ass boat with a bunch of fake ass fucking props in it?” Oh my lord, I was so disappointed in him.

So we spent a half an hour sitting on a ledge, waiting for Henry and Blake. By the time they got off the coaster, I was in full-blown sulk mode.

“I’m ready to dip up out of here,” I said disgustedly to Henry.

“What, why?” he asked.

“BECAUSE CHOOCH WON’T RIDE ANYTHING AND THIS WAS A WASTE OF MONEY AND MY WHOLE DAY IS RUINED!” I wailed. And the camera battery died after 30 minutes! And half the rides were closed! And I didn’t have a friend to take with me! And I felt fat!

But then Blake, worlds more mature at just seventeen than I am at thirty, suggested that Henry and I go ride something like a real life couple and he’d take Chooch to get pizza.  So Henry and I rode the Music Express, which was fun because I got to add extra curricular punches and pinches on top of the standard pre-packaged pulverizing that comes included with spinny rides. And after that, I dragged him on the Cosmic Chaos, which is still relatively new and he’s never actually seen in action. Until he was stuck smack in the middle of line when the next round started. As Henry watched it do its thang, he gravely murmured, “Oh, Erin…” I think that was my favorite part of the day. Either that or when Blake and I were on the Aero 360 and I asked him if he knew the scene kid who was sitting next to me. “What, I’m supposed to know him because he’s a scene kid?” Blake asked, upset with my assumption, like it was racial profiling or something.

After that, we tried to get Chooch to ride more things but he was being a big baby, and not even a cute one, but the kind you want to punch and then leave on someone’s porch in a laundry basket, so I threw my own fit and stalked off toward the entrance, where I sat on a bench alone. Literally, I sat there with my lip all pursed and quivering, arms crossed, and a thousand murderous scenarios screeching through my broken mind like a rusty train on chalkboard tracks.  This was around the time I tweeted, “I wish I could stuff Today in a cadaver and fuck it in the ass with a blow torch.” Then I decided, I’ll show them, I’m going to leave! So I texted Blake and said, “I’m leaving!” to which he replied, “But you have all the money!” and then Henry left Blake and Chooch in Kiddieland to come calm me down.

Which he did by buying me food because, being the Erin specialist that nine bi-polar years have made him, he recognized in the situation all the signs of Erin Famine. And I was cool after that! We went back to KiddieLand and Blake was like, “You kids go on and have fun. I’ll stay here with Chooch.” Really, this was because Blake wasn’t feeling well and standing among parents watching small children oscillate slowly on hideous animal faced-carriages was more appealing to him than getting whiplash.

So Henry and I got to be a Real Life Couple and ride things together! I can’t remember this ever really happening too often at Kennywood. I know that he and I have never been there alone together, so this was sort of like a DATE. It was weird! And he was really giddy and kept trying to kiss me and I had to remind him that I hadn’t suddenly abandoned my hatred of PDA. He even grabbed my boobs right as our photo was taken on the Log Jammer and I was like, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Did Blake give you E?”

Then I had to stand around impatiently while he played that money-guzzling game Pong Pond, where you get like, seven chances to bounce a ping pong ball and hope that it lands in a plastic lily pad. I’ve yet to see him win at this game.

“This is the only game I’m good at!” he whined after I begged him to stop spending money on it. “I’ve won it, like three times!”

“Seriously? You’ve won three times in the thirty years you’ve been coming here?”

He thought about this. “Yes. So I’m about due for a win.” I had to pull him away. Unless he was going to wrap a stuffed animal around my goddamn finger and propose, I wasn’t about to stand there and cheerlead for him while he blew through all of MY MONEY.

Then the night turned sour. Blake wanted to leave because he wasn’t feeling well at all, which was understandable, but Chooch had to play fucking mind games with me the whole way back to the entrance. “I want to ride this.” We’d get in line. “No, I don’t think so.”

I was so over it! Walking past Garfield’s Nightmare, the extremely docile family boat ride Chooch pussied out on twice that day, he begged us to take him on it.

