After our fortuitous trip to the no-named junk store in Tarentum, we drove back to Pittsburgh to meet Wendy for lunch at Ritter’s. She ended up getting caught in traffic and after refilling our drinks for the third time, the waitress  asked, “Do you want me to bring out some crackers?” I think she mostly meant to keep Chooch satiated, but both of us desperately whined, “Yes!” like we were being groomed for Sally Struthers’ next commercial shoot. Chooch ended up turning the crackers into confetti and our waitress—who was young, yet maternal—helped pick it out of my hair. I really liked that lady.

I liked anyone who takes care of me.

(I really need to be taken care of, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.)

Everyone had changed their minds a dozen times by the time Wendy arrived, but I was pretty secure with my omelette selection.

Until Wendy pointed out the special (which I never look at because that seems like such an Older Person thing to do) which was an omelette stuffed with kale and black eyed peas.

For some reason, I was intrigued by this.

“Do I like black eyed peas?” I asked Henry, who said “I don’t know!” in that stupid squeaky voice he uses when he’s angry that I’m speaking to him.

I shouldn’t have ordered this for two reasons:

• I had to ask if I like a legume that one of my most hated pop groups is named after
• It didn’t have cheese in it

Never mind the fact that I apparently hate kale and never knew it.

My omelette was a plated shit stain. But for some reason I still ate most of it and bitched with every bite.

Andrea thought it was SO FUNNY that I hated my omelette (apparently I hate kale*, too) that she nearly tripped over herself trying to take a picture of my plate of slop. My homefries and wheat toast were good at least.

(*In high school, I dated a guy whose last name was Kail and my mom absolutely hated him, even threatened to send me to an all girls school. One time, we were at the grocery store and I saw a bundle? batch? collection? of kale and tried to make her buy it. She almost started crying. So I don’t think I’ve ever actually had kale because my mom had a pretty hefty boycott on it.)

This was totally Wendy’s fault that I hated my breakfast. (I have to blame someone and I don’t think I’ve ever blamed her for anything yet, so congratulations—it’s your turn, Wendy!) She was trying to have an adult conversation with Andrea but kept getting distracted by the exaggterated “4-year-old eating brussels sprouts for the first time” faces I was pulling from across the table. Henry just ignored it. He’s really good at ignoring it.

Meanwhile, Henry ordered BEEF TIPS. Seriously! He’s not even trying anymore to avoid succumbing to Old Manhood. I noticed that some sort of beets were available as a side and while the waitress was waiting for him to decide, I was loudly pleading with him to order the beets. He was so agitated but the waitress was laughing, which made me love her even more.

God, I want to try to find her on Facebook now. I think we’d be great friends. She looks like someone who would help me cross the street.

I really need someone to help me cross the street.

My fantastic morning purchase served as an intentional centerpiece.  Henry groaned, but Andrea encouraged it. This is why we’re friends. That and the fact that she’s like a crackerjack when it comes to getting Chooch and me to stop fighting. Maybe if Henry wasn’t so adverse to buying us shit, his stress levels would plummet.

Afterward, Wendy, Andrea and Henry all fought over the check while Chooch and I kicked back and dreww pictures on his Drawing Thing. We didn’t have any money anyway.

Then it was time to go down the street to my beloved Vanilla Pastry Studio so Andrea could finally taste the cupcakes that inspired the sex metaphor-laden review that wound up on my blog a few years ago. They are still my favorite cupcakes, although Kaitlin’s come close to dominating.

We stayed there to eat our cupcakes, and Chooch embarrassed me in front of the one and only Sugar Fairy (the owner and my cupcake idol), but then he really started being an asshole so Henry had to whisk him away. God only knows where they went; I’d suggest an alley where Henry beat him in private, but everyone knows that Chooch is the one beating us, so no one would believe me anyway.

It was early evening by then, and Andrea wanted to take a little nap (read: needed a break from Chooch and me squabbling like siblings) so we parted ways with Wendy and dropped Andrea off at her hotel after specifically telling her that roller skating started at 8 and I wanted to pick her up by 7:30. She “conveniently” slept “longer” than she “intended” so we were a little late getting there and I was like, “This is the kind of thing that gets Janna Mexican neck-tied by me, just so you know!”

But then she fell within 60 seconds of stepping onto the rink so that made up for her “accidental” tardiness. Apparently, some teenage girl laughed at her when she had her spill and I wish I would have known that because I’m always looking for a reason to mouth-off to teenagers. Especially at the roller rink.

But Andrea at least got to meet Roller DJ, and I think that was really all she wanted to do anyway. She rested safely on the bench for the rest of the time and even made a friend who just happened to be one of the ladies proficient at that crazy roller line dancing bullshit that I so badly want to learn. Andrea kept trying to get me to go out there and ask for help, and she was about one can of Aquanet away from acting just like a pageant mom. I think she was embarrassed that I wasn’t the best one out there.

Andrea’s favorite part was when a Lil Wayne song came on. She had just seen the video for it the night before at my house and quickly bought his entire discography on iTunes.

We ended up leaving an hour early. It was too “middle school dance” for me, and in between pre-teen slaloming, I found myself making quite a few enemies. (Most notably this 8 foot tall Waldo-looking motherfucker who snubbed me during Men Only skate when I tried to slap his hand. Andrea suggested that he was just a germ-phobe and I was like, “WHY DO YOU HAVE TO DEFEND HIM!? WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON!?”) Anyway, we wound up at an Eat n Park, which was on Andrea’s list of places to dine in Pittsburgh. We were sitting near a booth of about 10 girls who MAYBE were high school freshmen. They were playing some truth or dare-type card game and we now know more about their sexual history than their combined gynecologists ever will. Andrea was shriveling up and next to tears; if she opens up a shelter for sexually-deviant teens, you’ll know why. And then she can have a booth at Warped Tour and I’ll be her “helper” who “passes out literature” in front of all the stages and in the back of all the tour buses.

