I had lunch plans with my blog friends Alex and Elizabeth last Saturday. It feels weird to call them my “blog friends,” but that is technically how I met them, which is unusual only because they don’t live 5,000 miles away like my blog friends typically do. (Probably Janna wishes she lived 5,000 miles away from me, too. And Henry.) Shamefully, I am really not a part of the Pittsburgh “blog scene,” like, at all. I’ve been toiling away at this shit for 12 years but am pretty much the blogging equivalent to a recluse. I don’t go to those podcast things (I don’t even know what the hell they are! It sounds too sci-fi for my liking) or tweet-ups so it’s really no wonder that I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

(Although, a few weeks ago, I did agree to be interviewed for an article in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review about anti-soccer moms who blog, which was really stepping outside of my padlocked box. I didn’t even mention it to my friends and family on Facebook! Literally, I think only 5 of my friends knew that it was going to happen. I hate attention, says the girl with a public blog, Twitter, Instagram and quotation mark tattoos on her fingers. But honestly, I mostly just want attention from HENRY and he does not give me enough.)

Anyway, the point to this is that yay! I have a few friends in Pittsburgh who blog! I can sit down with people and talk about comments and feeds and stats while taking pictures of my food to post on my blog later, and not have my company nod off or fashion nooses out of their own hair because oh great, Erin’s talking about her blog again. I mean, not that I talk about my blog constantly…anymore.

Originally, we were supposed to go to Casa Rasta and I was all excited because Casa Rasta does not hate vegetarians and also because it would be a nice walk for me. Except that Henry had some stupid training thing (read: sexcapade) that morning at work (read: seedy motel) and didn’t tell me until the last minute so then it was starting to look like I wouldn’t be able to leave in enough time to walk there, so I did what any normal walkaholic would do and started to walk there with Chooch and then Henry swung by on his way home from infidelity and picked him up so that I wouldn’t have to be all, “SURPRISE! I brought my child! Please watch your swearing*, thanks.”

*(Yeah right.)

Anyway, I got to Casa Rasta and those taco-makin’ motherfuckers didn’t have the decency to text us personally to let us know they were closed for the day because of some dumb party they were preparing for. So then I had to be all, “Hay Elizabeth and Alex, this place is closed. Btw I walked here so someone pick me up, please.” Alex suggested we just go to Arby’s and I was about to whine about how there is nothing for me to eat there, but then he was just kidding. I was all on the spot because we were technically on my turf and I should probably know about all kinds of underground hot spots and not just meth-related ones, but everything I suggested was closed until dinner time for some ludicrous reason. This is just a lot of words to say: We ate lunch at It’s Greek To Me. I was just there over the summer and was pretty disappointed to see that they had majorly pared down their menu. No more flaming cheese. :(

This was the third or fourth time I hung out with Elizabeth. We started reading each other’s blogs through our mutual friend Sandy and then eventually took the plunge and met IRL. The first several times were not conducive to conversation: roller-skating; chasing our spawns at a Hipster Gathering with Food Trucks; and, god forbid, the pie party. The pie party is also where I met Alex for the first time IRL, and some things you should know about me when I’m hosting a party: I AM STRESSED OUT AND FRAZZLED AND SUCK AT MAKING WORDS WITH MY MOUTH. A do-over was in order and a lunch date was definitely the perfect setting for having relaxed conversation with pita stuffed in my mouth.

Elizabeth recently decided that she wants to start meeting up with Pittsburgh bloggers for a new interview feature on her blog. And Alex and I got to be her guinea pigs! I was kind of stressed out at first because who knows the things that I might say, but it was good. I think she should have interviewed the waitress though. That lady was nuts and totally off her game. One of the questions Elizabeth asked us was if we hate-read any blogs. The official answer on her blog was that we don’t, but I actually used to and had to stop because it was giving me an ulcer. Now I just hate-read Facebook.

All of Alex’s answers started with, “Hey, humble-brag alert! I went to Greece on my honeymoon.” And all of mine started with, “Um.” I speak good.

