Instead of doing anything useful or worthwhile while Chooch is in school this morning, I scoured the Internet for a non-scuzzy photo of Jonny Craig (no seriously, scoured) to use for the tree topper for this year’s Christmas card.

This card is going to be so shitty, I can hardly stand it. It’s going to be like a Highlights Magazine hidden picture extraganza: Oh Honestly, Erin-edition. No one has requested one yet so that means I’m going to force it on every single person whose address I’ve hoarded.

Christmas card rape for everyone!

Henry is extremely displeased about this.

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My brother Corey and I first visited Trundle Manor in September of 2010* and it was one of the most culturally and intellectually fulfilling nights I had had in quite awhile. (I live with Henry full-time, remember.) The residents, Anton and Rachel (aka Mr.ARM and Velda, respectively) were gracious and charming hosts who didn’t make Corey and I feel like Abercrombie nerds; instead, they recognized our inner weirdness and made us feel at home.

(* For real, read that post—their residence is amazing.)

Since then, their incredible home collection has gotten a ton of press, culminating with a spot on MTV’s Extreme Cribs a few months ago.

So when I got the invitation to their Halloween party, there was no way I was declining. I’m still filled with regret for missing last year’s, all because I couldn’t get anyone to go with me. (Lamest reason ever, but we all know I’m the modern poster girl for “square.” Except that I’m so round.) This time, I asked my friend Wendy right away if she wanted to go and she didn’t even hesitate to say yes. We spent the next month giddily talking about what to wear and bragging about it to our co-workers who just looked at us blankly. (Except for Barb, who was excited! I wish she would have come with us.)

We settled on zombie housewives. Being a housewife is a huge stretch for me, so I really had to use my imagination. I basically just wore my Perdoozy sugar skull apron over top of an old black chiffon-ish dress I found at Goodwill; I carried around a bloody pie serving thing because Henry said we didn’t have an egg beater, which is originally what I wanted so thanks for defecating on my vision, Henry.

(How the fuck does the Kitchen King not have an egg beater? And not even a wooden spoon?! Best get thyself to Williams-Sonoma, ye culinary poser.)

Wendy also wore an apron, but she bloodied hers up (my one caveat was that I didn’t want to fuck up my apron; I really like that thing!) and tucked a duster into it, which party-goers kept mistaking for some small, furry pet that she couldn’t leave home without.

As soon as we arrived, we met Angie, who had come alone and didn’t know anyone else there. She was really awesome, had on a lovely homemade gown and flashed scary-sharp fangs every time she smiled. She also happened to be knowledgeable about absinthe, which Anton was serving straight from a fountain. As he extended a plastic wine glass full of the Listerine-tinted poison, I was transported back to that nightmarish after-work happy hour at Meat and Potatoes, where I battled a glass of absinthe and had my stomach punched by anise-flavored fists.

This stuff was not bad at all, though, and I somehow drained my glass well before Angie and Wendy, because that’s how classy I drink.

Wendy, being a creeper.

Meeting Olivia’s tumor again. (Seriously, it’s a real tumor from their belly dancer friend, Olivia. Don’t worry, she’s still alive.)

There were a lot of steampunk people there, some had come as far as Chicago and Canada. I love steampunk, but as usual, it’s yet another scene of which I’m only on the periphery. I had a massive, instantaneous crush on one of them, but we were all pretty sure he was gay. That didn’t stop me from photo-stalking him all night until Wendy finally had enough and started talking to him. His name is Matthew and he is so fucking adorable. Oh my god.

Rachel always looks amazing, Halloween party or not.

They had tons of carnival food there, like popcorn, funnel cake, fried Oreos, and corn dogs that Anton really wanted people to eat.

There were some amazing costumes there, not that I was surprised. There was a particularly dudded-up pirate whose way I kept getting in everywhere I went. He nearly sideswiped me with his obnoxiously-girthed hat at one point and I was beginning to think he hated me and my bulky presence in and around doorways. I think it was the squinty glare that gave it away.

The back of my steampunk boyfriend.

Random Trundle Manor decor that makes the demented interior designer in me salivate.  Their house is literally the structural version of what my dreams are made of.

Henry would never agree to a couples costume. He’s so fucking lame. Wendy pointed out one guy that she thought was dressed as Henry, if he were a hipster who wore corduroy blazers and Converse.

Here’s Anton on the roof during a merry performance by the Bloody Seamen, who tossed gold coins to the crowd before getting shut down by the cops. Of course the bloodiest of the seamen—the singer—was the same pirate whose path I repeatedly obstructed throughout the night. Sorry, dude. Good show!

Wendy standing by the hobo fire while the Bloody Seamen performed behind her in a small circus tent.

Another co-worker  from The Law Firm—Patty—is friends with Anton and Rachel, so we hung out with her and her fiance sporadically. And one of her friends gave me a cigarette, which made Henry immediately sniff and wrinkle his nose when I came home later that night.

We did not look like housewives at all. The only thing that made me feel better about our costumes was the fact that some people weren’t wearing costumes at all. At least we were better than those people.

OMG IT’S MATTHEW HI MATTHEW YOU’RE SO ADORABLE LET’S  MAKE OUT BY SOME DEAD THINGS IN JARS.

Three of my new Castle Blood friends arrived around 10 so it actually appeared that Wendy and I were perhaps part of a crew.

We happened to be standing near a table at the exact moment new party goers arrived with a giant baker’s box of cupcakes. You best believe my paws were in that box snatching a pumpkin variety like  Snooki dislodging an errant condom from her kooka.

“I’m so happy we were standing here when that happened,” I murmured around a giant mouthful, having one of my signature sugar orgasms. My face didn’t get this fat by itself, you know.

