Friday night, Seri and I were standing in line for a shuttle that would take us to a nearby haunted house. We were the first people in line, when suddenly a carful of assholes oozed across the parking lot, and I just knew the mom unit of the pack was going to try and plant her mom-jeaned saddle bags right in front of me.

You know who doesn’t play the line jumping game? One Erin Rachelle Kelly.

I made a point of taking an exaggerated step forward, just in case it wasn’t already clear that I was practically fucking the sign that said “Line for shuttle forms here.”

It worked. She took her white trash manners to the back of the line with all the other losers.

About a minute later, the shuttle arrived and I all but charged at it when I saw in my periphery that the assholes behind me were seriously going to attempt to go around me, usurping my head of the line title.

THEN WHAT IS THE POINT OF STANDING IN LINE.

However, I didn’t account for the fact that the shuttle was bringing people back to the lot as well, so when the doors opened, I almost got stampeded.

Look, I’m ALWAYS in a hurry, always acting like I’m trying to escape a burning building. And I REALLY REALLY REALLY like being first in line.

(For recreational things, that is. Not the dentist or the guillotine.) So I was pee-jigging it up, waiting for the shuttle to unload. I’m not sure what Seri was doing since I had my eyes on the prize (read: the front seat of the shuttle), but if I had to guess, she was probably wishing for a copy of 50 Shades of Gray to bury her face in, because that would be much less embarrassing than being associated with the Type A line stander.

Meanwhile, some asshole KIDS were encroaching my jurisdiction.

They were now standing to my side instead of behind me. I knew that as soon as the last motherfucker stepped off the shuttle, these brats were going to make a run for it.

NOT IF I RAN FASTER.

Last person exited the shuttle and I stuck out my arm like I was going to clothesline these dick kids; while bounding up the shuttle steps, I had direct shoulder-to-shoulder contact with one of them. One of the adults they were with snagged them by the backs of their hoodies, otherwise they might have trampled Seri, who I may have accidentally left behind in my haste.

When Seri fell into the front seat next to me, she shook her head.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not letting KIDS cut in front of me!” I cried.

“Gosh, Erin. You’d be a great example for my preschool class,” she laughed. And then, “Would you rather substitute for a preschool class, or high school?”

I didn’t even hesitate.

“Oh, high school. Totally. They’re practically my peers. I could talk to them about Jonny Craig.”

Oh, Jonny.

When we arrived at Demon House, I all but pushed Seri out of the seat so we could get off the shuttle first.

III. The Pies

As an added twist for 2012, and because I thought I suddenly had free time, I had this great idea to have a contest and have crap awarded to what I deemed as the BEST PIE, and possibly other categories like “Most Creative,” “I Thought This Would Taste Like Shit, But It Was Delicious” and “Most Likely To Please Jonny Craig” (see also: “Best Use of Ginger &/or hypodermic needles). But then guess what? October happened and before I knew it, I forgot to enroll in a metal-working class so I had no awards to present. Not only that, but I barely had a chance to try many of the pies and leaving the awarding up to the people wasn’t a good idea either, considering some of the pies were already devoured by the time the bulk of the pie eaters got there. John and Jennifer bring a chocolate cream every year, and every year I blink and it’s gone. I honestly thought it perished in a table-tipping accident, because I couldn’t comprehend the fact that it was polished off THAT QUICKLY.

There was basically every kind of fruit pie you could dream of. Various pumpkin pies (Amber¹ made a lovely pumpkin spice variety!), cream pies, bakery pies (everyone raved over Brad’s red raspberry from the Pie Place), a cheese and tomato pie that Pete and Seri made in honor of some FANTASTIC girl who loves grilled cheese with tomato, and even two cakes that were purchased in error but happily eaten.

Kaitlin pretty much blew anyone’s chances of winning my imaginary award out of the park when she arrived with her Crack Pie. The entire pie table was a diabetic’s deathbed, but Kaitlin’s pie alone was molten Kevorkian in a tin pan. HOLY FUCKING SHIT that was a bomb pie, and you know it must be true when I use the word “bomb” because I normally wouldn’t say something so dated unless my mind was under the influence of Kaitlin’s magical baking prowess.

GOOD PIE MAKES ME SAY EMBARRASSING THINGS, OK? This is a legit psychological condition. Look it up. That’s what the Internet is for.

The crack pie was just this:  an oozing puddle of silken sugar in an oatmeal-crusted vessel of weight gain, preparing to launch straight to the nearest pair of thighs. But why stop there?! Let’s add a perfectly uniform coating of powdered sugar on the top of all the other sugar. It was a fucking sugar totem pole!

That sounds BOMB right?!

It was my favorite pie of the day. Obviously.

(Shameless Friend Promotion: if you live in the Western PA area, you can order Kaitlin’s amazing desserts! And even if you don’t live around here, you should like her Facebook page anyway because she’s amazing and needs to make this her full-time job.)

Barb trying to absorb some of Kaitlin’s baking brilliance.

And God forbid I should let Henry choose his own pies to bake. Instead, I decided to make up my own pies. The one was in honor of the season premiere of the Walking Dead. It was a pistachio cream (which he made last year) with the addition of cherry coulis in the middle and poured over the top for a disgustingly beautiful blood effect. It was appropriately named Zombie Pie and it was a flop, because as usual it was unseasonably warm, and anything above 60 degrees is apparently the equivalent to Hell’s oven for a cream pie.

Who knew?

So within minutes of arrival, it was reduced to a pie tin full of coagulated slop.

I thought it tasted good, and that’s all that matters anyway, right? Right!?

ZOMBIE PIE YOU GUYS. Zombie Pie.

:(

The other pie I concocted in my head was a Crunchberry Pie. In 2008, we had a cereal-themed game night (back when I used to entertain, big cry-baby sigh) which required all of my guests to bring some sort of cereal-infused snack. I made up a Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch cookie, which Henry kept saying would never work, but I made that son-of-bitch try and try again until we had the perfect batch of ridiculously amazing peanut butter cookies topped with a Cap’n Crunch crumble. Holy shit those were some good fucking cookies.

Reminded of those cookies, I was adamant that he formulate a recipe for Cap’n Crunch crust. And for the filling, I was dead set on the use of lingonberries, even though I don’t know what that is. Then I saw somewhere that they’re similar to cranberries, so lucky for Henry, I canceled his flight to Scandinavia and allowed him to go with raspberries instead.  Prices of ingredients is not something that I think about when making this shit up. And when Henry tries to fight me on it, I’m like, “Can’t you just go pick some raspberries somewhere then?” which opens the door for a Boring Henry Lecture™about fruit seasons. Why stop with an out-of-season fruit?! Let’s increase the cost by adding Chambord to it!

He topped it with homemade whipped cream (he’s such a snob about whipped cream and I’m like, “Seriously dude, you really need to start going to the strip club or something, STAT”), and it was the sleeper hit of the Third Coming of Crust. If Kaitlin’s Crack Pie was Jesus on the Cross, then the Crunchberry was definitely one of those other suckers crucified with him, preferably the one who had the bigger speaking part.

(The Penitent Thief. I looked it up.)

(What? I’m just keeping with the theme, you guys!)

Probably mouthing off about his goddamn whipped cream. Look, he doesn’t have much else going for him.

The unofficial vote had it tied with Kaitlin’s Crack Pie, so Henry feels like he’s finally arrived on the scene. Too bad I invented the pie, motherfucker. I spent the next several days correcting everyone at work who mistakenly referred to it as “Henry’s raspberry pie.”

It’s OK. People are allowed to make mistakes. No one knows I’m writing a cookbook, so I’ll let it slide for now.

IV. The Pains

There were so many kids there! As Henry pointed out later, “I’ve never seen a group of kids so unable to get along.” It was actually just the boys – the few girls that were there were like little dreams.

If I heard Chooch scream, “MOMMY!” one more time, or ANY kid scream, “MOMMY!” one more time, I was about to fill my arms with pies and take it into the woods to eat alone. How hard is it to STFU and go down a fucking slide? Jesus Christ! Chooch was so freaking whiny, I couldn’t stand it. Can’t you see the grown-ups are trying to drink wine and eat some pie, son?!