Blogging wasn’t exclusively what we talked about in between frantic interruptions by our well-meaning waitress, but you know, it was kind of nice to dip my falafel in whatever-the-fuck sauce while listening to Alex tell me how fantastic I am. I mean, my blog. How fantastic my blog is. He also marveled over how SOFT-SPOKEN I am, which is a little known fact. I am quite soft-spoken. And refined! This is because I’m so busy being calculating and weaving prejudices in my head. But I have my other side(s), too, like most people do, so if he hangs out with me a few more times, he’ll probably meet Other Erin. I also liked the time when Alex started to tell us about some electrical thingie that happened to his car that morning, and he paused to ask me if I drive. Yes, I drive! I’m just obsessed with walking.

Elizabeth and Alex both brought fun blogging ideas with them and I’m very excited to participate in both! I on the other hand brought nothing with me but an umbrella which I managed to lose.

And I only mentioned Jonny Craig once. You guys, I think I’m finally starting to kick the addiction!

Then Alex ordered baklava to go because he doesn’t want people to know he eats dessert and there was this befuddling mixup with the checks and I’m still not sure how it was resolved. I was going to say that it was Greek to me, but that’s just dumb.

Signing up for the Color Run two months ago seemed like a super great idea when Chris sent out the email at work. But I had completely different feelings about it when my alarm went off at 6 o’clock this morning, that’s for sure.

Amber1 picked me up at 7 we mostly talked endlessly the whole drive to South Park about how tired we were. We got a little perkier once Chris, Monica, Amber2 and Steve showed up, though. Plus there was loud Top 40 music blaring across the fairgrounds so that also helped keep me alert.

I made lots of sad, pouty faces while we stood in the start line, but then Amber1 started throwing her pack of color on all of us and how can you not be happy when clouds of color are sprinkling down on you? I was really worried about getting it in my eyes though. I had enough problems seeing without this color shit getting all up in there.

Then I tried to catch a color pack that some Color Run dude was tossing into the crowd and I ended up mistaking it for a bridal bouquet and accidentally pulled some bitch’s hair (and I think I stepped on her foot) and THEN SHE SNATCHED THE COLOR PACK FROM ME. God, I was too fucking tired to care. I did really want to catch one of the free fanny packs, though, but none came even remotely close to me. I totally would have filled it with Fruit Stripes gum and stuck my Smokey the Bear pin to it.

That time Amber2 and Steve got mad at us and walked ahead.

I learned that certain colors are really important to certain people. For instance, Amber1 was pissed that she didn’t get coated in more pink and I became inexplicably obsessed with the fact that none of us got any green thrown on us. Apparently I like green more than I thought I did. Purple was also a color of contention because we felt it was lame that none of the color stations had it! And Monica and Chris almost broke up arguing over whether it was really pink or fuschia. (I mean, I think that happened, anyway. I was pretty tired.)

We all started off in a slight jog, but then quickly went back to walking. I was talking to Henry about this later on and he said, “If I had to pay $40 for a 5K, I would definitely walk the entire thing so it would last longer. Why would you want to run and get done faster? I’d want my money’s worth.”

I don’t think Henry understands the concept of a 5K.

It rained for a little bit, which made the colors feel super gross on my skin.

I stole this picture from Amber1’s Instagram because it’s great.

After we crossed the finish line (totally anticlimactic), I did what I do best by posing awkwardly for a photo. Then we all ate a free Kind bar and went home.

WAIT!! PS!! I forgot about the part where I BROKE MY ANKLE* near the finish line after I accidentally stepped in an 87-foot deep pothole disguised as a puddle AND NO ONE CARED!!!!

*(Don’t worry—it has since miraculously healed.)

Alternately titled: Alliteration is Annoying.

You know what my favorite part of the Pie Party is? I mean, besides pretending to be invincible from saddlebag-inducing calories all day. Getting to hang out with my peoples! I’m not nearly as social as I once was in the yesteryears, but I still have a little bit of the hostess bug in my system, so I enjoy putting together a nice event for my friends to crash. And people seem to really love the whole “WHAT KIND OF PIE SHOULD I BAKE/BRING!?” part, which is awesome. Especially when dudes roll up with a pie in their hands like it’s your basic 6-pack.

I literally started having pie parties because I wanted to eat pie and I wanted my friends to bring me those pies. And they did! I had no idea it would have grown into what it is now though. And it’s even reunited me with some old high school friends too, which makes me believe that pie is the answer to all of the problems. Vote for pie.