God only knows what went on while I was eating that. I had completely peaced out from all conversation until the last bite was swallowed. Patty felt remorse because she didn’t have a chance to take a picture of this happening, and suggested that I go back for another.

“You can just hold it and put it back,” she said.

I declined; this broad doesn’t have that kind of willpower. Putting a cupcake in my hand and then taking it away? That’s like pretending you’re going to untack Christ from the cross, only to say, “HAHA. J/K!” while driving in an extra nail. WHY YOU WANNA HURT ME LIKE THAT, PATTY?

OMG Matthew playing DJ: he just got infinitely more hottererer.

Props to this old school robot costume. I wish I had let my mom get old school Halloween Costume Mom on me for this party, because then I could have been intentionally awkward.  But that would have required me actually speaking to my mom. So…

Wendy, creepily eating a corn dog. I think this was after she was traumatized by two pirates nearly fucking in front of her while waiting in line for the bathroom. She said that when the girl pirate went to walk away, the boy pirate pulled her back and said, “Bring your pussy over here; I want your pussy near me at all times.” Naturally, this became the catchphrase of the night.

This was Dawn’s first-ever corndog! She and Angie had to de-fang in order to partake.

Later on, Dawn emerged from the house and said that the game room was empty, so we moved our shivering caravan into the house and upstairs, where we got to continue our conversation with the Castle Blood denizens sans chattering teeth.

God, it’s not even possible to encapsulate in words how amazing that night was. Everything from the food, drink (fuck, I drank so much Everclear), music, people and conversation was just perfect. Trundle Manor throws the best party in town and I hope I get to go back next year.

***

The next morning, Chooch told me that my hair smelled like cat puke. I would say that’s a sign that the night was a success.

What are you waiting for? Get yo’selves over there for a tour!

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Barb was nice enough to fill in for me at work so I could have the evening off to fulfill my quota of motherly obligations. And thank god, because Henry did absolute FUCK ALL as far as the costume went. In fact, he napped until about 20 minutes before it was time to trick or treat, I was so goddamn irritated.

“But my job is so hard! I don’t get very much sleep!”

Go cry to your mommy about it, OK Henry? Come back when you’re ready to be a real man and help put makeup on your son.

Thankfully, Chooch’s costume — zombie Justin Bieber — cost nothing. And thank god for that because Henry’s membership dues for the local Bronie chapter are late.

Thank you, Bieber, for being so easy to emulate.

I thought the lipstick prints were a nice touch, but unfortunately once the sun went down and it began to RAIN, I doubt anyone really noticed. Or bothered to wager a guess.

“You know what we need?” Henry asked, actually trying to get involved FIVE MINUTES before trick-or-treating started.

“A black kid to go with him as Usher?” I offered immediately, kicking myself for not asking our neighbor Toya’s son.

That was not what Henry had in mind, and I can’t remember what it was because it wasn’t very ingenious or memorable.

Chooch actually was using a much smaller treat bucket thing which Henry periodically dumped out in the Ugly Doll bag. We’re not that cruel to make him carry a tote bag half his size.

As soon as we walked out of the house, Chooch’s school buddy Nate and his older brother just happened to be at the house next to us, so they got to trick-or-treat together for awhile, but I feel like their aunt and uncle kept trying to ditch us.

I can’t imagine why.

At one of the houses, some guy who was maybe in his late teens/early 20s asked Chooch what his shirt said.Then to me, he said in this condescending tone of superiority, “I mean, I could see if he was a girl.”

Really? Is it seriously that common for a girl to dress as Justin Bieber?

So of course, I fixated on this for another block and a half, totally psycho-analyzing this fucker’s statement and questioning the obscurity of my kid’s costume.

“Let it go,” Henry kept mumbling around mouthfuls of pick-pocketed candy.

BUT I COULD NOT LET IT GO.

I was so happy when I put the pictures on Facebook later that night and one of my guy friends commented with a simple “Bieber?” YES. YES, THANK YOU FOR GETTING IT.

Henry reminded me that the rain was preventing people from stopping to actually look at what the kids were dressed right as some home owner exclaimed, “OMG BOB THE BUILDER! HOW CUTE!” as the little fucker behind Chooch toddled up to punch his hand in the candy bowl.

If I really wanted to reach new heights as a Halloween pageant mom, I could have arranged for some of the girls in Chooch’s class to dress as his squealing entourage. This wouldn’t be hard to accomplish considering how much they fawn over him anyway. I could have just set them loose and they’d have chased him down the street like they do on any normal day.

(I have to take my vitamin now. Henry bought me an apple corer thing like Barb has, so now I am eating all of the apples and choking back vitamins. This is a New Erin.)

There was one (1) Baby Ruth in Chooch’s bag that night and I said, “All I want is that Baby Ruth. Please, no one eat it.” But then I guess I was too distracted by my new apple fetish so by the time I went back for it, Henry had already shat it out in the toilet.

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I don’t feel like writing about Halloween just yet, so here are some iPhone pictures of Chooch in costume. His least favorite part was when I slathered on lipstick and kissed his cheek.

This costume cost $0.00.

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The last time we took Chooch to Castle Blood’s daylight matinee, he was three-years-old; The Lost Boys was still his favorite movie; he was super-enchanted by one Jason Voorhees; and we still spontaneously flinched every time he opened his mouth in public, praying the word “Asshole” (or worse) wouldn’t come rolling out. He spent the whole goddamn tour of the castle bitching about Dracula’s absence.

The denizens had been waiting for Chooch and his silver-tongue to return and we finally had a chance to take him last Sunday. This was my friend Laura’s first October in Pittsburgh so I insisted that she come along because everyone needs to experience the Castle, even if it’s in daylight. Chooch never STFU once during the 40-minute car ride, and guess who was in the back with him? HIS WEARY MOTHER. We eventually joined “Are we there yet?” forces and Henry wanted to blow his brains out. He’s the only one who hates me sitting in the backseat more than me.

