Today, a motorcycle-straddled cop set up a speed trap in front of my house. I was very bothered by this for two reasons:

1. I hate (most) cops
2. I hate cops on motorcycles

I’ve hated cops most of my adult life, and the motorcycle clause was a fast addendum. Six years ago, I had just pulled up to the curb in front of my house after a long day at work. Unaware of the cop who had been trailing me the whole way down Brookline Boulevard, I casually opened my car door, which in turn slammed into the side of his motorcycle, which he had idled on the sidewalk.

So before chastising me for me speeding, this old white-haired popo screamed at me for “nicking” his crappy cop cycle.

I dished out my usual cop hate-tinged sass (seriously, it’s a wonder I haven’t been night-sticked by now) and then pushed my way past him. ”

And to top it all off, you parked your car facing the wrong way!”

Oh fucking well, dickham.

Henry watched the whole thing from the sidelines, having returned home from work right behind me, and it’s still brought up occasionally.

I wanted to pelt expired foodstuffs at the cop today, but Henry was very serious about protecting the cop-douche, like he’s the one-man secret service of the police department; protection for our supposed protectors.

“And to make it even worse, he has a MUSTACHE,” I said with disgust and a crinkled nose as I sulked near the front door.

“So now you hate people with mustaches too?” Henry asked, annoyed.

“No, just cops with mustaches.” I really have to spell it all out for him.

(Although sometimes I hate mustachioed convenience store clerks.)

“See,” Henry continued from the kitchen, “this is why people think you’re a serial killer. You have a serial killer mindset.

” Why, because my hate is based on very specific criteria? I’m just very organized with my discrimination, is all.

Today I left for work with the sounds of zooming toy cars reverberating through my house and I can’t really explain why, but it made me feel very happy. Maybe it reminded me of growing up with two younger brothers. Ryan and I used to play with his Hotwheels and Micro Machines; I loved playing with cars more than My Little Ponys. (But it my toy car passion was probably tied with my obsession for Sweet Secrets, those things were bomb. Toys AND jewelry in one?!)

We used to build a tiered parking garage out of waffle blocks and lose ourselves in valet heaven for hours. Sometimes Egon and Slimer and Donatello and Splinter would join us.

I guess this is what I’ve been waiting for: My son is finally not a baby anymore and he plays with toys independently and says “whee whee” as he pushes a dump truck into Don’s hind legs and it’s just going to keep getting better (until he starts shop lifting and impregnating girls and joining whatever version of the Trenchcoat Mafia will be infecting society in the next decade).

In a surprising twist of fate, I got a new Secret Santa recipient. My boss — who kicks my chair to get my attention in lieu of, oh I don’t know, saying my name — took Gum Girl off my hands in exchange for Young Lindsay, whose wish list was making my boss all a’fluster.

“I don’t know any of this stuff!” she moaned last night. It turns out Lindsay and I have more in common than I imagined and I’m taking this as my signal to mold and sculpt her into the best Mini Erin she can be.

Shopping for her will be way more fun than picking up a Tyler Perry DVD.

Hello,

My boss just asked me if I’m a serial killer.

I laughed.

She echoed my laugh, nervously.

Day has officially been made.

Good bye.

When Henry told me about Chooch’s accident, the last thing that crossed my mind was, “Shit, people are going to think we did this to him.” Until I walked into the emergency room with him, anyway.

It’s amazing how quickly Chooch has bounced back from his accident, but his face sure looks painful. The swelling has gone down some, bringing out a bright purple bruise across the bridge of his nose, and pink rings under his eyes.
Yesterday, he kind of looked like a baby Quasimoto. Or that kid Rocky from “Mask.” (Really, his profile makes him look like a completely different child. It’s depressing.) Even though it was all Henry’s fault, I still felt so overwhelmed by guilt that the only solution, other than a nice cup of Vodka, was a trip to Toys R Us.
People did double takes as we trucked on by, with little Sloth in the cart. I kept thinking I heard judgemental whispers between the ears of tongue-clucking moms. “Look, they beat their child into oblivion and then buy him presents. That’s just sick.”

Tonight, we went to Eat n Park, but I decided to be slick and mold his hair into a mohawk, in an effort to detract from his shiners. It didn’t work, as evidenced by the manager’s very forward outburst as soon as we walked through the doors.

“Wow, you had your first brawl already?!” and then proceeded to tell us about the accident his young son had recently, involving tiled floor and a split chin.
The hostess also commented on it as she seated us and regaled us with various injuries her own daughter has lived through.
I preferred this, though. Being confronted by it outright, rather than have people quietly speculate behind our backs. I made sure to speak loudly though, so that everyone around us knew I didn’t hit my child with a frying pan for talking during “Days of Our Lives.” Who needs a white elephant?