The tables were pretty much piled with pie within the first 45 minutes. Sweet, glorious motherfucking pie. All kinds of pie, too! Pies with fruit, cream, chocolate and even savory pies like Kelly’s taco pie and spinach pie, and Patty and Tim’s veggie quiche. I loved that there were non-sweet options because while I love the fuck out of pie, I always forget to eat lunch beforehand and end up being That Person who is craving a sandwich at the pie party.

From what I hear, the taco pie was a hit, but I wouldn’t know because of that whole no meat clause in my diet. (Read: I’m still too stubborn to eat meat 17 years after my parents told me I’d never last as a vegetarian.)

My ex-work nemesis BRAD, along with Gayle and her crew. Gayle brought me a hostess gift! Brad did not.

I didn’t know Sean was planning on coming! So that was a nice surprise.

I became tragically ill after eating my first plate of pies. I guess my body isn’t used to all of the sugar anymore, so I wound up with an immediate headache. (This could have also had something to do with the ridiculous amount of stress I put myself under before the party even started. What good is a pie party if I can’t even enjoy myself!?)

That chemical pie up there was made by Kara and it was extremely confusing yet pleasurable to the mouth. It tastes just like an apple pie but it is MADE OUT OF RITZ CRACKERS WHAT. I guess this is something that originated during the Depression when apples were too expensive, but my feeble mind can barely comprehend the fact that someone was able to invent that back when there was no Internet. Henry was annoyed that I didn’t label it “mock apple pie” because I guess some people were deterred by the whole “chemical” thing. I wish I had a slice of that right now.

Kaitlin’s crack pie was the clear crowd favorite for the second year in a row, but Bridget’s Snickers apple pie was definitely a close second. I was able to snag a tiny morsel toward the end of the party after the tylenol my cousin Danielle gave me kicked in, and I can attest that it was definitely the kind of pie my fatter self would have eaten the FUCK out of.

My new work friend Chris and her girlfriend Monica (who is also my friend now too, thanks Facebook!) made this Yoda caramel pear pie which I didn’t get to try and I am so fucking pissed because the first (and only) pie I ever made (kind of)on my own was a pear pie!

Bridget’s Snickers apple pie thing! I had to steal this photo from her Facebook because I didn’t get a picture on Sunday. I really wish that was sitting in front of me right now instead of this severed nun’s head that Marcy just brought over to me.

Janna schmoozing with Jeremy when she was supposed to be helping me!!!

Apparently, everyone also really liked the pumpkin creme pie that Janna brought so I was quick to point out that it was FROM EAT N PARK. Nice try, Janna Child, but I saw the bag it came in.

I’m just kidding—lots of people bring bakery pies! There aren’t really any rules for the pie party. Just, you know, bring a pie.

Here is a photo of people pleasantly pillaging pie. Sandy looks like she might even be singing about it.

Dogs are also invited to the pie party. And I mean actual dogs, not ugly women.

Danielle just always wears gray now to make it easier for Corey.

OMG! Remember two pie parties ago when I learned that my brother Corey is color blind?! Well, at this pie party, I learned that he sucks at Solitaire. But! He was one of only two people who enjoyed the cupcake pie, so at least he doesn’t suck at having good taste in pies? (I don’t care if anyone loved or hated Henry’s other pie, because that one was his idea and this is all about me. But my pies never shine, goddammit!)

TWINS! Amber1 (on the right) brought a pink lemonade pie!

The Law Firm Table. God only knows what good gossip I missed out on by earning my social butterfly wings. :(

Laura and Mike brought a maple cream apple pie! MAPLE. IN AN APPLE PIE. I managed to plunge of forkful of it down my gullet before the end of the party and it was amazing.

There three tiny babies at this year’s pie party, all of which I admired from afar. Not Wendy though, she got all up in their grills.

OMG two of my friends from high school came this year! I hadn’t seen Cara since 1997, and I actually just had breakfast with Alisa a few weeks ago, so this was only the second time I’ve seen her since 1997. They brought little baby apple raspberry pies which were a hit (and were all snatched up before I could get Henry to put them with the invisible pile of leftovers he was pretending to take home). My favorite part was when Henry would walk by and Cara, Alisa and I would all look at him at the same time and he would be all, “What? What?” and then we would just laugh.