When we arrived, some of the denizens were milling about and suddenly it was all, “Chooch! Is that you? Chooch is here!” and he took a giant step behind my back because I guess he thought I was joking when I told him that they were all waiting for him. Normally he handles attention with way more panache than me (I go through life hiding behind Henry’s back like a kicked puppy), but I think the costumes were throwing him off. One minute we were just walking down a sidewalk in a quiet town and then bam—there’s a bunch of dead people in gowns with the facade of a castle behind them.

We got in line after formally introducing Chooch to everyone, and he was sort of starting to get that smart-ass Chooch attitude back while being asked questions by the denizen guarding the entrance, like he was so put out and exhausted having to talk to someone and he kept turning away from her but then I realized he was blushing through his zombie flesh-wounds, most likely because he was trying not to look at her boobs.

Uncle Vlad soon appeared on the front steps and we were sent in with the family of four behind us, the parents of whom I had originally used my Ph.d. in Debasement to prejudge because the dad had a mullet and the mom appeared to be blitzed off Benadryl, but they ended up being pretty inoffensive, plus they had two little girls whose presence alone was enough to hold Chooch’s tongue through the entire tour.

That and the bountiful corsets of the female denizens. I finally found my son’s Kryptonite and it’s the same as every other boy in the world.

He walked through the entire Castle looking nervous and blubber-ready anytime he was spoken to, but this didn’t stop him from nearly knocking a bitch down anytime a candy bowl was presented.

Meanwhile, the mulletted dad would laugh and look to me for some sort of approval every time one of his little girls would say something that was mildly funny but not enough to have Bill Cosby come calling. The mom was always trailing behind with her eyes mostly-closed, laughing to herself and trying TO BOND WITH ME. Clearly my “Don’t even!” exterior is softening because strangers are trying to penetrate my anti-social bubble more and more. Sometimes EVERYDAY.

I need to start practicing that snarl some more.

Oh goodie, the Gypsy Room! There are these beautiful strands of beads that fill the doorway into the Gypsy Room and on that day, I learned that not only are they beautiful, but sharp as fuck thanks to HENRY whipping one at me. One of the half moons or stars, I don’t know which but it was something with SPIKES AND THORNS ON IT, punched me in the lip in such a way that tears spontaneously sprung to my eyes it felt like my top lip had been triple-shot with Botox.

Of course, I couldn’t bitch about it to Henry right away because I didn’t want to interrupt the Gypsy and get a talking-to from our (extremely intimidating) guide, so I sulked in the back and periodically checked with my tongue for blood. But you better believe as soon as we walked out of that room, I gripped Henry’s arm and yelled at him the best I could without raising my voice above a strained hiss. If it had been bleeding, I would have sued his broke ass for a hard copy of his entire SERVICE history because I know he did it on purpose.

Meanwhile, the mom of the two girls in our group kept slurring for me to go on ahead of her, probably because she needed privacy to huff beneath a gargoryl.

In the pirate room, Henry was volunteered by our guide to get up in there and show his bravery, which made me snort to myself because unless bravery involves reading Food Magazine and having a foot run over by a pallet jack with no retaliation, Henry had no business being up there.

But on the bright side, it helped him realize he has a pirate fetish.

After the tour, we hung around outside and talked to our new friends while I tried to appear as socially together as possible but inside my head I was screaming, “MY HANDS! WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY HANDS!?” I ended up just keeping them inside my hoodie pockets.

Someone mentioned that Chooch was way quieter than they imagined; Henry and I, nearly in tandem, said, “It’s because there are girls around.” Even Laura seemed surprised at how docile he had become.

This was all the knowledge of my son that Professor Scrye and Lady Die’s little girl needed to know before chasing him around and antagonizing him with little else but her femininity. At one point, I think he was trying to dive into a garbage can.

The good thing about Chooch’s voice being smothered by estrogen was that he actually paid attention in there and took something away other than candy for the first time. Granted, he was still too young the other times we took him to really grasp the concept. I think 5 is the perfect age for a trip to Castle Blood. 5 and surrounded by little girls.

“I thought those little girls on the tour with us had makeup on, but then I realized they were just dirty,” Henry laughed like we’re so much better than them, I guess forgetting that people probably say that about our kid, too. Yesterday I unknowingly sent him to school with half of his head still caked in fake blood and he usually has last night’s meal hugging the corners of his mouth. My eyes don’t start properly seeing until at least noon, OK?

Chooch ate his whole bag of candy on the way home without me knowing (and by that I mean I wasn’t paying attention) and then caused a scene inside the gas station, making everyone in there believe that he earned his facial bruises and contusions.

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Today is apparently All Saints Day, which never would have had any bearing on my life except that now my child is in Catholic school and they throw parties for this shit.

The paper he brought home a few weeks ago said something about costumes being optional, and I thought it was a joke. Kids actually dress up for this shit?

Besides, Chooch has been in 4 different costumes  in the last week, so I opted out on his behalf.

And what the fuck do sinners know about saints, anyway? I only know St. Francis, and that’s because I’m a spoiled brat who got to go to Assisi four times as a child, though all I really learned there was:

1. don’t piss off monks, particularly monks near chains
2. the hot chocolate there sucks
3. when you break something in a gift shop, run

So, short of strapping a bird bath to the front of Chooch, I really had no other clues and sent him to school in his street clothes.

Two kids in his class were already there when we arrived this morning: one girl was wearing basically a white potato sack with gold ribbing along the collar; her mom is one of those broads who has to have her hands in everything so I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “Of course she’s dressed up.” Another kid hadn’t put his on yet. Chooch was looking at me with these sad eyes and asked, “Why don’t I have a costume?”

