Alisha and I had plans to meet down the street at Eat n Park for lunch.  I don’t mind walking there because it’s only a few blocks away, but I hate that I have to cross over a main road; it’s a phobia.  Fortunately, there was a young guy ahead of me who was about to cross, so I ran and yelled, “Wait! Wait for me!” He turned mid-step to eye me up suspiciously. Catching up to him, I panted, “I don’t like crossing the street by myself.” It wasn’t awkward at all. But then I made the mistake of telling Alisha and she was like, “Why are you so stupid.”  Later, she ordered a turtle sundae but that is a story for another time.

__________________________________________________

OK, it’s time. Alisha decided we should get dessert and since she was buying, I heartily agreed. “I’ll have the dutch apple pie,” I said to our waitress, Barb. This was after I recovered from the shiver session I had when, in passing, Barb imprisoned me in an intense eye-lock. I really don’t know what that was all about, but afterward I was literally trying to bear hug my way through to my soul, you can ask Alisha.

Barb nodded and duly jotted it down.

“And I want the turtle sundae,” Alisha mumbled with the general disdain she reserves for strangers.

“Ooooh, the turtle sundae!” Barb exclaimed in an intonation preschool teachers must master before getting their own classroom. And then she let loose with some celebratory sound before shuffling away.

Shocked, I asked Alisha, “Did she say ‘God damn’?!”

“No,” Alisha shook her head, looking alarmed. “It was just some excited noise. And why was she talking to me like I’m 8 years old?”

When Barb came back, she made some monotoned comment about, “Here’s your dutch” before raising her voice several octaves and cooing, “And here’s your….turtle sundae! Ooooh! Look at that!” Alisha gave her a fake smile and was all, “OK bye bye now.”

“What the hell, it’s just a sundae,” I said. And not even a signature one at that. But then I remembered I had the pie of the Dutch beneath my face and focused on that for awhile.

Barb reappeared a few minutes later to make sure we were competently devouring our desserts. “How’s your TURTLE SUNDAE?!” she shouted, fawning all over Alisha like she was a visiting diplomat, because don’t all visiting diplomats stop at Eat n Park for a turtle fucking sundae while visiting Pittsburgh?

Alisha, refusing to make eye contact, assured her it was fine. Satisfied with that review, Barb began to retreat. She made it a few feet before turning, as an after thought, and asking over her shoulder, “Oh, and how’s the pie?”

Oh, why it’s no turtle sundae, Barb.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that this situation seemed redundant. Like, I was having some major deja vu. And then I realized I had been in that same situation before, three years ago, only that time I was in the Queen Seat. I went home and checked LiveJournal, and sure enough, this was not my first run-in with Barb, the Dessert Snob:

July 2007

Lisa temporarily resides in Colorado so I was excited to get to see her Wednesday afternoon during her Pittsburgh visit. We walked down the street to Eat n Park for coffee and dessert, the perfect pre-work sugar fix.

Our waitress Barb was an older woman with the easy-to-talk-to charm of a seasoned server. Lisa immediately overshadowed me with her big smile and confident voice.

“I’ll have the chocolate cake!” Lisa cheerfully ordered.

Barb smiled and jotted it down.

“And I’ll have the blackberry pie with ice cream,” I ordered not as cheerfully, but I sort of smiled. Which is big for me.

Barb’s body shook with pleasure. “Yes! Good choice!” she sang as she scratched my order on her pad with a flourish.

“That’s my favorite!”

I smirked at Lisa after Barb retreated. “She likes me better than you,” I chided.

“What makes your pie so much better than my chocolate cake? I mean, it’s chocolate cake!” Lisa’s visage melted into a befuddled glaze.

“Chocolate cake is a menu mainstay, Lisa. My pie is a seasonal delight.” This seemed to distract Lisa long enough for me to continue droning on about my life’s conundrums. It’s nice to have counseling ears across from me sometimes.

Barb returned with our desserts and the reminder than I am, and always will be, better than Lisa. She set down Lisa’s plate with an unremarkable motion, but then turned to me with the fanfare of a queen’s arrival as she gently placed my pie beneath my fat face and took a step back.

“Look at that pie, would you?

Oh, I hope you will enjoy it. It really is the best!”

I hesitated before crushing into the crisp sugary crust, unsure if Barb was going to stand there and gawk. She smiled once more and carried on with her rounds of coffee refills.

Lisa was absently slapping her cake with the back of her fork, scowling at me. “Enjoy your freaking pie,” she mimicked.

During our meal, Barb came back later with our separate checks. She was delighted to tell me that my check was special. “Lookie here! There’s a number at the bottom to call and complete a real short survey. Then you write down the code they give you and bring this back next time for a two dollar discount!

” She clapped her hands together and held them under her chin, waiting for me to call my mommy and thank her for birthing me so that I could one day experience the jubilation of getting an Eat n Park survey check.

I feigned happiness for the sake of Lisa’s plummeting self-worth. “It’s because I was smart enough to order the delicious pie and not the boring cake,” using my words to further wheedle away at her ordering inadequacies.

We continued to pick away at our desserts and imbibe (too much) coffee, when Lisa spilled her water all over the table. Barb came running over with her rag and we all tried to make light of Lisa’s fumbling fingers.

“At least it didn’t get on her pie,” Barb sighed.

The worst part of today’s episode in dessert racism is that suddenly Alisha likes cherries now and no longer gifts me with her unwanted maraschino sundae toppers. FUCK.

__________________________________________________

Just a few moments ago, Chooch started shouting some nonsense about how there’s a Valentine card for me in the car.

“No there’s not,” Henry said tersely, all but making throat-cutting motions to get Chooch to shut up.

“Yes there is!” Chooch battled.

“No there’s not!” Henry said through gritted teeth, like the subject was hidden paternity and not some flimsy supposedly secretive greeting card for a holiday that I know is tomorrow, sorry, but I have a calendar and people on twitter reminding me every .005 seconds that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

“Yes there is!” Chooch shouted, getting visibly upset at this point. “We bought it in the Valentine card section!”

The jig is up, Henry!

This was me, New Years Eve 1999. I was all set to get all lampshade-wearin’ crazy again this year too, but a stomach bug had other ideas for me. So instead, I rang in 2010 laying on the couch under a blanket, eating Doritos (the only thing other than frozen yogurt I could fathom injesting 10 hours after my stomach cavity had been exorcised), and playing Words With Friends with Henry, who gets so mad at my 60+ point words that he yells, “You bitch!” and I know deep down it’s full of love. I was supposed to have gone to a party and was really looking forward to that, but all in all I didn’t hate my New Year’s Eve. I’ve had plenty worse. And my mantra is: If the night doesn’t end with me paddling downstream on tears, then it must have been pretty good. 

So I expected going into this post with the “Fuck 2009, bring on 2010” mindset, and then I realized that, yeah, maybe some aspects of the past year were shitty, like getting laid off and then testing positive for a drug I haven’t smoked in 10 years, but really 2009 was full of some pretty cool shit. Please excuse me while I reflect.

• THE PENGUINS WON THE STANLEY CUP, HOLLA!!
• After years of knowing him on LiveJournal, I finally got to meet Bill and his awesome lady-half Jessi.
• Discovered I’m really fucking awesome at bowling.
• Saw a lot of awesome shows
  • The “Where’s the Band?” Tour with Dustin Kensrue, Chris Conley, Matt Pryor, and Anthony Raneri
  • Cold in Cleveland, which was the first time since 2005 they toured, and it turned out to be a big waterwork sesh for me
  • Craig Owens!! in Cleveland with Alisha! I think this was tied with Cold for my favorite show of the year
  • The Used
  • Chiodos in Columbus: my big hot date with Henry
  • WARPED TOUR!!
  • The Giglife Tour with Gravemaker, Fireworks, The Swellers, Set Your Goals, and Four Year Strong
  • Brand New and Manchester Orchestra in Cleveland
  • The “Squash the Beef” tour with Of Machines, Tides of Man, Of Mice and Men, Dance Gavin Dance and Emarosa (awesome show with the exception of douchebarrel Jonny Craig from Emarosa getting blitzed and singing like shit.)
  • Thrice!!! with Polar Bear Club and the Dear Hunter!
• Got some of my Somnambulant shit in a real brick and mortar shop here in Pittsburgh
• Watched Bill and Jessi get married in Vegas via webcam
• Made it another year without managing to neglect or endanger my child
• Had some photoshoot fun
• Made it a priority to spend more time with friends
• Went to the wedding of one of my oldest friends, Lisa. And cried.
• Was served a broken toe by Henry (Wait, wrong list.)
• Reconnected with my mom, for better or worse
• Got to go to my first Penguins game since 1997!

Please allow me to be cheesy for a second, but the best part of 2009 was reuniting with Alisha. We met back in 2005, became fast friends, but then had a falling out. Mostly because I’m a bullheaded psycho (and even worse, I was a bullheaded psycho amped up on pregnancy hormones). But we’re friends again and I’m not sure how I would have dealt with some things (that seem so insignificant now anyway) if she hadn’t been around. Plus, I have big plans for her involving cherry pies, blindfolds and stilts.

I think the greatest lesson I took away from 2009 is that no matter how much the universe shits on you, you just have to get up and brush it off. Wallowing will get you nowhere. It’s a tough mindset to uphold at times, but I’m not sure where I’d be right now if I let myself stew in self-pity. It also helps to have someone like Henry around who gets all mother hen and will say shit like, “OK, that’s enough. Go call someone and go out.”