Alisa was really proud of her drawings, particularly her saggy boob-like glasses:

I couldn’t believe she left without ripping this off as a souvenir, so then I thought it would be REALLY NICE of me to mail it to her so her kids could hang it up on the fridge, but stupid Henry had already thrown it out. What an art-hating douchebag. What’s next, Henry—signing petitions to get art classes out of public schools? Melting down our crayons for marital aids? Sorry to tell you Henry, but THAT IS CONSIDERED ART IN PRISON.

I sat next to Kara and Theo for awhile because Kara is pretty good at not baby-bombing my lap or giving me face-noogies with diapered butts. While I still have baby-phobia, it was pretty cool that there were three new babies there, unable to eat pie. In addition to Theo, Sandy brought her new baby Zoe, and my Internet friend Alex brought his little baby Finn! So all of the babies got to look at each other and not do anything. And no one forced one into my arms! I got to admire from several feet away, which is how I best handle these situations. I guess deep down I have this fear that I am going to cradle a baby in my arms at which time they will be able to sense with immediate certainty that I have the devil within and then they will begin to buck and shriek and everyone will turn to look at me and I hate it when people look at me.

Anyway, I do not have photos of Alex (THIS TIME) but it was really exciting that he came to eat pie because I have never met him in real life before! You may remember him as my guest-poster while I was on vacation last June and also the mastermind behind the April Fool’s Day Pittsburgh Blogger Thingie for which I wrote this Top 5 list about things I like to do in Pittsburgh. Anyway, I invited him via Twitter and was super stoked when he posted a picture on Instagram while baking a pie, because that meant that there was a 50/50 chance he was actually going to show up! Apparently, I missed his tweet telling me that they were lost, but he and his family still managed to show up! Which is amazing because whenever I’m lost, I give up after 5 minutes and go home. If I can find my way home. That’s the only complaint about the pie party every year, is that South Park is such a fucking vortex that most people end up driving around aimlessly looking for the pavilion. My co-worker Jill even wound up going to the park office for directions.

Too bad Henry won’t buy me a house with a sprawling backyard. BLAME HENRY, PIE PARTY IV EDITION.

Anyway, after Alex and his family left, Henry’s mom asked me how I know him.

“The Internet,” I said nonchalantly. “This was actually the first time I met him.”

“Did he bring a pie?” she asked me slowly.

“Yeah, the pecan pie,” I answered.

“I ATE A PIECE OF THAT!” she cried like she was expecting to fold in half and collapse into a poisoned flesh-heap. I promised her that I didn’t think Alex had baked hemlock into his pie, but if he did, I would surely contact the Twitter Police and they’d take him to some iJail and we’d follow the trial on Instagram.

There’s a water pump thing next to the pavilion and the kids pretty much spend most of their time at every pie party screaming at each other in kid-code and doing May Day dances around the pump all afternoon. Usually, other parents are keeping an eye out in case someone fashions a shiv out of a pie server and retaliates after their stuffed bunny gets tossed into the woods (I may or may not have my own child in mind here), so I can continue being 100% ignorant to the fact that my kid has stripped off his shoes, socks and shirts and is running around, drenched in sweat, speckled with dirt and leaves, and baring his ass crack. Supposedly, Chooch and his crew took bottles of water over to the slide and turned it into a waterslide, and it was probably a good thing that I was ignoring all of this because I have been told after the fact that when grown-ups would go over and tell them to please be careful, they would respond with, “We are invincible.” However, Kara told me that Chooch and the older kids were really good around Harland, Rachel and Elena, at least, and did not try to get them to climb any trees or stab adults in a cornfield.

Henry and I were talking about how no one cried this year, and then we realized it was because there were no poorly-parented bad seeds in the mix. The safe word of last year’s pie party was “MOMMMMMMMMY!!!!!!!” It was four hours of tattle-telling and crying and I wanted to run away. Ugh, kids.

My pretty mason jars.

The table looked so pretty in the beginning, but after about five minutes it prety much looked like this all day. Ugh, just looking at this picture makes me want to rewind to Sunday so I can eat more. I totally missed out.