“Because we don’t do saints,” I whispered, pretending to lovingly smooth out his hair but really that’s our secret code for “STFU before you embarrass mommy.”

I am hard-pressed to believe that every single child is going to come trouncing into the classroom in some ridiculous robe. You can’t have saints without sinners, right?

I had Henry bake cookies last night so I’d have something to contribute to the party, thereby acknowledging that this is a day to celebrate fictional Biblical characters. Hopefully chocolate chip and sugar cookies will suffice. I don’t know what these crazy Catholic schools do and as long as there aren’t any goats or rams being slaughtered on stone tables, they can have a fucking ball over there playing saint-related games and singing Biblical ballads. I just don’t need any detailed accounts.

“He could have been zombie Jesus,” Henry said when we were on the phone a little while ago and I think he was only semi-joking. I also think he doesn’t know that Jesus isn’t actually a saint.

Maybe we’ll pull that one out for the Easter party. They already know we’re fucking idiots.

[ETA: Apparently there is a feast involved in this holiday and now my interest is officially piqued. Maybe next year.]

[ETA pt. 2: The teacher told Henry that when the priest went around asking all the kids what saints they were dressed as, Chooch said he was God. Also, judging by all the shit Chooch brought home, all the other parents treated this as a Halloween party. NICE TO KNOW. There needs to be a handbook for heathen parents who send their kids to Catholic school.]

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My friend Carey from work had a kid-friendly Halloween party last night; Chooch and I were so excited that we did our makeup hours before we left the house and then proceeded to wipe blood on Henry while he was trying to take a nap.

Of course though, I waited until the day before to think to myself, “I should probably find a costume.

” I still don’t have my costume for the Trundle Manor party next week either, but for Carey’s party, I opted for an old tattered nightgown that I bought a few years ago from Goodwill specifically for the photo shoot portion of Chooch’s zombie birthday party. (That particular party was also the origin of “douche cup,” for anyone writing an oral history of Chooch slang.)

Thank god I never throw shit like that away.

I stuffed Chooch in his pj’s, equipped us both with a stuffed animal and slapped us with the Slumber Party Zombies label. I put minimal effort into everything I do.

It was a pretty weak concept, but Chooch’s doofus zombie act is worn out by now and I had nothing else to wear. Henry refused to dress up, so I told people he was our meal. (Because “douchebag” isn’t a costume, it’s his everyday uniform.)

Chooch took this for me. I’m actually being less zombie, more controlling camera freak in this picture. “YOU’RE NOT HOLDING IT STEADY ENOUGH!” He was like, “Damn bitch, take your own picture then.

buy elavil online http://www.biop.cz/slimbox/css/css/elavil.html no prescription

“

Seriously.

We got to Carey’s and her partner Liz’s house and Chooch immediately walked off like he had been there a dozen times, helping himself to food and exploring the bathroom.

(He is fascinated by other people’s bathrooms.) Then Liz put the hockey game on and I became That Person who sits at a party and watches a sporting event instead of mingling. (I did talk to people though; Henry was proud. This was actually not very hard to accomplish because all of their friends were normal and nice and not once did I have to steal off to a dark corner and imagine certain heads exploding.) I caught myself at one point, during the last few minutes of the third period, literally cuddling my stuffed elephant and biting my nails, like I was for real at a slumber party watching a scary movie.

There were other kids there so Chooch ran off with them and Henry and I we mildly concerned at first because hello, it’s Chooch; but then I remembered I had a near-empty glass of wine and went back to being concerned about getting a refill.

Eating small meatballs. Carey had lots of vegetarian-friendly cheese possibilities as well. I love party food.

I think I was already half-drunk in this photo, and we had only been there 20 minutes.

This is Carey, as seen while Henry’s intrusive form engulfs the lens.

Cheating on FAYGO!!

When other guests found out I work with Carey, they would ask, “Oh, are you a lawyer, too?” and the absurdity of it would make me laugh quietly to myself. And when asked, Henry would tell people he’s a warehouse manager for a beverage company, at which point I would rabidly interject, “He delivers FAYGO!”

It never gets old to me.

I’m so supportive of him.

Chooch and his new enemy.

What a fun night. And Chooch didn’t do anything douchey, break any vases or cut their cat’s ear. Can it just stay October forever?

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Yesterday was the official voting for the Halloween decorating contest at work, but I had to spend the first hour of my shift in an Adobe Acrobat training session, and the BOSS was also in this class, which made it drag on and on because she kept asking questions and for the first time in my life, I honestly knew what Pee Wee felt like in the motherfucking Alamo, with everyone asking stupid questions and all he wanted to do was get to the goddamn basement.

Or, in my case – the ballot box.

I even floated up out of my body at one point. It was so frustrating.

Afterward, I had to sit at my desk and pretend to do work while Barb had a crowd around her as she counted the ballots and everyone was taunting me, making me feel paranoid.

At one point, I was honestly convinced that I was going to lose and I was scanning papers while practicing my best faux-gracious loser face. (Which doesn’t actually exist so I guess the proper thing to say is that I was trying to invent one, not practice it.

)

Meanwhile, I used this as an opportunity to steal away to the other side of the floor and plant incriminating evidence in Glenn’s desk locker (a skull with a former employee’s name tacked to it) and then I casually strew a finger and key across his keyboard, which had originally been inside a secret box cut inside the killer’s diary.

Anyway, I wound up winning, but by a very slim margin.

It took Henry AN HOUR to congratulate me and then he MOCKED my winnings by saying, “Yay, cigarettes and gasoline for everyone!” But then he’ll be the first person asking to use it.

“Please! Just let me use it on one stick of beef jerky!” Fuck you, Henry.