“Hell no,” I said. “I’m done playing these games with you. All you’re going to do is get in line and change your mind, so stop wasting my time.” And he threw a full blown fit, right there in front of all the other children who were like, “Yay! We’re at Kennywood! We appreciate this opportunity so much, Mommy and Daddy! We are going to ride every single ride to make sure we get our money’s worth, and you will be so proud of us! And before we go to bed tonight, we will be sure to read from our Bible!”

This was the point where I quickened my pace, and left Blake and Henry behind me to pull Chooch along, kicking and screaming. He cried and screamed the whole way home while I stared out the window and tried to remember what it was like to be single.

Happy Father’s Day, Henry! I’m leaving!

We were going to go to the Arts Festival today, Henry, Chooch and me. Our neighbor Toya was outside as we were beginning our walk to the trolley stop (one of the only nice things about where I live is that we can conveniently take the trolley downtown rather than drive and pay $5876876 plus a vial of baby albino blood for parking). Chooch loves Toya. LOVES HER. So much that he knows the precise sound of her car (as opposed to the 3+ other vehicles pulling in and out of our shared driveway on the daily) and he’ll stick his fat head out the window and yell, “HI TOYA! OVER HERE TOYA! HI TOYA!”

She thinks it’s precious because she doesn’t live with him.

Naturally, Chooch had to divert his path and run to tell her our itinerary. “And we’re taking the TROLLEY!” he panted excitedly. She was nice enough to let us borrow her bus pass so one of us could ride free.

We got to the trolley stop and proceeded to wait for a good twenty minutes because Henry didn’t listen to me when I told him what time it would arrive. I had already had a really dramatic morning (that’s tomorrow’s tale, woo boy!) and every little thing was pissing me the fuck off.

Including waiting for the trolley.

So I was like, “Fuck it, I’m out” and we all walked back home. Just totally was NOT feeling it and couldn’t imagine half-heartin’ it through the Arts Festival, which is something I generally look forward to. But on this day? I was exhausted in all aspects.

Chooch has been playing with some little kid over in Toya’s yard for the last hour now. I don’t know if he’s her nephew or what, but he’s a cute kid. About a minute after they first got acquainted, Chooch came stomping over to me and said, “That kid keeps calling me Riwee! Tell him to stop!”

“Well,” I asked, “what did you tell him your name is?”

“Riwee!” he said emphatically.

(At least he’s not telling people his name is Chooch, because he knows it’s just a nickname, so a big FUCK YOU to all the people who tell me, “You really ought to stop calling him that.” Oh my god, my kid knows his real name!? Shocking.)

They were breaking a bamboo stick into dangerous, spiny pieces the last I checked. This is all besides the point.

Suddenly, I heard Toya howling. Absolute gut-jiggling guffaw reverberating down the block, like two cracked-out Santas had just belly-bumped each other after watching porn.

This could not be good.

She had apparently asked Chooch if he had fun at the Arts Festival.

And that little squealer said, “We didn’t go because mommy said the trolley is a piece of fucking shit.”

That was my cue to quietly slip back into the house and leave Henry out there to find a cork for this particular oil spill.

At least Toya eschewed her Perfect Mommy lecturing for hysterical laughter, so this was significantly less traumatic than the time he told our neighbor Ruth, “My mommy hates you, Ruth!”

Still, I’ll never fucking learn.

Ever since I met my sister Amy last January, I’ve really been having fun getting to know her better. She’s really easy-going and what I like the best about  her is that I can text her and say, “Hey, wanna get together this Saturday?” and she’s like, “Yeah, cool!” There’s no chasing! No run-arounds! No flaking! When I was at the lowest point of my depression after the dissolution of my friendship with Christina, I sent Amy a Facebook message, asking if we could get together and talk. And she was there for me. I remember thinking, “Holy shit, so THIS is what families are supposed to be like!”

She has two children: Tyler’s 15 and I very briefly met him after the Wheeling Nailers game we went to in April, and Brooke is 5. I thought it would be fun to get her and Chooch together, since Amy hadn’t met Chooch yet either. So we planned on spending the afternoon at Washington Park yesterday. Our respective boyfriends came along as well, and both of them made us late. Typical.