Of course we got stuck behind the whole gaggle of them when we were got up to pay. One of the girls dropped the entire stack of cards and another walked by and purposely kicked at them, sending them sliding all over the floor. It reminded me so much of the type of friendship Janna and I have, that my heart got all warm.

Andrea was beyond obsessed with them at this point and even talked to Colby the cashier about them.

“Do you know them?” she asked. And then we had to listen to him bore us with details of which ones he knows and how he knows them.

It was about 11:30 when we got back to Andrea’s hotel room. I’m surprised she let me come back at all; I figured she had a long night of praying the rosary for the Eat n Park girls.

We drank champagne and I “accidentally” smoked some of her cigarettes. (I can’t be around Camels. They were my absolute jam back in the day.) We talked about absolutely everything from depressing shit to my friend who wanted to “bang” me at the cannon memorial down the street from my house and when his wife got pregnant, he texted me: “We’re having a baby. :(” so now Andrea adds a “baby” behind every frowny face she texts me as an homage to our night of champagne-fueled conversation.

The next thing I knew, I was rolling in my house after 4:00 AM to find Henry methodically in his underwear, mopping up cat pee. He didn’t seemed too alarmed that I was just coming home.

“It’s like being married again,” he mumbled.

I can’t even remember when exactly I met Andrea now that I think about it. When you text with someone everyday, it just seems weird to think about there being a time when you didn’t. But I know it was 2008 and we met on the Etsy’s Dark Side member forum. She found my blog and started commenting, and if you don’t know by now that the fastest way to my heart is by acknowledging my blog (and presenting me with a fine array of cupcakes), then we probably just weren’t meant to be friends.

It also didn’t hurt that her Etsy oeurve was full of bloodied Barbie dioramas, hair fascinators with toy revolvers in the middle and jewelry featuring hacked-off limbs. And with Chooch being such a pint-sized aficionado of the undead, he quickly became a fan of hers too. (It probably helped that she started spoiling him right off the bat. When she found out he was going through a Ben Franklin phase when he was 3, she made him a zombie Ben plush. Who does that!? Creative geniuses, that’s who.)

Then it just got to the point where we texted every day and it eventually occurred to me that after Henry, she was often the first person I was going to when anything would happen to me, good or bad.

The one glaring problem is that she’s in California and I’m in Pennsylvania. “Stupid geography” had become kind of our catch phrase since we were always having to miss everything each other did.

But then one night in August, I was sitting at work when she texted: “So I’m thinking about coming out there for a visit;” I almost died. And then a bunch of my co-workers almost died too because her My Pretty Zombie eye shadow has become quite the sensation at The Law Firm. When Andrea settled on a date, Wendy even canceled a tentative trip to visit a friend to ensure she’d be in town to meet the brains behind the cosmetic crack. Andrea is kind of a big deal ’round these parts.

Somehow I managed to pick her up last Friday morning from the airport without folly. We went straight to the hotel so she could check in (she schmoozed Stanley at the front desk and wound up with Comfort Inn’s version of a honeymoon suite) and give me all of my presents.

Because she is, after all, the goth Mary Poppins.

She got stuff for Chooch too, but also Henry, so now he thinks he’s like part of the club or something.

***

After introducing her to my cats, it was time to take her downtown to The Law Firm. We walked the several blocks to the trolley stop, where I proceeded to spaz out about the fare. (I never know if I have the right amount!) Within 5 seconds, Andrea confirmed that we were OK. Then she took the cash from me because I had clammy Waiting For the Trolley palms and she was afraid I was going to fuck up the crispness and make the bills unable to be accepted by the fare machine.

(I think she said something about me being adorable at that moment, but that sentiment only lasts so long. None of my other friends think I’m adorable, ever. And that’s just a shame.)

That happened to me once in May, you know. I couldn’t get my $1 bill sucked into the machine and the trolley driver freaked out and screamed, “OF COURSE IT’S ACTING UP AGAIN! THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT MACHINE! JUST GO SIT DOWN! I GUESS EVERYONE JUST RIDES FOR FREE TODAY!”

Meanwhile, everyone who got on after me had no problem with it. I sat all hunkered down and sheepish in my seat the whole way to work, where I then proceeded to make everyone feel sorry for me.

“Aw, you got yelled at? What an asshole! You poor thing,” everyone said. (Shit, this memory might be from the delusional side of my brain, but now I can’t remember.) Anyway, when I went home that night, I gave Henry the dollar back and he was all, “Um, what did you do, put this through the washer? No wonder it wouldn’t go in the machine.”

I’m pretty sure it was my sweaty, nervous mitts that got it in that state, though.

Andrea was nice (see also: smart) enough to insert the fare for both of us, alleviating so much of my anxiety.

SO MUCH of it.

And thank god the lady sitting in front of us let us know we were at the last stop, because I completely stopped paying attention since I had a shiny new toy-person in the seat next to me. Every other minute, I was back to being stunned that we were actually hanging out in real life.

The next huge obstacle in our journey was that we had to cross the street, which is always scary. (When Henry drives me to work, I never have to cross the street. It’s super safe.) I managed to get her to the 10th floor of The Law Firm unscathed, but then she got mobbed a few minutes later by eyeshadow addicts; a plummet down the elevator shaft might have seemed preferable by then.

Seriously, Andrea is a rock star at The Law Firm.

“Did you make that bracelet?” Barb asked me after I introduced her to Andrea.

“Uh, yeah,” I answered in this snotty, indignant tone that I know Henry for one really relishes. “I’ve worn it here before, but I guess that was back when I wasn’t cool enough for you to notice me.”

This inspired Barb to go on a tirade about how awesome I am. She is like putty in my hands. PUTTY.

And then Wendy rounded the corner and I was really impressed at the restraint she showed; she had really dialed it back a ton.

(Andrea still seemed alarmed that this was Wendy toned down. She’s just a very excitable person!)