(Oh, he just texted me and said “That’s awesome” in response to a card I made. Look at him sucking up already. Anything to fill up the tank!)

Glenn eventually figured out that he was the killer, but not without Sean and I holding his hand and walking him through it. Then he came over to my desk and admitted that he hadn’t really read Ken Lobe’s diary, which—-hello!—-had most of the clues in it. It all started to come together for him though, and what a treat it was to watch.

I guess tonight I’ll start taking my stuff down.

I’m going to miss sitting amongst bloodied plastic liners, teeth in a salt shaker, fake skin and a pig mask. Goddammit, I’m getting all choked up.

I’ll probably at least keep my pictures of Lizzie Borden and John Wayne Gacy in the frames.

Who needs pictures of their children on their desk, anyway? I see my kid every day.

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My friend Chris from Castle Blood has lent me some tattooed skin for my desk, which has seriously increased the creep-factor.

My boss was looking at it the other night and asked me repeatedly if I was sure it wasn’t real. I guess she just expects some asshole like me to come carting in the real deal.

Another one of my bosses was reading the diary and I was telling her about how I plan to finish everything off next week.

She looked alternately worried and impressed.

“You’re scary smart,” she said, which was nice to hear because I didn’t even think I was “regular smart,” so it was a really great night after that.

I’m really happy with the way these add to the macabre motif, and that some people are questioning whether or not I gave Henry a good carving.

I also made some additions to the killer’s diary, but I forgot to take pictures of that. And I took the night off work so it’ll have to wait till Monday. (I have so much time accumulated, that I’m just picking random days to take off at this point. It’s kind of nice.)

And now that our killer, Glenn aka Ken Lobe, is back from vacation, it’s been even more fun watching him look at everything and fall just short of connecting all the dots. I stole one of his desk keys for next week’s finale and he hasn’t seemed to notice yet.

I haven’t really been able to explore my darker side since I quit writing short stories, so this has been a really great release for me. I don’t want it to end.

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There are still only about 4 of us who have decorated at work, but I can’t stop fussing with my desk. I know that if I add too much, it’ll just be gilding the lily, but I’m obsessed.

Sandy’s husband Ben was generous enough to give up his mannequin head (affectionately named Head) for the month and Sandy even threw in her uncle’s old rotary phone for good measure.

Both really add a perfect old-time creep factor and I love it!

Leave it to my competitive streak to turn this quaint Halloween decorating contest into a veritable political campaign. Wednesday really brought out the dark side of me because someone (BRIDGET) had the audacity to say I might lose, so I got all up-in-arms and indignant and practically attacked every person who walked past my desk, forcing them to swear their loyalty.  Then I panicked yesterday when Mary texted me and said someone’s  (my competition’s!) decorations were all laying in a heap when she arrived that morning because god forbid someone point at me and start screaming sabotage.

I asked Chris, one of the analysts, if he’s going to vote for me.

“Considering that fucking pig mask scares the shit out of me every day, I’d say you have my vote.”

Another analyst said she’s voting for me based on my framed portrait of meat slabs alone.

I’m about to order macarons from Kaitlin and let the sweet bribery carry me to the finish line. Try to say no to me and my basket of macarons, motherfuckers.

Last night, I worked with Tyler. It was the first time he worked a late shift since all this hullabaloo (Battle of the Network Stars shout out!) started.

“Your desk gets creepier by the minute,” he said. “But you know what you need? A lock of hair!”

“Oh, I have that already!” I exclaimed, flipping open the Diary of Ken Lobe to show him the page it’s taped to.

“Of COURSE you do. Why WOULDN’T you already have a lock of hair?” he said with a sarcastic laugh. “You’re three steps ahead of me!”

That’s because I have no life, Tyler.

Someone asked me what the prize is going to be and you know what? I have mustered up every drop of panache for this that I don’t even care about a “prize.” I just want the title and glory. IT IS ALL I HAVE GOT RIGHT NOW.

(But seriously, there better be a fucking prize.)

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With all this desk-decorating hoopla going on, and planning for tomorrow’s pie party (ha-ha, that’s all Henry), I haven’t had much else to write about.

But since the pig mask has been such a popular topic of conversation here at work, I started reminiscing about all the great times Pig and I have had together and decided to share one of those memories with you guys, here, tonight, on the blog.

****

My Oinkin’ New Years, 2008

This New Year’s Eve was very significant for me because it marked the first time that I got to spend it with my bestie,  Christina. Usually I end up calling her the next day, crying about how lame my night was. This time, we woke up the next morning and proceeded to laugh about how obnoxious we are. It was nice. We may not have had a party banquet, a free-flowing fountain of Patron, or pulsating club beats, but what we did have was all the makings for an evening of wildin’ out: a pig mask; a Thomas the Tank Engine flash light; a stock of Disaronno, Woodchuck and (cheap) champagne at our gluttonous fingertips; and an arsenal of bitter jabs at Tila Tequila.

Henry started off the festivities by going upstairs to take a nap since he was running on a low tank of energy. (I mean, when isn’t he?) By 10:30, I was a little annoyed and really wanted him to come downstairs because “things were about to get real krunk.” I believe those were my exact words. I turned the bedroom light on and he promptly pulled the blanket over his face.

At this point, I did what any other rational human would: I invited the pig mask to hump my face and then proceeded to stand in the front yard, alternating between calling out a blood-curdling  “Happy Oinkin’ New Year!” at passing cars while thrusting a warrior-like fist in the air, and hurling stones and rolled-up newspapers at the bedroom window.

Suddenly the light went out and I found myself very troubled.

I assumed he had shut the light off and went back to bed, so I was a little surprised when I saw (and heard) the front door slam shut. It didn’t take me long after that to deduce that he had locked us out. My incessant banging and yipping was enough to blackmail him into letting us back in, thank god, but mostly because he didn’t want me to embarrass him in front of the neighbors.

