We did what any other sad-sack family does on a holiday when they have nowhere else to go – went and got sushi.

Chooch kept dunking his lo mein into his glass of lemonade (“What? It makes my noodles taste like lemonade and I like it.”), so now you’ll never again have to wonder why I have a strict no-share policy when it comes to my son and beverages.

Aside from Chooch shouting, “I just want to be able to recognize what they’re saying!” and then counting in Spanish to try and “fit in” with the Pan Asia waitstaff, it was a nice, drama-free Easter dinner. Since it was still early and nice out, we took Chooch to the playground afterward, where I made him cry because I’m better at sliding down slides than he is. Seriously, this happened. I’m even competitive at sliding down slides.

Henry just shook his head and sighed.

Then he convinced me that I should not take a left-behind bottle of Diet Mountain Dew even if it was unopened.

While I was swinging (better than Chooch), the parallels between that and my recent emotions were not lost on me. One simple text message received February 24th at 12:22AM and everything has been swinging out of control, my heart has felt like a fucking Elmo pinata at some dumb 4-year-old’s birthday party, and for as hard and as stubbornly I’ve been trying to slam that door in her face, for as many awkward (supposedly) last words we’ve had over the last month and a half, she is still the only one who called me on Easter to talk to me about how I was feeling, to comfort me, to remind me that I’m a better person than my family has ever given me credit for. So what am I doing. For the last two and a half years, I have had this emptiness in my heart and would constantly ask Henry things like, “Do you think I’ll ever talk to her again?” and “Do you think she still cares about me?” and then she finally gets the chance to come back, but for every brick she knocks down, I’m busy laying down five more; busy listening to all the naysayers, letting other people confuse me, when I should have been listening to myself, and to Henry who has literally only been wrong a total of 4 times in the 11 years we’ve been together. But I’ve been too fucking bull-headed, resistant and cowardly to admit that I want to be friends with Christina again (there, her name has officially been written), to have that person in my life who I can call to get a second opinion when Henry tells me not to take some stranger’s unopened bottle of Diet Mountain Dew, in spite of all the supposed “closure” I was trying to convince myself I could achieve by putting all of our sordid past out in the open for everyone to read.

And if it takes swinging on a swingset in South Park on the day that Jesus provided a lifetime of wet dreams for George Romero by rising from the dead to make me realize that maybe the ending doesn’t feel right because the story isn’t over yet, then so be it. I just know that I can’t keep having these psychopathic arguments in my head anymore; I need to make a decision and stick with it before anyone gets even more hurt. And I don’t want it to be a secret. No more texting a nameless Cincinnati phone number. Either her name goes back in my phone or I need to walk away from this for good—no more Limbo. I officially don’t give a fuck what anyone else has to say about that.

There was a middle-aged blind lady swinging next to me and it was the single most amazing thing that happened all day. She was so happy. We should all be that happy on the playground.

Totally stopped pouting after that. (Until later that night, of course, when Henry chose his words poorly, which is like the worst thing in the world for an already hyper-emotional girl.)

I found Henry standing on a tree stump, counting its rings. Apparently that was his favorite thing to do as a child after completing his daily paper route.

Went home and ate coconut cream pie (with NO meringue!), which is really all I wanted to do all weekend, although maybe in my fantasies it involved more of a swan dive into a pool of it, less spooning it into my mouth.

Thank you Henry and Chooch for salvaging yet another holiday. How can I be lonely when those two jerks are always up in my face, anyway.

I’m ready for things to be OK now. It’s like I’m punishing myself and I just don’t know what for.

When Henry and I were out doing legwork for the Easter bunny Saturday night, Henry mentioned that he wasn’t sure if we still had Chooch’s regular basket, which is this large, heavy basket that is entirely too bulky to be used to hold Easter bounty, but I bought it for Chooch’s first Easter, when he was still an angel and deserved these things. Nowadays, the thought of putting a jelly bean in a thimble isn’t far from my mind.

Anyway, Henry bought this small “just in case” basket at Target, but we ended up finding the traditional basket later that night.

Both baskets were sitting on the table over night, because I was too tired from a late evening of watching scary Islamic men on public access rant about how caucasians are always trying to take credit for the invention of every language in the history of the universe.

“Chooch never wakes up before me,” I reasoned, remembering two Christmases ago when I could not for the life of me get the little slug to wake up and was left to amuse myself all morning with some Prince video marathon on VH1 Soul. “I’ll hide it in the morning,” I told Henry, who shrugged and followed me upstairs to bed.

