UPDATE: these are now even better, check out this post!

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For the last couple of years, I’ve really wanted to make sheets of mini-Valentines, like the kinds that kids pass out at school. Remember making those stupid cardboard mailboxes so our classmates could slip in Barbie and Hot Wheels Valentines, and then acting repulsed when you got one from the kid you had a crush on? That’s what I had in mind for my serial killer Valentines, and this year I finally made some. Three different sheets of 6, to be exact! Each sheet is perforated, so you just tear them apart and pass ’em out to whoever is on your hit list this year. I have several of my own people in mind.

I also thought these would be fun to pass out at the office, your AA meetings, church collection baskets. Leave them on the bus for the next person who sits in your seat to find! Stick them in those things called “books” before you return them to that weird place called “the library.”

The possibilities are endless! I just don’t endorse giving these to your kids to pass out at school. (Don’t they have an app for passing out Valentines now anyway?)

These are printed on high-quality paperstock in eye-popping ink. I couldn’t be happier with them!

Want a sheet of all Manson? Half Gein / half Borden? See one that you’d really like as a regular-sized card to send in the mail? These are easily customizable so holla at me with any requests. (That part will just become Henry’s burden anyway, so what do I care?)

This is honestly what I’ve been doing all week: staring at serial killer mugs and eating fruit. I might need a little rest.

DISCLAIMER: These are meant to be tongue-in-cheek. I do not think murder is cool, nor do I condone it. But what’s life without a little humor?

These were some of the best frowns of 2012. Here’s to many more in 2013!

Andrea suggested a calendar of frowns. Looks like we know what I’ll be working on this week!

Henry’s sister Kelly usually hosts Christmas Eve at her house, but we wanted to give her a break this year so we had everyone come to our crib for once. You guys know that I am embroiled in a hate-hate relationship with my house, but Henry really gave it a good cleaning and then I lit a bunch of candles.

Because candles make everything better.

Chooch picked out some Christmas M&Ms at Target and I poured them into a red bowl. Then I filled two other bowls with Chex Mix and some sort of spicy chips that no one but Chooch and I liked. I thought I did a fine job and made sure to point this out once everyone arrived.

Earlier that weekend, Chooch and I walked to the Mexican market to buy candy. I put some of that in a Mason jar. Something for everyone, you know?

There was a time when I was really super into having parties and had a spread so good, most people just wanted to stand around the food table all night.

I don’t know exactly what happened, but thank god for Henry, else our Christmas Eve crew would have gone terribly hungry. I had no idea he was making half the shit he made. Like ham. Did I even know Henry could make ham? Why would I know that? When’s the last time a vegetarian*  asked someone to cook them a motherfucking ham?

*(I eat fish now though, so I’m a poser.)

Henry also made mashed potatoes; some weird Lebanese dish with lamb and green beans, prompting an argument over whether or not I like green beans; peanut butter blossoms; shrimp-y deviled eggs; and an array of finger sandwiches which was actually my idea, I just didn’t feel like executing it.

I was really upset that I made room on one of the platters for Henry’s cocktail weiners and then he never put them out. The more wine I chugged, the more weiner-compassionate I became. “The weiners still haven’t been put out!” I would cry and Henry’s sister would laugh, because I get it — weiners are funny, but this was SERIOUS! There was this gaping void between the pepperoni and carrots that needed to be filled. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

“I’ll get to it!” Henry kept saying, while ruining my pretty red serving platter by carving his fucking ham upon its face. Whatever.

So much cheese — I PUT THESE ON THE PLATTER! I also put out the goat cheese and I would have also put out the brie but I wasn’t sure how to open the package so Henry had to do that later. The cheese in the middle was some sort of whisky aged cheddar? Mike, Laura and Henry made fun of me because I couldn’t taste the whiskey, and then Henry asked, “Do you even know what whisky tastes like?”

I thought about it for a second and then realized that the fact that I had to even think about it probably meant that no, I don’t. If you gave me a flight of scotch, whiskey, brandy and bourbon and told me I could have STD-free sex with Jonny Craig if I correctly distinguished all four, I’d be scooting my radioactive kooka across the floor for some relief right about now.