Because Henry is a Grown-Up, he spent most of his new year’s eve on the computer, channeling the patron saint of ear plugs and searching for his reserves of patience to mainline, while Christina and I acted like drunk fools in the living room. (And all over my block.) This is what he looked like, pretty much all night:

[2011 Erin here, chiming in to say OMG WHAT A MOLESTER.] Leaving Henry to sulk at the computer, Christina and I cased the neighborhood, which unfortunately was not so much a hotbed of activity as I had hoped. Several cars passed but no one seemed to notice the piggy asshole gyrating on the sidelines. I even had a gang sign especially for the occasion. It was just the universal fornication sign conveyed by sticking the forefinger of one hand into a circle made by the thumb and forefinger of the other hand. (Wait, which finger is the forefinger? Is that the same as the pointer?) Flashing that sign really added some punch to the rest of my routine. One car beeped and a woman walking down the street nervously turned her head and veered onto a side street.

At 11:59, I frantically pulled my hair back into a taut bun and stuffed the damn pig mask over my face again.

Precisely at midnight, I flew out the front door, duly forgot that sound reverberates underneath the mask, and started shrieking “It’s two thousand fucking double quad ya’ll! Oink oink!” I insisted on saying “double quad” all night and there was a point where Christina was like, “Would you stop saying that?” and Henry echoed, “Yeah, please. That’s stupid.”

Christina dressed me up in her thuggish cash-love hat and we pretended like I was a Jersey Yo-Girl, right down to the streaks of orange across my face. She dropped Blue into my hands for the final touch, because nothing gives a gangsta street cred than a plush dog from a Nick Jr. show.

What’s that glaring red rectangle emblazoned across my ample bosom, you ask? Why that’s my Chiodos hoodie. See, all I wanted for Christmas was a Chiodos hoodie. I’m always pretty specific with these things, yet no one listens. Just in case Christina and Henry might think I forgot what assholes they are for not making sure my torso was buffeted by an over-priced example of my fan-girl love for a band, I fashioned my own Chiodos hoodie with a little bit of ingenuity, Henry’s Everfresh hoodie and a piece of red cardstock. On Sunday, I used a blue sweatshirt and white paper, crudely ripped into a small box just large enough for me to scrawl ‘Chiodos’ with my Sharpie, but it wasn’t as eye-popping as the black one. Both days, I sported my makeshift hoodies with pride. Even though on Sunday my hoodie didn’t even have a hood.

Henry and Christina didn’t seem to feel very bad, though.

My favorite part was later on when Christina and I were on the porch having a smoke break. The mask had been long abandoned by this point (my breath causes condensation to drip down the insides of it and it’s really gross; really fucking gross) but my vocal chords were still begging to be used. (Seriously, you think I like being so mouthy all the time?

I can’t control it.) I can only imagine how much my neighbors appreciate me. So there I was,  still very hyper and buzzed, running all around the yard, when I spied a car coming down the street. As a person who has always yearned to be part of a hit and run, I charged toward the street and started screaming and essentially shaking my body like a schizophrenic with a bit of a skin-crawling affliction.

The car effectively slowed down. Then the car stopped and I noticed it was a fucking taxi. Still a 12-year-old at heart, I laughed hysterically into my hands like I had just cold-called a crush and hung up, and rushed back into the house and left Christina to handle it. She stood out there, waving the cab on, and yelling, “No. No! No one needs a ride. NO! JUST GO! LEAVE!” Then I laughed in Henry’s shoulder about it for a few minutes while he desperately tried to shrug me off.

This New Year’s Eve was much better than the one back in 2003, when I completely flipped my shit at my mom’s house over a stupid game of Trivial Pursuit, lunged over the coffee table at Henry and called him a motherfucker, left all of my friends there while I drove home drunk, and then broke my phone into pieces when Henry called from my mom’s to lovingly tell his bi-polar girlfriend that all of her friends were pissed off at her for having another episode.

This pig mask is the best thing I’ve ever purchased.

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I’ve made it this far without anyone complaining to the boss I guess, because when I came in yesterday, everyone still had their decorations up and there was even a photo floating around of the boss wearing my pig mask. I was so relieved! I haven’t even come close to finishing yet, plus I’ve decided that the “killer” is going to be Glenn (of Wacky Worm fame) so I’ve been dropping some clues to see how long it takes him to figure it out once he returns from vacation.

I’m using an anagram of his last name, which is Ken Lobe. I’m so excited about this twist, it’s stupid.

I clearly have little else going on in life.

Our killer has expensive taste in murder vans.

In other news, life is good, and here’s why: I’m feeling much better, tonight is the official start of the hockey season, and I was summoned for jury duty! Beyond stoked. I hope I get picked.

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I set up my Killer’s office yesterday at work to a mixed bag. Some people loved it, some people were seriously repulsed (but commended me on it), some people didn’t get it, and one person mumbled, “I hate Halloween.”

But the greatest reward was that one of the analysts who never really talks much, to me or anyone, lingered by my desk to take it all in and actually showed emotion. I think it was the longest interaction we ever had.

The first thing you see when you walk down the hall is the pig mask propped on top of my closet thing. My boss stopped by last night to say goodnight and laughed heartily at it. “That’s perfect!” she shouted. Wait until you see the rest, I thought as I smiled nervously. I guess I’ll find out what she thinks today.

Aside from the pig mask, it’s fairly subtle. Yes, I have my desk covered with blood-splattered plastic, but nothing’s really in-your-face. You have to stop and really look. My favorite is the page from a used car catalog that has an Econoline van for sale, which I circled with blood.