I hope you all had a great New Year’s Eve and that 2010 will be full of delux awesome! Thanks to anyone who still continues to read this shit!

I’m impressed. Chooch has had his jack in the box for nearly a week and is still playing with it. Then he gets mad when our cat Speck (see also: Nicotina, Breakfast Nook) ignores the anticipating arrival of the sock monkey. Meanwhile, I’m clutching my heart and trying to shake off the numbness in my left arm.

Remember Mr. Men? It’s good to see something from my childhood making a comeback. I noticed awhile back that Target had some Mr. Men t-shirts in the kids department so I snagged a Mr. Grumpy for Chooch. And Bill and Jessi bought him a Mr. Noisy book when they first came to visit us last year. Mr. Grumpy, Mr. Noisy – both very apropos. I remember having a bunch of Mr. Men activity books that kept me mostly quiet in the backseat of the car when I was a wee lass.

So when Chooch came across these little miniatures in Target’s toy aisle and expressed interest, I was excited. Because now we can collect them together! The pack rat in me loves a good collection. I’m currently collecting these limited edition Penguins medallions. There’s a new one available each day, and they make it sound like you HAVE TO GET IT THAT DAY or you’re fucked for life. Of course, I know this isn’t true, but I’ve bestowed this very gallant responsibility onto my mother, who has been having panic attacks because I’m so high strung about it. She brought a new load over last week and I realized that five out of six were the same player. “These are all Dupuis,” I said, as I slid them back across the table. Have you ever actually seen the color drain from someone’s face before? I have. It’s fun to watch. My mom then drove around in a snow storm trying to exchange them for the ones I still needed. Collecting shit is awesome.

Chip and Dip! OMG it’s Chip and Dip! Chooch thinks they’re his but they’re really mine and I will love them and squeeze them and hug them and kiss them. They make me really want to adopt another Pac Man frog though. (RIP Hubert and Gustav.) When I was a senior in high school, I would sometimes take Hubert to school with me in his little pink-topped terrarium. I used to carry this large black and grey plaid pouch with me, and it was easily concealed. Everyone used to call that pouch my Barney Bag. I had so many toys crammed in there, travel games, Floam, candy frogs apparently. Study halls were awesome that year. Fuck, that was a great bag.

I also had a White Dumpy tree frog named Louie. I remember bringing him to school once and having him climb up the wall during homeroom. Then the teacher, Mrs. Hanlon, came in the room, glanced at the frog, and with hilarious nonchalance said, “Erin, put your frog away.”

The only thing I didn’t like about having frogs as pets was the whole cricket-as-food thing. Stumbling across a cricket outside in the summer, it’s like, “Oh, look. A cricket. Cool.” But buying them in air-filled bags at the pet store and storing them in a coffee can, it’s like, “OMFG these things are nasty motherfuckers.” And during the night, I’d be laying in bed and hear them scratching the sides of the canister as they formed a disgusting insect pyramid, trying to reach the top.

I am so repulsed right now.

Thank God Chip and Dip only eat pellets.

Most of my twenties were spent dreading Christmas, mostly because I was always leery and cautious about how heavy the shit was that  my family would be flinging at me that year. But since having a baby four years ago, it’s starting to become something I look forward to again. (Although it also means no one buys me anything because it’s all Chooch Chooch Chooch.)

In fact, I looked forward to it so much this year that I woke Chooch up Christmas morning because I was tired of waiting. And it’s amazing I even woke up on my own, pre-9am after the night of wine and shared tales of a certain ex-hag from hell (oh, what’s up House of Night shout out) over at Henry’s sister’s house. It was nice, because along with dreading Christmas, most of my twenties were spent listening to The Cure and crying into the No One Loves Me pillow on Christmas Eve.

He got your standard boy shit: Transformers and accessories for the Batcave he got last Christmas, etc etc. But I also tucked in some books under the tree.

He was genuinely excited. Reading is something I’ve always loved, and even when I was off pretending to be so fucking cool and awesome, I would never deny my love of books. You know how some people do that? As if admitting to not only know how to read but to also enjoy it might them mark them as a loser. I really hope Chooch doesn’t grow up to be one of those kids. I’ve always said that I don’t trust a person who doesn’t like to read a book. Even HENRY reads books! HENRY. Come on. Henry.

I bought “Donut Chef” based on the illustrations, because I do love a good illustration. But the story is also really cute, too. Childrens books are so fun.

***

The tradition that Henry and I started back when I was pregnant in 2005 was to have a Christmas picnic at the cemetery. Once Chooch was born, we added to that tradition by taking an obligatory Christmas portrait of Chooch celebrating Christmas in the cemetery. Unfortunately, the weather was terrible this year. Most of the morning it was sleeting, and after that the rain continued all day. So we agreed to postpone the graveyard picnic for another, drier, day.

Before dinner at my mom’s, Henry, Chooch and I met my brother Corey at the nursing home where my grandma temporarily resides. After the traumatic Thanksgiving experience at the hospital, I almost backed out, but my aunt Sharon insisted that she was doing well, was coherent, and also expecting us. She was sitting in her room, wheelchair-bound, looking tired and unhappy, but mustered a smile when she saw Chooch. We stayed for about 45 minutes, giving her presents (Corey got her a Snuggie was so proud of this), and filling her in on our lives. (Or in my case, choosing wise words which wouldn’t elicit tongue-clucking and disappointed “oh honestly”s.)

As we went to leave, I approached her to envelope her in one of my signature awkward embraces. But she stopped me by asking, in a snide tone I might add and I know I wasn’t imagining it, “When did you decide to do that to your hair?”

I could feel the memory of 30-years-worth of put-downs and criticisms spreading like poker-hot cancer through my cheeks. “It’s been like this since September,” I mumbled, trying to keep smiling while all at once fingering a tendril and second-guessing myself as a brunette. “Why, do you hate it?”

“Yes,” she said, and though she was smiling, it didn’t reach her eyes and her reply was curt. Always with the motherfucking judging.

On the way to my mom’s, I tried not to cry in the car. “Does it look like shit?” I asked Henry. And then: “My hair’s not even naturally blonde anyway, why does she care?” All Henry could really do was repeat over and over, “Don’t let it get to you! You know how she is.”

“Yeah, full of hate and disapproval for me,” I wailed.

***

Walking into my mom’s house, I found her in the kitchen flipping out over one kitchen disaster or another, so I left Henry with her to survey the situation while Chooch opened more gifts.

He finally got his fucking jack in the box, he did. And I was happy that it was a Sock Monkey one, and not some ugly/creepy clown leftover from the 60s. (OK, that’s a lie. I was hoping for the scariest one possible to use in a photoshoot.)

My favorite gift I got, I mean Chooch got at my mom’s house was one of those plastic biospheres that have TWO LIVE FROGS in it. OMG do I love a fucking frog. I named them Chip and Dip. Actually, it was supposed to be Dip and Shit, but Chooch heard “Chip” instead and I thought that was actually better. I love them! I mean, Chooch loves them! They provide countless hours of entertainment for me, I mean Chooch! Ask Henry and the cats! Every five minutes I’m telling them, “OMG look at Chip and Dip!” The cats ignore me and Henry mutters, “They’re frogs, and they’re not doing anything.”

Dinner consisted of just myself, Henry, my mom, Corey and my other brother Ryan. Chooch never sat down once. He was too busy scaring the shit out of himself with that stupid jack in the box. And there wasn’t really much conversation, because I alerted Corey to the fact that he could use his iPod Touch to play Words With Friends, so he and I started a vernacularmundo battle right there at the dinner table. Everyone else cried into their plates of holiday slop, jealous that they couldn’t be apart of a revolution.

My mom’s pork chops might be the reason I turned vegetarian when I was 16, but I have always loved her holiday side dishes. She added some new corn shit to the Christmas ouevre this year and it was fucking amazing; all kinds of creamy and with a top hat of crispy carbs. No one but me ate Henry’s root vegetable mashed potato thing, because their palates have evidently evolved past pioneer years. I love root vegetables. I want to make art with them. And also, make out with them.

Corey, having his mind blown at all of the 7875-point SAT words I throw down.

***

After dinner, we followed Corey to our dad’s house, who only moved a few streets away after the divorce. I’ve mentioned this before, but he was technically my step-dad, and then legally adopted me when I was in 4th grade. We had a really awful relationship when I was younger, the kind that makes Springer salivate, but since I moved out at 18 things have improved greatly. My only regret is that I don’t see him as often as I should and I always hope he doesn’t think we’re stopping over on holidays just to satiate some innate, greed-filled Christmas propensity.

Luckily, Henry works for a beverage company and was able to procure a case of Faygo’s old fashioned root beer IN GLASS BOTTLES. My dad, being a product of the 50s, is really big on beverages. He has a bunch of old-fashioned pop machines and will sit there and entertain (used loosely, of course) a room with tales of when pop came in glass bottles and JUST TASTED BETTER. He was a happy man that night, accepting such a hefty loot, rich with nostalgia and…glass. He and Henry sat on the couch together and talked about pop for what seemed like eternity while Corey and I snickered openly.

Then came the bombshell.