[Side note: before Chooch went to bed Saturday night, he and I were sitting on the couch and the front door was open. “Oh shit, I see him across the street,” Chooch said all calmly. When I asked him who he saw, he said, “Jesus” and I FELT SO SCARED.]

And of course, Chocoh woke up at 8:30. We were awake, but still in bed, so I had to call him into our room to stall him from going downstairs.

“Cuddle with us!” I blurted out, which is totally not something we tend to do together. He looked confused, but climbed into bed. Then I said I had to pee, but really I flew downstairs with him hot on my heels. I made it down there in enough time to grab the basket, dump it between the couch and chair and toss a blanket over top.

The first thing Chooch saw when he reached the bottom of the steps was the back-up basket, sitting on the table, completely empty.

He looked at it in horror and then we locked eyes.

“THE EASTER BUNNY HAAAAAATES ME!” he wailed, face turning red and eyes starting to well.

I was about to assure him that there was another basket, but I stopped myself. “Let this play out for a few more seconds, Erin,” the Devil on my shoulder pressed. He’s such a permanent fixture, he’s practically just a large mole at this point.

If there is one thing I love in life, it is pranking people, ESPECIALLY my kid. But this wasn’t even intentional, which made it that much more perfect.

After a few seconds though, he realized that this was probably Case #789696 of Mommy being a dickhead, and continued his search for the real basket. But my god, I couldn’t stop laughing. That’s what he gets for scaring me with that Jesus shit.

Henry and I used to divvy the candy up into plastic eggs, but now we just toss entire bags of it into his basket. We are so traditional.

“Holy shit, the Easter Bunny brought me a SKYLANDER?!”

The kid loves his damn Skylanders, whatever the fuck those are.

We were about to leave to go visit Speck’s grave, when Henry got all hush-hush and held up his arm.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, staring at the front door. “Your aunt’s out there.”

But of course she didn’t knock. She just dumped an Easter basket on the porch for Chooch. Inside, there was a card from her and Val (aka my “mom”), which said a bunch of lies about how much they love him.

“They sure have a funny way of showing it,” Henry mumbled. I wish that they would just not do anything. I’d rather have a real relationship, not just “stuff.” But that’s always been the easy way out for them.

So not only did I have major Speck-sadness (first Easter in forever that she wasn’t attacking the basket and pillaging for Easter grass), but then I had the typical “Ugh, it’s a holiday and I have no family*” nervous breakdown.

(*Yes, I have Henry and Chooch, but that is a family that I had to make on my own. Sometimes I wish I had teh normal mom/dad/siblings/grandparents set-up that so many other people could to enjoy and often take for granted. Living like this might keep the drama out of my life, but it is not always amazing.

)

Totally emotional at the pet cemetery. The assholes there completely lost the temporary marker on Speck’s grave, so we had to guess where to leave the flowers. I’m so angry about this and can’t wait until it’s been a year so I can finally buy a real bronze marker for her. Total bullshit. Chooch was so upset that he ran away from us and laid down on the grass alone. It was completely heartbreaking to watch. Then I started sobbing and Henry had to stand there, hugging me/holding me up. We’re not even close to being healed, clearly.

Luckily, we had moustaches to play with when we got home, so the afternoon wasn’t as somber as the late morning was.

And then Henry drew this on the sidewalk, which made Chooch’s head explode. I was in the house but I could hear him outside, frantically trying to get the neighbors to look.

But since I don’t have concrete proof that Henry himself actually wrote this, no one will believe me. You can all pretend it says “I love meringue” which actually isn’t a far stretch considering we had an argument about that Friday night after he went to Giant Eagle and bought a coconut cream pie to fulfill my (non-pregnant!!!) cravings, only to buy one capped with MERINGUE knowing that I HATE MERINGUE OH MY GOD.

Good thing we bought a real coconut cream pie the next night at Bob Evans.

God, what a fucking emotional start to the day.

Got to leave work around 6:30 because it was so slow, but Henry and Chooch were at Chuck E Cheese for a birthday party, so I had to take the dreaded trolley home. Almost not worth getting to go home early.

Sue kept trying to coax me into taking an entire box of pizza home and I was like, “I can barely carry myself on the T, let alone an XL pizza box.

So she gave it to the cleaning people.

But I blindly chose the correct one and made it all the way to my stop with little incident. Did overhear two hacky-sackers compliment each others dirty hats though.