That is to say: I would fail that taste-testing sesh.

At least I wasn’t eating the wax like Henry’s mom was!

In lieu of ingesting it, Mike made architectural masterpieces out of his cheese refuse.

Stephanie called my finger sandwiches “delightful.” Technically, I only made approximately four of them (but to my defense, they were the prettiest ones) before hysterically whining about how difficult it was while flailing about, leaving the rest for Henry to prepare.

It’s OK. He’s used to this.

Camera lens had no less than 7 fingerprints on it, but I was too drunk to notice. Besides, maybe I was going for that dreamy holiday haze. YOU DON’T KNOW.

Oh, and would you look at what is on Henry’s mom’s plate? Why, that would be an Erin Kelly Original Cookie. And by original, I mean that it originally came out of a plastic tub of fundraising cookie dough. I made these when Henry ran to the store earlier that day, thinking he would be so delighted when he came home to see that he had one less thing to do.

But no.

He was apprehensive.

And then when he saw the first batch, and how they had all adhered to each other to form one slimy pile of botulism, he said, “No. You can’t put these out. People will get SICK, ERIN.” My next batch was monitored closely and once Henry deemed them properly incubated, I was allowed to put those ones out on the table.

And then Henry had the audacity to almost forget to bring out the other thing that I sort of helped to make!

Weird shrimp egg things! He showed me how to pipe that shit into the eggs using a plastic bag. It was exciting, and when I grew tired after injecting the first three, he made me keep going.

Ugh, it was awful! I hate making food things!

Blake and Sam, sitting in the one corner of the room that wasn’t cleaned.

After texting back and forth with my friend Jessa about Newtown tragedy, she filled me in on the Sandy Hook Snowflake project, where people all over the world are making snowflakes to help turn the new elementary school into a winter wonderland. I thought, “What better time to undertake a project than when I have a houseful of minions guests to help me. I found this tutorial on some lady’s blog on how to make really fancy snowflakes out of junk mail, so I made Laura demonstrate. I’m not a good teacher. And besides, Laura had JUST looked at the instructions on my phone! They were fresh in her memory!

Even Mad Henry made one.

Snowflake Sweat Shop.

Mike made German Chocolate brownies, OMG.

Cousins.

Stephanie, Kian and Samantha. They appreciated the Jonny Craig-touches on my Christmas tree. So there, Henry. (We are in the same demographic though.)

We managed to not kill each other! Let’s have all of the parties at our house, Henry!

News flash, Chooch: Christmas ain’t all about you, OK? Mommy & Daddy got some shit, too!

In addition to a freak show bracelet & a collection of vintage photos of handicapped people, my favorite pretend-sister, Andrea, hooked me up with a Wheelchair Jimmy t-shirt!

It’s no engagement ring, but a dental disaster around my neck is enough to keep me quiet for a day or two. Thanks for paying attention to my Etsy wish list, HANK.

I was actually going to buy it for myself and then honest to god shrieked when I saw it had been sold. Henry said he had considered contacting the seller and telling her that if I sent her a convo (which I was considering) to tell me that she was never ever ever ever getting back together making another one.

I honestly had no idea that Henry bought it. Do you know how many times a day I send him things from Etsy and say, “I want this”? Christina even said she was has an entire email folder full of my wants.

My friend Tammy made this Robot Blood nail polish & I fucking love it!

I have to thank my friend Laura for posting this purse on my timeline. Henry took note and bought it for me.

I bought Henry a Krochet Kids hat, which I then decorated with a handful of Dance Gavin Dance pins that I purchased from eBay specifically for this occasion. You can tell by his delirious expression that he was stoked beyond belief.

I also gave him a DIY cheese-making kit. The gift card said “Merry Xmas. Now make me some goddamn cheese.”

I put a lot of thought into my gifts for Henry.

Please forgive me, but I still have a ton of Christmas bullshit to fling all up on these pages like Pollacked ape shit. However, I’m sick (again—December can blow me) so this isn’t happening as fast as I need it too.

Today’s cop-out post is a picture of the Darkride & Funhouse Enthusiast Christmas card that Henry, Chooch and I are on. I wasn’t expecting it so it was a fun surprise when it came in the mail.