Obligatory Pie People Count:

• Janna
• Jeremy
• Elizabeth, Mike and Rachel
• Sandy, Ben, Elena and Zoe
• Kara, Harland and Theo
• Kelly, Sam, Steph, Kian and Zac
• Judy
• Kaitlin
• Corey and Danielle
• (Cousin) Danielle, Ean and Corey
• Cara and Alisa
• Wendy
• Brad
• Bridget
• John, Jenn, Hailey, Gavin and Abby
• Sue
• Barb
• Amber1 and Ashley
• Sean and Kylie
• Chris and Monica
• Nate and April
• Mike and Laura
• Patty and Tim
• Gayle, Jeff and Tami
• Debbie and Colton
• Alex, Kelly and Finn
• Jill

Thank god there always seem to be people there at the end to help Henry clean up and dole out leftovers, while I sit in a pie-coma, holding a fork.

I was never really able to bounce back after my inaugural pie plate gave me diabetes, but toward the end of the party, I remembered that there were savory pies, so I had a slice of spinach and the veggie quiche, which were both AMAZING and made me feel a lot better. Thanks for thinking out of the box, Kelly and Patty! So then I was able to take small samples of other pies while Henry was trying to wrap things up, like the cheesecake Wendy brought from the farmer’s market; Jill’s raspberry & chocolate ganache, which tasted like something that would earn a bitch an apron on Master Chef; Bridget’s Snickers apple pie thing, GOOD GOD Snickers should honestly find a way to put that into candy bar-form; and Laura’s maple cream apple pie which was fantastic because I’m obsessed with maple things still! I tried to get Henry to taste it but he said he doesn’t like maple!? I feel like maybe I just recently learned this but forgot because nothing he tells me is really all that interesting, unless it’s a story about him taking steroids and then Hulk-smashing a handicapped lady at a Ted Nugent concert.

Finally, at around 6:45, I headed down the street to Hundred Acres Manor with Laura, Mike, and my cousins Danielle, Corey and Ean, because what better way to end the pie party than by running through a haunted house while inhaling chainsaw fumes and synthetic fog? I was in such a hurry that it just now occurred to me that I don’t think I said goodbye to Henry’s family, and I now for certain that I didn’t say goodbye to Henry or Chooch. I rule at social couth.

****

When I got home that night, I felt a lot better and was suddenly really hungry again (literally, all I ate all day was cream of wheat and pretty much the equivalent of two slices of pie) so I started to look around for the leftovers but HENRY DID NOT TAKE ANYTHING HOME. Nothing! Not a single fucking piece of any pie. I wanted to kill him!

“Yeah, but if I had brought leftovers into the house, you would have bitched about me wanting to make you fat,” Henry argued. Touché, motherfucker. Touché.

Were you at the pie party? Did you have a good time? What is your all-time favorite pie? TELL ME! Because I clearly didn’t get my fill on Sunday.

Alternately titled: Henry & Erin’s Many Pie-related Break-Ups

I’m pretty laid back in a lot of different scenarios—well, mostly the ones that involve sleeping or watching TV—but when it comes to hosting parties, I am TYPE FUCKING A. I’ve always really enjoyed having parties, and one of the reasons I love the pie party is that it gives me a reason to have a party in the park instead of my shack-house. At the pie party, I don’t have to worry about my cat Willie pissing on someone’s purse, which some people might consider a party foul. (Ha-ha, do people even say that anymore? I didn’t think so.)

The first pie party was pretty simple. Henry baked one pie. We threw some fake leaves and paper tablecloths down on the tables. I had name tag stickers to label the pies. Only four of my work friends came, 10-15 of my outside-of-work friends, and Henry’s entire family. But every year, it’s gotten bigger. I wasn’t even going to have one this year, but people started asking me “When is the pie party going to happen?” a few months ago, and apparently Henry wanted to have another one, too, so I conceded. At first, I wasn’t into it AT ALL. But then, I suddenly got inspired to have the BEST PIE PARTY EVER because maybe this would be the last one.

So I started scribbling down ideas during downtime at work and on the trolley. I scoured the Internet for weird pie recipes while pretending to listen to Henry talk about his day. And then I decided that since it was the fourth pie party, I wanted to do pie four ways. I kept trying to tell people about it because I was so excited, but no one really seemed too stoked on the idea, especially when I got to the “pie-flavored popcorn” part. But I don’t care. Henry carried out all of my ideas and we had pie four ways after breaking up four ways. (Don’t worry—we’re together again. Barely.)