Clammy Trolley Fare.

Then I arrived at my house only to learn that HENRY wasn’t home yet. HENRY who has the house key. Hot Naybor Chris invited me in since I looked like a poor, shivering sack on the porch, but I declined because I wanted Henry to find me in such state and feel bad.

He did not feel bad.

And that is how I kicked off my Easter weekend.

Thank god I have two Valentines or the day would have really been a bust*. Chooch, who put way more thought into than HENRY, didn’t like any of the songs that the Valentine cards played, so he gave me a birthday card instead. He will only choose cards that play music.

*(In all honesty, it really was a sweet night. It was nice coming home to a clean house and good dinner after I SLAVED OVER A CAKE for two days.)

Anyway, I’ve had the birthday card on my desk all week which invites people to ask if it’s my birthday. I just now realized how idiotic I’ve been by saying no. I could have maybe scored a free Starbucks out of it. Or at least spoken to in a nicer tone (or at all) from certain people in the department.

AND CANDY! Which he wanted back after giving it to me. I don’t know WHERE he learns these things.

And he made me another Valentine at school. <3  I try and act like I don’t give a shit about Valentine’s Day, but maybe I sort of do, you guys. It’s fun to draw hearts.

New Year’s Eve started off by me coming home Saturday afternoon to a beautiful picture of Speck drawn by my friend Julie. I had no idea she was doing this and I was so touched that I cried. But these were good tears for once. I all but ripped the current picture out of that frame so Speck could have her own home on the wall. I can’t even adequately express my gratitude. Julie, you are wonderful!

Later, my babe and I watched the hockey game together while Henry and Chooch went to the store to get party food. Then Henry came back and walked around, moving all the candles I had just lit because I failed the Flammable course in the School of Life. “You can’t put a flame this close to PAPER!” Fuck, he’s so critical.

I’m not a big New Year’s Eve person; in my history, I have had more disastrous, tear- and drama-filled New Year’s Eve than not, so I’m usually content to just stay home with Henry, doing nothing but making fun of the various NYE bullshit on TV. This year, though, we had a small get-together with Tommy, Jessy, Laura and Mike. It was laid back, devoid of drama and tears, and just nice to spend an evening with some of my favorites.

It wouldn’t have felt right if Tommy hadn’t made Chooch cry eight times in a 30-minute span.

Tommy molded a pink penis out of what remained of the Play-Doh that Janna bought Chooch last week. Chooch NEVER puts the lids on and I wind up sweeping up colored rocks within a week. I hate Play-Doh more than any other toy, except maybe all those Tickle Me Elmo fuckers.

Weener cleavage.

Chooch couldn’t wait for Laura to get there so she could help him with the science project kit she got him for Christmas. You might think having the sweat of strangers rubbed on you in the club is the only way to spend New Year’s Eve, but we made volcanoes and some kind of disgusting yet addicting pink goo that I absolutely could not stop dunking my fingertips in even after it wigged me out to the point of yelping like a girl seeing her first weener on accident.

Earlier in the day, Chooch was being a total fucker so I uninvited him to the party, which made him cry, and this in turn made Henry sigh exasperatedly and say, “You can’t say things like that to him; you’re his mother.” So for 2012, I’m going to buy some Mom Manuals.

After a few minutes of me sitting there, staring at my pink-stained fingertips in some kind of bizarre googly-eyed awe, Henry sneered, “If I had known you’d get this excited, I’d have given you a bowl of cornstarch and water a long time ago.” When Laura first arrived, she asked for a “Blame Henry” pin, but after about a half hour of my antics, she mumbled, “I think I’ll take that Poor Henry pin now.” Turncoat!

Jessy got me an APPLE RING, motherfuckers! A GODDAMN SPARKLING APPLE RING, OH I CAN HARDLY STAND IT! I spent most of the night admiring it; in fact, I even missed most of the countdown because I was so distracted by the glorious rays of crimson light emitting from my thumb. This could have been the perfect engagement ring if someone had been more proactive, just saying. (Operation: Propose or GTFO 2011 was clearly a shining success.)

I drank so much that I was sweating wine. Malachi imbibed his fair share, as well.

At the stoke of midnight, I tore off outside, down the front steps, and embarked on a shortbus journey to the land of inebriated celebrations. I have a vague recollection of Laura, Mike and Henry watching with moderate interest from inside the house. “Good thing there wasn’t any ICE out there,” Henry remarked when I came back inside after realizing I was the only one outside screaming and engaging in some sort of sad jumping jack mutation. Henry is always in Dad Mode, even after drinking vodka all night.