“Did you guys have any dessert at your mother’s?” my dad inquired. “I have some pie here. Cherry, butterscotch…”

“Whoa, you have butterscotch pie?” I interrupted. The incredulity was overflowing. There was only one person from whom he’d get butterscotch pie.

“Yeah, your mother baked it for me—” he began, and I stopped listening. That is my FAVORITE PIE AND MY MOTHER NEVER MAKES IT FOR ME. And now she’s making it for the guy she divorced?

“What the fuck,” I muttered to Henry and Corey, while my dad was in the kitchen slicing it up. “What do I have to do to get her to bake me a butterscotch pie? Divorce her?” No one laughed but me, because I think all my jokes are the lol’iest. In fact, I was still laughing the next day.

Being the classy parents we are, Henry and I nearly forgot to get Chooch’s picture with Santa. And standing in line with all the other asshole, last-minute parents, I seriously contemplated just photoshopping one and calling it a year. Instead, I snatched the keys off Henry and me and my chest pains sat in the car. My weak, grinchy heart just can’t take holiday crowds. Oh, I have boatloads of holiday cheer, my friends. When I’m alone in my living room with a glass of spiced wine, admiring my gaudy Christmas tree.

 Much like being paged by Olive Garden, Henry alerted me when they were nearly next in line and I went back in to pretend like I’m a good mommy, and my ass immediately re-clenched when I had to shrug past a horde of line-standers.

I tried to coax Chooch into telling Santa he wanted a haircut, but instead (after he lied about being a good boy), when Santa asked what he wanted he mumbled, “Jack in the box.” He’s been on this bizarre, slightly worrisome jack in the box kick because it’s the J identifier in his ABC book. I imagine Santa was like, “Son, that was on my wishlist back in 1942.” Every time he tells me he wants one, I want to take him by the shoulders and give him a good shake, and then shout, “You’re supposed to want gratuitously violent toys that double as weapons when your father pisses me off. I mean, you. When daddy pisses you off.”

Do you know Target sells jack in the boxes for nearly twenty dollars? TWENTY DOLLARS for a piece of shit tin box with a deformed plastic clown whose only purpose of existence is to pop out and scare the fuck out of impressionable youths? Why do you think I’m thirty years old and jumping at the drop of a feather? BECAUSE I HAD A JACK IN THE BOX AS A CHILD.

And another reason I can’t get him a jack in the box is because I may have read somewhere once that there is a pornographic slice of cinema with a scene featuring a very well-endowed jack in the box.

Growing up, I watched Days of Our Lives with my mom.

My favorite was every Christmas when the Bradys and Hortons would gather together and don the Christmas tree with personalized bulbs. They’d always make a big to-do about hanging the ones for deceased or absent family members, like Shane Donovan who was always off somewhere solving crimes with the ISA (but really he was filming episodes of The Nanny and probably trying to stave off suicidal thoughts brought about by Fran Drescher’s nasally cackle).

Now that I finally have a tree, I sent out a text to my crew, if you will, informing them that at some point they would be expected to show up at my house to scrawl their dumb names on the bright bulbs I bought on sale at Target.

I finally lassoed them all together last night, minus Blake, for some artin’.

Corey chose green, so that was the color Chooch wanted too.

I’m way too OCD for this shit, so Janna graciously took on the mommy role and aided Chooch with his ornament. It actually didn’t suck and Chooch didn’t waste all the glitter like I anticipated. That was all Alisha.

I made mine simple, since everything else about me is so flashy and royal. I’m trying out this new thing called Modesty. It kind of makes me agitated and my pee smell.

We all had to give Janna extra special praise for not only not breaking the bulb, but spelling her name right too!

Afterward,  there was some heavy Degrassi-watchin’, followed by a riveting round table about “Jersey Shore” with a little NHL Network thrown in for some added flava. You know, the usual.

In some families, pulling out the old Christmas tree and decorating it together is like, how you say? Tradition? A Hallmark memory? An evening to pretend to give a shit about your siblings as you sip egg nog while “accidentally” breaking their baby ornaments? When I was younger, I always tried to convince myself that it was a big deal. I’d try to give my mom helpful suggestions when we’d shop for lights. You know, maybe do it all one color instead of mixing strands of skinny lights with those gigantic bulbous ones. Themes have always been important to me. I wanted an elegant tree, not the agglomeration of chipped Hallmark ornaments that adorned the tree year after year. Always the same batch.

We’d go to the holiday store and no matter whether it was 1986 or 1996, I’d try to sway her to the tinsel side of tree decorating.

“No.” She wouldn’t even look at the luxurious strand of sparkling metallic riches I’d have draped around my neck, showcasing it like Zsa Zsa modeling an ostrich-feathered boa. Suggesting the loose tinsel would inspire looks better reserved for gender reassignment announcements.

“Well, then how about these fine-looking crystal bulbs?” I’d been punished with enough QVC to know exactly how to hold them in one hand and feign molestion with the other.

“No.”
“Or what about–”
“No.”

Oh, but she’d have no compunction when it came to hanging my brother Ryan’s Elmer’s glue-covered construction paper shit-houses all over the boughs. And it was always, “Oh my god, look at what that precious boy made in art class! He’s a prodigy!” while ignoring the fact that it was leper’ding  loose fragments to the floor below.

My fondest memory of our tree was when Ryan was about a year old or so and crawling around beneath the boughs. I was six and even then I knew it was a precarious route for him to take, but he used to punch me and pull my hair. So I sat and watched as he crawled with too much moxie over top of the metal base, goo-goo’ing and ga-ga’ing that tree right the fuck into a toppling situation. Unfortunately, Ryan was saved when the tree landed against the nearby coffee table, and found himself crouched underneath a tent of artificial branches. The impact of the land busted off the top section of our tree. My mother remedied this by purchasing a miniature tree and adhering it to the top.

We used that dilapidated tree every year until I was in high school.

I think the moment when I officially gave up on the decorating and family bonding was in tenth grade when my mom banished my black angel ornament from the tree. One lousy symbol of my faux-heritage was all I asked, but the angel and I were discriminated against. I hung her up on a shelf in my bedroom, where she watched over me every night, making sure my mom didn’t try and pour bleach into my mouth while I slept. Later, I bought my own white-branched miniature tree and my black guardian angel was the lone ornamentation, a beacon reminding me to keep it real.

And then there was the pet ornament snafu. Who knew that dog ornaments made from milk bones would cause a stampede into the tree?

Maybe my mom was onto something by not letting me pick out the decorations.

Meanwhile, my grandparents’ tree looked like Martha Stewart projectile vomited her entire collection upon the branches. My aunt Sharon would always say, “No no no!” if any of us came within twenty yards of it. Before I was born, they used to hire someone from Kauffman’s to decorate it for them. (I’m sure that was more my grandma’s idea than my grandfather’s.

)

I’ve lived on my own since 1998 (fine, Henry’s been around for eight of those, but considering how he’s a professional ignorer, one could still argue that I live alone), and still never splurged on a tree. Not even a miniature. And Chooch is nearly 4 now so I began to think that maybe it’s high time to do something about this.

Of course, I’m not one for normalcy, but I’d like to give my child some sort of static tradition. Sure, the magic wasn’t there for me when I was young, but surely I can try and make it right for my kid. You know, slap on a hard core Christmas carol album. Light a fire in my decorative fireplace. Tell Jesus jokes. All the things I missed out on as a kid.

Henry and I discussed it once when I was pregnant. I told him that I didn’t want our child to grow up and go to school and then come home and say, “All these kids think I’m weird because we don’t put up a Christmas tree.”

He agreed that having a Christmas tree around again would be fun. (Maybe I fabricated that part, as I often do when it comes to Henry’s involvement in things. I know, spoiler alert!) Every year I suggest that we forgo the actual tree and instead make my fifteen-year-old vision of an alternative Christmas tree come true. That is, buy a mannequin and solder extra hands, feet, legs and arms all around its head, torso and appendages. Like branches, see. And then I would make ornaments out of Homies. Maybe craft a little crack house and glue a few Homies milling around out front, listening to NWA on their ghetto blasters while waiting for Whitney Houston.

“Oh, because that won’t make kids think our child is weird,” Henry said, wiping the sarcasm from his moustache.

But in the meantime, my mom bought us a live tree. I’ve never had a real, straight-from-the-earth tree before. It came from Home Depot, my least favorite place in the world, tied with Wal-Mart, but in my imagination we went to a hobo-run tree farm in Minnesota and, with the help of the mom from “Bobby’s World,” adopted a sprightly spruce self-adorned with gilded candlesticks and all the effervescent verve of  Cyndi Lauper visiting Big Top Pee Wee. And it bowed and introduced itself as Francois Twinkletoes of the Expensive Chocolate Tribe and began dispensing calorie-free truffles right straight in my gyrating maw, ya’ll.

You know.

For the time being, we only have a few Target-procured bulbs (which will soon have the names of my crew on them, a la Days of Our Lives, though I might do Janna’s for her so she doesn’t break it or misspell her name) and a small selection of ornaments my mom handed down to me probably because they hold no sentiment for her (LIKE MY FIRST XMAS ORNAMENT CIRCA 1979). She also came calling with no less than eight packs of tinsel.

The loose kind that I always wished for as a child. I may have had a quick flashback of Henry firmly stating, “No tinsel, you can put anything you want on this tree, but please – no tinsel” as I draped seductive clumps of that sexy shit all up on my branches.

