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.

Usually, if someone suggests to me that I add one of their friends on Facebook, I decline the invitation. Especially if I’ve never met the person, because I have been trying very hard lately to not be a creep. (And it’s not really working out very well, thanks for asking.)

But last year, when my friend Erica was visiting Pittsburgh she suggested to me over lunch that I look up her friend Rick on Facebook because he’s also from the area and big into haunted houses. She mentioned that he used to run his own home haunt called the Haunted Chamber and I recognized the name immediately. I had never gone to it, but definitely remembered seeing ads for it every year.

Figuring Erica wouldn’t lead me astray, I looked him up a few days later, sent him a friend request along with a message explaining why some random broad in his city was wanting to be his friend. He accepted, but we never really interacted very much. Chiming in on a stranger’s status updates can be awkward, especially when it’s me doing the chiming.

Months later, he sent me a really wonderful message. I will never forget it, because it was when Henry and I were in Cleveland and I was sitting on the bed in our hotel room checking my email before the AP Tour show that night. Rick was writing to me about my blog, which is the one thing I always get down on myself about, and his words were just so encouraging and supportive. I sat there crying while I read it and was just really touched by how nice and honest this perfect stranger was being to me. Plus, it broke the ice.

A few weeks ago, we met for lunch and spent the next 2+ hours talking about his history with working haunted houses, my history with going to haunted houses, and I quickly realized that Erica was right — I had a ton of stuff in common with this guy and he is easily one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure of encountering.

He’s friends with the people who run Castle Blood and invited Henry and I to meet him and his wife Tammy out there last Saturday. So with stomachs full of 80 different varieties of pie, that is exactly what we did.

***

Rick and Tammy were talking to one of the Castle Blood denizens when we arrived. He was already a familiar face, after years and years of making the worthwhile hike out to Bealesville for the annual Castle Blood tour. But now instead of Professor Scrye, I know him as Chris and he is awesome. (He just loaned me some fake skin in jars for my Murder Desk at work!)

Awhile back, I had written about taking Chooch to one of the no-scare daylight matinees. I usually only write about my haunted house experiences in my paper journals (because I’m dork-loser and have been keeping a diligent record since 1996), but for whatever reason, I wrote about that one here on Oh Honestly, Erin. One of the Castle Blood girls found it and shared it with everyone else, and it was cool because some of them even commented on that post as their characters.

But I didn’t think anyone there would remember that, so I was surprised when Chris and Ricky (aka Gravely MacCabre, Castle Blood’s caretaker) both brought it up to me.

“You might be a fan of Castle Blood, but we at Castle Blood are all fans of Oh Honestly, Erin,” Gravely said and I kind of wanted to die on the spot. Chris said that they’re always on the look-out for Chooch now at the matinees. Things like this don’t happen often and I usually like to assume that only 4 people read this thing, so whenever I’m in public and someone says, “I read your blog” — well, that’s a feeling that I’m not sure I will ever get used to. It’s cool and I love it, but it’s also very bewildering.

Gravely told me there was a girl inside the Castle named Dawn and that she was the one who found my blog. “You have to tell you’re Oh Honestly, Erin when you see her!” he urged, telling me what room she would be in.

Within 3 seconds, I had forgotten. Tammy and Henry both admitted that they hadn’t heard what he said, so then I was left to internalize my panic while we stood in line, because I can’t ever just be a normal, calm human being. What if I didn’t say hello to her, and then Gravely found about it later and became angry that a subordinate had crossed him? Because clearly this was the most important thing on his mind that night, never mind the fact that he was ensuring the night’s tours went off without any fires, stink bug attacks or gang violence.

While in line, I became temporarily distracted from my plight when one of the denizen approached us with a big basket of commemorative Castle Blood roses. They were only $3 and I really wanted one. Henry and I don’t often go to haunted houses together anymore and I thought it would be really ROMANTIC if he could spare a measly $3 of his blue-collar beverage factory income, but he merely smirked in response.

Then I remembered why I don’t go to haunted houses with him. He’d sooner leave me out for the chainsaw guys than be a man and claim his property. I guess he doesn’t have hero fantasies.

So Rick bought two and I was all happy about that until he said, “What? I bought this one for Henry.” Figures, people always side with Henry within 7 seconds of meeting him. (Sometimes even BEFORE meeting him. That’s because I write him as a downtrodden underdog. If only you guys knew the truth.)

(OK fine, that is the truth.)

Meanwhile,  the lady with the roses had fetched her albino friend and brought him over to inspect me, thinking I would make a good wife for him. I was very enthusiastic about this prospect, because at this point I would like to be SOMEBODY’S wife. Why not a dead albino guy with scary eyes?

He asked me what blood type I am, but then he and the rose-slinger ran off on an O+ tangent that rivaled Who’s On 1st. While those two were bantering, I looked at Henry in horror and whispered, “What’s my blood type?”

“I don’t know!” he said in that shitty, nerve-scraping tone that makes me want to castrate him along with the entire male population.

So then I spent the next countless moments suspended in time with my blood type quandary, until my prospective husband asked me again and I blurted out, “O+.” Henry said that’s probably what it is anyway. Not like he cares about my blood.

God, why can’t he just care about my blood?

Gravely was walking by so I snagged him and asked him to remind me who I was supposed to say hello to.