We met at Subway first to get some food to take to the park. Chooch immediately began to play keep-away from Brooke. “That girl keeps trying to sit with me!” he kept whining to me, playing into his role as a boy with shining perfection.

So it was my first time meeting this little girl and I could do was shyly say “Hello” and then run away to join Amy and Dick who were in line ordering their subs, leaving Brooke under Henry’s supervision.

I’m cripplingly awkward around children.

We got our food to go and found a little playground with a picnic table, where the kids never sat. They took off as soon as we got there, but never actually talked to each other. Chooch spent most of the time trying to devise creative ways to kill himself on the monkey bars.

After we ate (I’m always the last one to finish), we found an empty school parking lot for Chooch and Brooke to ride their bikes. They still didn’t interact much, and Henry kept trying to teach Brooke how to ride without training wheels. Henry always wanted a daughter. Too bad he got saddled with three boys.

Chooch picked a flower all on his own accord and presented it to Brooke. It was definitely an aw-worthy moment, but I still thought to myself, “I hope he remembers that he’s related to her.”

There was a playground over the hill and it served as a miraculous ice breaker for the two of them. Henry, Amy, Dick and I stood off to the side and did grown-uppy things, like complain about the heat and talk about rental property.

Chooch was like, “WHY DO I HAVE TO KEEP STANDING NEXT TO HER?!” like he felt compelled to constantly remind us that he’s a DUDE and standing next to a girl might get him stabbed the next time he’s knocking a few cold ones back at the biker bar.

I kept trying to chase them to take pictures. That turned out about as well as you’d imagine.

She is like, the cutest girl ever and makes me miss being a kid.

It was such a nice day.

Chooch kept finding ways to bring Brooke into the conversation, even hours later. Like when he was drinking fruit punch. “Does BROOKE like fruit punch?” he asked haughtily.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Maybe.”

“Probably,” Chooch said, with feigned disgust. And then he did the stereotypical “girls are so dumb” eye-roll.

Henry brings home a donut for Chooch every Sunday. He looks cute eating it for approximately .002 seconds before all the sugar activates his Asshole Switch.

[My apologies to those who have already seen this via Facebook, but I wanted to preserve it on here.]

One of the most daunting tasks I face daily is trying to coerce Chooch into playing quietly while I attempt to get some exercise in. Sometimes he’s a great sport about it; other times he winds up peeing down the basemnet steps with a Sharpie’d replica of Picasso on his thigh and stomach. (Don’t worry – he saves feline mutilation for when I’m washing dishes, apparently.)

Today, I tried a different tactic.

“Chooch,” I started with hesitation. “Let’s exercise together. We could do yoga or something.”

He seemed game and discarded the hatchet he was using to make flesh ribbons of his latest victim.

I found a beginner’s Yoga program on FitTV and turned it on in hopes that if anything, maybe it would mellow his shit out a bit.

“This is really stupid,” he said as we began with arm and shoulder stretching. Then it was time to salute the sun and this perplexed Chooch. “But I can’t see the sun today,” he said in that haughty tone, pointing over his shoulder at the window, where the overcast sky coasted past.

“Your body should start to feel warm now,” the instructor said as she went from cobra to downward dog.

To my right, I could hear Chooch muttering under his breath. I stole a quick glance and his ass was in the air, his limbs a pretzled mess beneath him. “I don’t think I’m doing this right,” he mumbled in defeat.

I couldn’t bear to see him quit because it was just too hilarious, so I insisted that he was doing fine. “Seriously, you’re doing this better than I am,” I encouraged, which wasn’t even really a lie considering how much I HATE Yoga. (Pilates girl all the way, yo.)

“What the hell is she doing now?” Chooch asked no one in particular. “God, I really hate this broad.”

By the time he moved to Warrior, I had to stop for fear of pissing myself.

(And yes, I’m aware that we’re probably the last household in America without a flat screen. Us and roadside motels.)