My tactic was ignoring it and pretending nothing Lord of the Flies-ish was happening over yonder. Thank god other parents were more willing to except their roles in life and stepped in to supervise. I remember going over to the water pump at one point to fill up a bottle so the wind would stop knocking it over. Seri’s kids were over there, making a muddy mess of the ground, and I said in a very disinterested tone, “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” and then walked away before they could answer.

What? Kara was nearby, so I knew she had shit handled.

 No child bled at all that day, and to me, that spells success.

[Ed.Note: The children were actually fine. But…you know me and children.]

V. AAA

One of the pie patrons whose presence I was most excited about was my co-worker Catherine. She’s only been with the Firm for less than a year, but she has quickly become one of my favorite people there because she’s so goddamn amusing. One time I was on the phone and she stood in front of my desk and then slowly traced her finger along the front braid I had in my hair in that day.

Catherine can get away with that kind of quirky personal bubble penetration.

She’s not on Facebook, so I gave her a verbal invitation, thinking  for sure she wouldn’t show up. But she did! I mentioned to her at one point that I didn’t think she would come, which she thought was funny.

She was one of the last to leave, and that’s when she realized that she locked her keys in the car. This was around 6:00, which was the scheduled ending time of the party, but Seri and I were planning to walk down to a nearby haunted house which didn’t open until 7 (it was an open invitation to the pie party guests, but no one else wanted to be a part of the cool club, I guess), so lucky for Catherine we were still going to be there for awhile. Plus Henry’s family was still there too, so it was only slightly scary when the sun went down and we were left sitting under a darkened pavilion.

Catherine kept saying we didn’t have to wait with her, and I kept insisting it was fine until 7:00 came and went, and the melodious tones of the chainsaws and screaming victims wafted across a field and into my face. Then my patience started to waffle and I  almost suggested that we could just leave Pete and Henry there to wait for AAA, but my couth got the best of me and I sat there quietly, waiting it out.

“You thought I was going to come, and now I might never leave!” Catherine laughed.

Eventually, I shut down socially. Not because of my company, but because I was so one-track-minded about this stupid haunted house that it was literally all I could fixate on. That last half hour, if I really was forced to describe it, was like a series of clock-tickings, amplified heart-beatings, deafening blood-pumping through veins, because (who knew haunted house anticipation was the same as vampire transitioning?) while I quietly willed the tow truck driver to fucking find us already so I could go and get my scare on.

Henry had to give the tow truck guy directions, but he still passed up the entrance to the pavilion, so our Hero, Professional Driver Henry, boarded his trusty Ford Focus and kicked up gravel as he sped away from the pavilion in an effort to lead the tow truck back to the Catherine’s car, so now Henry has another fan, THANK GOD!

Ugh. Henry, Henry, Henry! 

The tow truck guy wasn’t even out of the truck yet and I was already rushing through my goodbyes, thanking Catherine for coming, giving my child the obligatory “Ha-ha, Mommy’s going to a haunted house without you” hug, only to have to stand there doing the pee jig while it took Seri a million minutes to say goodbye to everyone before finally joining me for our walk to the haunted house.

And that’s how I closed down this year’s pie party: by nearly projectile-puking pie guts on the chainsaw guys at Hundred Acres Manor.

After last year’s poor turn out, I swore I wasn’t going to have another pie party. But by August, people were beginning to ask when I was having the next pie party, and I felt bullied into it, you guys. BULLIED!

Not really. But I did feel really happy that some of my friends were demanding that the tradition live on. So I looked at the stupid Steelers schedule like a good little girl and picked a Sunday that those assholes weren’t hoarding. The Steelers take over everything, you know? God forbid I should have to share a day with them.

Then I asked my friends on Facebook if any of them would be interested in a third annual pie feast, and the response was not only positive, but even kind of fervent! Who knew that the pie party would ever have become such a big thing?

Even though I still wasn’t feeling it, I sent out the official Facebook invitation right away, two months in advance, and was delighted that people began RSVPing right away. That was enough to make me finally get excited. But I think it was mostly because I like naming things, and I was kind of proud of “Third Coming of Crust.”

I vowed that this year’s piesta was going to be better than the rest. I was going to decorate! I was going to give awards! I was finally going to make that goddamn mulled wine that has been talked about since Pie Party: Origins!

But then I got caught up in decorating for Halloween, going to haunted houses, and the Walking Challenge. (Which I have all but abandoned, along with pretty much everyone else in our department, it seems. There’s no competition this time! No one talks about it! Everyone is so ambivalent about it.) Before I knew it, it was the week of the party and Henry was in a state of total panic about baking pies and collecting all of the pie-eating accoutrements, like plates, napkins, beverage—he stresses about beverage every year and I’m like, “Hello, you work in a Faygo factory?”

All of this is me trying to say I woke up the morning of the pie party woefully unprepared as usual.

I. The Set-Up

So, Henry does this thing EVER YEAR where we all go to the pavilion an hour before Go Time and then he LEAVES. One year it was to “get more tablecloths.” Last year, it was to ‘pick up his mom.” This year it was to “go home and get the pies.”

It took three pie parties to figure out but I’m pretty sure this is all code for “go to a strip club and regain some of the masculinity I lose every year by co-hosting a pie party.”

I wonder if Porky + Pearl are still together, or if Jason Voorhees has shish kebabbed them on his machete by now.

My brother was supposed to come early to help me decorate, but he had a headache and didn’t even come to the party (probably his way of skirting all the “this is my colorblind brother!” introductions). This left me and a 6-year-old alone to assemble and hang paper lanterns.

Wait, that doesn’t sound so harmful, right?

Let me rephrase.

This left an Erin Kelly and a 6-year-old alone with a STAPLE GUN.

I finally said FUCK THIS NOISE and abandoned the decorating for the swing set, at which point the annual false starts began, and by that I mean the motorcade of people who cruise down to the pie party pavilion for things other than showing up at a party they were invited to, such as: parking to walk their dog, using the Porta Potty, turning around, doing recon for their own pie party. Each time, I fell for it and went running toward the car, ready to accost a guest.

“It’s amazing how everything happens after I leave,” Henry said when Chooch and I were telling him about this later. At first I thought he didn’t believe us and I went to reach for the melon baller, but he was being serious.

It’s true though. One of these days, Henry is going to ditch us at a pavilion and we’re going to get abducted.

Actually, I hope that does happen. I pity the fool that attempts to steal Chooch.

Finally, Pete and Seri arrived and I glommed on to Pete immediately. Before he could feel too flattered, I explained that I was only coveting his tallness, and put him to work hanging the lanterns. He seemed OK with that.

In the end, I had some crappy lanterns hanging from rafters, tea light-filled mason jars and fake flowers in old bottles on all of the tables. The bottles were part of my old collection, the majority of which I’ve pitched in the last year in an effort to declutter. My favorite was the bottle of tequila that still had the worm in it (I dumped it out before anyone got there).

I mean, I tied ribbons to each bottle—that’s effort, right?

II. Pie Eaters!

By 2:00, my pie peeps started rolling in steadily.

Guest List!

• Trish & PJ
• John, Jennifer and their kids
• Henry’s sister Kelly and Zac
• Henry’s oldest son, Robbie
• Gina and Elissa
• 

You can tell I gave them so much time to prepare for this

• Henry’s mom Judy
• Henry’s niece Sam and her friends Heidi and a girl whose name I didn’t catch but she had colorful hair
• Kara and Harland

• Henry’s niece Stephanie and her boyfriend Kian
• Kian’s mom
• Rick and Tammy

• Pete, Seri and their kids
• Jamie and Crosby
• Brad and Casey
• Barb
• Wendy

• Kaitlin
• Bridget
• Catherine
• Regina
• Lisa and Matt

• Amber¹ and her twin sister Ashley
• Amber², her husband Steve, and her mom
• Rocky
• Laura
• Missy and Jemma

The pie party is great for not only gormandizing the fuck out of a seemingly endless buffet of pies, but for reuniting with old friends! My friend Rocky showed up unexpectedly – I haven’t seen him since HIGH SCHOOL. Every pie party brings another old friend back and it is probably my favorite part – maybe second only to criticizing Henry’s pie contributions. The first pie party was also the first time I saw my old friends John, Shannon and Ron since high school as well, and last year it was Nancy’s turn to be the blast from the past.