“That looks really nice, but you need more,” my mom said, supervising from the couch.

“I thought you hated tinsel?” I asked, ripping into another box.

“I do, because that shit gets everywhere. But this is your house, so whatever.”

When Henry came home, the obnoxious shimmer of the tinsel made him pause for a second. He scowled and then walked away. “I’m not picking that shit up when it starts migrating,” he muttered. “And believe me, it WILL.”

So far, I’ve pulled it out of the car and the fridge, and accidentally decorated the booth at Donut Connection with a rogue strand. When I catch the migrators around the house, I try to eliminate the evidence as fast as I can before Henry can stumble upon it. I get all panicked about it, like the runaway tinsel is a piece of my lover’s DNA and Henry has a gun collection.

It’s a fun game.

“I just want it to look fun and festive,” I explained to Alisha when she was over yesterday. (Henry made us soup and I think it should become a standing tradition.) “Do you think it looks fun and festive?”

“Oh…um, yeah. That’s exactly what I thought when I walked in the house. How fun and….festive,” Alisha deadpanned as she watched me (WATCHED, not HELPED) fluff branches and redistribute tinsel.

This was honestly the only ornament I cared about getting. I’m not ashamed.

My friend Sarah made Chooch several eyeballs during the height of his optical mania, so I shoved a hook in one to give it a greater purpose. I like to believe it’s watching over the tinsel, but considering I just pulled a strand out of my underwear, I guess that’s naive. (Oh, please, like you don’t masturbate on Christmas trees. Just please.)

A Penguins bulb, enough tinsel to inspire the tree to belt out a Cher medley, and an eyeball – what more could Alisha need to feel fun and festive in the tree’s presence? A tree topper. We didn’t have a tree topper and it was really bothering me last night. I kept trying to watch TV, I mean, retain interest in Alisha’s drivel,  but my eyes would magnetize right back to the bare twig protruding from the pinnacle. It looked so Charlie Brownish and I knew I had to do something, and FAST.

I tried to prepare my army for crafting war, but Alisha and Henry were all, “No, we’re good right here, watching TV” and Chooch was too busy calling everyone a bitch. I didn’t need them anyway. Storming into the kitchen, I grabbed an Xacto knife on the way and in my search for foil, I found something better: an aluminum baking pan. I sketched a scribble of a star in the middle and even in my haste it was far superior to anything Alisha or Henry could have shat out. They would have gone to the store for a stencil. The next part was very hard and I wouldn’t suggest that anyone reading this try it unless they have all the courage and ability to be a hero under pressure as one Erin Rachelle Kelly. Could that be you? I didn’t think so.

Oh, it was a tough and trying time, sawing away at this curling sheath of deadly metal, deftly swinging my wrists out of the way as shrapnel exploded through the air with the aim of a skilled marksman and the blueprint for staged-suicide etched out in its head.

Anyway, once it was cut out to perfection, all I needed was packing tape and something wand-like to shove it into the tree. God shone down his celestial spotlight which landed in a pool of righteousness on top of the refridgerator, which is where I found an unopened McDonald’s straw. Now it’s all a matter of sitting back and waiting for that broad on She’s Crafty to invite me on her show.

If that’s not the poster child for all that is majestic, then I don’t want to live in this shitty, uncultured world anymore.

It’s no mannequin, but it’ll do.

And that is the story of how the Liberatree was born. Hopefully it will be even more magical next year, provided some of that tinsel doesn’t find its way into my bedroom one night to recreate a horror movie strangulation scene.

In spite of everything going on with my grandma, my mom still decided to hold Thanksgiving dinner at her house, which I thought was really great. I mean, my family canceled every holiday for years after my pappap died in ’96 and it just didn’t help heal anyone. It made it worse because instead of being around each other, we all went our separate ways and pouted, sulked, cried, denied. Because that’s exactly what he’d have wanted, you know. For us to abandon all holiday tradition and rot underneath our self-woven cocoons of misery.

Now, when I say I can’t remember the last time a holiday was held at my mom’s, I’m really not being dramatic. Usually, we go to my grandma’s, but I’ve always preferred spending holidays at my mom’s because she allows to hang out around after dinner and bullshit, whereas Sharon rushes us out of my grandma’s house as soon as dinner is finished, leaving us standing in the cold on the porch like dirty whores. But my mom has been really great lately and I’m glad we’ve been talking again. I think maybe the recent trips she’s made to the hospital for her blood pressure have helped her put things in perspective, because she’s not starting political fights with me anymore and her presence in Chooch’s life has been much more consistent these days. She’s starting to act like her old self again and that was reason enough for me to give thanks all pilgrim-like.

I’m actually really proud of my mom for keeping it together. We were all holding our breath, waiting for the phone call to say that she was canceling dinner. But she soldiered on, even made some new side dishes, like a sweet potato casserole capped with a layer of what I can only describe as a pineapple omelet, and I know that sounds gross and maybe a little confusing, but it did a pole dance all the way down my throat, OK? My mom was upset with it, thought it was too sweet. I was like, “Are you retarded, that’s why it’s so good!”

Sharon didn’t stay, thank God, but that didn’t stop her from fingerprinting the spread with her own culinary disasters. Imagine me, in the kitchen, making up recipes as I’m wont to do when times are tough (i.e. Henry’s not home, there’s nothing microwaveable, and my son is whining about being the hungry. The nerve!). But now imagine me thinking that those same kitchen nightmares are Food Network quality and you now know a little more about the inner workings of Sharon. Her vegetarian “stuffing” deserves it’s own post. (But it won’t get one, don’t worry.)

Clearly I’m not one of those people who get all clenched if their food mingles. I’m Ok with it. In fact, I’ve even been known to spear a sample of three separate dishes on the fork. The best part about holiday food is that the healthiest vegetables get to take a caloric bath in butter, cream, and cheese and then bust out of the oven cloaked as the super villain Cardiac Arrest, sumo-ing the shit out of your Dr. Atkins.

Even the green beans were rendered nutritionless under their blanket of coagulated bleu cheese and lard. In other words, best green beans ever!

My mom kept apologizing for using paper plates and plastic Solo cups. “I just didn’t have time to get everything ready this year,” she kept saying remorsefully. I had to continually remind her that we all appreciated the fact that she did this at all.  And really, I was just happy to even be in her house again! I think this was only Chooch’s third time inside her house so he went hogwild. Before dinner, he and Corey rummaged through the box of ornaments and hung some of the ones my mom obviously felt were NOT GOOD ENOUGH, like the one I made for her in art class in 1988. (But the popcicle stick-framed photo of Corey sitting on Santa’s lap was hanging smugly from a bough!)

Here are some thoughts provoked by this hideous abomination to Christmas ornaments worldwide:

• For what reason did my mom bother to keep this? (If you say “love” I will argue!)
• My art is still at the 3rd grade level
• How has this not disintegrated by now and blown away to the sanctuary for molested tissue paper?
• You can tell that my inspiration was Boy George. I was really into Boy George. I wish Henry was Boy George.

I volunteered Henry’s cooking prowess for a side dish and dessert. I already knew that he was going to make Pioneer Woman’s turnip gratin that he made last year for our little grassroots attempt at Thanksgiving. (He used the poor man’s Gruyere again – swiss. I called “cop out” but he said he refused to pay $28 for cheese. Whatevelyn.) But I also knew that the dessert had to be something even more fabulous so I spent hours (at LEAST fifteen minutes) scouring online for the perfect pumpkin pie. I found one on some slutty girl’s food blog and instantly knew it was the one because it called for brandy. Any dessert made with liquor’s helping hand is my new best friend. So I wrote down all the ingredients for Henry and naturally he came home with ingredients for something totally different.

A boring sweet potato pie. Yes, it was good. But it wasn’t weird or classy or made with products procured from an oak pantry in France and it certainly wasn’t drenched with enough libations to make Janna pull down her pants and perform a puppet show with her ass. FUCK.

But you damn well know it was all “I made that pie” all night long.

Chooch was too busy setting up conference calls on his new iPhone, doodling on Henry’s face, killing zombies, and buying apps to pay attention to his surroundings, let alone give a shit about Henry’s fucking sweet potato pie. He did enjoy the dinner rolls though.

Photographic evidence that I have another brother. Ryan is 25 now and lives with our dad (well, his dad and my step-dad). He used to be my partner-in-stalking. Fuck, were we terrors. I wonder if he’s outgrown stalking people? I know I sure haven’t.

My family might be a little screwed up, (though isn’t that the central theme in most people’s lives?) but I still love holidays.

My grandma fell last week. She lives with my mom’s older sister, Sharon and that in itself is a very storied history that would exhaust me to try to type out. But I will say that in the years since my pappap’s passing, Sharon has grown increasingly damaged. In a nutshell, I tend to liken the situation to Grey Gardens.

Rather than call 911, Sharon called Henry who proceeded to go to my grandmother’s house at 10:00pm, pick her up from the floor and put her back into bed. When he came home, he told me that my grandma’s legs looked very swollen, like she has no use of them. “I don’t mind going over there and helping out, but I really think Sharon should call the paramedics.”