After spending about 25 minutes watching Andrea be overwhelmed by attention, we went to Olive or Twist for some midday drinks. (Amazing that I even got us there considering I just blindly follow everyone else when we go out for late shift happy hour; I’m a navigational dunce when it comes to downtown.) I absolutely had eaten nothing all day but some licorice that Andrea shook into my cupped hands while waiting for the trolley but I ordered a lavender lemonade martini at the bartender’s suggestion. Who am I to turn down lavender? Plus, the bartender was practically fellating the drink menu while describing the drink to me. Andrea had the audacity to inquire about their champagne selection, which did not exist, so the bartender got a little snippy with her, illustrating her feelings by pouring way more martini in my glass than Andrea’s.

I openly gloated about this and the fact that my drink was way prettier than Andrea’s ugly pear concoction. She seemed to take it in stride, hopefully because she knows I’m mercilessly cruel to the ones I like the most.

Afterward, we sat around outside on eyeball chairs and heckled a tour group on Segways. There was one lady who was frantically calling out, “Can’t stop! Can’t stop!” I was disappointed when someone who apparently had flipped their operating manual saved her with their wisdom; I kind of (read: really) wanted to see her crash into the side of a building. They seemed to be taking some sort of stretching break, which made me wonder if it’s really that strenuous to maneuver on a Segway. Is limbering up really necessary? I don’t want to fully hate on these people unless I know for sure, so maybe I should put one of those stupid helmets on and become a Segway nerd for an hour.

I mean, I could stand to learn some shit about the city in which I’ve lived for 32 years yet know nothing about.

Henry and Chooch picked us up down there because I’m too stupid to figure out how transfer tickets work. Andrea was going to teach me, and also find out from Wendy how I can get a monthly pass, but then quickly realized that if I know too much, Henry might make me use that knowledge and officially resign as my work jitney.

***

We had dinner that night at Blue Flame, which was one of the few places that Andrea was adamant about going to since I have written about how special it is to me. This pleased me greatly. When I was friends with Jessy, Blue Flame was a really good halfway point for us to meet, but she’d always be like, “Babe, please. I really hate that restaurant.” Because it wasn’t a chain, you see. And every time she would say that, it was like she was ripping straight from my teeth a grilled cheese wrapped in my Pappap’s photo and curb stomping it.

“This is great,” Andrea said when we sat down in a corner booth. And then after dissecting and reassembling the breakfast menu like she was about to be quizzed on a Japanese game show, she wound up ordering some stuffed chicken thing and potato pancakes, which she then sent a picture of to her husband to taunt him. He was apparently very jealous.

Chooch was still riding high on his excitement that Andrea was here and was showing off and acting out accordingly. (Occasionally he’ll say things like, “Am I ever going to see Andrea?” and “I wish Andrea could come to my birthday party” and then he makes me show him a map so he can remember just how far away we are from her. It’s really sad.) Blue Flame never gets a dinner crowd, but there were still several people in our section who would periodically turn and gape at the hellion in the corner and his parents who had long ago relinquished any parental control. Henry finally reached his limit and drug Chooch out to the parking lot to cool off. The last thing Chooch said before disappearing out the door was, “I want my foooooood——-” Just the way it came out, all cartoonish and desperate, like he was falling off a cliff when he said it, made us lose it. Andrea had been up for like, 24 hours by this point, so she REALLY lost it. And I was just so happy to finally be hanging out with someone who laughed until they cried, that it made the whole situation even funnier to me.

They eventually came back in and Chooch kept instigating. He reminds me so much of someone sometimes, the way he knows just how to get under Henry’s skin like his antics are a scalpel, but I just can’t place it. He was making Andrea laugh so hard that she thought she was going to have to go outside. Again, I felt relieved to finally be hanging out with another laughing idiot, but then she kept blaming it on delirium. I think she’s lying though; she’s just as chuckle-abusing as I am.

Either that or those were real, fat “WTF am I doing here in Pittsburgh with these assholes?” tears.

The waitress never brought us a box, so I wrapped Chooch’s leftover grilled cheese and my potato pancakes all haphazardly in several napkins, bunched it up in a ball, and then went up to pay the bill with my hobo luggage. On the way up there, we past a table of old ladies who were ordering. The one lady asked for a side of beets and when the waitress said they were out, she loudly whined, “Aw, no beets?!” What a small victory for the self-esteem of beets.

We both started laughing all over again and Andrea totally ditched me so I had to stand there, paying the bill and laughing alone.

On the way home, Chooch’s dream of browsing the Halloween store with Andrea finally came true and Henry told me I’m fat. I’m sure other things happened during the hour we spent in that store, but that’s all that stands out to me right now. Later that night, Henry sat alone with his nose pressed against his phone, playing Words With Friends while Andrea mindlessly stared at music videos on MTV Hits and I taught her about all the things she’s (not) missing with pop music. Then I made her watch FRANCIS! eat a cricket and she was like, “OMG is this seriously all he does, just sits there?” but I took that as jealousy from not having her own Pacman frog. She probably already bought her own since she’s been back in California. Why else would she have been asking me all these questions, such as, “Where are they from?” which might actually have been the only question she asked. And then she got to experience in person and for the 7895th time that day my patented “I dunno” mumble, which I sometimes pair with a half-shrug.

“Maybe like South America?” I guessed.

Henry smirked. “Probably some breeder’s basement.”

And then Marcy’s daughter Willie peed on Andrea’s purse (which was thankfully vinyl).

Welcome to Pittsburgh!

My friend Andrea (of My Pretty Zombie fame!) has been in Pittsburgh since Friday morning & the amount of fodder I have to blog about is staggering. (Who knew beets alone could be so funny?)

Oh my god, she brought us so many toys and presents, totally spoiling us and even made sure I didn’t die when I took her downtown on the trolley to meet my Law Firm friends. She’s like a goth Mary Poppins.

Today we’re going to the Evans City Cemetery (the official Night of the Living Dead graveyard) to take some zombie pics. An aficionado of the undead can’t come to the Zombie Capital of the World and NOT stomp around that boneyard. I would definitely seal my fate as the worst tour guide (and friend) in the universe if I didn’t take her there.

So that’s what we’re doing today, after which she begrudgingly promised to go to a haunted house tonight because she knows I’ll cry otherwise.

