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?

Finally had the chance to make the Jonny Craig gingercrack house ornament that I wanted to make at my canceled Pornament Party. Now it truly feels like an Erin Appledale tree. Henry is going to be so thrilled when he comes home.

In other Christmas news, Chooch’s class is singing that fucking Up On the Rooftop song for the school assembly tomorrow, which means that is ALL I HAVE BEEN HEARING FOR THE LAST TWO WEEKS, him rehearsing it: in the car, in the bathtub, during hockey games, while he’s pooping. I wish I could set that song on fire. Or at least punch it in the throat. You know, since I can’t morally do those things to my kid.

It was almost like we weren’t meant to have a tree this year. I was so excited to get one, too, but wanted to wait and do it while Andrea was in town. I thought maybe that would be a fun thing to do together, maybe even have Andrea make some zombie ornaments for me while I watched the hockey game instead. We were going to do this on her last night in Pittsburgh, but Henry and I both got pummeled by some terrible intestine-scouring virus so in lieu of picking out a Christmas tree, we found ourselves unwittingly picking out hallucinatory grave plots instead. I thought initially that it was karma getting back at me for dragging Andrea to the Bayernhof Music Museum, that maybe I ingested some Bavarian parasite by getting too close to a Hummel figurine or wooden edelweiss wall hanging. But that wouldn’t explain why Henry was sick, unless my Saint Rita medallion is cursed and now my house is full of demonic energy. Oh my god, I never should have laughed at that hole in her head.

But anyway (as I slowly remove Saint Rita from my throat), we were going to do it the following weekend, but that’s when Speck died and I would have rather fucked myself with syphillis-coated pine cones than do something joyful like twirling around inside an enclave of Douglas fucking Firs while giving Henry a wallet hemorrhage.

Sometime last week, while I was taking my daily pity bath, I decided enough was enough and that my kid shouldn’t be punished for my prolonged pet bereavement so I told Henry to just take him out to get a tree one night while I was at work. That’s what they did on Thursday and even though it was still wrapped and leaning against the wall when I got home, I knew right away that I hated it.

“IT’S ALL WRONG!” I wailed, and then slumped in the chair where Waterworks part 87 of the day queued up. Henry, who had been very patient with me all week, allowing me to cry and snot all over his chest every day, had officially used up the last smidge of patience in his reserves  and yelled, “Then go buy your own tree!” before storming out of the room. Literally, I sat in that chair, coat still on, arms folded across my chest, and cried and cried until my eyeballs stung.

It was all very melodramatic and Lifetime movie for one little (fat) tree. But of course, this was all projection. It wasn’t the tree, had nothing to do with the tree. It was me feeling disoriented and directionless with a huge void in my heart. I think Henry knew this, even though we didn’t speak again that night.

By Friday, the tree had been erected. It was all stout and squat and I hated it even more, nevermind the fact that all my friends were reminding me that I should look at it as a gift from Henry. I mean, I like my rings big, but no way was that bastard fitting on my finger. And the worst part was that while I was at work, Chooch broke my Penguins ornament! THAT FUCKING DICK.

I finally let him decorate on Sunday, mostly because I just didn’t care. Chooch’s decorating style is basically to see how many bulbs he can hang on one bough before it snaps. 3/4 of the tree was bare, while the other 1/4 had enough shit hooked to it to be sincerely mistaken for a skirt in Lady Gaga’s dressing room.

I acted like I didn’t care, even posted on Facebook saying that I didn’t. But an hour later, while Chooch was upstairs pretending to poop but really cutting open my makeup with scissors, my ornamental OCD got the best of me and I reordered the entire scheme, helping the boughs bounce back to their original positions and just generally tried to make it look halfway civilized, not like it was reflecting our household or anything.

Who doesn’t love a random revolver dangling inconspicuously from a branch?

Henry and I sat on the couch after Chooch went to bed, and I couldn’t stop staring at the tree.

“It’s so stupid,” I spat.

“No it’s not. It’s cool,” Henry corrected sharply, because he’s suddenly the Sally Struthers of Sad Christmas trees.

And then I just started to laugh, like really laugh, tears-in-my-eyes belly laughter. It’s the fattest fucking tree I’ve ever seen, and then it just abruptly stops. You would expect it to be like, 15 feet tall. But no. It’s only as tall as Henry, which is like average man height. (Of course that would be his height, because Henry is a very average man.) I’m used to trees tickling the ceiling, not waving to it from six feet below. This tree is so fucking fat that it’s almost hard to pass through the front door without it reaching over and lifting you up by the collar, like some fucking territorial bridge troll demanding a pregnant fairy carcass in exchange for safe passage.

I spent a lot of time alone with the tree today, and I’m starting to love it. Mostly because I’m reminding myself that mysurly disapproval wasn’t about the tree, it was about whose paws are missing from beneath the tree. And I know that Speck would have loved this tree. (And by “loved,” I mean “tormented.”) So I am going to love it too.

However, Henry conveniently lost my homemade star tree-topper that I made 2 years ago from a disposable baking pan and McDonald’s straw, and it just won’t feel right until that god-awful tetanus factory is plugged on top of the tree. (Also, I noticed today that SOMEONE removed my Warped Tour ornament, but don’t worry – I found it on the fireplace mantel.)