This happened a year ago. My grandma wound up in the hospital and from there she was placed in a nursing home for two months, where she received physical therapy and had the opportunity to interact with people not named Sharon. (Sharon doesn’t let anyone come over to see her. I saw my grandma more when she was in the nursing home than when she lives at home, because Sharon can’t LOCK ME OUT of a nursing home.) She was happy, more vibrant than I had seen her in years. Then she was released and Sharon went back to her old ways of not taking her anywhere and forcing my grandma to a life that consists of shuffling back and forth between her bed and a chair in the den. My mom has barely even seen her.

Last Thursday, less then 12 hours after Henry picked her up, she fell again. Sharon called me, panicking, asking when Henry got home from work. I lost it; convinced her to call the fucking paramedics. What if she was hurting herself every time she fell? This isn’t something for Henry to detect. So Sharon called 911, the paramedics came and left, saying she was fine.

That night, my grandma started having hallucinations, and seemed convinced she was studying her English. Sharon took her to the hospital, which actually made me feel relieved rather than upset, because I know that if she’s at least in a hospital, she’s going to get proper care.

(Well, best case scenario, anyway.)

I went to see her on Sunday, after hearing stories from Sharon about how my grandma had lost her mind. Sharon swore my grandma had suddenly “come down with” Alzheimer’s, but my mom and I weren’t so sure, since it seemed like the onset was essentially an overnight process. She was sitting in a chair, tray of stinky hospital food in front of her, most of it stirred into ecru puddles of ambiguous sludge.

“Mom, do you know who this is?” Sharon wheedled in the most obnoxiously condescending tone.

“Of course I know who that is, it’s Erin,” my grandma snapped.

My mom told me that the night before, Sharon kept speaking for my grandma, who eventually lashed out.

“You have to excuse my mother,” Sharon explained to the nurse. “She has a very quick temper.”

To which my grandma spat, “It’s because you piss me off!” My mom said Sharon called her crying, but really, when the only form of human contact you get each day is that from your eldest daughter who has NEVER MOVED OUT, wouldn’t you be a little temperamental too?

During the visit, my grandma kept bobbing in and out of coherency, weaving between reality and her supposed trip to Hawaii she took on Saturday. “And I never expected the meatloaf to be so good,” she enthused. “In the hospital?” Sharon asked. “No, in Hawaii!” she said.

The nurse came in while I was there and informed us that her MRI came back negative, and that the doctor deduced it was the Vicodin that Sharon had given her Thursday night after she last fell. Typically my grandmother gets half, but Sharon gave her a whole one since she was in so much pain. The nurse said that once it left her system, the weird waking dreams should subside, and then they’d move her into the rehab unit to work on her legs.

Walking down the hall with my mom and Sharon, I said, “It must run in the family. Don’t you remember when I got my wisdom teeth out and I totally went crazy?”

My mom looked at me blankly.

“Don’t you remember? I was so suicidal!”

“Yeah, but you always were suicidal,” my mom laughed. Oh yes, ha-ha, memories.

Henry and Chooch were waiting in the lobby, casually eating candy shat from a vending machine.

“Don’t ever give Erin Vicodin!” my mom joked.

“I already knew that,” Henry muttered.

****************

Henry, Chooch and I met my brother Corey at the hospital on Thanksgiving. We thought it would be nice to spend some time with her before going to my mom’s for dinner. She was sitting awkwardly in a chair, slumped over slightly to the side, and seemed to be in a restless sleep; her body was twitching and she just didn’t look very swell at all.

The she woke up, saw Chooch, and promptly started to sob. I mean, she was so distraught that she covered her face and wept into her hand.

Not the reaction I was hoping for. Maybe a little more bells and whistles; praise for being such an outstanding grandchild?

Henry pulled Chooch out of the room; Corey and I, being the awkward species that we are, stood in our best awkward regalia. I kept nervously asking, “Grandma are you OK? Are you alright?” and Corey was in a speechless stupor.

A nurse came in. She had on a set of those god awful wearable studies in abstract art, presented in varying hues of Pepto Bismol and Nyquil. (If I was a nurse, I’d have to find a way to get a customized scrub set. Maybe something black, with random Cure lyrics in red.) In an abrasive, no-nonsense tone, she looked at me through lens-magnified eyes and asked, “What’s wrong?” In my head, I heard, “What the fuck did you do?”

I explained that we had just walked in as she was starting to awaken, and that’s when she began sobbing.

“Jeannie, what’s wrong? These kids came to see you.”

“I can’t. Not tonight. It’s been a really bad year,” my grandma moaned. I’m not sure if she meant to say “day” or if she was being profound. Because yes, it’s been a really bad year.

All this time, Corey had been clutching a card he made her; a Thanksgiving turkey card made the old school way – from his handprint. (“And in true Kelly household fashion, I had to use Scotch tape covered in dog hair,” he explained moments earlier in an elevator.) He slid it into her hands before we left, and she moaned, “Oh Corey, thank you,” and then cried some more.

On a positive note, she at least knew who Corey was.

On a negative note, that was the single most depressing moment of my adult life. And the worst part is that since I’ve always had a tumultuous relationship with her, all I could do was stand there with a worried expression and arms crossed protectively (and insecurely) under my chest.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever hugged my grandma. I know that she’s always loved me, I do believe that, but I also know that of anyone in the family, I’ve been the biggest disappointment to her. Chubby as a pre-teen, a yo-girl in high school instead of a billboard for equestrian couture like she’d have preferred, a high school dropout, a black sheep having a baby out of wedlock. I was just never what she wanted me to be, and she proved that by lying to her friends, telling them that instead of not finishing high school, I had graduated and gone on to study journalism at Kent State.

She berated me when I got pregnant, yelling that I “wasn’t meant to have children.”

She never asked me if I was happy, though.

This blog? It’s called Oh Honestly, Erin because that’s what she’s always said to me. “Oh honestly, Erin” –  every time I let her down. “Oh honestly, Erin” – every time I did something imaginably stupid. “Oh honestly, Erin” – every time I tarnished the family name a little more.

And I’m not sure if I ever told her I loved her before last night, when I said it as we flitted from the room; but it was only because Corey had said it first and I coattailed him.

I do love her. I just don’t know how to say it. When it comes to my family, there is this fucking force field barricading the entrance of emotions, and any sign of weakness or utterance of honest endearments will be zapped dead like a mosquito poking around a bug lamp. So I just stand there stupidly and useless while my grandma is entering an existential crisis in the hospital.

It wasn’t until later  tonight, after Chooch and Henry went to sleep and I was left completely alone on the couch, that my emotions had the upperhand advantage. And it hit me, hard.

It doesn’t seem that long ago that I was taking my Pitt course guide over to her house, poring over it excitedly while she made me a cheese sandwich, finally feeling like she was proud of me. Now, college is just one more thing that I quit, she doesn’t even go in the kitchen anymore, and somewhere along the way I went back to feeling like a fuck up.

In this photo, she’s judging me. But I still love her.

It was the morning of Halloween and we still didn’t have a costume for Chooch. We tried everything: reminding him that no costume = no candy; telling him that Blake was wearing a costume and therefore was the better son; and, when all else failed, threatening to disown. Thankfully, a last minute trip to the Halloween store found Chooch agreeing to go with the good old Halloween costume stand-by: Jason Voorhees. (Although in lieu of a machete, he wanted to carry Play-Doh. yeah, I have no idea, either.) To be fair, he had actually said a few times that’s what he wanted to be, but Henry and I were unsure how well he’d do with his face obscured by plastic, because he’s a little anal about these things. (OK, he’s my son, so – a lot.) And we also knew that face-painting was totally out.

The next thing we knew, it was nearly 6pm and Chooch began putting up a fight. I had already decided hours ago that if this happened, I was just flat out not going at all. This was the first time in years that I was completely not feeling it anyway and would have preferred staying in with a glass of wine rather than sidestep around throngs of screaming children burped straight out of Hell’s mouth. But then the deadbeat mother internal guilt trip set in, so I sucked it up and struggled to get dressed.

And while Henry was struggling to get Chooch dressed (which only required him wearing regular clothes anyway), we were blessed when a crew of early trick-or-treaters knocked on the door. Chooch stood behind me and watched as I filled the bags of a lion, lady bug and some stupid action hero with mini M&Ms (we waited until an hour before and aside from Dum-Dums, that’s all that was left at the CVS down the street; still, that’s better than handing out Slim Fast bars like I was once pressed to do). Suddenly, Chooch seemed to get it and was all, “OK I’m ready hurry let’s go come on.”

At least I had the foresight to splash some red paint on the mask.

Some Things I’d Like Chooch to Learn For Next Year:

1. The order is: trick or treat; thank you; Happy Halloween. And you say these things while you’re still at the person’s house, not back on the sidewalk, blurting them all out in one breath as you flee the scene. Unless you’re doing something at these houses that I’m unaware of. Fuck, are you swearing at these people?
2. Participating houses are not just the ones with dogs on the porch. Next time, I won’t chase you down and pull you back to the houses you missed, so just imagine all the candy you’ll lose out on. Dummy.
3. Yes, Halloween decorations are so cool, Chooch; I agree. But the longer you’re bent over admiring some spooky electrical lantern, the longer Mommy has to stand in awkward silence with the homeowner, so knock that shit off. Get the fucking candy and LEAVE. You can thumb through a Halloween decor catalogue later, Christopher Lowell.
4. STOP CHOOSING STUPID SHIT LIKE SUCKERS AND TOOTSIE ROLLS. Dots and candy necklaces? WRONG.  By the end of the night, only a third of the bounty was chocolate-certified, delicious-approved. And what was up with that mini bottle of bubbles? YOU CAN’T EAT BUBBLES. Halloween is about collecting an entire pillowcase worth of all that’s wrong with Americans and their metobolism, and you failed. (Although, good job on scoring three Baby Ruths. What diamonds in the rough.