If someone tells me to do something, my blinders go on and I’m on a pothole-filled track to the finish line, with sweaty palms and shallow breaths, ignoring everything that passes by.

I’m kind of tightly-wound.

A witch with prosthetics was all I could think about the entire time we were in that fucking Castle.

So in every room on the tour, I would hiss to Henry, “Is that her? Do you think that’s her?” to which he would always hiss back, “I DON’T KNOW!” He was too busy nursing a corset fetish to help me not have a panic attack.

I was distracted from my mission once and only once, in the laboratory where I developed a hearty crush on the cute steampunk inventor guy.

I’ll be back for him.

Eventually, I found my contact and after everyone else in our group continued to the next room, I blurted out, “AREYOUDAWNI’MOHHONESTLYERIN” and we shook hands and I think she said something (not once breaking character) but all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears because OMG I had to TALK to someone.

I really should have a perpetual Xanax prescription.

The worst part of the tour is always the end. I mean, yeah—It’s great to turn in the talisman your group has collected and get your vampire teeth prize, but it just means that it’s time to leave. I’ve never had a bad time at the Castle, not even when Henry and I were stuck with a group of disrespectful teenagers who subsequently got thrown out and we were given complimentary tickets for having to deal with that, but going with Rick and Tammy really made it a cool, personal experience. It was really awesome getting to meet everyone there for real and it made me wish my mom and I were on speaking terms because she would have died. Castle Blood used to be our thing to do together. You know, before she went crazy. I will forever associate it with her.

(OMG, that steampunk guy was so hot.)

***

Afterward, we decided to go to dinner.

“I don’t care where we go, just as long as I can get a grilled cheese,” I said, whining about being sick of pie. “I just need cheese, anything with cheese.”

We wound up at King’s and Rick taunted me as we walked past the pie case. I was choking back regurgitated crust every time I even THOUGHT of the word “pie” after eating it all day at the pie party.

However, I did remark that there was not one pumpkin pie to be had at the pie party, which surprised us all. That’s not saying I was desiring pumpkin pie at that point, I was just simply making an observation.

King’s has creamed spinach now as a side, and I kept trying to coax Henry into ordering it.

“Why?” he asked, clearly annoyed at my persistence.

“Because you’re old. And also, because I want to try it,” I reasoned.

He did not order a side of creamed spinach with his burger.

However, when our waitress brought our food, she said to me, “I was told to bring you this instead,” as she slid a slice of pumpkin pie under my nose, followed by a bowl of creamed spinach.

According to my dinner companions, I looked like I was about to cry. I craned my neck to look for my grilled cheese while everyone laughed. The waitress didn’t have the heart to drag out the prank any longer and finally rewarded me with a sparkling plate of God’s Favorite Sandwich and sweet potato fries.

It was a perfect ending to a great night which served as a reminder of why I keep writing in this blog. It has provided me with the opportunity to meet so many awesome and interesting people, and it’s something I think about whenever I feel like throwing in the towel. I’m just really appreciative. (And now I have to go egg an orphanage to balance it all out.)

[If you live in the Pittsburgh area and haven’t ever been to Castle Blood, you’re dumb. But seriously, go check it out! And if you have little kids, they offer  daylight matinee tours on the last 2 Sundays of October. It’s only $5 for that and the kids get to trick-or-treat inside the Castle. Totally worth the drive out to Bealesville, so go and do that now.]

Why do I keep having parties? All they do is stress me the fuck out. And you know, this time, I was trying to be more lackadaisical about it but all that did was make me wake up Saturday morning to a constricted chest and a build-up of pre-party heart palpitations. And it wasn’t like there was a ton to do — Henry just had to make two pies while I roamed around the house, looking at my imaginary Swatch watch and calling him a motherfucker.

“I don’t know why you get so stressed out when I’m the one who has to do everything,” Henry called out from the kitchen, elbow-deep in butterscotch, while I zoned out to Chiodos and buffed my fingernails. Finally, he finished his pistachio pie and deemed the butterscotch pie as “getting there,” so we packed it all up and split for the pavilion; upon arrival, Henry had already written a list of a hundred things he forgot, which meant Chooch and I got to hang out alone in the pavilion while he “ran real quick” to the store.

I. False Hope

While I was chastising my son for being 5 and incapable of using a swingset on his own, a car pulled up the dirt part alongside the pavilion. Chooch and I ran a Special Olympics practice lap toward it just as a man was emerging from the driver’s side. It wasn’t anyone I recognized, but I am never one to turn away a pie aficionado.

“Do you mind if I take some pictures of my wife?” he asked. That’s when I noticed that in place  of a checkered bib fastened around his neck and a pie fork in each hand, he came equipped with his camera, his very pregnant wife, and a young kid.

Oh.

Hopes crushed, I gave them the green light and Chooch and I moped back to the playground with our heads down. Maybe that was just me. It was already past the start of the party and no one had arrived, so what did I care if some weirdos were taking lovey-dovey family portraits over by the porta john.

Then another car pulled down and around the pavilion, so Chooch and I jumped up and cheered just in time for the two strangers in the car to leer at us as they drove back up the road.

“What the fuck?!” I yelled to the party gods, who were clearly angry with me for some reason. Not sending thank you cards fast enough after my birthday party? God, fuck off.