Of course, we were seated right by the door so Chooch deemed himself the honorary greeter, further drawing attention to his marred appearance.
Two of the waitresses teased Chooch about his nose, too, which he seemed to get pleasure from. None of the Steelers-clothed diners seemed ready to run us out of the restaurant with anti-child abuse picket signs.

Thank you, Eat n Park employees. And thank you to your balls, too.
Toward the end of the meal, I realized that I should have written BROWNS on a piece of paper and pinned it to my shirt. You know, to divert eyes from Chooch’s nose.

Ok, also because I’m an asshole.

Hi. It’s like the middle of November. Do you know where your holiday cards are?

Now’s a good time to start thinking about shit like that, you know? Get it out of the way so you have more time to get blitzed off egg nog. I’m currently running a promotion for my serial killer cards where you can get a set of 10 for $25. (They’re $5/ea, normally.) These cards are big and sturdy, made from heavy cardstock and some even come with a cute little poem to help further spread the holiday cheer. A lot of time and retardation is spent on these.

Choose from:

Lizzie Borden
Richard Ramirez
Albert Fish
Jeffrey Dahmer
Elizabeth Bathory
Ed Gein
John Wayne Gacy
Ted Bundy
BTK
Berkowitz

Check it out!

Henry called. He’s on his way home. Oh my god, please hurry.
I talked to Christina and she said I sounded like I have been stranded in the desert for the past three days with no water. It’s a wonder I’ve managed to dress myself these past few days (OK fine, he’s only really been gone for one full day). Christina said if Henry ever left me, I’d turn into the mom from that Spill Canvas song “The Tide,” in which the mom’s true love leaves her and she quits giving a shit about anything and stops paying attention to her kids and they’re swept away by the tide. I sighed and murmured, “I know, that’s a good comparison” and she yelled, “OH MY GOD stop talking like you’re dying!

”

In more uplifting news, I received my Pacman arm warmers in the mail and not only do they keep me toasty (cold office air be damned), but they’re fucking awesome too. Go get your own, she has a varied selection. Tell her Somnambulant sent ya.

A Nox Arcana song came on my Zen last night at work. It was an interlude with a child chanting “Satan come for me tonight, comfort me till morning light” and I swear ice cicles sprung off my spine.

Then Mandy Moore came on and I LOL’d.

Nothing tempers a chilling gothic chant quite like some Mandy Moore-brand bubble gum pop.

Oh my god I’m so sad. Fuck you, Faygo.

Dear Diary,

Henry is leaving tonight for Detroit. This will be the first time in the rollicking history of our courtship that I’ll be on my own, fending for myself, foraging for berries in the woods behind the porn shop. Scratching my own back.

Oh Diary, it’s true that we’ve been apart before, when I’ve run off to visit Christina in Ohio, but when you boil that down, it’s basically leaving one Henry for another. All of my meals are prepared for me, just like at home. All of my whims are met, just like at home.
The freezer has been stocked with an assortment of frozen meals to help curb starvation.

Janna is bringing me Subway tomorrow. If we all come together, I just might make it.

He’ll be home sometime this Friday.

I hope he doesn’t find my son hunched over my dead body, pillaging my guts.

Yours,
Erin, quaking in the face of responsibility

I brought one of my favorite Gary Numan cds to work with me tonight, hoping it would aid me in blocking out Eleanore’s persistent phone-bitching which lasts approximately 75% of the shift.
So far, it’s doing a smashing job, and has earned a bonus by providing the perfect soundtrack while I worked on the poem for my Elizabeth Bathory Christmas card.

One of things that has always struck a chord with me about this CD is the line “your nightmare is breathing.” I fell asleep to one of his albums once, sans “Cars”-homaging with the Tubeway Army, a long time ago, and one of the worst nightmares of my life ensued.

I was roller skating at night around a neighborhood that was unfamiliar but I seemed to know it well in my dream. I realized I was near a house that I was interested in renting (in real life, as well), so I skated up to it and let myself into the front porch. It was still scattered with boxes belonging to the previous owners. I stepped around them, wanting to peek into the window to get a look inside the house, when I noticed a young black-haired girl squatting in a corner.
The sight of her jolted me, but I laughed when I realized she was just a kid. I said hello and she returned it, using my name.

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

“Marcy told me.” Her eyes lit up with flames and I woke up.