The lesson here is that pie brings people together, y’all. Learn it.

Another surprise appearance was Rick and Tammy, who had told me they weren’t going to be able to make it. I talk about them a lot (in the good ways, not the Henry ways), so I was excited for my friends to meet them, specifically Barb so she could finally stop picturing Simon Baker every time I would talk about my friend Rick the mentalist. Keeping with the theme of this year’s pie orgy, they brought a stack of pie pans stuffed full of mini bags of chips and pretzels (or what we pie aficionados refer to as palate cleansers) and called it the Anti-Crust because they are BRILLIANT. They, along with their salty bestowal, were big hits!

Most of the people were from my work, so I joked that it was Law Firm sponsored. I love that my work friends actually like to hang out outside of work! Every other job I’ve had, it was like pulling teeth trying to get my co-workers to hang out. Of course, that could always be because they just didn’t like me.

Now that I think about it, that’s probably definitely why.

Coming up: The Pies, The Kids, Surprise AAA Appearance, and possibly a short Henry interview if I can seduce any words out of him.

After a mimosa-friendly brunch at Sonoma Grill, Carey and I went to see “Annie” yesterday at the Benedum. I’m not a big musical fan at all, but I do like “Annie.” In fact, that is the only musical I have ever seen in a theater.

When I was thirteen, I was maniacally entranced by “Annie.” I would watch the movie nearly every night, sing along with the soundtrack, and I even tried to make a reproduction of it, starring various kids in my home room. One of those kids was our beloved Keri. She was not as keen on “Annie” as I was, so she snatched my cast list from me and ripped it to shreds. Bitch.

That year, my mom bought three tickets for the production of “Annie” at the Fulton Theatre. I invited my best friend, Christy. She was my pseudo-sister since age four.

The night rolled along quite smoothly until toward the end of the last act. Christy leaned over and mentioned that she was starting to feel sick. Since I’m known for displaying total compassion for my friends, I laughed in her face.

The play ended and we began to descend the steps along with a million other people who wanted to leave just as fast as us. Christy was in front of me and I was pushing her, because I am was really annoying like that. She turned around and pleaded, “Please stop. I’m going to throw up!” Throwing my head back in laughter, I gave her one final push.

Oh, if you could have seen the faces of the surrounding crowd as Christy projectile vomited in the middle of the Fulton Theatre.

And as a young girl walked by with her mink coated mother, pointing and exclaiming, “Ew, mommy- look!” Christy began an encore round of regurgitation.

Nothing vomitus happened at yesterday’s showing, aside from a mild argument over seats which resulted in the lady in the wrong “accidentally” knocking over the other lady’s small ginger child. Although Sally Struthers got a little over the top with her inebriated Miss Hannigan, and that didn’t mesh well with the mimosas in my belly. But overall, the production was fantastic and I was so happy Carey invited me.

Before the show started, I was sitting in a chair across from the rest rooms when a moderately mentally-challenged man approached me and took the neighboring seat. “Great,” I mumbled internally, mid-text, as he struggled to make small talk with me. Most days, I wake up hating people, and while I wasn’t feeling particularly in love with humanity that day, something about this guy (Brian) really charmed me.

(He had come all the way from New Brighton with his mom to see “Annie.”)

(New Brighton is by Beaver Falls.)

Carey returned from the bathroom in enough time to witness the tail end of this forced study in small talk, and of course made a joke about me having a new boyfriend. I joked about it too, how “people like him” are magnetized to me, but when he found me again during the intermission, I felt, for lack of a signature-OH,E sleazy way to put it — touched. I guess I’ve just been so disconnected lately, so unwilling to pull down my walls, and so inside my head, and here comes this guy out of nowhere who, in a few short minutes and with so few words, makes me feel compassion.

I cried through most of the second half of the show, but I don’t think it was entirely because Annie finally found a family.

I took an unprecedented time out from my walking routine (see also: directionless marching) to have an actual sit-down dinner at Mad Mex with my new friend (and new-to-Pittsburgh) Seri.

Don’t worry — I parked really far away.

I know what you’re thinking: “How does this broad sucker people into being her friend?!” That’s something I ask my diary every night, so your thoughts are not alone.

Sometimes, meeting someone for the first time can be a nightmare, a complete blueprint for awkward exchanges, embarrassing stuttering, and painful silences.

This is something in which I have accumulated much experience. So I thought for sure I’d be clandestinely checking my phone under the table, silently calculating all the steps that were passing me by while I was being held prisoner over burritos and salsa, and willing myself to choke on a tortilla chip so I could go to the hospital. (There was legitimately a coffee date I had with someone in 2005 where I got all wistful at the sight of an ambulance speeding past.)

But it wasn’t like that at all. Instead, we had so much in common that conversation flowed as freely as our black cherry margaritas and I quickly learned that this girl is basically the taller version of me. Our background similarities are astounding, and her husband Pete and Henry should probably just go ahead and start a support group for men with tightly-wound, temperamental lady-child partners.

Um, and she pronounced “Chooch” correctly without me ever saying it in front of her.

I mean….

And the fact that she even came bearing a gift was just gilding the lily at that point. (Not that I mind gilded lilies!) Her husband Pete did an impeccable wrapping job (Henry is the household present-wrapper too!), and somehow, someway, the paper matched my nail polish exactly. The signs, they were everywhere and neon.

“It’s so you won’t smash your sandwiches on the trolley anymore,” Seri said, and I was so touched. I need people to take care of me and my sandwiches! It was such a sweet gesture, and maybe it was because my emotions were tequila-tinged at that point, but I for real got a little choked up. For real.

And even though I had to drunkenly shamble around the streets of Brookline* afterward to get my 20,000 steps, it was worth it!

*(At one point, I slurred out loud, “Why is it so quiet out here?” and then 3…2…1, “And there it is!” Domestic dispute in the middle of the road. Now that’s the Brookline I know.)

I’m meeting Seri at the nearby high school track this morning, so we’ll see how well she endures an hour of me talking about Jonny Craig. THAT is the true Erin Rachelle Kelly Friendship Litmus Test.

Sometime back in April, Nina came over to my desk at work and excitedly told me that her friends were planning a zombie surprise party for their 16-year-old daughter and would I come and do the makeup? Of course, being the anxiety-ridden fool that I am, the thought of putting makeup on strangers seemed terrifying, but I said yes without hesitation because I’m all about doing things that make me uncomfortable. If anything, these situations usually turn out to be memorable in one way or another.

I had to be at their house at 5 yesterday, so of course I waited until 2:30 to go to the party store and stock up on white and green cream and spray blood (though I should note that Andrea’s My Pretty Zombie kit, which I have used at least 6 times since last October, was ample enough to get 15+ people made up; I couldn’t believe it).

I got to bring Henry and Chooch with me, thank god for security blankets, although having them there did me no good while I was doing makeup, because Chooch had already made 4 friends and had disappeared, and Henry instantly had a beer in his hand and was talking to the birthday girl’s dad, Dave, probably about boring Professional Driver things and being in the SERVICE, because those are Henry’s hot topics.

I was a nervous wreck, frantically scrubbing makeup into the pores of strangers—it was your regular zombie assembly line—and that’s pretty awkward, just being introduced to someone and then being all up in their face. Luckily, every single person there was incredibly down-to-earth and didn’t make me feel dumb or like I was hired help. Every five minutes, Dave’s wife Diane made sure I had alcohol in my glass.

These were my kind of people.

I even got to zombify some of the grandparents too, it was incredible. One lady let me spritz her bouffant with blood and then Dave’s dad cut a huge hole in his shirt and had me trace his liver surgery scar with Fresh Scab. All his idea. It was at that point that I had become hyper-aware of the fact that I was in the company of Awesome People.