Finally, Henry came back at the same time my brother Corey and his girlfriend Danielle arrived, so they were here for the next fake out, when a pick up truck pulled into the lot across the street but then it turned out to be some assholes bringing their dog to the park for a walk. It was nearly 2 at this point and I started to cry a little.

II. The Horse

The incredibly affectionate family/pie party crashers had taken a break in their photo session long enough to plop down for a picnic in the grass. We were sitting at a table under the pavilion, openly mocking them, when Corey noticed a horse coming out of the woods. Atop the horse sat a poised older woman in some kind of fucking safari hat and chambray shirt. Corey could not stop talking about how poised she was, like she was expecting to be photographed or draped with a champion’s sash.  Everyone (but me) took turns telling her how beautiful her horse was as she clomped off toward the playground.

Chooch decided that he HAD TO GO TO THE SWINGSET at this moment and he would have to RUN AS FAST AND AS LOUDLY as he possibly could because it might not be there much longer. Off he ran like a madman, ignoring Henry’s warnings of “Don’t run near the horse——aw, shit.”

Too late.

The horse got spooked and started to buck. The bitch on his back was suddenly less than poised as she tried to get him to calm down. We all just sat there and stared, and then I had to turn away because I was laughing so hard. We’re all so incredibly irresponsible when it comes to that kid.

At least she wasn’t thrown off the horse, I guess.

III. This Is My Brother, Corey; He’s Color Blind

Since there still wasn’t a party happening, Corey, Danielle and Chooch sat down and colored some Star Wars pictures. Thank god for crayons and coloring books.

“You know I’m color-blind, right?” Corey asked me.

“What? No!” I replied.

“Yeah, I found out when I was like, 7 and got my first pair of glasses. The doctor was basically like, ‘You’re color-blind as fuck.’ I can’t believe you’ve known me for 21 years and didn’t know this!

” Corey said, mock-offended.

Meanwhile, Chooch was chastising Corey for coloring Luke Skywalker totally wrong and I was like, “Dude doesn’t know his colors, Chooch. He can’t help it.” I tried to give Corey a sympathetic smile but I couldn’t stop laughing long enough.

Anyway, the point of Corey’s story is that his color-retardedness is affecting his ability to excel in one of his classes, so his adviser intervened and told the professor about Corey’s “condition,” at which point he was sent to the disability office and had to sit among suicidal students and a guy with one leg.

This was so ridiculously funny to me that I could not stop laughing and talking about it. All day long, whenever someone new would arrive (and yes, people did eventually arrive), I would introduce Corey as “my brother; he’s color-blind.” Show me your weakness and I will mock you relentlessly.

 IV. The Butterscotch Blunder

People were finally beginning to arrive and Henry let me set out the pistachio pie (which was like spooning a cloud from Heaven into your mouth; I bet angels get breast implants made from this sweet fluff) but said that the butterscotch pie still wasn’t ready.

“Don’t touch it!” he barked preemptively when I made to open the weird helium-balloon looking cooler stowing the runny pie. “I just checked it and it still hasn’t jelled.” He tugged on his coller a little and then took another swig of his iced tea jug.

This pretty much went on all day, this dance around the reverse pie-incubator, until finally it was 6:30 and everyone had left with nary a slice of butterscotch pie (which is one of my all-time favorite pies and I haven’t had it in years because my mom doesn’t care enough about me to bake me one, but she’ll still bake them FOR HER EX-HUSBAND WTF). I was devastated. Yes, I had shoveled multiple varities of fruit- and cream-filled desserts between my oscillating lips, but there was a void that couldn’t be filled by any berry or Nutella. I needed that fucking butterscotch.

(Two pies came close though: Kaitlin made a black forest pie and then told Henry to suck it; and Laura’s fiance Mike baked one of the best apple pies with a crust soaked in some sort of sex nectar, I don’t even know but I think I may have broken a few laws with it in my mouth.)

V. The Park

Everyone is always bitching about how hard it is to find park pavilions, no matter what park we’re at, so fuck that: the next pie party will be at a strip club. Maybe then people will actually show up.

And then there won’t be any stink bugs to freak people out. Just crabs.

VI. Where’s the Avocado Pie?

Henry didn’t make the avocado pie this year and of course everyone was like, “Did Henry make the avocado pie?” No, Henry didn’t make the avocado pie because he was too busy fucking up the butterscotch pie.

VII. Pictures of People Eating Pie

Pie Eaters:

• Me me me me
• Henry and Chooch
• Laura
• Corey and Danielle
• Robbie and Karen
• Ron
• John, Jennifer, Abby and Gavin
• Nancy and her baby, Joey
• Jamie and her baby, Crosby
• Barb
• Kaitlin
• Sandy and Elena
• Sean and Kylie
• Joy and John
• Kristen and her dog, Joey
• Blake and Shannon
• Henry’s mom Judy
• Henry’s sister Kelly
• Zac
• Janna

 Henry bought some sort of pie shower caps, except I thought he said they were for vaginas. I was so confused, but figured it was something he saw his ex using one time, so I didn’t question it.

I don’t think these kids stopped moving long enough to eat even a bite of pie.

WHAT WERE THEY TALKING ABOUT? It seems so intense.