This has been the funnest weekend ever! Chooch and I are going to cry when she leaves tomorrow. (Maybe Henry might too—she HAS taken a lot of heat off him this weekend.)

“Henry!” I said all breathlessly into the phone, which is his cue to brace himself. “I just saw the line up for the Rock Yourself To Sleep tour and guess who’s co-headlining?”

In a bored monotone, Henry muttered, “I don’t know.”

“No, guess!”

“Chiodos,” Henry guessed with a heavy sigh.

“Wha—? No!” I couldn’t believe he didn’t get it right off the bat.

“D.R.U.G.S.,” was Henry’s noncommittal second guess.

Meanwhile, I have my kid sitting next to me yelling, “THE CURE! Jonny Craig!”

“God, it’s Dance Gavin Dance!” I yelled into the phone. “I can’t believe that wasn’t your first guess.”

“I didn’t want to guess it,” Henry said in a tired voice. “Because I didn’t want it to be true.”

I HOPE IT COMES TO/NEAR PITTSBURGH!

***

In other pre-teen glee, we went to my friend John’s son’s 4th birthday party yesterday. I didn’t know anyone there at the park, and Chooch pushed the birthday boy down a hill within the first 15 minutes of us arriving*, so I was grateful when John’s cousin Chrissy sat across from me and introduced herself. Her daughter Alex joined us and my first thought was, “I wonder where she got that cool bow in her hair?”

(*This is why we don’t get invited places.)

“Look, Erin’s nails are painted almost the same as yours,” Chrissy said to Alex. (We both had symbols painted on just one hand, opting to keep the other hand plain.) A few minutes later, she also pointed out that Alex and I are both vegetarians (though I do fancy some fish nowadays, to be fair).

When Henry and I were alone a few minutes later, I said to him, “Isn’t it funny that the one person here I have the most in common with is a fourteen-year-old girl? I wonder if she wants to run away from home all the time, too.”

“Sad,” Henry mumbled.

But considering that Henry always compares me to twelve-year-olds, this is an improvement, no? In fact, on the way to the party, he was ridiculing me in the car.

“You have the hands of a 12-year-old,” he scoffed when I fanned out my left hand in front of his face. The fact that every ring I wore that day was made of neon plastic and cost a quarter only gave him more reason to jeer. “‘Look what I did, Daddy!'” he mocked, rolling his eyes at the ampersand I painstakingly painted on my thumb the night before.

“I should have painted ‘Jonny Craig’ on my nails,” I said, mostly to myself.

“Jesus Christ,” Henry mumbled, looking out the window, clearly wishing he commanded my attention as much as this ginger douchebag does.

Back at the party, Chrissy was pointing at my shoes and asking, “Are those TOMS? Alex wants a pair of those.” A little bit later, Alex walked by and said, “I like your shoes!” causing Henry to shake his head and flash me one of his signature Disappointed Smirks.

When we were leaving, Chrissy said jokingly, “You and my daughter will have to hang out sometime!”

(Only if she likes Dance Gavin Dance!)

Henry looked all chagrined by this, and Chrissy added, “What, you don’t want her to be an old lady, do you Henry?” YEAH HENRY! I AM WHO I AM, OK ? Stop trying to make me boring.

Remember a few weeks ago when I had that exceptionally whiny post about how Henry never does anything for my birthday, and you guys were all like, “What a motherfucker he is!” and I was all like, “Fuck yeah, you dig the hole, I’ll kill him!”? And then I told you how this year, I put Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” on repeat, got all Take Action and decided to be a Strong, American Woman by having a birthday party for myself, and Henry can just eat a dick while that’s happening?

Well…

The day after my party, Barb said, “Well, I guess I can tell you this now…” at which point she said that at Chooch’s birthday party (in May), Henry approached her about wanting to throw me a surprise party.

Which I ruined by being so bull-headed about “taking matters into my own hands.” And I don’t regret doing that, because look at all the times I sat around waiting for something that was never going to happen.

But what I do regret is being such an asshole to him, to his face and on this blog.

He read that post, which was so awful and bitchy, and he never said anything.

If it were me, I would have been like, “I was GOING to have a party for you, you asshole” and then set fire to his face, but Henry is not like me. Henry is nice and calm. So he read all my mean words and went about his day without even mentioning it.

(Barb said he’s also probably used to it.)

So here is where I put on my best “oopsies” smile and apologize in a Degrassi accent.

(You still failed on the present front, though. Better luck next year.)

My grandma died last night. Out of respect for the few family members I actually care about, this is all I will say about the matter, but rest assured I am a very angry, confused girl right now. I processed the news by jump roping vigorously off and on from 11pm to 1:30am and spitting a very vitriolic rant in Henry’s face, who was nice enough to stay up way past his bedtime for me, even after a weekend full of bratty outbursts and break-ups.

I felt I should at least say something on here about it, since many of you have been so nice and caring regarding my Grandma and the whole saga that has unraveled over the last few years.

This has ripped the scab right off my precariously-compounded Pappap wound. There are not enough pictures of Jonny Craig in the world to get me through this one.

It only took 13 years, but I think Marcy is starting to like me. Lately, when I’m laying in bed pouting (because douchebag Henry and his twatty attitude leave me perpetually suspended in 16-year-old limbo), Marcy pushes my bedroom door open and first, all I see is her big plumey tail, raised and curled up at the end. (This, along with her ferocious bite, is why I call her Shark Attack.) Then Marcy jumps on the bed, wherein she allows me to pet her approximately four strokes before either sinking her claws into me or clamping her jaw around my hand.

But it would feel weird if it didn’t end that way.

She’s my best friend. Even though she’s in love with Henry. She can have him.

In between the Big Butler Fair and trying unsuccessfully to clamp my hand over Chooch’s mouth as he booed the 4th of July fireworks, we worked on the kitchen. Of course you’ll understand that “we” means Henry, singularly. He rearranged all of the shelves and the microwave stand so that now three whole people can stand in the room at one time without ever having to press up against each other! It’s very feng shui in there now and it makes my heart do a little gyration of joy every time I enter the kitchen.