When Dallas arrived, everyone swarmed her car. She was pretty stunned and I was honored to get to be there to watch!

Zombie Nina. She kept telling me at work that I would be fine and I should have known that if these were her friends, it was going to be laid-back. She did, however, give me copious warnings about Dave’s unfiltered sexual comments, which were incredibly entertaining and definitely made me loosen up (well, that and the unlimited, free-flowing sangria I was swallowing all night). I think Henry really looks up to him.

I was so self-conscious about my makeup job, though. I kept sidling up to Henry and whispering, “I fucked it up, didn’t I? It doesn’t look too good, does it?” I was just trying to get everyone done as quickly as possible and I sure hope they didn’t hate it.

Probably one of the 87 times Dave was warning Nina that he’s going to bang her before she moves. (Side note: Nina is moving out of state in the near future. Dislike.) Yes, that’s her husband sitting next to him. God, that guy was great!

I had my real camera in my iCarly messenger bag the whole time, but I forgot. And then when I remembered, I was too drunk to care. They had a guy taking professional photos all night though (when he wasn’t draping his rats on old ladies’ necks).

Chooch, after 6 hours of sweating.

Morgan and the birthday girl, who I ended up spending the last hour of the party talking to about horror movies and dinosaurs and OMG we have so much in common. I can’t believe I forgot to ask her if she likes Jonny Craig, though. Anyway, that girl is so sweet and I’m really happy that I got to help out a little to make her 16th birthday a memorable one.

Nina was so worried that I wasn’t having a good time, and I was like, “Dude, it’s dark out now and I’m still here, sitting in the backyard with all these strangers. I guess I must be having a good time!” I mean, my phone even died early on, so I had no concept of what time it was, and completely didn’t care. I thought it would be a totally awkward experience, like I was just the hired help, and why is she still here? But everyone was so good about making us feel at home there. And Chooch only pouted in their garage four times!

What a great night. Even though Nina openly mocked me numerous times for having a Caboodle!

My out-of-town friends are always saying that they’re jealous that Pittsburgh has so many zombie-centric events during the year (we are the Zombie Capital of the World, you know; fuck that Atlanta nonsense). So when I get invited to these things on Facebook, I try to go to as many as I can to support the cause. (The zombie cause and also the jealous friends cause.)

Henry was on the fence when I told him about the Eat Your Heart Out Heart Valentine charity event that was happening at the Oakmont Tavern last Saturday night. Henry doesn’t mind going to the family-friendly things because really, it’s Chooch who’s into zombies the most and he really enjoys getting made up. So then we’re just his plain-faced handlers. But this time it was at a BAR with GROWNUPS and Henry is a big dumb SQUARE who doesn’t like going out past 8pm and knocking a few back. But then I convinced Laura and Mike to go too and Henry felt a little better knowing that he and Mike could stand around being humans together while Laura and I got fake blood and decay all over our shot glasses.

Still, I waited all day for him to use the snowy weather as an excuse, but he didn’t! We actually went out to a real life bar and ran the risk of getting stabbed or, oh my god, having a good time!

Henry, after I pointed out he unwittingly dressed as Freddy Krueger, whose name I consistently spell wrong.

Laura went as a military zombie, complete with camis and dog tag. She was really wound up about her makeup, like, “Where should I put the blood!?” and I was all, “Anywhere you want! Who cares! Have you seen my makeup?” Seriously, I’m OK when I’m doing Chooch’s makeup, but once I do my own, I just look like a battered woman. The best part is when all my makeup starts to slide down my face after about an hour because my skin is so oily. (Clearly, I need to order some become products!)

I was going to make Henry go into the bar first because we arrived right around the time the party was starting and I was adamant about not being the first zombie to arrive. But as soon as we got to the door, a girl in full-on prosthetics arrived and went in before us, so we rode her coattails.

They had all the zombies relegated to the upstairs bar, which was extremely small, but cozy. Like a crypt. So it made sense. The first thing we did though was purchase raffle tickets, the proceeds of which went toward saving the Evans City Chapel, which as some might know is part of Night of the Living Dead history.

Here are some pictures of Chooch and Andrea chilling in front of the chapel last September:

Anyway, as Henry was buying raffle tickets, it dawned on me that I knew the lady ripping tickets off the roll for him.

“I know you,” I said, in a  faux-accusatory tone.

She looked slightly apprehensive, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with me coming off as a sleazy used car salesman.

“We went on a ghost hunt together last year,” I said. “Broughton Elementary School?” I’m not sure if she really did remember me (although I was convinced she didn’t like me because my stomach kept growling during the EVP session we did together and she didn’t look pleased) but she still stood up and gave me a big hug. She briefly told me about some haunts she’s been on since then, and then I focused on arbitrarily picking buckets in which to stick my raffle tickets.

I then had to explain to Henry 27 times how I knew her.

“I CHEATED ON YOU WITH HER, OK!?” God, Henry. Step off.

Anyway, the raffle drawing wasn’t until midnight, so Mr. I Don’t Want To Be Here sealed his fate with that one.

(Staying out past midnight, CAN YOU IMAGINE.)

Shaun of the Dead and the back of a bride.

Ended up seeing Ghost Hunter Chris’s husband Joel inside the bar; I didn’t get a chance to say hello to him, but I did learn that he’s the one who took the photographs that are on the Fix the Chapel website. I always see people I know at these things and it makes me realize just how small and awesome that scene is.

Elfen Zombie? I don’t know. Laura kept going on about how attractive she was, though.

Here you will observe Pete the bartender concocting our Bloody Brains, which I wanted more of but Henry frowned his answer at me. I drank way more than I intended to and I’m pretty sure I was annoying Mike and Henry and everyone else around us who were not as drunk as me.

Pete found out about Whitney Houston’s death after we did and was very concerned about it. I think I was going to console him, but I got distracted by ordering another drink.

I almost died (again?) when I turned around and saw a zombie Robert Smith behind me! I told him he was my favorite, like he was legitimately Robert Smith, and I didn’t even feel stupid for it because I was drunk.

Now I feel stupid for it.

No, I don’t.

Henry’s eating World Famous Wings, what does he care!?

Henry Quote of the Night: “I really hope the blood on the bathroom sink was fake.”

You know what I love about the zombie scene? The people are so fucking decent. Seriously, we never run into assholes at these events. And we’re not even really a part of the scene! It’s like everything else, I’m hovering in the periphery.

I remember last year when I was getting ready to meet my now-friend Kristy at a zombie self-defense course, I was texting Andrea about being nervous.

“Yeah but she likes zombies, and that’s a good indication that she’s going to be fine. People who are into zombies somehow end up being the normal ones,” Andrea advised.

And she was right. Kristy is awesome.

And everyone there that night was awesome and sweet to me when I tapped on their backs like a 6-year-old wanting Richard Simmons’s autograph. (What? That’s whose autograph I would have wanted when I was 6.)

I hate beer, but I kept tasting every one that Henry ordered, which was really irritating him. Apparently, I might kind of like Blue Moon a little bit. Or I was just that drunk.

I commented that I hadn’t seen the proprietor of Monroeville Zombies all night. His name is Kevin and although we have never spoken in person,  he’s the one who invites me to all these events. (Most of the ones we go to are even organized by him as well, but this one was not.) And that at one point, Henry was all, “OMG Robert Smith is Kevin!” So there — I have officially spoken to Kevin of Monroeville Zombie fame.

Henry and Mike were totally infatuated with this guy. God, start a fan club already, amirite.

I promised Laura I would get a picture of the bullethole guy for her and I REMAINED TRUE TO MY WORD BECAUSE I AM A FRIEND-PERSON.

I was in line for the bathroom (I had to go so fucking bad) when someone announced that it was time for the raffle. Henry held up my coat and phone and waved me over to him. I did the universal jig for “Unless you want to smell my urine-soaked panties the whole way home in the car, you best let me keep my spot in line.” But he was all urgently gesticulating for me to follow them downstairs like I’m his goddamn mail order bride or some shit. I was so pissed. Almost literally.