Since it was an open house-type of party, people came and went all day. Henry kept trying to make everyone take pie home with them, because the pie:person ratio was totally ridiculous this year. There were some pies that hadn’t even been cut into by the end of the day. Was everyone on a diet this year?

We even considered handing off some pie to the picnicking pregnant family down by the porta john.

Joy’s fiance John asked me what started the whole pie party thing. When I told him that it was basically because I wanted pie and wondered how I could trick people into bringing me some, I think he believed me but I’m not sure. It’s kind of cool how much people enjoy pillaging a spread of pies in a park pavilion on a beautiful autumn day, though.

Probably frowning at Kaitlin’s black forest pie.

Laura actually likes having her photo taken, so she doesn’t care when I sneak up on her.

Overall, it was a great day, great weather, great pies, and great people. But by 6:00, I was writhing around and yelling WHY DID YOU LET ME EAT SO MUCH PIE!? because everything is Henry’s fault.

The next morning, Henry finally admitted that he fucked up the butterscotch pie, which had never jelled, not even after a full 24 hours. There goes your spot on the Food Network, Henry, you fuck-up.

[Originally written in August 2005]

I was delivered a crushing blow this morning in the cemetery as I panted my way back to the car after an hour-long walk/jog amalgamation. (My jogging is something  like 2 parts Corky, 1 part wounded unicorn, garnished with a candied twist of poor eye sight.) It was a hot August day and my hair was dreadlocked with sweat, bugs and dirt, possibly blood, like you’d expect from someone who had just engaged in a spirited flee from Leatherface; this is how I exercise.

Vanity made me freeze as I rounded the edge of the mausoleum next to which I had parked, because not only did I spy my car (homestretch!) but also a suspicious rotund form hovering behind it.

Great, there’s my car, please don’t let this man talk to me. Please don’t let him talk, maybe he won’t see me, please, keep facing straight ahead, no eye contact, so close, so close, so—

All hope was lost as he turned toward me and furtively motioned me over. Trying not to scuff my feet, I grudgingly sidled up next to him.

“Look, two fawn and their mother,” he whispered to me as he pointed down the hill to the valley below.

Terrific, because I don’t see enough deer here in Western Pennsylvania. Still, I feigned interest and together we stood in silence for a few seconds longer. Would he be offended if I walked away? Do I say goodbye first? Small talk protocol is not my strong point.

And then he began talking about deer: what they eat, where they sleep, where they buy their Uggs. I didn’t want to talk about deer. I wanted to go home. Sweat was stinging my eyes at this point and my ankle hurt from when I ran into a slight ditch in the path (things like this wouldn’t happen if I wasn’t so preoccupied with whipping my head around every three seconds, looking out for ghosts and rapists, or the ghosts of rapists) and I could see the silver dome of my car over yonder, pointing and laughing at me.

I hope they don’t get hit by a car was my delightful addition to the conversation before I started to subtly back away. I told him to enjoy his morning to which he countered with, “Have a good walk.”

“Thanks,” I said as I walked the five feet to my car. Thanks? Why did I say thanks?! I was finished with my walk. Now I’m That Asshole who accepts underserved well-wishes.

Because I’m neurotic and as if that man actually cared what I did, I ignored my itchy trigger finger which was waiting impatiently to press down on the button to unlock my car door and I continued walking past it. I’d look like an idiot (to no one but myself) if I get in my car and leave after I just said thanks.

And that’s why, out of principle, I walked an extra fifteen minutes (not like I couldn’t use it, but still) uphill. All because I said “thanks.” As I looped up and around the path, I wondered maniacally about which direction the man had gone. I couldn’t stop thinking about it and the intensity was making me have to pee. What if I ran into him again? Should I turn around? If he was still standing by my car watching the deer by the time I get back…he’d probably think nothing of it. But try rationalizing that to me after I already the devastating finale penned in my head.

And so I kept walking until I reached a path which would have brought me back in the same direction I was headed pre-meeting with the deer watcher, when I noticed him one path below me, taking in the view of the pond. Perhaps he had shifted his awe onto the fish. Had this man maybe not ever seen real life animals before? And then I did this thing that I do where I start to imagine worst case scenarios and I started to feel horribly compassionate for him to the point where I was on the verge of tears. What if his wife was fucking his boss at the zoo and now he has nothing going for him but a stack of National Geographic magazines and memories of skinning buck in Uncle Herb’s storage unit?

Surely he can see me, I thought. If he sees me, he could very well start walking in my direction and we’d end up meeting up at the bottom before I’d have time to hit the next path. He’d maybe want to talk more about the deer, maybe he’d want to tell me how many deer he’s seen in his lifetime. Maybe he even keeps track in a little pocket notebook, and he’d whisk it out of his back pocket to show me the yellowed pages with tiny slashes for each deer sighting. What if he kills people and feeds them to the deer? Do deer eat meat? Maybe he eats the people for himself. Maybe he kills the deer too and then stuffs them with the murdered people and displays them all over his house.

I bet he has a lot of grandfather clocks.

Time stood still for what seemed like eternity. My perspiration had nothing to do with the heat and the laps at this point. This was pure, stinking liquid-fear seeping from my pores and sluicing down my temples.

So I kept walking further away from my car. My right contact lens, clinging onto my eye with its last few ounces of suction, hated me. But I had sacrifices to make in the name of small talk avoidance. (See also: murder; abduction; rape.)