I found a handful of old photos of my mom and aunt* from the 70s and several old Polaroids of some of my friends* from when we were teenagers, so I’m using those as my victim collection. I thought having actual photos would be scarier than just writing a list of names under a “Victim” heading. There’s a map of a random residential area which I hung up and as it gets closer to the end of the month, more and more victim photos will be taped up next to it with red lines drawn to the street where they were taken.

(* Susie and Christy, if you’re reading this—you’re two of the victims!)

Thank god I made Henry keep his old Weiss Meats coveralls (the ones that made him resemble Michael Myers and in turn made me like him; I’m sure he rues those coveralls now), because they add a nice touch, peeking out from my desk closet with a bone protruding from the pocket.

One of my co-workers came trolling past last night, stopped in her tracks when she saw the pig mask, and shot me a super condescending, “O-kaaaaaayyyyyy?” Then she hovered around my desk, inspecting all the details with this fucking “not impressed” smirk on her face and it put me in such a foul mood. I can’t wait to see the folk art she’s going to shit all over her desk. If she doesn’t have at least one pumpkin wearing a Leprechaun hat, I’ll write something nice about Katy Perry.

Today I need to find an old curtain or something that I can cut and hang up as a backdrop because it’s way too white in there. I need something that will give it a seedier ambiance.

Once I have it all complete, I’ll take real photos.

Also, how wonderful that this coincides perfectly with employee evaluations.

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Barb convinced the boss to let us have a Halloween decorating contest. We were cleared to go all-out so long as there’s nothing that makes noise (because god forbid people annoy each other with something other than repetitive, murderous paper stamping) and I imagine anything involving permanent damage is also out, which sucks because I was trying to get Ty Pennington in there to build me the facade of Bates Motel.

While I would love to run out to the Halloween store and drop a few Benjamins, I’m broke. And then some people were all, “You’re totally going to win this” when really, I’m pretty terrible (read: lazy) at decorating. Halloween is my favorite holiday but I don’t really do anything special for it because that’s what’s inside me all the other 364 days of the year. I don’t need to throw up spiderwebs and blacklights to quantify my love for scary shit. Still, I felt pressured.

My desk already has zombies, plush Michael Myers, CLOWNS, and pictures of my kid and Marcy on it. That’s some scary shit in itself, not to mention my Christ in the Smokies souvenir guide.

But I really want to play, too! And it occurred to me Friday night that I don’t have to really spend any money at all. Not if I go with what I know best: serial killer motif.

So far, the only thing I spent money on was a composition book. Borrowing from “Seven,” I wanted to quickly make the journal of a killer. I soaked it in the sink to give it an aged, warped feel and then pasted random newspaper clippings about murder, scattered thoughts scrawled with my left hand, and I even taped down a small clump of hair I pulled off a brush.

“Do you think that’s too much?” I asked Henry.

“Why? They already know you’re weird.”

Still, I was mindful not to get too crazy with it.

That hand mirror had been in this house for god only knows how long before I moved in. I found it one day when I dragged a chair into the bathroom to see if anything was on the top shelf of the closet, and there it was, all antiqued and dented.

“It’s probably not as old as you think it is,” Henry said today, being his usual killjoy self. “It’s probably only from the 70s.”

“And the dent?” I asked snidely.

“Probably fell off the counter.”

“Or! It’s from the 1800s and the dent was from bashing in someone’s head,” I offered, tuning out the rest of what Henry had to contribute.

I sprayed it with blood and it looks even better.

Then I created a small library.

“Why is one of these books my high school yearbook?” Henry asked suspiciously.

Yeah, that was intentional.

I knew one day, Chooch’s teeth would come in handy.

I also have a map of a residential area & a classifieds auto page with random vans for sale circled, and a little box with a finger resting on a bed of bloodied cotton.

I printed out photos of a slaughterhouse (I need to be creeped out, too!), John Wayne Gacy, Lizzie Borden and H.H. Holmes to replace Chooch’s pictures in my frames.

This is all I have so far, but it’s enough to get me started tomorrow. I pretty much did nothing all weekend but collect all these small details, and I think there were moments when Henry was genuinely concerned.

I’m so stoked! Hopefully I won’t get fired or forced into a psych evaluation.

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Guest List:

• Henry & Chooch (they were uninvited a multitude of times before Sunday)
• Janna
• Blake & Shannon
• Robbie & Karen
• Wendy
• Mary
• Barb
• Jeannie
• Kristen
• Sean & Leon
• Kaitlin
• Glenn & Amanda
• Regina
• Judy
• Kelly
• Brian, Sam, Steph & Zac
• Gina & Elissa
• Laura & Mike
• Kara, Chris & Harland
• Kristy, Nate & Sarah
• Bill, Natasha & Demi
• Jimmy Wenger
• Bill & Deena
• and of course at least 20 no-shows because I’m the most unpopular girl on the block & people suck.

Glenn would rather be riding the Wacky Worm.

I have been thinking about what to write all week and I’ve decided that I just can’t put it into words. It was literally like reliving my childhood, from the skates on my feet to the music in the rink to the Orange Crush in my mouth. And being surrounded by my closest friends, most of whom surprised me by actually skating (even Barb!), it was just the best feeling ever. It totally made up for the last several lackluster birthdays.

There were some downsides:

1. Not having anyone there who knew how to use my camera. I just wanted to skate, not take pictures! Janna gave it a whirl and managed to get some salvageable shots out of my finicky Canon (he only loves me) but most of the guests were lucky and escaped being photographed so it looks like only 5 people came to Loser Erin’s Pathetic Party.
2. The rink is not air-conditioned. Hello, it’s August. I was the true definition of Hot Mess because when I skate, I SKATE. So I got to transfer sweat-through-hugs to all of my dry guests. I mean, the people who see me every day are used to me looking like shit, so at least this wasn’t a new look for them. And it was obvious that Chooch was my kid because he and I looked like we had both just squeegeed a giant’s armpit. We were the sweatiest kids there, no contest.
3. My inability to convince God to let me operate his celestial Claw Machine in order to grab all of my favorite faraway friends and plop them down at the Neville Roller Drome. You know who you guys are.
4. Henry didn’t wear his hat like Jonny Craig.