I got made fun of at work for joining this group, but I just really like being a part of things, OK?!

Next: Christmas Eve pictures, Chooch-designed Christmas cards, PRESENTS!!!

I wanted to visit Speck and Don at the pet cemetery on Christmas before stopping by my dad’s house, so we decided to find a cemetery in between to have our traditional Christmas picnic.

We wound up at some small, creepy church on a hillside (back when my mom actually gave a shit about Christmas and put up lights, you could see our house at night from this hill, so you would think that the location would kind of harbor some sense of nostalgia or childhood warmth but NO. This place held nothing of the sort, it felt wrong, it felt cold, and Chooch and I fought like cats and dogs because god forbid I had the audacity to offer him some cheese from our picnic spread and then try to take his little bratty picture.

“My Mommy is the worst!”

I finally surrendered and we drove all the way back home and went to our favorite cemetery. It was actually Henry’s idea. Oh, I know. Henry had an idea!?

Once we arrived at Uniondale, we were all at peace. That cemetery just rules so much. Chooch was in a better mood, he cooperated with the camera, and Henry stayed the fuck out of our way.

I really hope he’s in a band someday.

There’s a noticeable difference between these pictures and the ones from the initial cemetery.

Cemeteries are seriously our favorite places. (Probably not Henry’s, but it’s not like he gets to have any of his own favorite things anymore.)

This picture is relevant because Chooch got his very first concert ticket inside his Christmas stocking!

This might be a disaster, but oh well. It’s Pierce the Veil! Chooch always says that Vic Fuentes is his favorite singer, so hopefully he will love this.

(Yes, the scratch offs are his too. He loves scratch offs and cats: my son is an old lady.)

Chooch made us this card in school and it’s the best thing ever. Henry and I try to take him to as many cool places as we can and it’s nice to know that it’s not gone unnoticed. I just want him to be able to look back on his childhood and feel happy about it.

I love that kid so much.

The “I Told You Not To Buy Him Mouse Trap for Xmas Because This Is The Worst Game Ever and You Two Assholes Totally Aren’t Going to Play By the Rules, Now Get That Camera Out of My Grill So I Can Finish Reading the Directions Because I Don’t Remember Way Back to 1970” frown.

BONUS MARCY FROWN: The “Wait, This Fucking Game Doesn’t Come With a Real Mouse?” frown.

(Side note: I’ve never played this game by the rules before. Exciting!)

(Side-side note: I put my first piece on backwards and Henry the Professional Mouse Trap Engineer is berating me haha.)

I would like to pay someone to teach me how to wrap presents. (Not to toot my own horn, but I do honestly think that I’ve vastly improved. I mean, at least I graduated to real wrapping paper.)

The other day, Chooch was like, “Mommy, you do such a great job wrapping presents.” I thought Henry was going to choke to death.

Marcy was all, “Go ahead, you can pretend I wrapped that. But everyone knows even I would do a better job.”

Henry was going to wrap all of Chooch’s presents at his office this weekend but I threw a gigantic fit because I want to help too.

“Oh please! We both know you’re not going to do shit to help!” Henry yelled. But guess who decided to wrap them at home tonight after all? HAHAHA another victory!

Pretty much the highlight of the week for me!

And it’s always awesome when Chooch is making wild accusations in line about Santa being a serial killer. I’m sure the other parents were amused.

In spite of the world totally going to shit, I still wanted to have some recognition of Christmas in our house. Henry finally got off his ass and bought a Christmas tree last Saturday. Seriously, like he’s been SO BUSY that he couldn’t do it any sooner.

(He’s going to string me up by my neck with lights when he reads this.)

I lounged on the couch, waiting for him to finish encircling the tree with an infinite strand of colored lights, only to tell him that I didn’t want multi-colored lights. Oh my god, did he throw a tantrum! It was exciting! All I kept thinking was, “WHAT WOULD BO BRADY THINK!?” If Hope disapproved of the light selection, Bo would have sailed the Fancy Face right on over to the nearest Salem Target, bought new lights and probably even that single-serving ice cream that I Hope has been coveting, shot Stefano DiMera in the face and then returned home to Hope only to discover that she had been kidnapped by a possessed Marlena, but at least after Bo rescues her she will have a beautiful tree all trimmed to her specifications which she will be able to fully appreciate once she recovers from the amnesia.