Later, I learned who my real friends were when I drunkenly got a pillow STUCK TO MY HEAD and no one helped save me.

It was a great way to say goodbye to 2011, which was a mostly wonderful year full of new friendships; rekindling old friendships; getting to finally meet my friend Andrea in person; fun trips; JONNY CRAIG; incredible shows; getting to hang out at the Alternative Press offices (this is destined to be one of my favorite memories); amusement parks and county fairs; having my birthday party at a roller rink; and Henry finally dropping some plus-sized, shit-filled baggage. It just sucks that now, whenever I think of 2011, I’m always going to think of Speck dying. But then I just remember all the wonderful friends who helped me through it, and that’s enough to make me smile again. Stoked for all the things I want to accomplish and experience in 2012! Happy New Year, you guys.

(Sorry to get all sappy and introspective. I’ll start being a petulant asshole again tomorrow.)

Me, about Taio Cruz: “Oh, I always thought that was Akon.

”

Mike: “Not quite as high-pitched.”

Laura: “I’m surprised you even know that.”

Mike: “I watched a biography.”

Laura: “No more winter breaks for you.”

Meanwhile, Henry was bristling his ‘stache.

We had Christmas dinner at Laura and Mike’s, after getting spoiled with presents. One of the gifts Laura got us is a set of these dark wine-colored velvet drapes. Henry was especially thrilled by this because he’s spent the last 10 years living in a house that has pink see-thru curtains on the front window. (My house, my choice!)

Henry, thinking of how he’ll be able to prance around in his underwear now without those pesky Mormon missionaries seeing him from the sidewalk.

So many new rings!

Root beer float, made totally with vodka. Laura likes getting me drunk and watching Henry frown.

No one wanted to read the directions, so this game was put back into the box just as fast as it was brought out.

Malachi came with us! (Yes, he’s named after Malachi from “Children of the Corn,” and yes, he’s a boy.)

Speaking of corn, Mike made the most glorious creamed corn I have ever had in my life. It had GOUDA in it.

Apparently, when I get drunk, I try and breastfeed dolls.

It was a really great evening, but Chooch was really wound up and even though Laura assured us that he wasn’t bothering them, his behavior was embarrassing to us, so we brought him home and then searched the house for the wolves that raised him.

We went back to Union Dale yesterday, this time with a fully charged camera battery (apparently our spare is dead forever) and I had a moderate level of success this time.

I was still a big pouty bitch and yelled at Henry a lot because obviously it’s his fault that I am an amateur photographer. (Blame Henry 2012 pins coming soon!

) I am mostly satisfied with the results and now willing to admit that perhaps I need the Xanax hookup.

We went to Henry’s sister’s house tonight for some post-Christmas revelry. I specifically requested that we pick their mom up on the way because Judy has the best, oft-nonsensical stories.

A series of conversation twists had us talking about strip clubs, primarily a now-defunct club outside of Pittsburgh that not only had a swimming pool, but offered drive-thru services.

We kept pumping Henry for more insight, and he said, “I was never there!”

“Yeah right!” Kelly and I exclaimed in tandem.

“Well, not the drive-thru part!”

Judy was being unnaturally quiet during all of this, and with a thoughtful look on her face, she said, “One time I was in a backseat with another girl—”

Right away, we all got quiet.

“Mom, do I need to be drinking for this?” Kelly asked apprehensively.

“—-and the guys put a blanket over our faces so we wouldn’t see where they were taking us.”

Kelly, Henry and I all exchanged looks, unsure of what direction this was going.

“They took us somewhere in McKeesport—”

“To a strip club?” Kelly guessed.

“No, to an alley,” Judy corrected. “They were driving us down alleys.”

We were all laughing, but with more trepidation than mirth.

“For what?” Henry asked, totally perplexed.

“They were knocking on doors,” Judy calmly added.

“For drugs?” Kelly asked, horrified.

“Whores!” Judy shouted, like she couldn’t imagine why this was so hard to figure out. I nearly gave myself a migraine from laughing so hard.

“When was this?!” Henry asked in the high-pitched tone of a son disappointed in his mother.

“I don’t know, let me see. The 60s, no the 50s. The 60s. No, definitely the early 70s.”