Henry was also able to extract the pocket door from the wall. (I just learned that it’s called a “pocket door.” Up until the other day, I had been calling it the Door That Was Inhaled By the Wall.

) I had been living in this house for a few years before I even noticed that the door was there, but whoever lived there before me had gone to great lengths to ensure that it couldn’t be used anymore. When Henry was painting last weekend, he felt inspired to do something about that (maybe because Chooch and I were screaming FIX THE DOOR FIX THE DOOR WE WANT THE DOOR! I even got out my pom-poms and did a split), which entailed him sawing through the dining room floor and forcefully prying out a strip of wood that had been glued inside the top of the door frame, only to find out that the outlet for the refridgerator was preventing the door from sliding all the way out. (I know, that part confused me, too. I’m actually just making stuff up now.)

Good thing Henry used to pretend to be an electrician in another life! He spent a good portion of Sunday fucking with wires and drills while I edited photos and listened to music, two things I excel at. Eventually, we had a door! I was half-expecting the remains of a putrified body to come falling out of the wall, or perhaps a treasure map to be adhered to the inside of the door with strips of aging masking tape, but no—-just a door.

Pretty anticlimatic.

I got to prime one side of it yesterday! It was horribly taxing and boring! Henry did the other side to shut me up.

We still have to do something about the floor.

I have big plans, specifically for a utensil holder that I want to make (no really, I can do it by myself!) but Henry seems pretty whatever about it.

I did notice that he never re-hung my 1970s rainbow picture frame. I really do have to do it all around here.

Anyway, I’m just happy that now I can have parties and not die of embarrassment when people accidentally wander into the kitchen, looking for a private nook in which to hook up.

This is a very boring post.

Awhile back, I wrote about one of my old neighbors whom I dubbed Tourette’s because of his oft-profane outbursts. He must still live closeby because I see him walking past the house a lot, and often run into him at the local Eat n Park and Tom’s Diner.

A few weeks ago, Chooch and I were walking home from CVS and had the great fortune of passing him, mid-outburst.

Chooch of course stopped after the man had walked by and proceeded to stare as he retreated.

“Why is he so mad?” he asked me. I didn’t really know what to say, so I just said that sometimes he likes to yell and swear for no reason.

“We should call the police on him,” Chooch suggested earnestly.

[I should remember this for the next time Chooch has his own (daily) outburst.]

“He might have a medical condition that makes him yell like that,” I tried to put delicately, when really I wanted to pee myself at the memory of epic lawnmower wrestling matches of yesteryear and whine, “He’s psychotic and really scares me! Hold me, son!”

“Or,” Chooch mused thoughtfully, “he might just watch The Family Guy a lot.”

OK. Or that.

The other day, we had the pleasure of sharing the sidewalk with him again on the way back from the store. I prayed and prayed and prayed that he wouldn’t be spouting off and that my outspoken kid wouldn’t feel inspired to confront him. I started flexing a hand in preparation of clamping Chooch’s mouth shut.

Luckily, one of Chooch’s neighborhood friends (he has a LOT of them; I have NONE) was across the street so Chooch ran ahead to greet them maniacally, never even noticing Tourettes. Crisis averted. (This time, anyway.)

My town is one big mental ward. I mean, I’m a resident, after all. I can only hope that I grow into one of those…”colorful” characters who skulk around town leaving a trail of mental dysfunction in their wake. I like to think I’m one of them in training.

I’m going to make my own Brookline postcards, make you all wish you were here.

Leave a comment if you want a slice of schizophrenia! (Seriously. I’ll email you for your address.

I love sending post cards!)

There’s not too much to tell about the zoo trip considering Chooch didn’t let us stay more than 20 seconds at each exhibit before yelling, “OK, GREAT. I SEE IT. I SAW IT. LET’S GO!”

Bitch, I want to look at the fucking lion! I haven’t been able to really enjoy the lion (or any other animal for that matter) at the zoo in years thanks to my unimpressed son. I could literally stand there and watch the Silverback all day. I’m totally going by myself next time.

Totally not caring about the giraffes.

Even though it was a school trip, the class didn’t stick together. I was partially glad about this because I didn’t want to get stuck shuffling through the zoo with the mom brigade, but at the same time I felt bad for Chooch because he rode on the bus with his buddy Zachary and expressed interest in sticking with him through the zoo. However, I felt like Zachary’s mom held him back when we got off the bus, purposely preventing him from getting stuck with us.

Or it could be that she was waiting for her husband and youngest son, who had driven separately, but if that’s the case then no one will feel sorry for me. Wah.

Before we got to the monkey house, I remembered that I had the crappy point-and-shoot in my purse, so I shoved it at Chooch and suggested that he take pictures of the animals. This bought us significantly more time at each exhibit, even though he wasn’t actually taking any pictures because he’s too impatient to hold the button down for the whole ONE POINT FIVE SECONDS it takes to capture an image. So every once in awhile, Henry would grab it and start snapping random pictures just so it would look like he accomplished something. Funny how when it comes to taking clandestine photos of me with my phone, Chooch has all the patience in the world.

I wanted to stay and look at the octopus for much longer than Chooch allowed me. Henry was all, “Just take your time and look at things! I’ve got Chooch.” But what I heard was, “Here give me your phone so you have no concept of time and miss the bus and have to stay here forever getting raped by orangutans, you ruined my life, bitch.”

Nice try.

All the times I’ve been inside the aquarium, I had no idea you could actually pet the sting rays! Of course I wouldn’t know that—Chooch never let me check out their tank because it’s right by the GIFT SHOP. I refused to leave until I touched one.

“Just touch one of the smaller ones that keeps swimming past,” Henry begged, after we had been standing there accomplishing nothing for countless minutes.

“No! I want one of the big ones,” I said defiantly.

“I forgot who the kid is here,” Henry muttered.