Henry and I had a huge fight about the garland too, and then when I realized that Chooch and I were trying to put the same strand on the tree (he was pulling my end off as he went along), I dramatically opened my hands and let the garland fall to the floor.

“Fuck. This.” And then I went and pouted.

In person, this tree is so obnoxious. There’s no rhyme or reason to our ornament placement, no theme, no organization. It literally looks like we sat on the couch and lobbed bulbs at the boughs. Pardon me if my tree doesn’t look dipped in Pinterest.

This is just how I like it. It’s an eyesore and obscene, just like us!

Which is why I named this year’s tree the Obscenitree. I bitched about it for a few minutes, but like every tree before it, I have grown to love my Obscenitree.

Didn’t want the wheelchair to feel left out.

Or Pink Elephant Table!

Chooch made a Disgruntled Henry the Elf.

We found our original tree topper that I made! Had to replace the McDonald’s straw with a new straw, though.

I bought Chooch a set of these cat ornaments because believe what you heard: he is the youngest cat lady alive.

We had Chooch’s picture with Santa at Kennywood made into an ornament. I think we are going to attempt to have another one taken this weekend, with his big brothers Blake and Robbie. I’ll be surprised if we can wrangle those two together at the same time, though.

Rubberbanded the rest of my creepy baby dolls to various branches. Because it’s not an Erin R. Kelly tree without something dumb on it.

Yes, that’s the Gossip Girl series finale in the background, which I cried through profusely even though I had come to completely despise every last character on that show, but what else is new considering I pretty much have cried this entire week away. Just this morning, I was walking around Brookline and literally choked on my tears when I wished some young guy a Merry Christmas. I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE. But I think I can honestly say that I haven’t felt this amount of overwhelming sadness since 9/11.

But…life must go on. And we all need something to hold on to. For me, I guess that’s Christmas.

I was in the bathroom drying my hair when Chooch popped up in the doorway, wearing his very first Halloween costume that he just found in the attic. He never actually got to wear it (other than a quick photo-op at my grandma’s) because he was 6 months old that Halloween and it was pouring down rain.

This is totally going to be his costume next year.

EDIT: He’s wearing it in the car, too.

After asking Henry repeatedly to buy me “No Room For Rockstars,” a Warped Tour cinéma vérité, for my birthday last summer and then not receiving it because God forbid Henry should break his streak of never buying me a gift, ever, I finally bought it for myself as an early Christmas gift.

(It’s the only way, really.)

I watched it yesterday before work and wouldn’t you know I cried through the whole thing? Ask my cat Marcy. She was there.

I cried because there was so much footage of a premortem Mitch Lucker and his little girl. And I cried because Kevin Lyman, the Godfather of Warped, has made so many dreams come true for so many little bands. And then I cried some more knowing that I’m given that one day every summer as a vacation from being a “grown-up,” from sitting in an office, from never really belonging anywhere else. I’ve been ridiculed about it so many times from people who just don’t get it, or can’t be bothered to try and understand, but that doesn’t bother me anymore. It’s where I feel at home. In fact, I brought some of my Warped Tour photos to work so whenever I feel overwhelmed or down, I can look up and do a quick countdown in my head to next summer.

And yes, I already have my ticket for next summer. Presale FTW!

Anyway, here’s the trailer for anyone who might be curious.

For that extra touch of Yuletide bullshit.

There were many highlights to our night at the wintry Kennywood, like when the young-20s guy at the petting zoo fist-pumped me for wearing a Chiodos hoodie (of course this made Henry frown), and Katelyn asking me, “Which one is your wedding ring?” after admiring my rococo collection of finger ornaments.

“Why golly, that’s a good question. You should ask HENRY that as soon as we get off the ride,” I exclaimed in my most seraphic drawl.

You may have heard the faintest echo of Jonny Craig’s melodious pipes at that precise moment. That was just the sound of another addition to Team Erin, my friends.

Best mascot ever. I’d totally take him to the prom.