The next day, in real life, the realtor called and told me he was accepting my application, and I’ve lived there ever since.

With my breathing nightmare, <a href=”http://sinistermitch.livejournal.com”>Marcy</a>.

Ed. Note: I’ve always thought that Gary Numan knew what was up, because he also has a song called “She’s Got Claws” and could any title be more appropos of my Satanic cat?

OK, I was seriously locked out of the house for two hours on Saturday. I didn’t know that Henry wasn’t going to be home when I came home from class, so I left my purse in the house. And my cell phone.

I got home at 11 and sat on the cold porch steps for about thirty minutes, doing some Calculus and attempting to manage my anger. Fake Nurse (The Original, not the New Neighbor Edition) came home but we’re still doing that Mexican Standoff thing so I didn’t dare ask to use her phone. Then I was afraid I’d get hemmorhoids, so I moved back inside the car, which was surprisingly toasty thanks to the late morning sun.

11:35: I stared at my Calculus book.
11:40: Played with split ends.
11:41: Sucked on hair.
11:45: Cried.
11:50: Fell asleep.
11:57: Woke up, remembered, cried.
12:00: Almost peed.
12:01: Felt sorry for myself.
12:03: Shot at joggers with my finger gun.
12:05: Practiced finger-snapping. (Still can’t.)

This cycle continued until 1pm, when I finally broke down and knocked on the door to Robin’s Meth Lab. Fortunately, Henry pulled up to the curb just then, looking confused by my whereabouts.

Of course I blamed him.

“Why didn’t you go to a payphone and call me?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

I didn’t have my wallet!

“Why didn’t you drive down the street to McDonald’s to use their bathroom?”

Because…*^*(&*(&)(*!!

And then he just started laughing. Laughing in the face of my tears.
“You would die. You know that? You would die out there.” He said he wished I had a camera on my head, like the survivor guy on that Discovery Channel show, so he could see me kicking around pebbles and roaming the yard in tight circles.
Henry’s going to Detroit for two days this week for job training. Please send someone to feed me and my child.

Today, I am thankful that I have friends who will proofread my writing for me, as my brain appears to be slowly devouring itself. Thank you guys, for preventing me from turning in 11 pages of missing prepositions and technical slights. I do NOT have the attention span to do this on my own.

A few weeks ago, I was literally 2 minutes late and my meter expired. A nice pink ticket waved in the breeze, tucked behind my windshield. Those damn meter maids are GOOD.

My immediate instinct is that of defiance and entitlement. I was TWO MINUTES LATE. I would have been there on time if I hadn’t run into my writing teacher in the hall!

“I’m not paying,” I told Henry smugly.

The next day, I was still stewing over it.

We were on our way to a nice leisurely stroll through a haunted house and I was spewing rabid foam from the mouth. “I will fight this to my death! You know what? I’m calling them. The parking brigade, I’m calling them. I’m telling them I was late to the meter because I was HAVING A MISCARRIAGE.”

“You can’t do that,” Henry said calmly, keeping his eyes on the road.

I made an urgent call to Christina. “Here’s a better idea,” she began, after suffering through my petulant spiel. “You could, I don’t know, pay the sixteen dollars.”

Surrender? Absolutely not.

Then I forgot about it. It’s somewhere in my purse. But my purse is big. Like Mary Poppin’s tapestry bag big.

Today, I got a bill in the mail. With the accumulated late fees, my new fine is $39. I flew into a righteous rage.

“Just pay it, please!” Henry yelled; there was no amusement in his face.

Oh, I paid it alright. But not the late fees. And I furiously scribbled out a note in a serial killer-esque scrawl that said “I am SO SORRY that one of your people was forced to take the time out of their day to print out a ticket, while I was too busy having a miscarriage to make it to the meter in time. You will get the sixteen dollars from me, and not a penny more.”

Envelope sealed and stamped.

Henry shook his head and said, “Why do you always have to make things worse? Your angry letters never get you anywhere.” (Perhaps one day jail, though.

)

Fucking authority.

Today marks the first time ever that I submitted something to a literary magazine and I feel vomitous.

I didn’t do it so much to get published, because I have realistic expectations, but more to get myself over this fear so that maybe in the future I can do it again.

I don’t know how confident I am about the essays I submitted, but I like the bio I wrote!

Erin Kelly is a student and a full-time employee of both a data processing company and her maniacal toddler.

She’s not afraid of turning 30; has a penchant for pumpkin pie Blizzards and collecting art that scares her; and has celebrated Christmas in a cemetery, complete with convenience store egg nog and Moon Pies. At least once a day, she hears the phrase, “Oh honestly, Erin.”