I eventually made it back in the opposite direction and, right before the bend in the path which would show me my car, I quietly slipped behind the mausoleum wall and peeked around the corner. Clear.

For all I know, this man could have very well left the cemetery and gone to feed (deer to) the homeless before swinging by the hospital to read children books (about deer). Yet here I was, playing cloak-and-dagger with some stranger and he didn’t even know.

Maybe I should just get a tread mill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SO MUCH of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe like South America?” I guessed.

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

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

Welcome to Pittsburgh!

[Ed. Note: I’m recycling last year’s post, because my new Lady of Leisure status has left me trifling.]

If this looks more like something you’d want to motorboat and less like something that’s sucker-punching your gag reflex, then read on.

I love pie. For years, I’ve wanted to have a pie party but usually complacency sets in and I put it on the backburner.

But then Henry made an avocado pie for my mom’s 2010 Labor Day cookout and it was smooth as silk, tangy, rich and to be honest, I just closed my eyes and smiled while thinking about it. He even made a citrus-tinged whipped cream. I’m always looking for excuses to have him bake pies, and since last year’s pie party was such a toothy success, I decided to have another one! (Actually, it was decided by the hungry masses who have been “casually” asking since last October 10, 2010, “Say, when are you going to have another pie party?”)

It’s going to be held at a pavilion in South Park, and the invitation is open to any local person reading this who has a propensity for pies (or anyone who likes pies enough to travel to Pittsburgh!). I’ve decided that we’ll have alcohol at this fall fete because I can’t imagine spending an autumn day outside, eating pie, with NO MULLED WINE to wash it down.

(I probably will procrastinate on the mulled wine front, and end up just bringing regular wine. Besides, I don’t have a cauldron. So if you want to BYOWorB, be my guest! The alcohol permit is $50 so if anyone wants to chip in a buck or two, that would be magically fantastical. Last year, we didn’t get a permit and smuggled in 4 bottles of wine, and I couldn’t relax the whole time because I thought every single car that drove past was an unmarked park ranger ready to arrest me. This year I decided it was worth paying the extra money so now we can do kegstands if we want without hiding behind a porta potty.)

If we’re not friends on Facebook, here is the official event notice:

A Pretentiously Perplexing Pie Party

Saturday, October 8, 2011

1:00PM – 6:00PM

A Pavilion in South Park, TBD (Look out for my telegram. Bring your decoder ring.)

Please pop a squat with me beneath a pavilion on a (hopefully) pleasant autumn day, plunging plastic ware into a plethora of piquant pies.

Please present one (1) pie for passage; a paltry price to pay for a party pinioned by prestigious proclivity.

Pursuing pies of all persuasions! Palatable produce, pungent pasty, puzzling pot pies.

Leave all picky palates at the plantation and come get your piper pied!
———————
In other words: let’s eat the crap out of some pies.

Last year my mom was supposed to  make her amazing butterscotch pie. It could anally rape you and you wouldn’t even notice it, it is THAT good. But she didn’t make it, and considering that we haven’t spoken since last Christmas, I’m not banking on a special delivery of gooey butterscotch in a pan this year either. So I might be cajoled into baking the only pie I’ve ever baked in my life (not including the raw pumpkin pie that left my ex-boyfriend with a persnickety duodenum): a succulent pear pie.

If you would like to attend, please let me know! Even if we’ve never met before, what better way to say hello and swap saliva than with chunks of cherry pie falling from our mouths like the remnants of that Civil War reenactor we cannibalized last Arbor Day?

Guest List:

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

Glenn would rather be riding the Wacky Worm.

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

There were some downsides:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robbie & Karen, blasphemous roller bladers.

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

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

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

“Yeah, I’m giving you one right now!”

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

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

God! Thank you!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Record scratch.

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

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

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

Not gon’ happen!

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

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

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

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

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

VI. Balloon Sweatshop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or just cut her.

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

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

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

I DON’T SEE ANY BALLOONS IN YOUR HANDS!

VII. Douche Cup

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

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

“Douche cup,” she said, snickering.

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

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

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

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

Douche cups.

VIII. The Guests

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IX. Fuck a Pinata

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

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

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

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

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

X. Cake, Part 2

Stapler makes a cameo.

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

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

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

“Um, cut the cake.” Obviously.

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

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

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

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

The cake totally won.

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

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

Bonecrusher zombified this Batman doll for him!

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

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

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

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

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

For as shitty and stressful the preceding days and hours were, the party itself shaped up to be pretty rad. The rain never escalated past a drizzle, and even that only lasted the first twenty minutes. The rest of the day, for the entire four hours, the sun shone. It was a goddamn Christmas in May miracle. Bill and Jessi, who had driven to Pittsburgh that morning from Michigan, said this was because of some crazy Christian grandma they encountered at a rest stop who was urging her grandkids to pray to Jesus that it didn’t rain.

So thank you, religiously-bullied children. And Jesus, too, I guess.

Please note the one (1) Star Wars tablecloth. This was supposed to be the kids table, but no kids sat down. Ever. They’re probably still not sitting, wherever they are.