Guest list:

• Alisha
• Bill & Jessi
  
• Kara & Harland
• Charlie
• Henry’s mom
• My mommy
  
• Henry’s sister Kelly & some of her kids
• Blake
  
• Evonne, Sadie & Lydia
• Christy & Claire
• Janna
  

When Chooch told me months ago, like literally it might still have been 2009, that he wanted to have a zombie themed birthday party, I had every intention of going all out. I even started thinking of ideas for like, ten entire minutes.

With the exception of designing the invitations with Chooch (which actually was not last minute and were mailed out in timely fashion), there wasn’t much more that I accomplished, aside from a last minute trip to Goodwill on the morning of his party, to shop for clothes to mutilate and bloody for the photos I wanted to take of each individual party guest, as a souvenir. Kind of like a prom picture, except with blood, a fake cemetery in the background, and a pine tree with Christmas lights haphazardly slung across its lower boughs, which really bothers me now when I look back at all the pictures. I think Bill should have painted the wires green. It could have been a zombie / Alice in Wonderland crossover, guests arriving while an undead Bill slops green paint on a tree and nervously yells about the scary queen (THAT’S ME) who’s running around with hedge clippers and shouting, “Off with your balls.”

The plan was to have the party outside; but like last year, it was around FIFTY DEGREES with the threat of rain. In May. So everything was set up in my mom’s garage to protect the guests from the impending deluge of rain. The kids had enough rain-free time to run amok outside for most of the party, at least. Because I can’t imagine Chooch being contained in a three-car garage for three hours.

Chooch the Zombie Enthusiast flipped his shit when he saw Bill for the first time, post-zombie makeover. We thought Chooch was just playing into it when he used the car as a barrier, but then Bill noticed he was legitimately crying and we all had an “oh shit” moment. Bill retreated to the garage to allow Jessi and I to try and coax Chooch from the car.

“You can open one of your presents now!” I pleaded. That worked. Good thing I used that first, instead of “You can cut Bill with this knife I got here,” because maybe Jessi might not have liked that. (And Bill wouldn’t have had much say.)

And Chooch was fine after that. So fine, in fact, that he wanted Jessi to make him up as a zombie too. I think it was just initial shock combined with Bill’s overzealousness (which Chooch ended up loving later).

Jessi somehow encouraged Alisha and Janna to get made-up, too. They kept trying to get me to do it as well, but having that much make-up on my face is yet another item in my treasure trove of neuroses and just the fact that I had to keep saying no nearly made me break out in hives. It’s probably not good that I took myself out of therapy all those years ago.

BFFs again, no biggie.

And the food! Don’t get me started on that. I had this great vision of mini meatloaves baked in over-sized cupcake tins and then Ketchup’d, like chunks of bloodied flesh. Well, Henry took that vision and fucked it up the ass. He basically made a plate of meatballs. When I voiced my aghast-ness, he then tried to get all Alton Brown: meatloaf edition on me, but I think he was lying. It could have been done.

I don’t even know what else there was to eat, to be honest, aside from what I initially thought were turtles (chicken breasts, apparently). But I will tell you there was no gelatin brain.  I mean, why would there be something so disgustingly anatomical at a zombie party??

It’s a good thing a four-year-old doesn’t give a shit about the catering at birthday parties.

That morning at Goodwill, I found (fine – Alisha found) these two lovely nightgowns and I instantly had visions of my friends Kara and Christy swathed in bloody versions of night attire, and holding their babies in front of the cemetery I set up. The cemetery was the only thing I was concerned about all day. It was a very big deal for me. I texted Kara before she arrived and said, “I have a nightgown; will you wear it?” She said yes and thought nothing of it, because I’ve asked her to do dumber things before.

This ended up being my favorite picture of the day.

I barraged Christy before she was even out of her car. She just rolled her eyes at my request because we’ve known each other since we were four and short of auto-amputation, nothing I do really shocks and awes her. At first, she tried to say that she couldn’t get the nightgown on over her hoodie and I was like, “Bitch, you best be tryin’ a little harder. Don’t make me pretend I’m in a girl gang again.”