Ha-ha.

Janna said she wants to celebrate the fact that I finally traded in my diaper for training pants.

Last year, I bought Riley’s first Halloween costume during the peak of a summer scorch fest. People thought I was crazy, but I wanted to be prepared. He was an ice cream cone, and it rained. Luckily, he was only six months old then and had no clue he was missing anything anyway.

This year, though, I started sending myself mental memos in July. “Don’t forget to start thinking about Riley’s Halloween costume” they’d say, with the ‘Don’t’ underlined three times in an urgent red. Unfortunately, those memos got buried under the “Write that damn essay!” and “Pay the fucking gas bill, asshole!” memos.

Before I knew it, is was October. My friend Amelia gave me the ingenious idea of dressing him as Charlie Brown. It was perfect what with his hair-challenged pate and chubby cheeks, and it would be a snap to pull off. All I had to do was buy a yellow t-shirt and toss some black felt and a needle in Henry’s lap and tell him to get crackin’.

It’s just a yellow t-shirt, it won’t be hard to find. I can wait until the last minute.

Oh hindsight, you sick son of a bitch.

So, instead we used Merry’s idea: bearded him up, slapped a fedora on his head and shifted nervously when people asked what he was supposed to be. I think we were going for old fashioned pimp, but by the end of night we accepted everyone else’s interpretation that he was the “most cutest hobo.”

I spent a lot of energy these past few days trying to teach Riley how to say trick-or-treat, employing a melange of accents hoping that one would tickle his linguistic fancy and make him think, “Wow, now I really need to pump up my ambition and learn this totally awesome phrase.” Never mind the fact that the consequence of that demand is a pillowsack full of cavities, say it because it sounds cool with a Barbarian/Portugese accent hybrid.

On the way to my grandma’s (for photo-op purposes), Henry stopped at RiteAid to get batteries for the camera, but when he got back in the car, he extracted a king sized Nestle’s Crunch.

“Um…you do realize that Chooch is trick-or-treating tonight, right? So in an hour, this orange pumpkin here is going to turn into a receptacle overflowing with delightful candybars that will kick the ass of your plain old Nestle’s Crunch.” Henry is so frivolous sometimes.

After visiting my grandma, we drove over to the street my aunt Susie lives on, hoping to park in her driveway and ransack her neighbors since we were already in the area. (And trick-or-treating in the suburbs is more appealing that the city.) Now, I haven’t spoken with Susie in about three years. No real reason, other than we’ve never been very close and she’s embroiled in a perpetual feud with her older sister, Sharon. I’m sure most everyone has fucked up families bogged down with in-fighting and different members boycotting holidays each year, but mine is pretty bizarre. I’d say they’re a few degrees worse than “Grey Gardens” but not quite “The Devil’s Rejects.” I mean, my mother lives two houses down from my grandmother, but for the second year in a row skipped out on coming over to see her grandson in all his costumed glory. A little disheartening to say the least.

Sharon told us to go right ahead and park in Susie’s driveway. “She’s never home anyway!” she laughed, but it was a strained laugh, the laugh someone emits when they’re thinking about the person they want to kill.

Sharon and Susie have been fighting for as long as I can remember. Holidays were always filled with the merry cheer of one of them running off to their bedroom and slamming the door behind them. I don’t know why they hate each other so much. Jealousy? But I know that Sharon recently said she would murder her if she ever saw her on the street. So when she said she would call Susie and let her know we were parking in her driveway, I sort of doubted it.

When we pulled into Susie’s driveway, she was outside with one of her dogs. She stood in the backyard and squinted as we emerged from the car. She looked nervous and afraid. I said hello and she murmured an unsure salutory retaliation. It wasn’t until she got closer that she realized it was me, the niece she hadn’t seen in three years.

“Oh!” she laughed, placing her hand on her chest. “I was afraid you were a trick-or-treater. I’m not ready yet!” I explained to her that we were, in fact, trick-or-treating and would it be OK if we parked there. She said it was no problem, but then she gave me a judgemental once-over.

“Aren’t you a little…not dressed up…to be trick-or-treating?”

“I’m not going! We’re taking him!” I laughed, nodding at Chooch, who was being undetained from the backseat. Susie laughed, realizing her idiocy.

Then came the awkward moment of her meeting her great-nephew for the first time. Her voice took on a shrill lilt as she said all the things she thought a baby would want to hear. Chooch was more interested in her dog.

As we walked down her driveway to embark on a night of candy-collecting, Henry whipsered, “She’s not a kid person, is she? I could tell because she talked to Chooch the same way you talk to other kids.”