I. The Parents

The aspect of the party I was most freaked out about was dealing with the preschool parents. Of course Henry wasn’t there when the kids began arriving, because he had to go pick up Blake, leaving me to greet the parents on my own. Jacob was the first to arrive with his aunt, who seemed young-ish and not too much of a threat, so I broke the ice by regaling her with the trials and tribulations of the Jaguar.

Actually, I think that was my opener for at least 80% of the conversations I had that day. Clearly, the twenty-minute pavilion drama was intense enough to make a strong impact on me. If I ever go on a game show, that’s how I’ll be annoucned.

And here’s Erin from Pittsburgh! She loves uncooked tortellini and once nearly lost a rented park pavilion to a man driving a Jag.

Guess who came next? Momesis and her daughter! The husband was also in tow and I tried desperately to peg his profession. It’s something douchey, I know it. Luckily, I only had to talk to them for < 30 seconds before Momesis suggested checking out the playground. Jacob’s aunt went with them, leaving the pavilion parent-free. I exhaled real dramatically and yelled to Janna, Bill and Jessi, “THAT WASN’T SO BAD RIGHT? I DIDN’T DO SO BAD?”

It’s hard to believe I was once a socially capable, popular girl who loved to invite perfect strangers to parties.

Because I make Henry go to all the preschool birthday parties in my place, I don’t know many of the parents. Some of them I see briefly in the mornings when I drop Chooch off and pick him back up,  but some of the kids are there for a full day so I never see their parents. Like Caitlin’s mom, who asked if Robbie and I were Chooch’s parents. I guess I should be flattered that I look young enough to be linked to 20-year-old Robbie, but it was still pretty awkward.

Not awkward at all was when Blake arrived and Chooch, spotting him from the playground, shrieked, “Hey, it’s my brother! My brother’s here! Come meet my brother!” and all the parents turned around in time to see this kid traipsing down the hill toward the pavilion, decorated with tattoos, piercings and gauges in his ears large enough to transport the thickest, meatiest German schwarzwurst your obsolete Deutsche Mark can buy.

I relished that moment. You’re in my world now, bitches.

I think the only thing I really said to any of the parents was, “Have some food! Here is the food table! Hey, did you have any food? Did you know we almost didn’t HAVE any food here at ALL? PLEASE EAT SOME FUCKING FOOD BEFORE I MAKE YOU CHOKE IT DOWN.” (And seriously, thanks to Janna, Kara, Gina, Kristen, Kaitlin and Jessi for helping me out on that front. I mean, not choking food down the throats of anal-retentive preschool moms like it’s some epicurious suburban housewife porn, but for making food and placing it atop the food table.)

But hey, props to Momesis for setting the precedent: all the moms arrived with their kids, put the gift down at the gift table, and then accompanied their child to the playground.

Except for:

II. The Stripper

Mom to Chooch’s girlfriend Bria, she arrived with her long copper-tinged platinum hair in loose curls; hot pink, skin-tight tank top; borderline inappropriately short jean shorts.

And Sketcher mules.

Bria ran off to join the other kids, but Stripper (whose name I didn’t catch but I’m sure it was Kandeeeee) hung back in the pavilion with the rest of us.

“Sorry, I’m not a morning person,” she said in a definite smoker’s voice. “I work nights.” Her hands were in her back pockets and her pelvis was jutted out just enough to be suggestive. I think it was aimed at Janna.

Last week, I ran into her when dropping Chooch off for school and she was wearing Applebottoms. She probably listens to Flo-Rida and Nelly on repeat while twirling down the stripper pole her husband installed in the kitchen.

Henry, stripper authority extraordinaire, argued that she was probably just a bartender (in a strip club) and now I’m certain he’s had her dance on his jock while he shoved fistfuls of Faygo coupons between her tits. But when my friend Bonecrusher arrived, I didn’t even have to point her out before she said, “Oh, totally a stripper.” I trust the judgment of anyone wearing a naked Burt Reynolds belt buckle over Henry any day.

III. Camera Died

The camera peaced out sometime between the failed pinata experiment and singing Happy Birthday. I whined about it, made Gina check to see if she had her camera in the car, and then kicked Henry’s shins approximately 5.3 times before settling on using my iPhone, which is really all I use anymore anyway so I don’t know why I was crying about it. To bring the attention back on me, me, me I guess. OH POOR, ERIN. ALL THE BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO ERIN.

We realized the next day, after tearing apart the house, that the charger and spare battery is sitting in my estranged mom’s garage from when my brother and I failed at an Easter photoshoot. So since our card reader is also broken, I haven’t been able to get the few pictures I did take off the camera yet. And the Internet cheers. I GUESS THERE WILL JUST HAVE TO BE AN EXTRA POST FOR THE PICTURES.

The Internet groans!

IV. Star Wars Theme-fail

The only signifiers of this being a Star Wars party was the one (1) Star Wars tablecloth, plates and napkins that required the purchase of 3D glasses to properly enjoy, and a Darth Vader pinata (more on that later). My relationship with Star Wars is pretty casual at best, so aside from grilling burgers and calling it Ewok meat, I didn’t really have many ideas. I haven’t watched any of the movies since high school, which was how I would spend most Christmases after running home from my grandparent’s house in tears because I wasn’t getting enough attention/my dad was being mean to me/my brother Ryan got bigger gifts than me: sitting alone on the couch with a luke warm TV dinner, watching Star Wars. Comforting, yet pathetic.