“Oh my god, I was alive when you were knocking on doors for whores in alleys?!” Henry shouted.

“I mean, the 50s!” Judy cried, but she was laughing too hard for her retraction to be taken seriously.

During the course of the night, I also learned that Christmas in the 70s entailed Judy stomping on presents and then catching herself on fire. God love her. If only I could get her to guest post on here. Imagine all the Henry dirt she could share!

I hope everyone enjoyed their holidays. Here is the card I made that hopefully is now safe to post on here. It’s a smorgasbord of shit that pops up on the blog.

In no particular order: Wacky Worm, Law Firm Lamb Cake, Ugly Dancer, Warped Tour*, cemetery shout out*, rollerskating, best/worst picture of me + deodorant commercial guy, bait shop, ghost hunting, pig mask, JONNY CRAIG. I sent this card to some people who don’t read my blog and I’m sure they were thoroughly confused. Maybe you are too, which is why there are handy hyperlinks to click. (* Do I seriously need to explain these ones, though?)

I already had the first batch sealed in envelopes and ready to go, and then Speck died. I felt so guilty that Marcy was on the card, and not her, that I made Henry print out stickers with her face on it, then I ripped open every envelope and added her to the cards. For the second batch, I had him photoshop her into it because it was breaking my heart to look at her every time I peeled off a sticker. (For the record, that is the ONLY part of this card that Henry contributed to.)

And now, thanks to the suggestion of my friend Octavia, a larger version of the Jonny Craig angel has been printed out, taped to a straw, and shoved down onto the top of our tree. It’s glorious!

Andrea said her favorite part is how I’m protectively clutching Chooch’s arm, because that would never happen in real life. This is so true!

Thank god Christmas is done-zo for another year.

Finally, a reason to use the real camera! Not that I need a “reason,” but I’ve got to say, taking pictures with my iPhone and then uploading them straight to WordPress has really turned me into a lazy ass fauxtographer.

Henry had one responsibility all day: charge the camera batteries. Well, he did. Except the one is apparently dead forever and the other one he LEFT AT HOME. I managed to take maybe 3 pictures before the camera died and it was back to fauxtography for me. (Insert lots of screaming, swearing, crying and THIS IS THE WORST XMAS EVERing in between all of that though.)

Creepy Doll came with us. I haven’t officially named him, though I HAVE been calling him Buddy a lot. I thought it would be cute to recreate these two pictures from 2007:

Maybe that can happen when I go back with my real camera.

Every Christmas I say, “Next year’s picnic will be better, we’ll plan ahead and make it good.” And then a year goes by and there we are, snatching bags of chips and stale processed baked “goods” off the shelves of CoGo’s, just like the year before. I guess it’s part of the tradition, eating convenience store crap in the cemetery. This year, they were out of egg nog though. Fuck!

As soon as we got out of the car, this wicked gust of wind kicked up out of nowhere and we were fighting to walk through it. It was actually pretty intimidating and I kept telling Henry that I felt it was pure evil and he was sort of giving me this look that read, “What? It doesn’t feel like you at all. It’s much warmer.” It’s weird how some days I can go to the cemetery and carry on my business (gutting hobos to sell to the bait shop) like nothing, but then other days I feel decidedly unwelcome. We wrapped up quickly and split.

I mean, I’m sure Creepy Buddy had nothing to do with it.

Take Two happens today.

Christmas morning went way better than Christmas Eve, although we did at least get to see my dad and my brother Corey for a hot second.

And Chooch randomly found one of my weener drawings on my phone and we had a wrestling match as he tried desperately to show my dad. It was so embarrassing. I was able to wrench the phone from him but couldn’t stop him from telling my dad, “MOMMY DRAWS PICTURES OF WEENERS ON PEOPLE!!

” I deserve that, I know. This was right after my dad exclaimed, “ARE THOSE TATTOOS ON YOUR FINGERS? LIKE, PERMANENT?” He was probably thanking Baby Jesus for sure that I’m not his real daughter.

My dad is very old school. Henry got him a case of Faygo vanilla cream soda IN BOTTLES and he almost had a nostalgia coronary. And he thought the tiny donuts we brought over were like the best things since Cow Tails.

Corey got Chooch a very Chooch-esque hat:

I remember the days when Chooch was a baby and Corey used to hold him out and far away from his body like he was a swaddled bomb.