When we arrived at the rink, Henry went to the side entrance to let the owners know we were there a little early. He came back to the front door and asked, “Why do they think this is your graduation party?”

Well, because a few weeks ago, when I was ironing out details with the owner on the phone, we were just about wrapping up the conversation when he said, “And hey, congratulations again on graduating!”

A normal person in my shoes would have corrected him and said, “Oh, no. This is for a birthday, not graduation.” You know, set him straight right away.

Me? I simply said, “Thanks!” and hung up.

And hey, I’ve never graduated from anything since pre-school, so maybe I kind of liked the idea of being a graduate for a night, alright?

Harland, Chris and Kara, post-getting yelled at by Roller DJ for breaking the rink rules.

Mary, Barb and Wendy. This might have been after Barb’s “spill.” I even offered to knock down Janna to take some of the heat off her.

Robbie & Karen, blasphemous roller bladers.

Bill, whom I met when we came to last year’s Pie Party with my friend Shannon. I thought it was so awesome of him to come to my birthday party. He brought his friend Deena who skated for a minute before yelling “OH THIS AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN!” and stormed out. I don’t know where she went, but she never came back. That was the most drama my party saw, however, which is unusual for an Erin Rachelle Kelly affair.

Rink Ref was trying to teach me strides, which is great and all, but I didn’t ask.

“Um, do you like give lessons or anything?” I asked, hoping we could schedule something for a time when I wasn’t hosting a party.

“Yeah, I’m giving you one right now!”

“OK, because I really just want to skate fast, you know?” I said, itching to be set loose.

Rink Ref sighed and said, “Go. Enjoy your party.”

God! Thank you!

I caught Henry skating really close to him later on. I fell into place with them and hoped to hear some juicy convo, like maybe what really happened the night Darrel Fell!, but it sounded kind of boring so I lost interest after about 4 seconds like any other time Henry is talking. I later asked Henry what he was doing with him and he said, “Networking.” Seriously? Doesn’t he know that’s what Facebook is for? People don’t actually talk to each other’s faces anymore.

And what kind of networking could one seriously accomplish with a rink ref?

Back in March, I approached Kaitlin, baker goddess, about making me a custom cake for my birthday. I have wanted a Robert Smith cake for as long as I could remember and had it all laid out in my mind exactly how it would look.

Kaitlin exceeded my expectations. When she walked into the rink with it (while The Cure’s “The Baby Screams” was playing, no less!), I nearly cried (I actually did later that night though when I read her birthday card). It was everything I had envisioned, minimalistic and instantly recognizable. Chooch ran by, paused, and said, “Oh it’s Robert” and then kept running.

Oh you guys, that cake. It was hands down the best birthday cake I have ever had. Fuck Bethel Bakery, it’s Zia’s Custom Desserts from here on out. (Seriously, if you live anywhere even remotely close to Western Pennsylvania, you’ll want to get a cake from her. Or macarons!) Beneath the beautiful Robert Smith circa-1987 veneer was layer upon layer of moist vanilla cake and raspberry filling. It was worth being pulled off the rink for. Even if I was forced to stand in front of everyone, dripping sweat all over my Wacky Worm shirt, while the entire snack room serenaded me. Worst part about birthday parties. I never know what to do! I mean, I’m awkward enough without a roomful of people singing in my face, thanks.

So I took pictures to make them feel awkward, too.

Glenn’s yawning, which isn’t surprising. He IS 50, after all. Also, a pretty great indicator of how much fun people were having. :(

After Henry cut paper-thin slices of cake for everyone (which I bitched about until later when I saw that there was no cake leftover and then quickly understood Henry’s stingy-slicing reasoning; also I think people had seconds and eighths), it was time for me to open presents! Chooch came over and tried to do this for me, at which point I turned into bitchy 12-year-old sister Erin and yelled, “GO AWAY THEY’RE MINE NOT YOURS” so he crossed his arms over his chest and ran out of the room with Barb calling after him, “Wait! I have something for you too!”

Record scratch.

She didn’t bring something for me to his party in May.

“Well, I thought you might be more mature than that,” Barb said, but that was right when I realized I was missing “Easy Lover” and started unwrapping faster.

My friend Bill, who was the Kaitlin of my old job (the one with Tina and Eleanore!) baked me BROWNIES. I was like, “Oh shit, Bill’s brownies!” and immediately glued one to my paw. I spent the rest of the time opening presents with a brownie in my hand, even though Barb kept saying, “You know you can put the brownie down, right?”

Not gon’ happen!

I got some great gifts! But really I was just happy that people showed up. That was all I really needed. (Ha-ha, what a lie. I wanted presents, all of the presents.)

Jimmy Wenger! He sat next to Jeannie, who strategically wore a dress so she wouldn’t be tempted to put skates on. Then someone pointed out that Blake’s girlfriend Shannon was wearing a dress & skating, foiling Jeannie’s plan.

Three hours went by way too quickly. (Everyone else: “God, three hours at the rink is a fucking long ass time! Shoot it dead!”) I’m happy that some people showed up and skated and I hope everyone had as much fun as I did, because it was like being a kid again, skating to all the songs that molded me into who I am today, underneath twinkling rainbow lights with all of my favorite people (plus Henry). And that is exactly what I needed after the week I had.

To summarize: it was fun and I was the best skater there.

I should have invited the Steel City Rollers, though. Fuck.

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