Henry’s niece was supposed to come up with some Star Wars-themed games, but apparently that didn’t happen because I don’t remember seeing any games being played that didn’t involve 5-year-olds chasing each other with stray 2×4’s decorated with nails and crime scene tape. (This really happened.) So thank god for dangerous police evidence and the playground, am I right?

IV. Cake

Wait, we also had a cake with a Darth Vader candle. The cake itself was just an outer space theme because I was thoroughly underwhelmed at the picture of the Star Wars cake on the bakery’s website (only bakery I will buy a birthday cake from, I should add). Henry suggested just ordering a sheetcake and then cutting it into the shape of Darth Vader’s mask and then re-frosting it. Yes, because let’s spend $70 dollars on a delicious cake only to shit it up with store-bought frosting. Good thinking, Betty Crocker.

This cake was my idea. It turned out fine without Henry’s input. 

And it had almond batter with raspberry cream filling. Better than a wedding cake.

Or at least comparable.

I take cake-ordering extremely seriously.

My friend Ron asked me if Henry and I made the cake and I impregnated the atmosphere with my laughter. If Henry and I made the cake, it would be lopsided, splattered with blood, and one of us would be buried beneath the floorboards. (99.9% sure it wouldn’t be me.)

Oh, and it would taste like saw dust baked with dried-out vomit and mutual hatred.

V. Work Friends!

This is still something that’s kind of new to me: I invite people from work to my parties, and they come. This makes me think that in the past, it was less of me being uncool and more of my ex co-workers being squares.

“You invited Barb?” Chooch said to me in a tone drenched in annoyance. She said it was the most welcomed she has ever felt at a party! And Bill and Jessi brought her up later when we were hanging out after the party. I think the word they used to describe her was “nice,” perhaps even “friendly.” Yeah. They should see the signs she makes and the emails she sends out to the entire department at work, in her patented fits of rage. My favorite was the one addressed to the person who not only dropped a pretzel on the floor in the kitchen, but then stepped on it and left it there. It made me feel scared, but also glad I wasn’t the pretzel-stepper.

That night, I said to Henry, “I really need to stop referring to these people as my work friends, when they’re clearly just my friends.”

I’m going to end this party installment on that note, since it’s all gross and sappy and completely unlike me. Plus, I’m tired of typing and I need my other pictures.  There’s still balloons, presents and douche cups to look forward to. Try to sleep tonight knowing that.

“Kick him in the nards! KICK.HIM.IN.THE.NARDS!”

For twenty years, my only self-defense tactic was something I learned from the 1980’s horror-comedy classic Monster Squad. So when I heard about the Zombie Self-Defense Course being offered down the street from me at a place called Zomburgh, I enrolled. I figured it might be good to add to my near-empty repertoire of hurtin’, especially if I did find myself contending with a zombie. Perhaps nard-punting wouldn’t work in that situation. Plus, it would give me a chance to meet Kristy in person, a fellow zombie-lover with whom I had become e-friends, who had also enrolled.

(She has a zombie lounge in her house! This automatically makes her cooler than most people.)

I arrived at Zomburgh a little before class started at 6. Kristy was already there talking to our instructor Josh, who did not resemble a zombie at all. Norm, Zomburgh’s proprietor, came out and had me sign a release, giving me the option to disallow my photo to be taken. I hate having my photo taken almost as much as I hate driving past water towers, but I decided to be a team player this once. If they try tagging me on Facebook, though, I’m lawyering up. I didn’t consent to tagging.

Josh insisted on waiting for a few more minutes because more people were supposed to come. I felt sorry for him, because I think we all knew no one else was coming.

It reminded me of my past parties, where I pace back and forth by the front window with a cheese plate balanced on one hand, and I say in a sing-song tone, “But they RSVP’d! They’ll be here!” while practical Henry is putting away the paté and blowing out seancé candles.

Eventually accepting the fact that he was (shockingly) only going to have us two students, Josh had us kick off our shoes and stand by the purple and green mats laid out in the middle of the room. Meanwhile, Norm ran off to grab his camera, which I hoped had been struck to death by a baseball bat in his absence.

It only took us about 2 minutes to realize that this was essentially just a class to ward off drunk rapists. (Everyone reading this is now shocked.) But I figured it would behoove me to pay attention since I do live with Henry, after all.

Josh asked for a volunteer. I gave Kristy a look which I hoped she read as, “Don’t make me get mean! This was your idea, go!” even though it probably looked more like, “I’m the most unassertive girl you will ever meet, please observe my quivering bottom lip and take one for the team.”

“OK, pretend to be a zombie and walk toward me,” Josh commanded as soon as Kristy stepped on the mat, tossing me a withering glance.

Wait. We had to be the zombies? There was ACTING involved in this shit? Don’t be fooled by all the times people have gone on record saying, “Erin Kelly? Yeah, I know her. She’s a fucking drama queen.” This does not mean I can act. My drama is legit, from the heart — NOT AN ACT! I watched Kristy stagger toward Josh in the patented gait of the undead and tried really hard to pay attention to what Josh was saying to us, but all I could think was, “Motherfucker, I’m next. It’s my turn next. I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this. Oh my god, I’m sweating. Maybe I should just plead pregnancy.” (With my gut, that would probably work.)