Barb hooks up Chooch, too:

It was bittersweet watching Chooch unwrap all his gifts this morning without Speck attacking the wrapping paper scraps. Marcy was lurking around, casting irritated and hateful glances at Chooch and me, but it didn’t make me miss Speck any less. I still can barely believe she’s not here anymore.

For as high-maintenance as my child can be (don’t know where he gets it), it’s nice to see that it’s still the little things that please him.

“OMG A NEW PACK OF MARKERS!” Seriously. I’d have knocked down a wall if someone had dared call a pack of markers a Christmas gift for me when I was that age.

Chooch really loves LMFAO. I don’t necessarily approve of this, but who am I to crush a blossoming love for music just because it’s not something I personally choose to enjoy? (Oh who am I kidding. I will needle him endlessly today.)

“You don’t have to be excited about it. They’re MY presents,” Chooch said to Henry, who apparently elicit the zealous response Chooch was seeking.

“I can’t believe Santa got me a book about BOOBS! I hope he doesn’t take it away.”

The gifting extravaganza was watched upon by our Obesitree’s new sentinel, the Jonny Craig Angel:

(That’ll teach Henry not to pitch my homemade Christmas tree toppers.)

Next up is our traditional cemetery picnic and then more Christmas revelry at Mike and Laura’s. Merry Christmas, Internet!

While out and about on the Southside, trying to get last minute shopping under our belts, we stopped at the Little Donuts Shop to get some, well, little donuts to take to my dad’s house.

“Little Donut, Big Jerk.”

The proprietor gave us generous samples and even threw in some extras. I was really pleased with the service and I’m happy to have a new tiny donut place to patronize, since the other one (Peace Love & Donuts) is run by a gay-hating bigot. (No, seriously. Don’t go there. Unless you hate gay people. Then be my guest, but let’s not be friends.)

Nothing says “Merry Xmas Eve!” like a dozen Lilliputian donuts capped with holiday sprinkles. (And hopefully a pitcher of spiked egg nog to wash it down.)

Came into work today to find a large box beside my desk, all wrapped in a candy cane print. It was from Barb and she told me to open it immediately; within seconds, a small crowd of people privy to the box’s contents had gathered at my desk

I opened it and immediately almost pissed my pants. A few weeks ago, I was at the flea market with Tommy and Jessy and took a picture of this creep-factory of a doll. Of course, by the time I got home that day, I was kicking myself for not buying it. I even checked when I was there two weeks ago with Andrea, but didn’t see it and felt extreme sadness and regret.

Barb knew that I was coveting it and went back and bought it for me for Christmas and I can’t even believe it I am dying of happiness right now punctuation what!?

Of course, everyone was like, “That is so creepy! Why do you want that?!” and then it was fun to watch as they realized they had already answered their question.

Sean came over and caught me cradling my new (old) doll. He shook his head and said, “Hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Bridget was like, “OMG THAT’S SO DIRTY HOW CAN YOU PUT THAT SO CLOSE TO YOUR FACE!” or something equally as chastising and oh look she just came back and said, “I wouldn’t touch that if you paid me and I sincerely suggest that you anti-bac your hands.”

Nina and Wendy cried a little bit when they saw it. Mitch and Lee seemed to approve. Chris, who was here when I opened it and looked thoroughly flabbergasted, just walks by now and gives me leery motive-questioning looks.

He fits in so well with all my creepy shit and Jesus pen!

He’s coming home with me this weekend for our annual Christmas picnic in the cemetery, but I think after that, he’ll reside here in The Law Firm. I like the reactions he’s provoked.

This just solidifies what I already knew: Barb is the best co-worker ever and most attentive friend. (Plus, she reads my blog like a good girl.)

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

• I just learned that Barb bought this the same day I was at the flea market with Andrea looking for it.
• I have been carrying it around the department with me and it occured to me that I am holding it with more natural panache than I have ever held a live baby. 

As I mentioned the other day, Chooch’s Kindergarten class got strapped with “Up On the Rooftop” for the school recital, so I had to endure two weeks of random “CLICK CLICK CLICK!!!!!!11” outbursts. The recital was this morning, so I have high hopes that perhaps this nerve-prickling carol will be put to bed.

Remember a few weeks ago when I went to Saint Anthony’s and the Holy Ghost anally entered me, deluding me into thinking that I should start going to church? That was obviously a very fleeting consideration, because from the moment I set foot in that church this morning (Chooch goes to Catholic school, remember? Please swallow your need to put out this glaring irony), the mark of the Devil on the nape of  my neck began to singe and I was afraid to open my mouth for fear of the parseltongue that would come somersaulting out.