If I ignore the fact that I was stuck by Henry’s side for an hour and a half, I’m able to glean a few highlights from the night.

• Chooch and Michael Myers staring each other down on the porch of one house.
• A group of older girls doing a shrill, “OMG it’s Jason!” every time they passed Chooch. Each time, he looked up at me and laughed and I could tell he was proud. He really loves that Jason Voorhees. (I think he does it on purpose, knowing I’m a Michael Myers girl.)
• We passed another, slightly older Jason who was wearing his store bought hockey mask as-is. I scoffed and said to Chooch, “At least your mask has blood on it.” Another lesson in snobbery complete.
• Walking down the street with a group of teenagers, Chooch yells, “Aw SHIT Daddy. You forgot to bring my knife!” It got real quiet after that.
• Convincing him to growl “Trick or treat” and “Happy Halloween.” That went over well with all the old ladies.
• Some asshole made the mistake of saying, “Oooh, look at this scary Freddy Kreuger!” As Chooch stomped away, he snarled, “I’m NOT Freddy Kreuger!”
• Learning that Scary German Guy lives in Brookline.
• Now I know where Robin’s Loud-Mouthed Friend lives.

Chooch demanded to be carried like a baby for the last block or two, and aside from deleriously sprawling out in people’s front yards toward the end (and also laying in the middle of the road which is always a terrific thrill for a mother), he did really well and covered a good bit of streets for a three year old. And the biggest plus: his attention span lasted way longer than mine.

Castle Blood has been one of my favorite haunted houses to go to since I was in high school. It was one of the first, if not THE first, in the area to let you interact with the costumed characters by giving each group a mission to fulfill. Granted, they make it fairly impossible to fail and the prize is the same every year (vampire teeth), but damn if the decor and costumes aren’t fun to look at.

Twice a season, they offer no-scare daylight trick-or-treat tours for kids. We took Chooch last year and he seemed rather complacent about it. I thought maybe this year he’d be more into it, but all he cared about was seeing Dracula. Seriously, the kid was reenacting Pee Wee’s Alamo performance with all of his “When do we get to see Dracula?” inquiries.

Before embarking on our mission, we had to meet with Gravely in the library, who informed us what three talismans we’d have to be on the lookout for in order to pass the test at the end. This year’s theme was Night of the Vampire or something, so he asked, “What can you tell me about vampires?” When it was my turn, I said off the top of my head, “They have to be invited in.

” Gravely said, “That’s a good one, and not one that I hear often. Good job.” I didn’t have time to gloat though, because Henry snidely patronized, “You only know that because you just watched True Blood the other day.” Yes, that’s right, you dumb motherfucker. I just learned that fact in 2009 from an over-hyped, commercialized vampire series on cable TV.  FUCK YOU HENRY. And people wondered why I broke up with him on Facebook.

Chooch did not give one tiny shit about the live actors offering him candy and trying to intimidate him with their make-up enhanced sunken cheekbones and bloody lip-corners. He was entirely too busy poking around all the props and admiring the animatronic bodies clandestinely plugged into walls. I’m starting to think he’s showing an interest in set design.

Alisha had a crush on every corseted denizen. It was embarrassing.

In each room, a new dead person would recite their well-practiced script, but it fell on deaf ears.

Chooch was bored out of his mind, toeing the ground, dropping the talismans he was stupidly entrusted with, and hissing from the side of his mouth, “You said Dracula was gonna be here.” Not like he would have understood half of what was being told to us anyway, since the spiel wasn’t toned down at all for the sake of the underage set. I even caught Henry furrowing his caterpillar brow at words that weren’t exactly SAT-caliber, but still too smart for him. Maybe Chooch would have been more captivated if they had spoken on his level; you know, peppering sentences with the Tarantino All-Spice of “asshole” and “motherfucker.”

I was more excited than Chooch over the candy he was collecting. It was hard for me to keep my hands out of each candy bowl we passed. Especially the one full of Reeses Cups. Shit.

I had to give Chooch a reassuring shove to get him to accept the vial of vampire blood from a vampirate who sounded super sick and I swear to god if we get H1N1 I’ll be so excited to say I caught the swine flu from a motherfucking VAMPIRATE, ya’ll.

Chooch was completely over it by this point. He was sitting on the ground, with his back toward the mad scientist. Only the highest form of insult for a performer, and let me tell you, these people DO NOT EVER DROP CHARACTER. I could have dropped a baby out of my uterus right in the middle of their cobwebbed crypt only for a cloaked witch with a hunch back to come swooping in to say, “Ooh, a freshly baked mortal infant for my witch’s brew!”

Sadly, all good things must end and once proving that we collected all three talismans, we were all given a pair of werewolf teeth that were really just vampire teeth and then we all had to do our best wolf howl. Of course, mine was phenonemal, Alisha’s was weak, and Henry’s sounded as though he was being fucked by a pine cone. This was also the only time Chooch seemed happy to participate, because he’s good at being loud.

And now tomorrow is Halloween and we still have no costume for Chooch. I almost had him convinced to be an old lady. We even went to the thrift shop last night to find him a dress, but he started acting all stupid about it and I got all stressed out and left him and Henry in there. When I ask him what he wants to be, he says, “I just want to be CHOOCH.” So I asked, “And what will you say if someone asks what you’re supposed to be?” He said, “A motherfucker.” NO, NO YOU WILL NOT SAY THAT.

If he doesn’t decide on something easy and cheap by tonight, I’m stuffing a green box around him and he can go as a fucking dumpster baby. Mama’s not playing games anymore.

Almost as an after thought, I decided we better carve a pumpkin. We’re seriously the most holiday-ambivalent family; even though Halloween is hands down my favorite time of the year, I’d rather just admire everyone else’s haunted yards than cobweb my own.

We tried to decorate last year and it wound up looking like a rusted junk yard. Oh wait, that’s even without decorations.

So after Henry scoured the house for a Sharpie (you’d think we’d have a bounty of them since I’m an “artist”) I pulled myself away from the Penguins game for a whole twenty seconds to scribble out some generic Halloweeny face and then sat back down in front of the TV with my glass of wine while Henry got all hack-happy with a carving knife. I came in during TV time outs to make with the photographic memories,

We thought the booger-loving side of Chooch would emerge and make his gender proud by getting all squashed up in pumpkin guts.

But he was like, “Oh hell nah, that’s disgusting.” So slap another check in the Mommy”s Traits column. I’m blowing Henry out of the water.

Another generic jack o’lantern! I can’t wait for Halloween to be over so I can let it rot on my porch until Christmas and then feed it to blind people.

Hi. I’ve posted this on LiveJournal before, but never here on Oh Honestly, Erin.

**********

There are some standard cultural traditions that I avoid like the plague. For example, having ‘Happy Birthday’ serenaded to me.

It makes me want to unzip my skin and climb inside my body cavity. I never know what to do with myself while locked in this thirty second predicament. Where do I focus my eyes? Do I mouth the words along with everyone? Do I laugh, smile, cry, fellate a candle? Where do I put my hands!? I cannot explain this phobia, but my mom is clearly to blame for the one regarding dressing up for Halloween.

It wasn’t always a disaster. In fact, I used to enjoy it.

Exhibit A: Erin as a bunny in Kindergarten:

Notice how carefree I was. I’m undeniably thrilled that it’s Halloween and I get to dress up and be pretty. But this was back when Halloween was pure and simple—before my mom caught wind of the costume contest at my elementary school. Children from each grade can win a prize for the most creative costume? Who knew?

By the time second grade rolled around, my mom had morphed into Pageant Mother:  Halloween Edition. Choosing my own costume was no longer in the cards. While all my friends were running amok in Kmart, fingering racks of synthetic Snow White capes and vinyl witch masks and probably inhaling 567,872,536 incubating germs left behind by the hundreds of people before them who breathed inside the masks, my role was to sit idly on my ass while my mom tapped into her creative genius for the perfect costume, year after year. I wanted to contract viruses, too, goddammit. But my mom would remind me that there was real life fame and fortune on the line, and since I was only eight, I still had faith in her.

My first homemade costume wasn’t all that sufferable. I have a vague recollection of wanting to help and having my fingers slapped. (Oh my god, I totally do this to my kid now. I have become my mother.)

Though I was shy, I secretly gloated behind my crayon tophat as everyone shrieked about the coolness of my costume. Other kids paraded around the elementary’s parking lot wearing their generic Made in Taiwan costumes, but I was the real deal, yo.

That year gave me my first taste of Halloween costume greatness. I was the winner from my grade, hands down. I remember clutching my prize (a real life silver dollar!) to my heart and beaming knowingly at my mom—we were on our way to big things, I could feel it in my immobile torso. If we had been given the opportunity to recite an acceptance speech, I would have dedicated my winnings to her.