Meanwhile, Kristy had encroached on Josh’s personal space, at which point he grabbed one of her arms and held it across and against her.

“It’s physically impossible to bite over your own shoulder,” he said, while Kristy convincingly zombie-chomped at the air. Not something I have ever spent long leisurely afternoons down by the creek trying to accomplish, but now that Josh says I can’t do it, I have a vested interest in defying him.

When it was my turn to play zombie, I was hyper-aware of Norm in the corner, snapping away. I was torn between being the best zombie I could be or hiding my double chin. I tried to make my zombie fall somewhere in the middle of traditional sluggish ambler and the fast-moving breed that zombie purists despise, just so I could reach Josh as fast as possible and bury my undead charade. As soon as I was an arms length from him, he grabbed me by my elbow and forced my arm across my chest, where we then proceeded to fall into a bizarre drunken ballroom number. It was completely awkward and uncomfortable as he forced me all around the room while illustrating to Kristy the control he had over me.

Now that we both had a turn spectating, it was our turn to practice on him.

This guy was not a zombie. He had nary a blood capsule in his mouth, no dangling eyeball, but when he approached me with arms outstretched and mouth all contorted like a stroke victim, my first inclination was to run. RUN, MOTHERFUCKER, RUN. And then run some more. Possibly stop for an Italian ice.

But Josh made me stay in place and go through the motions. I learned very quickly that in the event of an attack, I will lose all situational awareness and forget how to breathe.

It didn’t make me feel very safe, being forced around in sloppy circles while struggling to keep this man’s locked arm taut across his body. He kept breaking character to remind me that I was in control of him, that I should be able to walk into Starbucks and order a latte while keeping him at bay.

I didn’t feel like I could lean an inch to my left and grab a Styrofoam cup of water, let alone be jostled while one-handing a cup steaming with substance hotter than Satan’s jizz.

The ankle-sweep segment was next on the agenda, and just as sensational, only this time Josh got to place his hands on our shoulders.

I don’t even like Henry touching my shoulders. I’m very ticklish there and have been known to pee my pants during the more intense shoulder-touching extravaganza.

However, I thought I handled myself pretty well. There were a few times I laughed out loud and my instincts had me trying to twist away from Josh’s hands and down onto my knees. (Now that I think about it, this is how I’m tricked into blow jobs nine times out of ten.) Josh didn’t seem to approve of my laughter. In fact, he didn’t seem to approve of me at all, with the exception of my knuckles, over which he spent a good minute masturbating my ego. (This happened right after I accidentally cracked them when I pushed my fist against his clavicle, which made me squeal orgasmically about how much I love cracking my knuckles. It was a pretty awkward moment for all involved.)

(But I really love cracking my knuckles. REALLY.)

In addition to his disapproval over my filterless knuckle-cracking g-spot sound effects, Josh also expressed disdain over the fact that I was wearing a sweatshirt featuring Yale’s mascot, when I did not in fact go to Yale.

That’s OK, because I hated his insinuations that I’m a Katy Perry and Miley Cyrus fan (I slammed him down good after he started singing “Party in the USA” to me) and the way he made me want to staple-gun myself shut every time he said the word “rape.”

“Maybe there’s a zombie sex-ed class in the future,” Kristy said after the class.

We also learned a move involving a hardback book (I knew that Bible would finally have a purpose). While Josh was demonstrating, he was talking—as usual—about RAPE. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing as I leaned against the wall, mostly because I kept thinking about how badly I wanted to try these out on Henry, crack his head back with some hard-covered liberal literature. But also because the whole class was so ridiculous.

After the two hours were up, the most valuable piece of information I gleaned was: Run faster than the people you’re with. So in the case of a zombie apocalypse, do not come to me for help. I will sacrifice you faster than MTV renewed “Jersey Shore.” I also learned that Pittsburgh is only 35 miles away from the nearest nuclear power plant, so my paranoia and I have spent all week drawing up plans for a fall-out shelter full of Zebra Cakes, wine and posters of Jonny Craig.

By the time I left Zomburgh, I was 50% convinced rape was my destiny, 49.95% anxious about radiation and .05% empowered.

***

As I walked home in the dark past all the bars on Brookline Boulevard, I didn’t know whether I wanted to pop inside one and instigate the drunk rapists, or just run blindly while screaming, “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!” I also almost got hit by a car. Maybe Zomburgh will offer a street-crossing class so I can learn how to not dart across zig-zaggedly with my hands on the side of my head like I’m in ‘Nam.

Of course I wanted to try everything out on Henry as soon as I walked through the door, but he wasn’t grappling right.

“No! You have to put your hands on my shoulders!” I corrected him after he immediately went for my neck. “Josh always put his hands on my shoulders. This is what all zombie-rapists will do, always.” So Henry would place his hands on my shoulders (any good assailant should change hand-positioning if you ask them), which would only serve to bring me to my knees in a fit of tickle-giggles.

And of course I forgot how to do everything.

Except for the hardback book maneuver! Too bad Henry wrenched the book from me before I could get in proper positioning.

“You’re dead,” he said all sing-songedly.

Even still, that class was definitely the most interesting way I’ve ever chosen to meet an online friend for the first time. Totally worth it.

But I’ll just continue kicking ’em in the nards.