I always thought that Susie was my real mother. It makes sense when you think about it: we both come packing the same wicked temper, we’re both egotistical assholes, we’re both man-eaters with a penchant for art and tennis. She was a freshman at Kent when I was born. My theory was that she got knocked up, my grandma had a nuclear-level meltdown (“What will the neighbors say?!”), and I was pawned off on the woman I’ve called Mom for the past twenty-eight years.

(OK, that’s a lie: I call her Val.)

I recently divulged this to my grandma and she laughed (nervously, I might add) and said, “Oh honestly, Erin.”

If Susie really is my mom, I’m pissed that I didn’t inherit her sickeningly quick metabolism (she’s a size 0!).

Chooch really seemed to enjoy trick-or-treating. Mainly because he finally got his wish of walking through the yards of strangers (he never wants to stay on the sidewalk when we go on jaunts around our ‘hood) and lots of older women fawned over him.

He stole the show, which really seemed to irritate two older boys who scowled at him every time we wound up on the same stoop as them.

Sorry you look so average in your non-descript K-Mart masks, you little assholes. Go cry to mommy.

I really hate kids.

I escorted Chooch to two or three houses, and then switched with Henry because it was too much work and people wanted to talk to me which makes me feel sick. We skipped all the houses that required us to walk up steps or hills.

We canvassed two streets before calling it a night. Chooch seemed to enjoy himself and I was pleased to see a generous allottment of Reese’s peanut butter cups in his little pumpkin carrier. No orange drink, though.

I have one last paper to write for my Creative Non-fiction class and it’s the memoir. This is tough because I feel like it’s really easy to churn out a bunch of sentences strung together, forming one big feculent cliche.

And evading that is something I’m not sure I’m able to accomplish.

So instead of writing about some terrible tragedy that served as a monolithic turning point in my life, I’m taking the light-hearted route and writing about a cherished memory that consists of:

1. One weekend in Philly with a girl I only knew for 2 days

2. A gothic chatroom

3. Having an eyebrow ring surgically removed

4. This picture:

This guy made me feel so uncomfortable. Can you tell?

I’m excited to write it because this is a story that’s never seen the light outside of my vacation journal.

Halloween revelry coming soon!

 Our department handed out paper Halloween treat bags for everyone to prop on their desks like emaciated orphans begging to have their bellies engorged by a delicious sugary bounty.

Us night-shifters brought our candy in tonight so that the day shift cry babies won’t throw fits when we’re not here to cap off their bags. I brought in two selections: a bag of Jolly Rancher Creepy Pops and a selection of Movie Time mini boxes (Junior Mints, et. al.).

I followed my boss Kim around because there are some day shifters whose seat locales I’m unaware of, or I flat out don’t know since they work on different projects and are not a part of our monthly meetings.

Each bright and festive bag (rumor has it that mine is the nicest) received one each of my Halloween treats until I made it back to the night shift area and realized that basic arithmatic had duped me once again: I only had enough to give my nocturnal compatriots one delicious confection.

Taking heed the fact that they would be none the wiser anyway, I smiled broadly as I doled out a lolly to Lindsay, gently tucked a box of Dots in Bob’s bag, and visciously chucked a sucker at Collin’s face while Kim looked on. I’m lucky to have such an ambivalent boss, because Lord knows my ears are no virgins to the “Keep your hands to yourself” credo; the first time (by an authority figure, anyway) was after I pushed Sean Murphy over a hill in Kindergarten.

On my way back to my desk, guilt gnawed at my stomach lining. I told Kim my dilemma. “And some of those day shift people, I barely know!” so Kim stuffed me under her wing and stole back three pieces of my candy for me to give the more deserving. Kim would point to various desks and I would say, “Oh yeah, steal it back. Fuck that stranger!”

When I revisited Collin’s area to pass out the purloined candy, he instinctively ducked. Fooling him, I instead set a box of Tootsie mini chews upon his opened palm. As I walked away, he called out, “Hey Erin, check your hoodie.” Apparently in Collin’s world, stuffing a mini Snickers in my hood instead of my treat bag is the obvious way to win the candy-distributing war. I was incredulous that something so devious had gotten past me.

“Magic,” he answered smugly, after I prodded him.

So now here we sit, coating our gullets with a cocktail of partially hydrogenated vegetable oil, dextrose, sugar and all of their piquant partners in diabetic shock. I hope the sugar coma is strong enough to keep Eleanore sated; she’s in such a bitter mood tonight and keeps ranting on the phone about living in a racist society.