So I get to the bottom of the steps and it’s so congested down there with zombies shambling around in a raffle number-stupor that I physically can’t go anywhere else. I shoved my coat into Henry’s arms and stomped back upstairs where the bride was about to enter the restroom but must have noticed that I was at this point bent over with my fist in my crotch, so she very graciously let me go ahead of her.

See? Zombie fanatics are decent people!

Snooki should have this made into booty shorts at the Shore Store next summer.

We did not win anything for the raffle. Some girl who went into the mens room and peed on top of the collection of pee that Henry kept telling us about all night won something though, and she was very excited about it. Winning, not peeing in the mens room, although maybe that too.

Saved this guy for last because he was my favorite. This picture doesn’t do it justice but he had a cockroach sticking out of one side and fingernails stuck in the other side of his face. He said it took him over two hours.

You know how long it took me? 5 minutes. Always making an effort, I am!

Jesus, it was such a good night. Laura and I were pretty wasted and I don’t think we ever stopped laughing (except maybe when we heard that Whitney Houston had died but then I remembered that I didn’t really care). I want to do more to help so I’m making some new Historical Zombie note cards, the proceeds of which will go the chapel. I’m a sucker for preserving shit. Just not literally shit. I already have an MLK Jr and Abe Lincoln done – just need to make the time to do three more and then I will debut them on here for hopefully someone to care about it.

Yesterday afternoon, we went to a George Romero Birthday Party at my friend Kristy’s house. She is pretty much the zombie aficionado and even turned her basement into a Zombie Lounge. It’s impressive and Chooch’s eyeballs were spinning like your basic penny slots, there was so much for him to take in.

The next time Andrea visits, I need to get her and Kristy together so they can drool and shamble around aimlessly in mutual zombie adoration. And I’ll just stand there and take pictures.

We watched some zombie movies, Chooch and the guys played Rock Band (Chooch’s attention span lasted way longer than I imagined it would for that), and there was even some piñata action. (Kristy made it herself! Now I know where to go for Chooch’s next party.)

(Actually, I think I’ll just pay her to flat out plan the whole thing.)

When it was time to watch another movie, I misheard Kristy and thought she said she was putting on Evil Dead. She asked me if I saw it and I was all, “Pshhh, yeah, of course.” However, it was actually some New Zealand movie called Brain Dead which I actually have not seen, so I then sat there on the couch, alone with my internal dialogue, feeling like a big fat liar, like one of those assholes who says “Um, yeah!

” no matter what because they want to look like some douchebag cinema elitist.

I swear I’m not that person.

(I’m only like that with music.

)

Twirling with entrails.

Kristy has a collection of nuns in the Zombie Lounge bathroom, yet another indication that we were meant to be friends.

That was a pretty awesome way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Happy birthday, George Romero! Your #1 fan threw you a super sweet party!

Saturday night was the first time ever that Henry and I hung out with Tommy and Jessy sans Chooch. It was a fucking miracle, really. But we left him at home with Henry’s mom, who likely regaled him with tales of alleyway hookers and god only knows what else, while we went off to try and remember what it’s like to hang out with other adults while drinking alcohol.

Or, in Henry’s case: he needed to try to (quickly) remember how to babysit me while we hang out with other adults (one of whom is just as immature as me) while drinking alcohol. In all fairness, I do not remember most of what happened that night, but I do know that Henry had me so concerned about it that I texted both Jessy and Tommy to preemptively apologize just in case it ever comes up in the future.

(They both said I was fine, so fuck you, Henry.)

I love that the meat was placed right next to me.

We hadn’t been there for more than 5 minutes before I had a gigantic glass of wine on my hand, courtesy of Tommy, so by the time Jessy pulled out Quelf and started reading the directions, I was already in a giggly trance. I do, however, remember Tommy saying that all the directions said were “Draw a card. Make fun of Erin.”

Henry had to wear a bib and then snort like a pig instead of laughing. Since Henry rarely laughs unless he’s watching Blue Collar Comedy (a lie, but you’d think it would be true, right?), there really wasn’t too much barnyard bacchanalia happening; but when he did snort, it was fucking outstanding. Since I had already gurgled a good full bottle of wine by the time Henry drew this card, I did not react with the appropriate level of hilarity. Instead, I turned into a giddy 8-year-old on a swingset with a limp-wristed hold of her motor skills and inadvertently kicked Tommy in the shins about 17 times in a row.

Sorry, Tommy.

This was pretty much how I looked too every time I had to read a card. Tommy served me a bottomless glass of wine. I don’t know how I didn’t puke everywhere or completely black out, but there are big chunks of the night that Henry was telling me about which I swear I wasn’t a part of. Like, I don’t remember Jessy purposely making her face up like Mimi until the next day when she posted a picture on Facebook.

Ballerina Tommy.

Pretending he can read.

I think Tommy’s expression mirrored my own at that point.

Henry had to wear lipstick as one of his punishments, like that’s even a stretch for him. He was pretty much like, “Oh thank God this is all I have to do for once.”

My favorite thing that Jessy had to do was stand in a corner and repeatedly say “Thank you sir, may I have another?” repeatedly, over top of the cacophony the rest of us were creating during our own turns.

Quelf is fucking ridiculous.

Tommy was drumming with tampons, but I can’t remember why.

Of course most of my challenges required me to sing and dance. It’s a good thing I suck at both, otehrwise it probably wouldn’t have been very funny for those jerks.

I just kept glugging away. Thanks, Tommy.

I don’t even need liquored up to act a fool, so I can only imagine how obnoxious I was being.

Oh wait, I don’t have to imagine, since I have Henry to remind me over and over again.

I wasn’t sure if I was just randomly wearing this bowl as a helmet or if I was told to. I guess Quelf told me to so I did it. The bridge of my nose hurt the next day which made me remember the bowl slipping down my face a number of times.

I was about to pass out on their couch after somehow ending up outside, which was about the time Henry gripped me by the elbow and asked, “You ready?” but what he meant by that was, “I’m taking your drunk ass home before your set their house on fire, asshole.”

The next day, Henry made some comment on Facebook about how “it’s always a fun night when you have two drunk people and you’re sober.” Except he spelled it “your.”

Can’t wait to do this shit again, you guys!

New Year’s Eve started off by me coming home Saturday afternoon to a beautiful picture of Speck drawn by my friend Julie. I had no idea she was doing this and I was so touched that I cried. But these were good tears for once. I all but ripped the current picture out of that frame so Speck could have her own home on the wall. I can’t even adequately express my gratitude. Julie, you are wonderful!

Later, my babe and I watched the hockey game together while Henry and Chooch went to the store to get party food. Then Henry came back and walked around, moving all the candles I had just lit because I failed the Flammable course in the School of Life. “You can’t put a flame this close to PAPER!” Fuck, he’s so critical.

I’m not a big New Year’s Eve person; in my history, I have had more disastrous, tear- and drama-filled New Year’s Eve than not, so I’m usually content to just stay home with Henry, doing nothing but making fun of the various NYE bullshit on TV. This year, though, we had a small get-together with Tommy, Jessy, Laura and Mike. It was laid back, devoid of drama and tears, and just nice to spend an evening with some of my favorites.

It wouldn’t have felt right if Tommy hadn’t made Chooch cry eight times in a 30-minute span.

Tommy molded a pink penis out of what remained of the Play-Doh that Janna bought Chooch last week. Chooch NEVER puts the lids on and I wind up sweeping up colored rocks within a week. I hate Play-Doh more than any other toy, except maybe all those Tickle Me Elmo fuckers.

Weener cleavage.

Chooch couldn’t wait for Laura to get there so she could help him with the science project kit she got him for Christmas. You might think having the sweat of strangers rubbed on you in the club is the only way to spend New Year’s Eve, but we made volcanoes and some kind of disgusting yet addicting pink goo that I absolutely could not stop dunking my fingertips in even after it wigged me out to the point of yelping like a girl seeing her first weener on accident.

Earlier in the day, Chooch was being a total fucker so I uninvited him to the party, which made him cry, and this in turn made Henry sigh exasperatedly and say, “You can’t say things like that to him; you’re his mother.” So for 2012, I’m going to buy some Mom Manuals.