Also, this was my first time finally meeting Christy’s baby Claire and she is so sweet! The combination of Claire and Harland was like an upper-cut/right hook combo to my ovaries, though. At one point, Henry even grabbed my silk-gloved hand and said, “Darling, shall we try for another?” And then I rammed my parasol up his tweed-trousered asshole.

The best part was that Kara and Christy both kept their respective nightgowns on for the rest of the party. I like to think it’s because they thought it was AWESOME, but warmth probably had a little more to do with it. They spent most of the party together, in a baby bubble, and I couldn’t  help but crack up every time I turned around and saw the two of them in their bloody nightgowns, cooing to each other’s baby.

“Just another night at the shelter,” Charlie said at one point, and I could NOT STOP LAUGHING. Don’t worry, I said the Rosary that night.

Charlie opted to play the role of “Victim #1.”

I realized afterward that I have zero pictures of Blake or any of the cousins, except Zac. None of the teens wanted to dress up, which I thought was strange since that’s like, something kids want to do. I mean, other than betting on cock fights in Biloxi and foxtrotting with trannies. (Is that still what teens do nowadays?) And Blake didn’t talk to me the whole time. I guess that’s a new thing or something. It wasn’t awkward at all and it certainly didn’t make me cry to Alisha behind the garage.

My mom ordered the cake undecorated, aside from the Happy Birthday part, and then made the graveyard scene with those new Oreos and zombie finger puppets. She apparently forgot to make sure it flowed with the writing on the side, but that’s just my bastard nit-picking coming out. I thought she did a great job! Unlike the photo I took, which is out of focus because I had like, 20 people staring at me and I just wanted to be done. Yet another reason why I’d never consider photography as anything other than a hobby!

He got a ton of great loot, like: a Jason Voorhees action figure, vampire movie collection, Night of the Living Dead DVD, and a Spiderman book (being held in above photo) from Bill and Jessi; a Spike Jr. and a dragon from Evonne, Sadie, and Lydia; a remote control zombie from Alisha; a Leatherface figurine, with interchangeable heads and arms, from Charlie; two plush zombies and a Tony Hawk bike from my mom; this really cool zombie figurine from my brother Ryan; a complete artist’s orgasm from Kara; gift cards from Christy and Kelly; and a Spiderman skateboard from Janna.

It really made me wish I was still a kid!

Before I knew it, three hours had passed and everyone started to leave. There was a Penguins game on that night and I’m sure most of the guests were happy to know that I’d be the first one to abandon my kid’s party for it.

Bill and Jessi had to check in to their hotel first, zombie makeup and all, but came back to my house later to hang out and, more importantly,  so Bill could get called a “douche cup” by Chooch when he had the audacity to deviate from the Lego instructions.

When they came back over the next morning for breakfast, Bill held out his hand and said, “Here, somehow Leatherface’s head made it into my pants last night.” So, now we know what Bill does after drinking a little Manischewitz.  I think that was the highlight of my entire weekend.

Thanks again to everyone who came and showed your love for my little zombie-child. It was so great to see everyone, especially you guys who came from hours and hours away. It really meant a lot to us! (Maybe not Henry, because he’s rude.)

And ever since his party ended, Chooch has been going on and on about his next party. “It’s going to be a CARROT party,” he says so full of certainty. “With CARROT ICING.” And no, he’s not just insinuating he wants a carrot CAKE. This is a full-scale carrot PARTY, you guys. And he wants everyone to dress as carrots. Have fun with that!

“Do you want Cap’n Crunch?” I asked Chooch in an attempt to be a mom.

“Yeah, I already said that I want it later,” he replied in his patented drawl of sass, mockery and exasperation – your typical teenage side dish.  I always have to pull back from flicking him.

“OK. So you want it later,” I reiterated, making sure I got it right because god only knows with him.

“It is later now,” he yelled. “Go get it!” SEE??

And as I came over here to preserve this lovely conversation in my blog, he appeared next to me and said, “Make sure you tweet about it, too.”