I finally got to touch one for .00008 seconds before screaming and pulling back my hand. It was squishy and soft and pleasant on the fingertips, but it was still a STING RAY.

Chooch actually let us hang out with the sharks for awhile. Probably because I told him that they’re our cat Marcy’s relatives.

Marcy underwater

There was an incident where four older boys ganged up on Chooch in one of the play areas. They were probably around nine or ten, and I thought that they had been playing pleasantly at first, because older kids seem to generally appreciate Chooch’s foul mouth. But a few minutes later, we had moved on to this area with little scooters, and they were already there. Chooch walked over to get on a scooter and one of them said, “Leave us alone!”

That flipped my bully retaliation switch real quick-like and I said loudly, “DON’T LISTEN TO THEM, CHOOCH. YOU’RE OK.” One of their trashy Jersey Shore moms was standing nearby but she was too engrossed in studying her slutty Lee-Press Ons to notice that I was about to trounce her fucking asshole children.  So then I did that thing I do really well, which is say things super loud and immaturely to Henry, putting him in an awkward accomplice position.

“WHICH ONE OF THOSE ASSHOLES SAID IT?” I kept loudly demanding, to which Henry would WHISPER back, “Which one do you think? Take a wild guess.” Then he was pissed off when I proceeded to guess wrong three times because in my opinion, it could have been any of the four. I really thought it was the fat boy swaddled head-to-toe in DC brand, but Henry said it was the preppy fuck with sunglasses on his head.

They were in my crosshairs for the rest of the day after that, and when they walked past me after deeming the scooters “lame” upon Chooch’s arrival (hello, aren’t they too old for that shit anyway?) I said loudly to no one in particular, “I HATE bullies.” I made eye contact with some of them and then quickly swiveled to make sure the mom chaperone had heard me, but she was too busy with her nose to her phone, watching Young and the Restless clips on YouTube.

“They’re like, ten,” Henry reminded me when I proclaimed that I was going to fight them and stalked off in the direction they left in. We had several encounters in the reptile house, but I think they had caught on by that point that some kid’s mom was looking to fuck up their world, so they didn’t give me any more reasons. But we did make lots of eye contact and it was not of the MILF variety, I promise you that.

Meanwhile, Henry used this trip to the zoo to remind us that he knows a lot about birds, which is why I won’t be going to the aviary with him.

I took Chooch’s thank you cards to school on Wednesday morning for his teacher to hand out. She (and Momesis, who was also there) began cooing over my handwriting. It’s really nothing special, but I only had eight envelopes to address so I spent a little more time making them look cool.

“I have a lot of time on my hands,” I laughed, brushing off their compliments because I am SO MODEST.

Today when I was waiting outside the classroom to get Chooch, his teacher came out and said, “Oh good, you’re here! I have something to ask you! You can say no if you want!”

I braced myself. When people tack that on to the end of favor-askin’, I get scared. One of these days it’s going to be an organ request, I just know it.

Anyway, she wants me to write all the kids’ names on their graduation certificates. Including the 3-year-olds, it’s a total of 24. I said yes, it’s not like I have much else going on & I myself enjoy the arthritic sensations of pen-gripping.

“You must get asked to do this all the time,” his teacher laughed as she prepared a list of names for me.

“No, not really,” I said, flashbacks of four years being the signage bitch at a meat company running through my mind like a stop-motion slasher reel.

The only downside is that now there is pressure to perform perfectly. I just know I’m going to accidentally write “Jonny Craig” on one of them, probably a penis-doodle, too.

I know, thank god! A sea monkey post! Trust me, even though no one actually came right out and asked it, I could practically sense the global panic when people would come to the good old blog and find NO SEA MONKEY UPDATES OMG.

They’re alive! In fact, two of them have been furiously mating. I found that peeping on them all night at work kept my nerves tempered. Otherwise, it was a pretty agitating work night full of shouting, Facebook snubbing* and loud conversations about snapping turtles.

(*Sandy and I sent one of our co-workers a friend request on Friday and he has not confirmed us! We even mentioned it to him and he played the Facebook Ambivalence card but PROMISED that he would go home and confirm us post haste.

It is now Tuesday and my friend count is still at 346. I decided I was going to give him the cold shoulder but Sandy felt he wasn’t going to notice that I went from not having casual conversation with him to…not having casual conversation with him. I see her point.)

In other news, our friend Bill called me today and invited us to join him and Jessi at his time share in Gatlinburg, TN this summer! At first, I was like, “Oh. Tennessee.” All I really know about Tennessee is that Arrested Development wrote a peppy little tune about it. That song is also as close as I get to a game of horseshoes. But Bill said there is a ton of kitschy tourist traps in town and urged me to Google that shit.

So I did and OH MY GOD, I’M GOING TO TENNESSEE, YA’LL! I didn’t know that’s where motherfucking DOLLYWOOD is!

“You want to go to Dollywood?” Barb asked, all full of skepticism when I was gushing about this at work today.

“Barb, it has roller coasters. I’d go to Sarah Palinwood if it had roller coasters.” There was a moment of silence, and then we both laughed. I’d rather buy my own rape kit.

I spent a good portion of my night at work on various tourist sites and Roadside America. You can bet your ass I’M going to Christ in the (motherfucking) Smokies. Henry said I’ll be going by myself.

THAT’S OK. I need to see life-sized Jesus shit.

And to think we almost got roped into going to the lame beach with another couple (a story for another day). A lame beach with no Titantic Museum and NO BOARDWALK = NO THANKS.

VI. Balloon Sweatshop

Henry wanted to hire some form of entertainment for the party, forgetting that 5-year-olds are pretty much good with some grass to run on and slides to slide down. Unfortunately, the only party entertainment I could find that catered to poor-folk like us was a clown whose sole review said: CON ARTIST!

Part of me thought it would be pretty awesome to hire her and watch as she picked the pockets of the preschool moms, but my luck she’d pick that day to graduate to armed robbery.

But then Bill mentioned to me that he used to be pretty savvy with balloon twisting. Hired!