After a few minutes of me sitting there, staring at my pink-stained fingertips in some kind of bizarre googly-eyed awe, Henry sneered, “If I had known you’d get this excited, I’d have given you a bowl of cornstarch and water a long time ago.” When Laura first arrived, she asked for a “Blame Henry” pin, but after about a half hour of my antics, she mumbled, “I think I’ll take that Poor Henry pin now.” Turncoat!

Jessy got me an APPLE RING, motherfuckers! A GODDAMN SPARKLING APPLE RING, OH I CAN HARDLY STAND IT! I spent most of the night admiring it; in fact, I even missed most of the countdown because I was so distracted by the glorious rays of crimson light emitting from my thumb. This could have been the perfect engagement ring if someone had been more proactive, just saying. (Operation: Propose or GTFO 2011 was clearly a shining success.)

I drank so much that I was sweating wine. Malachi imbibed his fair share, as well.

At the stoke of midnight, I tore off outside, down the front steps, and embarked on a shortbus journey to the land of inebriated celebrations. I have a vague recollection of Laura, Mike and Henry watching with moderate interest from inside the house. “Good thing there wasn’t any ICE out there,” Henry remarked when I came back inside after realizing I was the only one outside screaming and engaging in some sort of sad jumping jack mutation. Henry is always in Dad Mode, even after drinking vodka all night.

Later, I learned who my real friends were when I drunkenly got a pillow STUCK TO MY HEAD and no one helped save me.

It was a great way to say goodbye to 2011, which was a mostly wonderful year full of new friendships; rekindling old friendships; getting to finally meet my friend Andrea in person; fun trips; JONNY CRAIG; incredible shows; getting to hang out at the Alternative Press offices (this is destined to be one of my favorite memories); amusement parks and county fairs; having my birthday party at a roller rink; and Henry finally dropping some plus-sized, shit-filled baggage. It just sucks that now, whenever I think of 2011, I’m always going to think of Speck dying. But then I just remember all the wonderful friends who helped me through it, and that’s enough to make me smile again. Stoked for all the things I want to accomplish and experience in 2012! Happy New Year, you guys.

(Sorry to get all sappy and introspective. I’ll start being a petulant asshole again tomorrow.)

Or: Because I’m Too Tired To Write Anything Coherently

It’s been a long time since we hung out with Tommy and Jessy, so we had breakfast with them yesterday and then hit up the flea market for old time’s sake. There was a lot of miscommunication in the past and we are hoping to work through that.

In any case, it was almost like no time had passed at all. Tommy was still a bully to Chooch and me and Jessy and Henry still spilled stuff all over their shirts at breakfast. Ah, sweet familiarity!

I was in religious jewelry heaven this time around at the flea market. The last few times we went had been complete busts, but yesterday had me salivating over so many cases of creep crucifixes and saint medallions. And inside the flea market, I was buying incense off some dude who complimented me on my gargantuan rings (I like really big rings). “Your jewelry looks great on you,” he enthused, and I didn’t really know what to say to that. My fingers say “thanks”? Anyway, from behind his booth his pulled out a tray of some custom sterling rings he had made for someone. In particular, he wanted me to see the Aphrodite one.

It was pretty fucking regal, I can’t lie. I started throwing out some ideas to him and he’s now in the process of fashioning me a custom Ganesh ring and I’m pretty excited about that. Tommy was all repulsed and said he was just using his incense and jewelry-crafting skills as a means to hit on me, but I guess I’m just too dumb to see it.

Henry was being super nice to me all weekend, which makes me believe he’s either cheating on me or finally making some bank from the private school kids he’s selling pills to. I found this bracelet that some jewelry dealer was selling at the flea market and when Henry found out he took credit cards, he bought it for me without me having to whine and stomp my feet and I almost died. Henry does a lot of things for me, but spontaneously buying me gifts is not one of them and I’m (usually) OK with that. The trade-off is worth it to me, but there are times when the Old Erin (read: the spoiled brat who had a pappap who took her to Europe every year from the age of 10) whispers to the New Erin that she should just dump this Faygo-slinger for a sickeningly rich widower. One more happy hour at Bossa Nova and I could probably find one; just sayin’, Henry.

Anyway, this same jeweler was also selling this long wooden box with holes in it. Jessy was intrigued and asked what it was.

“It’s an old-fashioned suppository maker,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Oh. Ok, thanks,” she said and quickly walked away.

I should have bought that, too.

Henry got his boyfriend back, which is probably the real reason why he was being super nice to me.

If I had known Henry was going to be pulling out the ol’ wallet, I’d have made more of a scene about wanting this nightmare-maker.

Later that night, we went to Mike and Laura’s for taco night (THERE WERE BURRITOS THERE TOO, THEY LIED). This was Chooch’s first time over their place and he was getting into everything and making my blood pressure rise. Laura mentioned that she had dominoes and I was like, “Good lord, give it to him!” That actually kept him quiet for awhile, until he started whaling a ball against the wall and spilled a can of Mountain Dew on their carpet and I wanted to throttle him.

Laura said she doesn’t mind him because he makes her laugh, which makes me think she must have had an anvil dropped on her head recently.

Mike mentioned that the throw rug in their living room was from Afghanistan and cost something like ,000 and I quickly said, “Hey, let’s roll this bitch up and move it far away from my son.

” The phrase “bull in a china shop,” tends to conjure up images of the bull having the face of Chooch.

Laura made me drink like 8 pomegranate martinis and then had me play Uno, which was a true exercise in minding my temper. Henry and I can’t play games together without me wanting to vivisect him with the rusty contents of a junk yard. (He has a fear of falling from the sky into the middle of a junk yard. I like to ridicule him about this and then make sure he’s clear that my phobias are legit and non-mockable.)

I’ve never prepared my own tacos before. I’m usually known to pay someone to do that for me, like someone in a restaurant, Henry, or the Mexican drug mule I keep chained to the basement rafters. But on this night, I spread my wings and did it all by myself, but not without asking everyone things like, “Will rice go OK with what I already have on here?” and “Do I like this stuff?” and “Will this be too hot for me?” Laura pointed out that there was cilantro in something, and Henry was quick to smugly point out that, “Oh, Erin won’t eat that then. She hates cilantro” and Mike said, “Oh, well there’s cilantro in the rice too” knowing that I was already enjoying a burrito with said rice stuffed in it.

“I think it’s the lime and cilantro combination that you don’t like,” Henry theorized, but then Mike said there was also lime in the rice.

“Or maybe it’s just your cooking I don’t like,” I retorted to Henry with my own smugness and he acted all ass-raped.

And then Henry finished off the night with a hearty protein shot. It was a wonderful way to close out the weekend, but we will for sure get a babysitter if Mike and Laura ever decide to have us back.

I kind of always wanted to get summoned for jury duty. Not that I think it’s glamorous or fun, but fuck–what a prime opportunity to people-watch, right? And that’s kind of my thing.

A few weeks ago, I got my official notice in the mail, filled it out immediately and tucked it back in the mail slot for the mailman to retrieve the next day. When Henry came home from work that day, he saw the torn-open notice and asked, “Where’s the rest of it?”

“In the mail slot, already filled out!” I answered all incredulously, like how was this not his first guess? “I REALLY want to do this!”

“You’re fucked up. No one WANTS to do jury duty.” (Too bad at least TEN people have told me otherwise in the last day.) And then Henry dampened my parade by explaining to me the ins and outs of jury duty, how I would need to check the website on a designated date to see if I was even summoned in the first place.

Well, that day was yesterday and OMG I was!

But my joy soon turned into panic. Do you guys know me at all? I’m pretty much helpless. And now I’m expected to be turned loose into the real world, to ENTER A COURTHOUSE without setting off five alarms, to find a particular room without crying….

“What room is it?” Barb asked me and I told her it was 3-something. “OK, so take the elevator to the third floor—”

“BUT WHERE ARE THE ELEVATORS, OH MY GOD BARB?!”

There better be attendants at every corner, waiting to point me in the correct direction.