Yes, Your Majesty.

I have blog apathy lately, so have a video of Chooch. It’s not very exciting, which is why I don’t normally post videos.

Just a typical evening, trying to sit next to him on the couch.

I can’t tell you how many times a day I say to Chooch, “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Not that it would be any easier to ship him off to the nuns if he, I don’t know, had a cleft palate; that would be rude. But you know what I mean. It’s make it hard to stay mad at him for too long. Although after he modified Speck’s ear last week, my extreme anger and disappointment were able to withstand his cuteness for nearly an entire day.

This was at Buttermilk Falls on Mother’s Day, lovely fucking Mother’s Day. It was the day after Chooch’s party, where he apparently suffered some mysterious injury to his leg/knee/ankle/foot which rendered him partially handicapped. Anytime we’d ask him which leg hurt, he’d wailed, “All of them!” I have a feeling he twisted his ankle or something, because he was fine after the weekend.

This is my current favorite picture of Chooch.Henry said he thought this door used to belong to a porn shop. “Or a gay bar,” he said.

We spent the day downtown yesterday. The entire day. Doing nothing but walking except for the thirty minutes we sat down for lunch at the Oyster House, where the waitress did that thing where Chooch is the only patron at the table and all her inquiries are directed at him. She was trying to guess his name, and the first name she came up with was Henry, which I thought was amazing and couldn’t stop talking about it afterward, even took up ten pages in my diary just for that. This is not true. I told Alisha when she met us downtown afterward, and that was it. Oh, and the Internet. So I guess I told three people.

This was immediately after Chooch chased a huge pack of pigeons into a table of diners.

After wrangling Alisha, we got tart pomegranate frozen yogurt from some new place near my work called Sweet Lix. It was good, but Henry was quietly fuming at the cost. But come on, he had to have known as soon as we walked into the shop’s glowing white interior, with space-aged tables (the kinds you’re expected to STAND at) and new age music floating pretentiously from the ceiling (from which hung large white lanterns that can probably be purchased at IKEA) that he was about to pay over $7 for two small cups of frozen yogurt.

Alisha got granola on hers and talked about it for upward of an hour.

Apparently Alisha REALLY likes granola. I’m going to buy her some Birkenstocks. I’m pretty sure that was what she was hinting around to.

On our way toward the Point, we witnessed two elderly black men fighting in the middle of the street. A middle-aged man was trying to convince the taller one of the guys to just walk away, which he did, but not without a ton of attitude and vitriol. The other man, a short toad-looking asshole, waited until he was clear across the street to start running his mouth again. I was like, “OH NO HE DI’NT” and apparently the taller one was thinking the same thing because he came barreling around the corner right in front of us, speed-walked through traffic (nearly getting hit by a bus, except not so nearly but it sounds more exciting when you think he nearly did), caught up to the toad guy and THREW HIS DRINK ON HIM.

I stood there watching, in the middle of the sidewalk, while Henry tried to get me to stop gawking. “I’m Team THAT GUY,” I enthused to Alisha. It made me want to get into a fight.

Not that I do shit like that. I’m a lady, after all.

Then, for the third time that day, I found myself walking across a bridge. This particular bridge was having construction done on it and ROCKS were flying down from above and HITTING ME. I wasn’t pleased about this and am now going to one of those town hall meeting things so I can yell about it. I’m going to bring a gun and wave it around a lot. That’ll get it done.

Once across the bridge, we walked along the disgusting river.

A small docked boat contained a lounging couple, sipping champagne and looking generally snobby and extremely uninteresting to me.

“Who does that?” I scoffed to Alisha.

“Well, some people do actually enjoy that,” Alisha explained, and I rolled my eyes.

Yuppies.

There is a horrifying monument to Mister Rogers down there. I had nightmares.

On the way back to the bridge, a crowd had gathered around two old black guys who were fishing.

“Looks like they caught a fish,” Henry stated obviously.

I began gagging. But then I was just annoyed. “Really? People actually stopped to watch this?” I asked loudly. I was appalled. And then Alisha pointed out that they were listening to Whitney Houston on their transistor radio and I wanted to kick it into the river.