Most of those parents are True Catholics. I watched in disgust as some of them genuflected every time they went in and out of their pew. Get a fucking grip, you God nerds. This is just a bunch of beaten-down moms watching their tone deaf kids sing obnoxious Christmas carols. There wasn’t even a priest in sight!

Fuck, some people have a lot of respect.

Before the recital started (if the 8th grade band honking and squelching on their ragtag instruments counts as kicking off a recital), the principal got up on the podium and reminded everyone that this is, after all, a church (don’t let those stained glass windows fool you into thinking you’re in a gothic strip club) and that all cell phones should be turned off (make me) and all hats removed. Because God hates a fucking hat.

“Dude, take your hat off,” I whispered to Henry.

“No,” he said defiantly.

After the band wheezed and puffed their way through some handicapped version of a Christmas carol (“Away in a Manger” maybe? The mind has a funny way of blocking out traumas), the prinicpal once again took her spot at the podium and reiterated in a very Mussolini-tone that THIS IS A CHURCH, HELLO YOU HAT-WEARING MOTHERFUCKER, TAKE IT THE FUCK OFF YOUR HEATHEN HEAD.

Again, Henry made no effort to take off his hat. People were starting to turn around, scanning the heads of the audience for that douchebag with a covered scalp.

Henry was the only one wearing a hat.

I waited a beat for God to blast his Heavenly spotlight upon Henry’s cotton-topped pate.

“Take it off!” I hissed.

“Me?” He asked. No, the other blue collar beverage warehouse worker. He finally pulled his beanie off his head, and then promplty started muttering about how his hair was still wet. I didn’t even care at  that point. I hate having people look at me and I’d rather be the poor lady next to the douchebag who dared come to church straight from the New England fishing boat than the lady next to the man who needs a hairdryer for Christmas.

Hatless Henry.

O Come (the Fuck On and Finish the Goddamn Song), Emmanuel. WHAT. Seriously, this is the longest song in the history of songs I have heard and been annoyed by. Some of the upper classes would sing like, two stanzas and then pause to have the fucking principal read some religious shit.

It went on and on like this. Singing. [ME, TWEETING] Religious shit. [BABY CRYING] Singing. [OLD PERSON COUGHING] Religious Shit. The parents were encouraged to sing along and everyone (but me) made a mad dash for the Missalette. Even Henry eventually grabbed one, but I think it was just so he could distract himself from the shame he felt for being That Douche In the Hat.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only fifteen minutes (which, in church time, IS ETERNITY), the Kindergarteners finally took the stage (altar?) and there was a rush of parents into the aisle, cameras and phones in hand. I was actually a Good Mom and joined them because I wanted to record it on my phone.

I am a Very Good Recorderer, as you are about to find out. Plus, you get to hear my whiny voice in the beginning and Henry having no patience.

I am so happy that after all that “practice” he did in the house, in the car, in my nightmares, he just STOOD THERE SMILING and NOT SINGING. He didn’t even do the arm motions!

Oh well. At least it was a short song.

Right after they were done, Henry said all quickly, “OK, gotta go back to work see ya bye!” and LEFT ME ALONE IN CHURCH. Some little girl in the pew in front of me kept turning around and gawking at my finger tattoos and I was feeling extremely uncomfortable and kept averting my eyes. God, I don’t like little girls. And this one wouldn’t just sit the fuck down, either. SIT THE FUCK DOWN! DON’T YOU KNOW GOD IS WATCHING YOU?

It seemed like I was there all day. My lower back was burning from sitting on that goddamn pew. The principal made this smooth transition from school recital to MASS by ending with some lame ass prayer and making us all do the Sign of the Cross (I remembered how to do it! Then I was like, “I can’t believe I just mindlessly followed along like a fucking sheep! I hate myself!”) and it ended with a part of church that I had forgotten about: that weird Flanders-esque “Peace be with you” segment where everyone engages in a mad flurry of spreading viruses and pestilence through clammy-palmed handshakes.

I found my shoulders rising as the rest of me slid lower and lower still in the pew. I knew at least the little girl wouldn’t turn around, wanting to shake my weird tattooed hands, so what a blessing after all.

I made it out without having to touch anyone or look anyone in the eye or speak to anyone about anything in general. And the roof didn’t collapse. All good things.

Oh, and I got to see my kid wearing cute antlers, which was the whole point, right?