“Will I have to talk to people?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Barb said. “You might get asked questions.”

“IN FRONT OF PEOPLE?” I cried.

And then I found out that this doesn’t even mean I’ve been chosen? I have to sit there all day, in a room I may or may not find, waiting to see if they want me?

Talk about my life story.

Henry agreed to drive me down there tomorrow morning so I’ll have one less thing to worry about, like: WHEN SHOULD I GET OFF THE TROLLEY? AND THEN WHAT?! And then he tried to explain to me how to walk to work afterward. Seriously. I do not understand downtown Pittsburgh. There are roads and people and buildings; lots of them.

Today on the way to work, I pointed at every building we passed and asked, “Is that the courthouse? What about that one?”

“We’re not even on the right side of town,” Henry mumbled exasperatedly.

“You said you were going to show me!” I wailed, about to get hysterical. I have lots of…complexities, we’ll call them…when it comes to going somewhere alone for the first time. I like to over-think things until I’m sure that I’m going walk into a building for the first time and promptly fall into a hole to a land of Katy Perry-soundtracked church sermons and food overrun with crunchy onions because how would I know that it was there when I HAVE NEVER BEEN THERE BEFORE.

“I am going to show you,” Henry said. “Tomorrow morning when I drop you off in front of it.”

Then he tried to explain to me how to get to work once I’m released.

“This is too confusing,” I sighed as he was trying to point out landmarks. “It’s a good thing my phone has a compass.”

“Yeah but do you even know what direction to go to begin with?” After his question was met with silence, he said, “Didn’t think so.”

I was starting to feel OK about it at work as my co-worker Cheryl said, “Oh you’ll be fine! You mostly just sit around. And then you break for an hour and a half for lunch—”

An hour and a half? NINETY MINUTES?? What the fuck am I going to do for ninety minutes? Find a bathroom stall in which to tremble and cry?

Barb did her best to comfort me. “I’m trying to think if there is anywhere to eat inside the courthouse,” she mused, knowing full well that if I attempted to stray outside, I might never find my way back and wind up having to change my address to:
Some Guy’s Occupy Pittsburgh Tent Some Random St.
Pgh (I think), PA.

“If you need to, you can just call me. I’ll come find you,” she promised, and that made me feel like maybe I could survive this day.

“Just stand outside and shine a mirror into the sun; I’ll follow the light signal,” I said, trying to complicate this into some failed Choose Your Own Adventure book.

But then Wendy came over and said, “Fool, just walk outside the courthouse and look up. You can see our building, duh.”

Why does this have to be downtown? Why can’t it be on a farm that’s easy to find and full of boughs pregnant with apples. (My apple obsession is still going strong. More on that later.)

So that’s where I’ll be tomorrow if you need me, walking around in circles and looking up at the sky. I should probably take that bloody pie server thing out of my purse first, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wendy, being a creeper.

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

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

Rachel always looks amazing, Halloween party or not.

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

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

The back of my steampunk boyfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

Thank god I never throw shit like that away.

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

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

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

“

Seriously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheating on FAYGO!!

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

It never gets old to me.

I’m so supportive of him.

Chooch and his new enemy.

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

All you really need to know about me before jumping into this is that I hate doing shit with kids, so for the sake of my fingertips, let’s just pretend for a minute that there are already four paragraphs written in my usual long-windedly verbose style illustrating my hate for the pumpkin patch/kids/being around kids/riding school buses/moms/being a mom.

I somehow got suckered into being a chaperone for this year’s field trip. Last year it was mandatory that one parent accompany each preschooler, but they only needed 9 Kindergarten parent chaperones. I heard my disembodied voice saying, “Yes,” to the teacher’s aid and then vaguely recall her scrawling “Mrs. Robbins” onto the list of condemned parents.

(Never mind the fact that I am MISS KELLY not MRS. ROBBINS.)

A. The Sweetest Ginger

I arrived at the school in time to be cast out from the other chaperones.  I’m sure I wasn’t missing much there, as I picked up pieces of their extreme Yinzer-garble. Most of the parents just kept their backs turned on me. I was OK with that.

As the kids began filing out of the classroom and ran over to their respective parent, the teachers began handing off the rest of the kids so that some parents had an extra child to be responsible for. I assumed (stupidly) that the teachers are hyper-aware of my utter irresponsibility, but apparently my facade translates to strangers as Put-Together Woman Bursting with Empathy because they paired me up with Nate.

Normally, I don’t know shit about the kids Chooch goes to school with, and I like to keep it that way. But Nate is notorious because his parents died in the beginning of the school year, one right after the other. Totally traumatic and devastating; I actually cried when I read the letter that the school sent home about the mom and hoped it was a mistake when there was another letter a day later about the dad. I never learned the details, but a Google search brought up their obituaries and they died a day apart from each other in the hospital so I imagine car accident is the safest assumption.

Good job giving this poor kid to the most socially awkward mom there, you guys. Good fucking job.

Nate put his pudgy little hand in mine as we walked out to the bus together. Some little girl said, “Nate, sit with us!” but he opted to sit with me and was a friendly little chatterbox for the whole 30 minute ride.

“I think I know where we are!” as we passed a grocery store. “My mom used to shop there!”

I smiled awkwardly, the diarrhea-face kind, hoping that topic would go DOA.

While we compared animal crackers with other (the owls were our favorites), Nate looked at me innocently and, in a way that was remarkably upbeat, asked, “Do you know where my mom and dad are?”

OMFG YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. SERIOUSLY? TO ME, HE’S ASKING THIS, OF ALL FUCKING PEOPLE? I desperately yearned for a can of that liquid rubber shit to plug up my tear ducts.

I didn’t know how to respond to that. If I were my friend Lisa, who went to school to learn how to talk to people about death, I’m sure I would have reacted in such a way that made lilacs spring up from a meadow. But me being me, I just whispered “No…” in a frightened tone and then bit my thumb.

“They’re in heaven,” Nate answered nonchalantly.

I do not hate this particular kid so I acted like that was the most wonderful thing, to have parents in heaven. I was three when my own dad died from a car accident, but I don’t really have much memory from which to draw any life lessons. I don’t even remember when I first really understood that my dad was dead. What did my family tell me back then? Knowing my mom, she acted like nothing happened.

I sat there in silence, trying to process all of this while Nate quietly sipped from his Capri Sun beside me.

We talked about Halloween costumes for awhile (he’s going to be some train-friend of Thomas’s that I don’t care about) and then he dropped this bomb on me:

“Do you think there will be big pumpkins at the pumpkin patch?”

I pretended to consider this. (I think that is what you have to do when dealing with children: pretend. A lot.) “I imagine there will be pumpkins of all sizes,” I said.

“Well, I want to find the biggest one and throw it up to my parents in Heaven.”

WHY. WHY WHY WHY WHY.  The fissure forming on my heart reminded me that, OMG—I have a heart, and I suddenly felt inspired to give up my hateful blogging, love Jesus and adopt 18 orphans.

You guys, this kid kind of made me feel a little bit human.

B. The Worst Best Friend

My own kid sat with the boy who, one week ago, said to me, “I wish there were no Rileys in the world,” in a mean tone, in front of my kid, prompting me to have a little talkie with the principal because I’ll be damned if I’m paying to send my kid to a school where hate is something that kids can get away with. If he’s saying shit like that when he’s FIVE, what’s he going to be doing when he’s FIFTEEN? You can tell me I overreacted, but I’d rather nip that shit in the bud than blow it off and have something worse happen down the line.

(You should know that I’m not one of those moms who get all up-in-arms every single time someone blows a hair on my kid’s head.)

This kid, Anthony, is such a motherfucker that the principal already knew who I was talking about before I even said so. His mom was made aware of the situation (as well as the mom of another kid who appears to be Anthony’s sidekick in hate) and profuse apologies were made all around.

Now Chooch is calling him his “best friend” and wanted nothing more than to sit with him on the bus.

“Sit with Nate and me,” I pleaded.

“Anth is my best friend,” Chooch shot back, sliding into the seat across from me.