Then Chooch interrupted a couple trying to smoke a joint and we went home. I’m really tired today.

“I’ll post about Chooch’s birthday party,” I thought to myself while I was washing all the dishes Henry left in the sink for me from last night. Suspicions are seriously being raised. I’m certain he’s hosting dinner parties while I’m slaving away at my SUPER HARD job every night. And if I find out he’s making maple-baked pears, I will seriously hedge-clip his nutz0rz.

A muffled commotion broke through the sound of my SENSITIVE SKIN pruning from all the dirty dish water lapping against it. I turned off the water and marched into the dining room, where I was sure I’d find my serial-killer-in-training bugging my cat Speck (nee Nicotina) as usual. She was perched a top one of the computer monitors and Chooch quickly fled into the living room, shouting, “I didn’t do anything!”

All the toys he has, and it’s the poor cat he wants to bend in unnatural directions. A cursory glance at her told me she was OK, and I went back into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal.

When I sat down at the computer desk with my Special K, my arm stopped its spooning motion halfway to my mouth. There were bright red droplets of something on the desk. I looked closer and, while I hoped it was Faygo Red Pop, I was pretty sure it was blood. I looked up at Speck. Her paws were dyed a diffused red, and there was blood-splattering on the wall behind her.

I freaked. She had both eye balls. She still had a tail. She wouldn’t stand still long enough for me to inspect the pads of her paws.

“What did you do to her?” I yelled at Chooch, who at this point was the personification of guilt and evil fucking on a bed of carnage.

“Nuffin’!” he shouted, hysteria tinging his voice and completely giving himself up. “Smidge did it!” (Smidge, nee Marcy.)

Meanwhile, Marcy was perched, stock still, on the steps, watching this play out with huge owl-eyes.

I noticed a pair of orange kids’ scissors on the dining room table. Chooch clearly skipped over the “Hiding the Evidence” chapter of his serial killer handbook.

“Did you cut her with scissors?” I asked, trying to stay calm but there was BLOOD TRAILS ON THE FLOOR AND WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY CAT?

He wouldn’t answer me, so I sent him up to his room and called Henry, at which point my panic burst out of me like one of those pressure washers Henry was trying to teach me about yesterday.

“YOU BETTER COME HOME RIGHT NOW!” I screeched into the phone. “OUR SON IS A GODDAMN SERIAL KILLER, OH MY GOD, THIS ALL YOUR FAULT, HE GETS THIS FROM YOU!”

By the time Henry sped home from work, I was able to deduce that Speck’s ear had been snipped by scissors. The snip was about half an inch long, maybe a little shorter, and my friend Rhonda reminded me via Twitter that head wounds bleed a lot and that Speck had probably forgotten all about it by then.  When Henry arrived, Speck was curled up in my lap, purring contently and looking around with her signature question-marked expression.  The blood had begun to congeal on her ear by then, and I was able to clean up the rest of her with a wet paper towel, so the scene was less “Leatherface was here” than it was when the mutilation initially happened.

Henry deemed that it wasn’t bad enough to take her to the vet. He cleaned off the wound and dabbed it good with Neosporin, then sat down with Chooch and tried to reason with him (HA!) before confiscating the new Ben 10 toys he just bought with his Toys R Us giftcards.

One by one, the other cats have realized that Speck’s ear is oozing blood, and there is an intense blood-lust situation going down right now. They keep trying to inspect her, and Speck is getting all alley-cat on them, hissing and screaming, and there’s fur flying, and I’ll be honest here: I feel like I’m in some horrible made-for-TV Stephen King adaptation and I DO NOT LIKE IT.

So, instead of writing about the fond memories I have from my asshole son’s birthday party, I’m trying to find a good, safe home for my poor cat who doesn’t deserve this shitty life.  This is only because my initial suggestion to get rid of Chooch was vetoed.

I really, really don’t want to give Speck up. I’ve had her since 1998, when I lived in my first apartment!