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.

 I’m not really that big on Christmas decorating, but all my work friends have their little desk trees out and I guess I caught some sort of gay (as in 1950’s happy, not gay) yuletide virus.

I told Henry that I wanted to make a Jonny Craig tree and asked him where I could find one.

“The garbage dump,” he mumbled.

Much to his chagrin,  I bought a small tree and some blank ornaments at Pat Catan’s on Saturday.

 Painted the ornaments red and gold and then glued some Christmas-y Jonny Craig pictures to them. Jonny Angel, Jonny Kringle…

…Ginger Jesus.

 <3

“You won’t be able to do that,” Henry said in the car today. “It’ll make the tree too top heavy!”

OH LOOK WHO MADE IT HAPPEN, MOTHERNIPPLES.

Random pom-poms upon my repurposed Halloween Carnival fabric. See Henry, I told you I would find other uses for it.

You might notice that my tree is unlit. I actually do have a strand of lights here, but I felt that at this point, it would basically just be gilding the lily.

(Or it could be because I have mild decorating retardation and couldn’t get the lights on it.)

It’s not done yet. I still have a garland of Glenns to make.

I also need more Jonny ornaments! Anyone feeling crafty? (No, seriously! Make me one!)

Two years ago, we took a weekend trip to Lancaster, PA because I had a deep, intense yearning to be near Amish peoples. We found out by accident that Dutch Wonderland* was open for the winter season and even had most of its rides running. I thought this was a really awesome idea and even kind of put me in the Christmas spirit.

*(This is one of the creepiest amusement parks I’ve ever been to and have been dying to get back there.)

There is something really magical about Christmas light-strewn amusement parks, and I’m really glad that Kennywood has gotten in on the action. I didn’t go last year for its inaugural light up, but Chris and Kari said that this year was much better. Obviously because I was in attendance.

My favorite part of the night was when it dawned on Henry that we were staying for the whole night and not just the Ghostwood Estate walk-thru.

“I would have worn something more than just a hoodie!” he hissed through chattering teeth.The 30-degree night punished him for his wardrobe failure and I laughed and laughed, even though I wasn’t wearing much more than him and let me tell you — sitting on rides that hurl you through the air pretty much makes you feel like you’re getting hit in the face with Antarctica.

Even the games had Christmas-themed prizes. Surprisingly, Henry played none. And by “played,” I mean “wasted a week’s worth of food money.”

Cookie decorating!! Chris graciously bought a cookie for Chooch to decorate, so Henry started putting his cash back in his wallet. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, holding out my hand. “I want to decorate a cookie, too!”

And so I was the only adult slathering hearty tufts of frosting on a sugar cookie, and I made sure to tongue-up every last drop of sugary green excess, as well. WASTE NOT WANT NOT.

Or whatever.

Mine was so much better!

He wanted to frown so badly but I think he was afraid his frozen face would crack.

Laughing at something KATELYN said on the train, appropriately renamed Gingerbread Express for the festivities, and let me tell you — it was way better than the regular train. Chooch and I entertained ourselves by pointing out all the mustachioed gingerbread men that looked like Henry.

Laughing Sal, all ready to trim your tree. And by that I do mean “garrote you with her garland.”

Thankful for this guy…

…and this guy.

And for Henry’s family, who stuffed me full of Thanksgiving staples and made me feel more included than my own.

And for true friends who have had my back so much this past year alone.

Thanksgiving 2012 = A+

It seemed so perfect and so simple: Chooch being Daryl Dixon, his favorite character from The Walking Dead.

For once, I wouldn’t have to piss around with zombie makeup or clown makeup. And he would be comfortable! No itchy wigs! No coagulating fake blood on his face! No masks! (We did the Jason Voorhees thing when he was three, and that was stupid. A three-year-old in a mask? What were we thinking.)

I figured, “Oh, I’ll just peruse eBay for some toy crossbows, it’s all good.” And there were tons of toy crossbows on there! Some were REALLY CHEAP, too. But of course, I waited until the last minute because I kept getting distracted and missing the auctions. Finally, a week before Halloween, I snagged one with literally three seconds left. I’m not lying. Three seconds. And I got it for like $5, free shipping!

Too bad the estimated delivery date was November 1.

Henry went to one of the thrift stores one night shortly after that and found a toy crossbow in a bin. He sent me a picture of it and walked around while waiting for my response. Of course, some douchebag snatched it up right before I was able to respond to Henry’s text. Henry, learn to be more assertive! You don’t always need my permission! (I can’t believe I just admitted that.)

Meanwhile, the plastic ears I also purchased from eBay had arrived. Never mind that they were over-sized and meant to impersonate an elf. I painted them zombie-green and felt relieved that at least one component of the costume was ready.

You can kind of see his zombie ear trophy necklace here. I wish I had more time — I’d have made the ears myself. And by that I mean I would have sliced them off the missionaries we keep chained up in the basement next to the litter box and then let them decompose a little on their own before giving them a nice, preserving shellac.

The last part (aside from the clothing, which was easy to pull together – I just sent Henry out with his redneck fashion sensibilities and he sniffed out an outfit right quick, y’all) was the squirrel catch that Daryl has hanging from a rope on his side.

Plush squirrels are really fucking hard to find. And instead of focusing on that, I was too busy checking the tracking info for the crossbow, which was steady holding at November 1.

Then Hurricane Sandy happened and most of Western PA’s trick-or-treating was pushed to Saturday, November 3, buying us more time.

Not that it mattered — when the crossbow arrived the day after Halloween, it was THE SIZE OF MY HAND. That’s what I get for never reading descriptions. I was actually at work when this happened, and Henry informed me via text. I was already having a horrible day, so this turn of events had me heading for the bathroom for a quick cry.