The excitement of the costume contest came to a crashing halt that evening. It was nearly time for Trick or Treating, and I realized that I didn’t have a real costume. You know, real as in ‘practical.’ Real as in ‘I will be traversing great lengths for the sake of candy and this fucking mummifying cardboard box is slightly invasive, can I get a leotard and some mother bitchin’ fairy wings?’  My mom, when I brought this to her attention, scoffed at me and said, “Yes, you do have a real costume!” Next thing I know, my arms are in the air and she’s shoving the Crayola box over my body. This is not the sort of costume that a child wants to wear while on a hunt for candy; my range of motion was limited. My step-dad rose to the occasion and pleaded with my mom that it was going to be a serious buzz kill for me. But don’t get it twisted, this isn’t the heart-warming moment of the story where the girl realizes that her step-dad loves her and decides to call him “daddy” for the first time. His concern was thinly veiled selfishness; he was attempting to save himself from the inevitable whining in which I was about to unleash like tiny verbal firecrackers. I remember hearing my mom respond with, “Yeah, but I want the neighbors to see.”

My shuffling got me down half of a block before I had to head back home, thanks due to cardboard chafing. That was the lightest load of candy any child over the age of five has ever obtained in history, with the exception of those getting hit by a car, kidnapped or only having a palm  to put it in. And it was all my mom’s fault.

By the time third grade rolled around, the Crayola catastrophe was a far off memory. Figuring the ambitions of my mother was a one time deal, I asked her to take me to the mall so I could pick out my next costume. My request was greeted by a look of horror, and she said, “I’ve already started working on your costume.” Oh. We’re doing this again, are we? Goodie.

One would think I would have a say in my own ghouly accoutrement, but all of my ideas and helpful suggestions of butterfly wings and fake blood were shot down. I was, after all, only a kid. And it was only my costume. This one would prove to be the single most over the top costume of my elementary school’s history. (I did extensive research. And by that, I mean I assumed.)

Notice how I’m gazing longingly off in the distance. I think I was devising a plan to steal He-Man’s sword and slash my way out of the sandwich board costume.

The traditional parade was a bitch, as this latest costume proved to be a proverbial thorn in my side. I had to take tiny baby steps, because walking with too much zest caused the cardboard to bounce off of my knees, running the risk of dislodging some of the game pieces. It was during this panoply that I discovered what it’s like to be chased down by the paparazzi. Not that I knew what paparazzi was back then. I had cameras being shoved in my face by a bevy of soccer moms and lunch ladies.

I won again, this time grudgingly. Another silver dollar. That novelty was being stretched thin. My strongest memory of that day was being divided: on one hand, I was elated and lapped up every last drop of attention that was tossed my way because I was no longer an only child and had to resort to destructive behavior to get even a glance in my general direction back at home; but on the other hand, I was embarrassed and wanted to go home and cry in bed.

I returned to my classroom after enduring another photo-op with the principal, and I couldn’t help but sense resentment from some of my peers. A handful of them had even retired their standard super hero costume fare for the likes of Coke cans, a skyscraper, and french fries. They were all clustered together on one side of room, sulking over their failed efforts. But then there was the other half of my classmates who were happier of my win than I was, and wouldn’t cease pawing at my costume. Here, have it. It’s all yours.

By the time I got home, I had put the horrors of Monopoly behind me. This time, my mom relented and I had a backup costume for Trick or Treating. I had to make up for the last year’s debacle, and the painful memory of it made possible my desire to cover extra territory. It was at this young age when I grasped the concept of heaping large amounts of chocolate and caramel into my system to temporarily numb depression.

Apparently I was doing too much indulging, because I became fat. Fortunately, by the next year, I was too busy worrying about weighing more than 85% of my class than stressing over my stupid grandfather clock costume. Suspiciously, there’s no picture of that year’s effort, and I think the fact that I was trumped by my classmate Mike’s grape guise may have something to do with it. To this day, my mom insists that it was about (PTA) politics.  I was relieved to have the heat taken off me. Mike’s costume was killer, yet oh-so simple. A purple sweat suit with purple balloons pinned to it. Genius. My mom still goes off about how he didn’t deserve it. “What did that take? Like, five minutes to pull off? I had worked on that fucking clock for a week!” The grandfather clock really was a crappy costume, though, and I didn’t know the meaning of constricting until that year’s sheath of cardboard was shoved over the shaft of my newly plump body. Divine would have had an easier time sausaging into her evening gowns.

Oh, how I longed for a drug store costume. Imagining how comfortable a plastic Rainbow Brite smock would be was the only thing that held my sanity in place during the ritual romp around the parking lot.

My mom, still feeling the blow of defeat from the previous year, pulled a “phoenix rising” and came back with this one:

It would turn out to be her swan song, and she was rewarded handsomely when I reclaimed my title. I won a real dollar bill that time, which I believe went right into my mom’s purse.

Of course, people who didn’t know me then always express genuine concern with the fact that I’m so into October and all of its creepy overtones yet so blase about dressing up.  Well, NOW THEY KNOW.

I waited all year for Warped Tour. It’s the closest thing to Christmas I have in my life and I savor every fucking second of it. It’s music music music all day long. And I do love that there music. This year, we were going to attempt to take Chooch, but ticket prices were raised and since we’re going back to one income, we decided to pawn him off on Janna. I think he ended up having a day just as full as ours, anyway. (Thank you, Janna!)

We stood in line for a good half hour because I made sure we got there as soon as the lot opened, which was an hour before the actual gates open, because I’m tightly wound and panicked for a week about the possibility of missing a band I really like because they don’t announce set times until that morning, and and and omg someone get me a valium. There was an abandoned mother standing next to Henry and every time I looked over at her, she’d catch my eye and every time it looked like she wanted to strike up a conversation, but instead she’d just smile. Henry was getting uncomfortable because she kept standing so close to him. I thought it was cute, in a “When Oldies Collide” sort of way.

The good thing about standing in line, besides scene kid-watching, is accumulating free shit and demos from members of small local bands. One of those bands was Remember Thy Name, who were handing out flyers which had their set time and stage info on it and urging everyone to check them out. Since the flyer touched my hand and I said “OK I will” out loud to the dude, I felt obliged to make good on my word. And then I went back to bouncing up and down and squealing “I’m so excited!” in Henry’s ear until they finally opened the door to my own version of Heaven and we all pushed our way in only to stand around looking dumb and confused like lost puppies. You know, the usual.

Henry and I aren’t mean enough to make Blake and Deanna hang with old people all day, so we said goodbye to them and then continued roaming around and looking lost and confused.

Luckily, we got inside with enough time to find the appropriate stage and check out Remember Thy Name. One of my favorite moments of the day was when we approached the side of the stage just in time to be met with a barrage of guttural bellows and machine gun drumming, causing Henry to mutter, “Oh yay, I love them already.” I actually did end up loving them, a lot. Thank you for soliciting me in the parking lot, Remember Thy Name.

It had only been about thirty minutes since we began mingling with Western Pennsylvania’s finest collection of kids, and Henry already looked like a billboard for Advil. Perhaps he was sad that he didn’t bring enough money for concert gear. Last year, I know he had his eyes on some booty shorts.

We got to catch a little bit of Underoath’s set on the mainstage (another band that makes Henry grit his teeth) before shouldering our way to the Hurley stage for Bayside. I figured Henry would probably appreciate their set because they’re not screamo and the crowd was decidedly older and less scene. Yet, every time I asked him if he liked them, he’d mumble, “They were OK.” What he was thinking was probably, “They’re no Kansas.” But whatever, they wound up being one of my favorite sets of the day. And it was nice getting to be up close and not having to worry about having my neck broken. Although, throughout the day, I kept seeing some girl with a neckbrace and found myself in an oddly uncomfortable state of covetry.

So, if you’ve read this blog a few times you probably won’t be shocked to find out that I was primarily there for one band. As in, the price of the ticket was worth a thirty-minute set by them alone and I could’ve left straight after and have been happy. Chiodos, main stage, 1:55.

I dragged Henry up to the front of the stage just as Flogging Molly was finishing up. Chiodos are worth the risk of having my brittle, over-aged bones cracked and acquiring attractive barrier bruises along my ribcage. I’m still not too fond of having bitches dropped on my head, so my peripheral vision has to be on-call for this shit.

We could see Chiodos behind the stage, getting ready, and I had a fifteen-year-old girl moment when Bradley returned my wave with spirit fingers. I fucking love Bradley. And then I had a twenty-nine-year-old adult moment when some skanky bitch behind me repeatedly screamed JOEY! into my ear and I don’t know who I hated more: the skank and her skank-shout, or Joey for not hearing her skanky beckoning from all the way in the center of the massive throng of kids that had accumulated in preparation for Chiodos. Fucking answer her, Joey!

They opened with Undertaker’s Thirst for Revenge is Unquenchable and I was stoked when Nick Martin (Underminded) came out to scream. He’s on the album-version of that song and in the video, and he was on Craig’s solo tour last spring, but I have never seen him live on stage with Chiodos. I squealed. Several times. Even tugged Henry’s arm. It’s kind of like that feeling when you think you’re only going to be having sex with one person that night, but then surprise! Menage a trois. What a fucking treat.

Nick Martin can scream in my face all day and I would still beg for more.