I caught him pacing around the pavilion, watching tutorials on his phone. He was really taking his role seriously, which I appreciated because I wasn’t going to let him eat until he entertained some fucking kids.

It’s amazing how excited kids get over balloon swords.

Everything was going great until one little brat decided that swords were yesterday’s news and began requesting other things. Like puppies.

Thank god for Bill’s secret weapon: Jessi. She began twisting the fuck out of green and yellow balloons until they were these perfect, precious daisies. I gave one to Momesis’s daughter and I was sure she was going to faint like Perez Hilton meeting Lady Gaga for the first time. Momesis and I laughed together until I realized that we were having a moment so I walked away.

Stripper’s daughter must have requested a sword in every color, thrice, only to take five steps away from the pavilion and stomp it to death. Pretty sure Bill and Jessi wanted to cut her off.

Or just cut her.

At one point, I caught Bill trying to eat while a line of balloon-addled children formed to his right. What, you want a break? You’re tired and hungry from driving all the way to Pittsburgh that morning from Michigan? Boo-hoo! You’re not here to enjoy yourself! You’re not a guest, you’re the HELP. And if you want to know what that entails, go ask Janna.

Then I felt bad and decided to intervene. I’m not really good with talking to children*. My first inclination was to flick the kids on the forehead and tell them to beat it, but their moms were near by so instead I just said, “Bill’s taking a break. Come back later.”

(*Like when I told Kara’s baby Harland that the grill was there for cooking babies, which caused Henry to give me a disgusted look. What? Harland’s young enough still for me to get away with that. But if he grows up into a serial baby-griller, then it was really Henry who said it.)

I DON’T SEE ANY BALLOONS IN YOUR HANDS!

VII. Douche Cup

Toward the end of the party, I was sitting at a table with my friend Lindsay. “We learned a new word over at the playground,” she said to me in such a way that I:

• knew my kid definitely was going to be a character in this story
• knew that it definitely wasn’t going to be church-appropriate

“Douche cup,” she said, snickering.

When Bill and Jessi were here last year for Chooch’s party, Bill and Chooch were putting together a Spongebob Lego set. But Bill had the audacity to eschew the directions and build his own things. Chooch didn’t like that at all and that is how Bill became known as Douche Cup.

I guess being around Bill again jogged Chooch’s memory, and the day became a douche cup free-for-all. Barb mentioned that he ran past the table she was sitting at and everyone was like, “Did he just say—-yeah, pretty sure he said douche cup.”

Later, Jessi told me that she overheard one of the preschool moms saying, “I think he wants a juice cup?”

Yes, that’s exactly right! My kid REALLY likes his juice cups.

Douche cups.

VIII. The Guests

We had a small Labor Day cookout at my mom’s last year. I only invited three of my friends, and two of them couldn’t make it. So it wound up being Blake, Henry’s mom, my two brothers, and Jessy* and Tommy.

(*Not to be confused with Jessi from Michigan, who is a much better example of a friend.)

Nothing major, just a small cookout, during which I expressed interest in having a Halloween party.

“Um, have you SEEN how your parties turn out?” Jessy sneered, waving an arm around the table of limited guests.

It hurt my feelings real bad. Too bad she’s a dumb bitch and wasn’t invited to this party, which ended up having a total of 62 people show up.

There were old friends, new friends, faraway friends, high school friends, my favorites from the Law Firm, family I haven’t seen in forever (like my cousin Danielle and Aunt Susie, who brought embarrassing pictures from when Christy and I were junior bridesmaids in her wedding), my dad, Henry’s family. And of course all the preschool kids. There were so many kids, surprisingly none of which were crying kids. Not even Jacob, who unfailingly cries before school each morning.

That was my favorite part of the day, knowing all these people cared.

And the moms didn’t even bother me too much!

Kaitlin, Kristen and Danny. This was Kaitlin’s first time meeting Henry and she said watching us together was like reading my blog in real time. This made Henry frown, because he knows it’s true.

IX. Fuck a Pinata

Hey, did you know that you don’t pulverize pinatas with a baseball bat anymore? Apparently, the Mothers Against Dangerous Party Games banded together to eradicate these festive abominations and now pinatas come with a bunch of ribbons dangling from its anus, and each kid gets to pull one.

Chooch went first, and naturally pulled the one string that was rigged to break open the bottom. Total party foul. Except it was stuffed tighter than 4 bodies in Bundy’s trunk so only three pieces of candy flittered to the ground. Then we had to go through the motions of every kid yanking a ribbon, which clearly wasn’t going to do anything, but Henry insisted that every kid have a turn. He really took this seriously. Probably because it was his only responsibility of the day.

I honestly thought Henry was going to backhand J.T. for trying to pull a ribbon before Chooch. J.T.’s mom was right next to me, so that wasn’t awkward at all. It’s probably why she snubbed me on Wednesday when we were picking up our kids at school.

Random gun. I’m sure one of the moms had a problem with that. SO GO WRITE A LETTER.

There’s the Baby Grill in the background. I hope you brought some buns.

X. Cake, Part 2

Stapler makes a cameo.

I feel like I missed the full glory of Chooch’s embarrassment at being serenaded because I was too busy tripping over myself trying to take pictures. This was also right about the time the fucking camera battery died. I hate taking pictures at parties because I just want to enjoy myself but I can’t trust Henry to take pictures (I asked him 87 times to take pictures of the kids at the playground but he refused because it was “creepy.” NOT WHEN IT’S OUR SON’S BIRTHDAY PARTY.)

And then everyone (myself included) stood around after the candle was blown out, anxiously awaiting the cake to be cut. But Henry just up and left, fucking walked away like leaving a cake to fester beneath hungry eyes was no big thing. I literally had to chase him down, chanting, “When are you going to cut the cake, when are you going to cut the cake, when are you going to cut the cake, I’m going to slit your throat tonight, when are you going to cut the cake.”

“You told me to find the other camera battery!” he yelled. “What do you want me to do first?!”

“Um, cut the cake.” Obviously.