My immediate response to adversity is to cry uncle. “Just take him to the Halloween store and let him pick out some stupid store-bought costume, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE!” I texted Henry while trying to maintain a pleasant face for my unaware co-workers. Keeping it together is probably the hardest exercise in my regimen.

The shit that goes on behind the scenes in my head, you guys. The shit that goes on.

While I spent the rest of the night with sparking synapses at work, Henry and Chooch went out and found a plush dog toy (that was my idea! To check dog toys!) that is actually a fox, but resembles a squirrel enough. So that was a relief. And then when I went home that night, Henry showed me some wooden pop gun he found and a thin, flexible piece of wood and explained that he was going to turn those two things into a crossbow.

And by George, that’s exactly what he did! THANK GOD FOR HENRY. A goddamn Halloween hero.

Ha-ha-ha, those fucking ears. I mean, at least they stood out. I guess.

It was way too cold for him to go sleeveless, obviously.

And just like last year’s Zombie Bieber fail, pretty much  no one knew who he was supposed to be.

We opted out of Brookline and instead went to Henry’s sister Kelly’s neighborhood in Bethel Park to trick-or-treat with Chooch’s cousin Zac, because going in groups is way more fun. Steph and her boyfriend Kian made sure to keep a two-house distance from the rest of us, though. Trust me, I know – adults are lame! I always get stuck with them!

This picture if blurry as shit but I don’t care — it was difficult enough to get one; I wasn’t about to make them stand there any longer.

We were joined by Kelly’s neighbors and their 7-year-old twins, Maya and Luke. At first I was skeptical, because you know me and kids. But they were super cool and Maya had biting wit to match Chooch’s. I think he fell in love with her.

And the parents were fun, too! It was a good time.

Henry had morphed into that weird, obnoxious Trick or Treating Coach again (“THAT HOUSE DOESN’T HAVE ANY LIGHTS ON! DON’T CROSS THE STREET YET OR ELSE YOU WON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO ON THE WAY BACK! STOP CUTTING THROUGH THE YARDS! DON’T RUN — PACE YOURSELVES!”) so I hung back with Kelly and the other two parents most of the time.

In Brookline, we barely see any trick-or-treaters when we’re out. I know that there were definitely less kids out this year because it was moved to a different night, but it just seems like trick-or-treating is a dying tradition and it makes me so fucking sad. When I was a kid (I hate that I’m old enough to start stories with that bullshit line now), I remember there being swarms of kids out on Halloween, and you fucking stayed out until the last minute, when all of the houses started turning off their porch lights and your pillow case was so full, you had to drag it behind you like a dead body. It’s so different now. Kids start whining after one street! ONE STREET! This isn’t slave labor — you’re getting FREE CANDY just for looking adorable in your stupid costume, so STFU about it! My god.

Maybe if there was an app for it, more kids would have interest.

Here’s where coach Henry would holler, “USE THE STEPS!!!”

One house had their gazebo transformed into a haunted house. Kelly was too scared to approach it so she stayed on the street. I made sure to tell her kids later that their mom is a wuss.

At the house across the street from that one, I heard the guy handing out candy say, “Oh look! He’s Daryl from The Walking Dead!” and that was all the validation I needed. Thank you, That Guy.

There was a group of teenaged girls dressed in regular clothes and select Hot Topic head accoutrements who were trick-or-treating. We kept passing them and literally everything down to their very essence was irritating me. I mean, if you’re going to be taking candy from peoples’ houses, at least put some effort into your costume. Maybe go as a pregnancy test.  At one point, they were passing our little group of kids and overheard one of them saying, “Happy Halloween!”

“It’s not Halloween,” a tall one beneath a stupid fuzzy monster hat said in a shitty teenaged sneer. “It’s November 3rd.”

WELL, IT’S HALLOWEEN TO THEM, OK? OMG I wanted to slap that fucking snarled lip right off her pizza face.

I was totally never like that when I was that age.

OK, I was. But still! Maybe if more grown-ups had called me out, I would still be the same asshole I am today, so never mind.

Chooch’s crossbow broke at the very last house. Surprising it lasted that long.

<3 <3 <3 <3

Seriously, if Daryl dies, I’m done watching The Walking Dead.

Started stripping my desk of all its creepy carnival splendor today. It looks so bare and professional (well, as professional as a desk wrapped around an Erin Rachelle Kelly can look) and BORING.

A few people came over to get their Glenns and I had to send them away. The Glenn Dispenser is on the floor now, empty of encapsulated Halloween fun-balls. No more Glenns. No more fun.

:(

:(

:(!!!!!!!

One of my co-workers called me a wasted talent while admiring the Wall of Glenns. I know, right? If only there was a bigger market for miniature Glenn doodles.

Barb, happy that her recent back pain has lessened enough for her to be able to stand up straight, exclaimed, “I feel like I’m so much taller now, like the Jolly Green Giant.”

“UGH, Jolly Green Giant Glenn!” I cried. God, all the good Glenns have been coming to me after the fact.

Elsewhere at The Law Firm, there are speculations that the Anti-Paperclip Goblin might be leaving and I’m getting moved to a new area which I’m both happy and sad about. I suspect my work life is going to become extremely stressful. At least for a little while. Not like the Internet will have to deal with me bitching about it.

Earlier this evening, I overheard my boss yell to Carey, “Did you seriously just ask Erin Kelly if she watches American Horror Story? Of COURSE she watches American Horror Story, she’s ERIN KELLY.

”

I guess I can think of worse reputations to have at work.