Anth? You have got to be fucking kidding me.  This Anthony kid is such an ADHDick. Several times, I was forced to lean over Nate and hiss at Chooch to knock it the fuck off because Anthony’s mere presence was making him act like he was running on Pixi Stix and Starbucks. I really need to get him away from this Anthony kid before he starts verbally denigrading other children worse than I do to Henry.

Anthony’s mom is much older and has a weary face that screams, “I AM SO TIRED OF YELLING AT THIS FUCKING DICK ALL THE LIVELONG DAY.”

I kind of feel for her.

As soon as the bus pulled into the farm’s lot, Anthony was out of his seat and pushing kids out of his way, provoking one of the teachers to open her mouth and blow him back into an empty seat with nothing more than her militant tone.

It was fucking awesome. Everyone paraded past as Anthony (and his sidekick, who actually wasn’t doing anything wrong other than associating himself with this delinquent) sulked in his seat.

Somehow Chooch avoided punishment even though I’m pretty sure I witnessed him being a pushy asshole. It’s obviously because he’s a cracker.

C. Father of the Year

Henry met us out there this year and I was so thankful. Since I had Nate obediently clutching my hand, Henry kept an eye on Chooch, who was following Anthony like a puppy. Several times, Henry tugged Chooch back to us by his hood and gave him low-pitched yet stern talks about how he needed to not worry so much about Anthony.

Kindergarten and this shit is happening already. KINDERGARTEN.

Meanwhile, Henry completely skirted the $10 admission and not once did a farmhand approach him and ask around a straw of hay, “Sir, you ain’t wearing a sticker on your breast. Why?”

D. The Stupid Pumpkin Diorama Tour

I hate this part of Triple B! It is row after row of fictional characters with pumpkin heads. WHO THE FUCK CARES. And then they throw Moses floating downstream in a basket just on the off chance some douchey Catholic school kids happen to stroll on through and all the parents clap and laugh happily and it is so obnoxious.

“OMG Bible shit, you guys!”

This may have happened when I was there.

Nate loves Thomas the Tank Engine, so I took this photo for him. I figured I’d have it printed for his grandparents who bring him to school everyday, adding some shine to my halo. (Or, if I were Barb, I guess you could say my halo might then be all TRICKED OUT.)

It kind of made me sad how few of the dioramas he was able to figure out.

Which brings me to….

E. Aging Hipster Dick

One of the girls in Chooch’s class was behind Nate and me with her dad.  I hadn’t been paying much attention to him until we approached the one diorama that stumps me repeatedly.

“Oh look,” he said to his daughter, “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub!”

I laughed to myself because it was so obvious. Over my shoulder, I said laughingly to him, “I totally could NOT figure this one out last year!”

“Oh,” he said in this tone that was steeped with a bold combination of ambivalence and superiority. “I guess you just learned something then.”

No, this tone just did not sit well with me.

“Yeah….I guess,” I mumbled, and from that point on, motherfucker was on my radar.

From then on, nothing I did could drown out his ridiculously uber-serious reciting of every fucking nursery rhyme diorama we shuffled past.

Every time I was near him after that (which was pretty much always; god, go stand with your WIFE), I had to fight the urge to heckle-cough “Douchebag” in his general direction. Fuck off with your lame short-sleeved flannel. Go sit in your hybrid and listen to some Iron and Wine and leave the pumpkin-picking to the fuckers who care. (I am not one of those fuckers but I assure you I’d rather pick a fucking pumpkin than listen to anything on his iPod.)

On the hayride, he all but SAT ON MY LAP and proceeded to shout over the dirge of the tractor’s engine to his wife who was sitting FIVE PEOPLE away from him about how much he spent on apples at another farm.

“$8 for 8 apples! That’s practically $1 an apple!” he shouted in his deep dick-swallowing voice.

That’s not “like” a dollar an apple; it IS a dollar an apple.

Sometimes his wife would snap, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Because, you know, not everyone is trained to hear bored, husky tones over top of a chugging tractor pulling 35 screaming children.

He was so close to me that I feared I would disembark the wagon with the sudden druthers to wear a belted (vintage) tunic and swap out my photos of Jonny Craig for Colin Meloy. (Whom I do enjoy on occasion, but still.)

(Hopefully I don’t offend my hipster friends who are neither aging nor dicks.)

Meanwhile, I found myself having an enjoyable conversation with Momesis, and considering we also ran into each other at the playground in August and wound up chatting for 90 minutes while our kids played, I suppose I should just call her Amy. Besides, I now have a Dademy to replace her.

“I decided to tell him about how I didn’t know that was Three Men in a Tub last year. I was just trying to keep it light-hearted, you know how I do.”

“No,” Henry said. “I don’t.”

And this is why I don’t often initiate small talk.

F. The 5-Minute Hayride

Just like last year’s 5-minute hayride, now with an Aging Hipster Dick sprouting out of my torso.

Yes, Nate; that is exactly the look of fucking disdain I too would have if Anthony were hugging me into him.

 “Mommy, can I have a hoodie that says Sinister all over it like Anthony?”

G.The Pumpkin Picking

After sitting through the SAME EXACT program about DIRT put on by Mrs. B. in the School Barn, we finally got to head out to the small, forlorn patch of puny pumpkin rejects that’s there specifically for school field trips. I guess $10 a person only promises the adoption of a pie pumpkin.

This is my favorite part because it means it’s almost time to leave.

Nate was off getting his picture taken by the teacher, and Henry was too busy checking out the other moms bending at the waist of their mom jeans to be of any assistance, so I had to tiptoe through the mud while Chooch kicked disinterestedly at a pumpkin that maybe he might have wanted, who knows, what did he care. He was still sulking because I wouldn’t let him sit next to Anthony during the dirt assembly.

Nate came back from the school photo-op and Henry decided to actually pull his eyeballs off the MILFs’ applebottoms long enough to drag Chooch to the entrance while I assisted Nate in choosing a pumpkin. Of course, he picked one whose stem that was still attached to a 10 inch-thick vine and I unfortunately shorted the remote that turns my right arm into a hacksaw. Sorry, buddy.

He picked a comparable gourd and proceeded to immediately break the handles of the plastic bag he was given. I kept offering to carry it for him, but he stubbornly cradled his bag-swathed pumpkin in his arms, dropping it every three feet. It was fine. I wasn’t getting agitated.

No really, it was fine.

Just fucking dandy.

H. THE FINISH LINE

Henry got to drive home in the nice, quiet, CHILDFREE car while I was shackled to my chaperone status for one more bus ride into the horizon. I got to sit alone at least, while Nate, Anthony and Chooch all crammed into one seat.

Nate quietly looked out the window the entire way home while Chooch leaned forward with his forehead pressed against the back of the seat in front of him. They were clearly tired. As were all the other children, except for Anthony, who was practically sitting upside down in his seat, singing “Georgie Porgie*” the entire way while his mom bitched about not having time to shop.

(*Seriously? My kid must be the only one in that class who doesn’t give a shit about nursery rhymes.)

When we got back to the house, Chooch threw up and I was really pissed off because that’s what I wanted to do.

I. Henry’s Day at the Farm

I decided to try and act like I genuinely cared about Henry’s pumpkin patch experience, but he replied to my initial text inquiring of his favorite field trip moment with a misspelled and curiously punctuated: “Your [sic] not interviewing me again?”

“No, just wondering,” I texted back. “Also, what kid did you hate the most and what mom was the most MILFish?”

Henry: “LOL, most MILFish.”

Me: “Seriously, answer me. Which mom-bitch did you want to poke with your pumpkin stem?”

He kept ignoring that particular question, which makes me believe it was Aging Hipster Dick he had eyes for. And he told me later that he “doesn’t hate any kids.” What the fuck is wrong with him?

Me: “When you pick pumpkins, what are things you look for?”

Henry: “Size and color.”

Me: “Like when you’re looking for dicks on the Internet? When you were in the SERVICE, did you ever cut glory holes into pumpkins?”

Henry: “Interview over.”

Me: “Did you leave some of the pumpkin guts inside to give it a nice, squishy vaginal effect?”

No answer. Obviously that means yes.