And at one point, Jag from A Skylit Drive filled a small guest spot on vocals. It’s exciting to me when people play musical-bands at Warped Tour, because when else could you see, say, Jeffree Star sharing a stage with Breathe Carolina? Not that that’s a good thing.

I liked watching the expressions of security when Craig decided, during “A Letter From Janelle,” that he wanted to get as many people crowd-surfing as possible. Like they really needed to be told. I love watching this, kids simultaneously popping up into the sky everywhere, like some bizarre birthing art-installation. It never gets old for me. Until some motherfucker’s shoe knocks me unconscious. Then I probably won’t enjoy watching too much after that.

Yes, I pay money to be immersed in this.

Nick came out again and was all crouched down at the edge of the stage, completely in an angry-scream zone, and BSouth (The Receiving End of Sirens – RIP to a great band) kept nudging him with his foot until Nick ended up on the shoulders of one of the security guys, never missing a beat. I think it was my favorite moment of the day, aside from Henry’s anguish, which was less of a moment and more of, you know, THE ENTIRE DAY AS A WHOLE. But he likes Chiodos, I know it.

They ended the much-too-short 30 minute set with “There’s No Penguins In Alaska,” which I hope reminded them that their hockey team were bested by the Penguins. Oh, burn.

They didn’t play any new songs, so that was a bit of a bummer. Craig has been taunting everyone on Twitter with tiny updates about the new album they’re writing and I was hoping he’d toss us rabid fans a bone. But they did my favorites: “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek” and “The Word ‘Best Friend’ Becomes Redefined” (still not fantastical tattoo-tingling during it, though).

We took a break in the shade so I could eat my contraband protein bar lunch. Henry looks like his labret is pierced in this photo but I think it’s just lint. Old men have lint.

I did some Versa Emerge-stalking for Alisha, since she couldn’t be there to (not) do it herself.

I kept touching the camera lens all day long, as this photo denotes. This was right after Deanna informed Henry that two people holding hands does not mean they’re going out. Or as Henry still says: “Going together.”

One of the bands that surprised me the most was A Skylit Drive. I missed most of their set because they played the same time as Versa Emerge and I was trying to split the sets so I could see both. But I made it to their stage in time to hear enough to fall in love. They ended with “Eva the Carrier” and I fucking almost started crying. The singer sounds like how I imagine a mer-man to sing: high-pitched and ethereal, like wetting your finger and running it around the lip of a crystal goblet. The stage they were playing on was the one under the ampitheater and the acoustics of it sent his voice traveling all the way up to where we sat, making chills drip down my spine.

I’ve been listening to that song 15x a day ever since.

Henry was not impressed. Like, at all. And somehow, he later managed to sleep through Dance Gavin Dance’s and Black Tide’s entire sets. I twitpic’d a photo of him sleeping, and my friend Matt had the good call of replying with “Hahaha, what’s up Father Time.” INDEED.

Warped Tour abominations:

1. Millionaires. A trio of half-naked skanks hopping around on stage, and lip-synching rapping. They had about as much rhythm as me and all I could make out was “Fuck” being slung incessantly because probably they are too vapid to come up with anything else. You know, GOOD RAPS like I used to write under the Glocks On Our Dicks alias.

2. Jeffree Star.

I know people bitch about how Warped Tour has taken the punk ethos and raped it silly, but I’ve always admired Kevin Lyman’s ballsiness in adding screamo, metalcore, and dance punk into the mix. I think that there’s a really great mixture of music in the lineup and if there’s not at least one band you can be down with, then probably these things just aren’t for you in the first place. However, I have a big problem with shit like Jeffree Star and Millionaires because it’s hokey and if what Gabe Sapora says about Millionaries is true (that if you don’t like the, you just don’t get the joke) then that’s a little insulting to those of us who give shit about music. And as for Jeffree Star, he doesn’t care about his music, he’s just in it for shock value from what I can see, and that’s not very punk rock.

But maybe I’m just old and jaded.

I wonder if their pubes are that natty. If so, it must be a real BITCH for the STDs to get through, like a dolphin in netting.

One of the last  bands of the day  was Dear and the Headlights, a band I’ve loved long time, but have never seen live. I can’t tell you how excited I was. Too bad they weren’t very fun. I mean, they sounded great, but seemed very aloof on stage and kind of ambivalent to the prospect of playing at Warped Tour. And then the singer asked what everyone wanted to hear and some girl near me yelled “Daysleeper” and I was like, “Oh yes, God yes, play Daysleeper” because that’s my favorite, and so he proceeded to ask, “Um, why that one? It didn’t even make any of our albums.” And there was something slightly condescending about how he said it, so that made me lose a little love. Although, I too was a little cranky by that point so maybe I won’t hold it against them. They ended up never playing “Daysleeper” though, those cocksuckers.

I ate Gobstoppers on the way home.

At first glance, you might mistake Thingie Ball for a generic paddle and ball set sold at Target for $9.64.

BUT DON’T GET IT TWISTED.

Thingie Ball, once placed in my hands, is actually a game of skill, violence and foreplay. Alisha and I came up with tentative rules, combining the exciting serve and catch action with all the flavor and full-contact of flag football and all the punkish fashion of roller derby (i.e. another excuse to pull out the tutu, which is still the sweetest tutu in the world) without the skates. Unfortunately, every time I tried explaining my new and evolutional conceptual sport of the millennium, my giddy smiles were met with confused and unsure frowns.

We learned on Sunday that Thingie Ball is a Really Good Icebreaker, as Henry  invited his work friend Jess and her girlfriend Christina to  join me, Alisha, Janna, Brenna and Liz at our cookout.  Jess in turned brought along her friend Jennifer. It wasn’t planned to be a Girls Only Cookout, but that’s exactly what it turned into, much to Henry’s delight.

Awkward Sitting.

At first, we all sat around somewhat awkwardly, waiting for Henry to finish grilling. We made idle conversation, which mostly consisted of me bragging about the totally tedious caramel apple salad I made upon my friend Angie’s suggestion (she failed to mention that prep time was no less than HALF A DAY and I had to PEEL & SLICE SIX APPLES OMG). I chose this particular recipe from those given to me by a collection of LiveJournal friends because it didn’t call for any cooking; no water-boiling, over-heatin’, no measurin’. I was able to do all the prep work and mixing at the dining room table which put me out of Henry’s way. AND it was the only recipe that called for six Snickers bars. So yes, aside from all the peeling & chopping, it had win practically jizzed all over it in caramel.

I also had Henry make some potato salad crap and peach pie twisters, both of the recipes I found in Better Homes and Gardens. Everyone raved about the peach pie shit, and I didn’t want to say anything out loud for fear of embarrassing Henry in front of his work buddy, but there was like, no sugar in that shit. Also, he was supposed to tie rustic-looking fabric scraps around the lips of the dixie cups they were served in, and then a cute little wooden spoon was to be tucked inside the fabric. He did no such thing.

He always quits one step away from reaching true Martha Stewart status.

Henry was also supposed to make these awesome-sounding garden sliders, and he even bought all the ingredient-shit for them, but claims he “forgot” to prepare them.

Oh well, at least we had Alisha’s gimp fruit kabobs to fall back on. I mean, the BEST KABOBS ever. They even had Rolos on them. ROLOS! And they were sharp enough to stake any vampire that might have tried to crash our half-assed driveway picnic. Aside from my son, I mean.

Please don’t anyone stake my son.

Chirping Crickets.

Once the subject of praising Henry’s grilling prowess grew old, we kind of sat there looking at each other, sizing each other up, wondering what to talk about. Christina suggested we get a deck of cards but then Alisha was all, “Well, there’s always Thingie Ball.” I was waiting for everyone to be like, “That looks dumb” when I came back outside with some paddles and a ball. But once we started, all inhibitions were lost to the wind.

And that is how I ended up in a church parking lot Sunday evening, drunk and standing in a deformed circle with six other drunk girls, swatting a ribbon-tailed ball back and forth, sweating Woodchuck and trying not to wind up with protruding bones. Alisha kept mocking my Captain status because she’s jealous of my agility and nimbleness, the suave way I soar through the air, performing perfect scissorkicks and landing with the ball firmly stuck to my paddle.  Meanwhile, Alisha just clomps around and sometimes accidentally catches the ball.

By the end of the action, we were all BONDED FOR LIFE. This is just one of the many things Thingie Ball does with it’s magical velcro, along with lint removal, drink tray, and serving as a sexual submission aid.

When we get our team shirts made, my name (underneath the blinking CAPTAIN marquee pin I’m having made) will probably just be my good old standby of Vagynafondue. I dubbed Alisha “Arkansuck” because she’s from Arkansas and she sucks, you see. She wasn’t pleased but I guess she’ll have to learn to love it because that is her name now. Janna will be something equally appropriate, but I need to sleep on that one.

We capped off the night by wasting a good two hours of our lives playing Uno underneath the dim light of our backyard spotlight, and this is where I learned that Christina cheats, Alisha is an asshole baby-smacker, Draw Fours make Jennifer yell like she’s on Springer, and Jess might just have the worst Uno luck I’ve ever seen. At one point, I laughed and said, “My neighbors probably think we’re having a fucking cock fight back here when all we’re doing is playing motherfucking UNO.”

Fuck, it was a good day.

[Thingie Ball photos are from last weekend. Blake wasn’t able to attend the cookout which was probably a good thing lest he drown in estrogen.]