Lowlights:

The News Crews

We get it! Christmas lights in an amusement park is a novel idea! How much footage of shivering park guests do you really need, WTAE? I was doing an excelsior job at ducking from the camera, until Chris, Katelyn, Chooch and I were on the Paratrooper and the cameraman was aiming right for us. There was pretty much nowhere to hide at that point. I hoped that maybe that footage would be cut, but Chris told me we made the news after all. I didn’t get any heckling texts from my asshole friends, so maybe they were all too busy watching a Teen Mom marathon.

The Cold

Holy shit, it was cold! And you know what makes winter feel even colder? Riding spinny rides.

S’mores

Kari mentioned that last year they had a s’mores making station and I pretty much fixated on that all night. Kari promised we could look for it after the kids got their pictures taken with Santa, who was set up on the platform of the Racer. (Chooch totally had a panic attack because he was afraid he wouldn’t remember what to tell him — oh, to have such trivial things to stress about. You know, like: WHAT SHOULD I WEAR TO THE DANCE GAVIN DANCE SHOW OMG?!)

That Dutch Wonderland place had s’mores stations when we were there in 2010, but Grumpy Henry wouldn’t let us indulge. This time, he didn’t want to say no in front of our friends, I guess (even though he initially tried to convince me that there was no such s’mores station and that it was just a regular snack bar where he could buy warm soft pretzels for HIMSELF — until I frantically pointed to the sign that said S’MORES MOTHERFUCKERS.

So Chooch and I each got the fixins for some s’mores action. The goddamn newscrew was over at the hobo fire, filming no one making s’mores (seriously, no one had started making any s’mores yet). I hung back, determined to boycott mainstream news. (Besides, if it’s not on MTV or twitter, it’s not real news anyway.)

Finally, they retreated, and thank god because I don’t think Western Pennsylvania was  ready to see me completely ass-fuck the art of s’mores-making. Henry was helping Chooch roast his marshmallow, which would be normal in most familial structure, but one must realize that I am not actually in any position to responsibly twirl anything flammable above a roaring fire without the supervision of several experienced adults and probably a firefighter would be a smart addition, too.

“Blow it out!” Henry screamed after my marshmallow burst into flames for the first of eight times.

“I can’t! I’m afraid!” I screamed back, whipping the kindled marshmallow around in the air.

“You can tell you’ve never been camping,” Henry muttered, grabbing the stick off of me and snuffing out the flame. There was a young couple standing near us, watching this all play out and openly laughing.

I was not happy about that.

Henry returned the marshmallow to me said, “Don’t stick it all the way into the fire,” right when I stuck it all the way into the fire.

And then it burst into flames again.

I gave it a hard whack off the side of the fire pit thing, and there went my marshmallow, already engulfed in flames, into s’mores hell.

The couple laughed harder and then said, “Aw!” in mock-sympathy.

“Just go get another one,” Henry sighed.

Chooch volunteered to get one for me. When he told the ladies behind the counter that he needed a new marshmallow, he shook his head with disappointment and added, “It’s for my mom.”

Oh whatever! Maybe if Henry had made mine for me too, I’d be enjoying a delicious camp fire staple that I don’t even really particularly like that much, but that’s besides the point.There was brand new principle surrounding this activity now.

My second marshmallow did not treat me much better. And that couple was still standing there, being backseat roasters. “Hurry, blow it out!” the man hollered after I lost focus and let the fire lick my marshmallow again. And when I got the flames to subside, his lady cheered. This went on and on, with them pausing every few seconds to make out, until my patience ran out and I retreated to a picnic table with one half-kindled marshmallow. The other side was completely cold and firm, so assembling the s’mores only resulted in crumbling graham crackers and 100% unmelted chocolate.

It tasted like crap but I forced myself to eat it with a scowl. Chris had to turn away. I’m not sure if it was because he didn’t want me to him laughing, or if just couldn’t bear to see a boy scout tradition debased.

Fuck a s’mores.

Freezing our faces off on the Paratrooper.

Merry-Go-Round wreaths.

Henry, probably still criticizing my s’mores skills.

Afterward, we all went to Eat n Park, where I washed away my s’mores shame with a grilled cheese and we played 20 Questions and basically just repeatedly guessed everyone’s butts.