So he cut the cake, but then never gave me a piece, which of course is a silent, yet LOUD, way to say, “The last thing you need is a piece of cake, Chubs.”

In addition to the cake, Kaitlin made French macaron lollipops. Suck on that, preschool moms. How many 5-year-old have such culinary riches at their parties? Suri Cruise probably does, but she also probably has mimes handing out Scientology pamphlets.

XI. Presents. Or: The Best Part of the Day, as declared by Chooch.

I had every intention of writing down what everyone got him, but guess what? He started opening the presents right when I FINALLY got a piece of cake. (I made Henry’s mom cut it for me. I don’t do cake-cutting.) So it was either set the cake down for later or stand there worthlessly, shoveling it into my maw while all the moms watched me only half-care about my kid. Every now and then, I’d mutter the obligatory, “Whoa, buddy. Cool gift!” while cake droppings cascaded from my lips.

The cake totally won.

Bria was all up on him, telling him which one to open next. I wanted to be like, “Let the guy breathe, Jesus Christ!” Until I realized it was like watching a mini Henry and Erin.

I liked when he started pulling out zombie and Jason Voorhees memorabilia in front of all the moms who played it safe with age-appropriate toys.

Bonecrusher zombified this Batman doll for him!

After the presents were opened, all the preschool kids left. On their invitations, I put 2-3:30 as the time of the party, when it was actually 2-6. (Sometimes I’m smart like that.) Henry was acting like a jazz choreographer on speed, trying to get everything out of the way in the first 2 hours.

“PINATA! (jazz hands!) CAKE! (boomkack!) PRESENTS! (step ball change!)”

With all that out of the way, I got to relax with my friends for the second half. I love my friends. And there were still plenty of kids there, which meant I didn’t have to entertain my own child.

After the party, Jessi told me that she heard one of the moms say this was going to be the party to beat. Success! Thanks to everyone who helped make it the best party Chooch has ever had!

Right as we were leaving the park, a bird shit straight down Chooch’s back. Happy birthday, Chooch! Better you than mommy!

I had a pretty bad night, sleep-wise. I’m a little under the weather and just wanted to rest, but it was one of those nights where Chooch just refused to stay in his bed.

Henry had already left for work super-early—like around 2AM so he can get shit done since we’re going to Cleveland tomorrow morning and his co-workers can’t be trusted to do jack shit to help him out—-so I couldn’t pawn the child off on him as I am normally wont to do.

  It wouldn’t have been such an issue if Chooch hadn’t been bringing his industrial snoring machine into my bed with him. I’d escort him back to his room, wait for him to fall asleep, climb back into my own bed, and within an hour the cycle would start all over again.

Somewhere around 4:30AM, he came into my room and announced that he had “accidentally” peed in his bed, which I’m fairly certain he did on purpose because the kid hasn’t had a bed-wetting episode in at least a year. And what better way to eliminate his bed from the equation.

Finally, I left him in my bed and went downstairs to sleep on the couch. He found me about 2 hours later and fell asleep on the other end, in an up-right position. He was still snoring.

Talk about the most annoying shadow of all time.

You’ll understand then why today I am not only a bit sick, but I am fucking exhausted and slightly stressed and completely nervous about the aforementioned trip to Cleveland (but in a good way). So about thirty minutes ago, when I heard a loud thud in between my front doors followed by an angry and impatient knocking, I was ready to fight; maybe even miraculously call forth some of the moves I learned in the Zombie Self-Defense Course.

Turns out it was one of the asshole mailmen, delivering me an unexpected package from my decidedly non-asshole friend, Misty.

She made me a goddamn Robert Smith purse and it is perfect! It made me squeal and tear-up. I love the Cure so much and any relic makes my heart swell. My mom once got me a poker chip with Robert’s face on it and to this day I have it displayed in my curio cabinet like it’s the fucking Hope Diamond. Anytime someone recognizes my love for the Cure, I am so touched.

And for Chooch, Misty made a tooth-receptacle which he thinks is the coolest thing ever.

He and I are totally not friends today so he’s lucky I even let him have it. I could’ve used it for my crack.

KIDDING.

The inside of the purse is lined with this mesmerizing owl fabric! I LOVE OWLS. It is absolutely perfect and completely turned my day around. Thank you for your awesome friendship, Misty! I’m so happy right now!

“Did you by chance let Chooch put this in the DVD player?” Henry asked in his standard accusatory manner when Devil began to skip and ultimately freeze last night. It was already our second night in a row trying to get to the end of it. I just don’t have the attention span for movies like I used to, and usually something better comes up, for example: things that involve listening to Dance Gavin Dance on repeat and role-playing.

Henry squatted in front of the TV and began the OH SO STRENUOUS task of wiping finger prints from the disc while I sat on the couch eating carrots.

“It smells like cat pee over here,” Henry complained, starting a mild argument in which I reminded him that my cats never used to do such dastardly deeds until he forced me to take in his mom’s cat for two years, a stray who taught my upper crust cats a host of bad habits and I will never forgive Henry for letting that happen.

Somewhere between Henry threatening to kick out the cats and me wishing they’d piss on his fucking mustache, we began arguing over whether our entertainment center is in fact an entertainment center.

Henry said yes.

I said no.

(For the record: it is not. I should know—I’m the one who bought it based on aesthetics, not functionality. But for whatever reason, Henry thinks it’s more than just a white-washed table which accidentally fell into the role of holding a fleet of electronics instead of a Precious Moments platoon, wicker baskets holding sewing sundry and milk-glass vases filled with potpourri and silk flowers. You know, as I had originally intended.)

Henry, determined to turn this fucking heap of synthetic Swedish timber into the catalyst for our inevitable demise (you know one of us is getting jail time when that happens), continued to blabber on and on about it well after I dipped on out of the conversation, choosing instead to stimulate myself by checking in on Twitter, see if everyone else was having as annoying of a Sunday night as I was.

And that is what was going on in my house when we found out Osama bin Laden was dead, which is decidedly less interesting than the Revolutionary War porn I was reenacting when JFK died.

No, we did not finish watching the movie.