So we had the Liberatree of 2009, the Mediocritree of 2010, and now the Obesitree of 2011.  Martha Stweart would have a fit. Happy fucking Holidays.

Hanging out with Tommy and Jessy today has been a nice distraction and I’ve even smiled and laughed a few times. We just left Meder’s*, where god only knows what Chooch said to Santa, Tommy found ways to spin every ornament into something obscene to make up for my Pornament Party needing to be canceled last night, and Jessy gave me lots of hugs.

(*A local nursery which is bursting at the seams with overpriced Christmas ornaments, real life reindeers to feed, & elderly employees who skulk around watching your child with stern hawk eyes, but it beats braving the malls and standing in line for an hour among throngs of yuppies and their ugly-sweatered child-yups just to have a 20-second meeting with a nicotine-stained Santa.)

Now we’re on our way to Oglebay, WV to see Christmas lights. That will probably make me smile too. As long as there is hot chocolate and biting commentary involved. Glad to have non-sucky Sundays back.

Thanks to everyone who has been so sweet and caring to me since Speck died yesterday. Virtual hugs are just as special as real life hugs, and I’ve appreciated every last one.

My friend Brandy is always busting out cool crafts and other projects on her blog, so I asked her to do something holiday-ish to share on here with you guys. I’m no crafter at all, but even I was inspired to take a trip to the craft store/fabric store/Goodwill/Dollar General (seriously we never have any crafting supplies in this house; just art shit) and try this out myself (with a TON of help from Andrea, who has a lot of patience, probably because of all those saints that she prays to. I’m starting to do that now too. It’s like a new game for me!). I will post about our experience later, pictures included (but no blood smears; that’s all dried up by now).

***

-Brandy

My friend Sandy and her husband Ben hosted Thanksgiving at their house this year and invited us along with two of their other couple friends.

Sandy said her one friend Brian reminds her of Henry and couldn’t wait for them to meet, but I have to disagree because Brian was definitely way more awesome than Henry. (This implies that Henry is awesome at all.)

Anyway, Henry’s contribution was some complicated mushroom and acorn squash risotto that took forever for him to cook. (“YOU CAN’T RUSH RISOTTO!” he kept screaming, so then why does Chef Ramsey expect his Hell’s Kitchen bitches to cook it that fast? And speaking of good ol’ Gordon, I prayed no one at Sandy’s had Ramsey-caliber palates.)

At one point, I heard him cry out, “OH FUCK!” which is probably not ever a good thing.

It turned out fine though; all the food was amazing. Props to Sandy for making Brussels sprouts taste like something super bad for you.

It’s always nice when my sweet son makes puking motions instead of just saying “No, thanks” when he’s offered something he doesn’t like. I don’t know where he gets that.

What?

Brian is Canadian and made some Yorkshire pudding things which I apparently missed the full experience of since they’re meant to be served with gravy and PETA tells me I mustn’t eat gravy. However, the fact that the puddings were cooked in bacon grease did nothing to deter me.

Meanwhile, Chooch acted like he lived there. He always does that, he has no modesty or restraint whatsoever. If he wants more chocolate milk, he’s going to have no problem telling Sandy’s friend Paul to get the fuck up from the table and prepare him a refill.

Henry and I spend a good portion of our social time doling out apologetic looks to Chooch’s victims.

After dinner, Chooch and Paul went downstairs to work on a 500 piece Charlie Brown puzzle that Chooch had spotted as soon as we got there and went upstairs to retrieve Ben after Henry told him to leave the puzzles alone and just play with the toys he brought in his backpack.

Ben of course pulled the puzzle off the shelf and once again, Sir Chooch got his way.

Then my friend Sarah shared a horror movie cast Thanksgiving photo on Facebook; I showed it to Chooch on my phone, who in turn shared it with his puzzle partner Paul and Brian’s wife Louise. He expertly roll-called all the villains for them, prompting Louise to ask, “Have you seen these movies?”

“Yeah,” Chooch started thoughtfully. “But mommy always covers my eyes so I won’t see the boobs.”

Everyone started cracking up and I was slowly dying on the inside.

“Boobs are bad, but all the blood and violence is Ok!” Louise laughed.

Later, Chooch shared with Paul that, “Mommy draws pictures of Daddy—”

I braced myself, expecting him to say “and his weener.” Instead it was, “with weeners all around him.” So, not so bad right? Henry pointed out later that either one was equally as horrifying for him.

Chooch was really doing a great job illustrating me as a horrible mom.

Henry was engrossed in Dora episodes with Elena, who is 2 while Chooch found two man-children to work on a puzzle with him. Later, all the adults watched three back-to-back episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba, even after Elena left the room to get a bath. I was too brain-dead and bloated to object. One of the episodes showed a plate with glistening slices of apples and then all I could think about was the bowl of apples in my kitchen and how Henry just refilled it that morning with a bunch of varieties recommended to me by my twitter friends and only then did it occur to me that I might have an apple abuse problem but it was still all I could do not pop up off the couch and cheer, “I’m thankful for apples, motherfuckers!”

Hey guess what? You don’t need family to have a wonderful Thanksgiving! Not when you have amazing friends who invite you to spend holidays with them. Thank you, Sandy and Ben. So this is what drama-free holidays feel like!