The main pies were Salted Honey Lavender (Henry’s pick):

And the Cupcake Pie, of which I can say for sure that I am a fan. Basically, after Henry broke up all of the mini cupcakes, he poured some sort of custard mixture on it and when it baked, the custard bound everything together and kept the cupcakes moist, while the frosting melted and hardened into these perfectly-crunchy pockets of SUGAR OMG SUGAR. And then it was topped with more frosting. I liked it, but trust me–no one was banging down our door for the recipe, haha.

(I put the sprinkles on it!!!)

Then there was the neglected caramel apple pie popcorn made with homemade Mexican caramel! Oh shit, that caramel was amazing, you guys. I think it’s called cajeta and it is made with GOAT MILK. I don’t know why I was so excited about this fucking caramel. It was actually on my list of things that I was going to attempt to make myself, but that plan was met with some skepticism from people who know me a little too well, so I moved that to Henry’s To Do list. Which consisted of basically everything and the poor man was literally in the kitchen all weekend up until it was time to go to the pavilion to set up, which was supposed to be my job, but it’s hard to do when Henry forgets to bring 75% of the things I need and ends up having to drive to the nearest craft store (FORESHADOWING) and my helper (JANNA!!!) doesn’t get there until literally 5 minutes before the party starts, and it’s 82 degrees and humid in OCTOBER and I’m already sweating my makeup off and I can’t wait for people to arrive and start hugging me.

Um, anyway. The popcorn had pieces of leftover pie pop pie crust in it and I thought it was really good but I eventually had to walk around with the pie pan and force people to eat it. No love for pie-flavored popcorn.

The third type of pie Henry churned out was an array of mini pies in pumpkin, cherry bourbon and Gorgonzola fig which were my favorites but he ran out of fig after only making about eight of them, ugh. I was super excited to use the three-tiered pedestal for those.

I’m totally obsessed with these fucking pie pedestals, you guys. “We” worked so hard on them! I know I will find a billion different things to use them for during the Pie Party Off Season.

And then there were the pie pops, which honest to god were nearly the demise of Henry and me. After my failed attempt at baking a few weeks ago, I bought a pie pop maker on eBay thinking that if I had a machine, I could do it. Because my track record at operating machines is so stellar?

Guess what? Totally not any easier. I tried to help Henry make some Friday night when I came home from work but it was complete bullshit and, to cut out about 45 minutes of obscenities from the story, I threw a total fit and then sulked on the couch. So then I was convinced that the pie pops weren’t going to happen but my puppy dog Henry diligently churned them out the next night while Chooch and I were busy gallivanting around town with Janna and Laura.

Henry knows what’s up. (But then I came home and was mad that he made some without the pie pop maker so we had a huge fight and broke up.)

Sunday morning, Henry made glazes for the pie pops because I thought the crust wasn’t flavorful enough and then he taught me how to drizzle it on. And I succeeded!

I DID THAT DRIZZLE, YOU GUYS.

The pumpkins got all banged up en route to the park, so I was pissed about that, and then I was pissed that the free-form pie pops that Henry made were too top-heavy and barely stayed propped up in their pumpkin-display. They probably tasted like shit, but they sure looked pretty. So whatever.

If you were at the Pie Party on Sunday, you may not recognize the child in the above picture. But that is indeed a shirted-version of my son, Chooch, before he abandoned half his clothes in favor of wilderness chic. His only task was to fill my gold glitter mason jars with crayons, which he took very seriously by turning into this OCD crazy person who had to make sure each jar held the exact same number of crayons and then when he lost count at one point, he dumped all of them out and started over.

The idea was to use craft paper as tablecloths and put crayons on all of the tables, but HENRY only bought one roll which covered like, three tables. And then he brought a staple gun that only had ONE STAPLE in it, so we had no way to keep the paper on the tables. He already had to go back to the craft store anyway, because months ago, I bought several pieces of burlap to lay down on the pie table, and he swore that they were in the car, but only three pieces were there!!! THAT WAS NOT ENOUGH BURLAP! I NEEDED MORE PIECES OF BURLAP EVEN THOUGH NO ONE WAS GOING TO NOTICE BUT ME!!!!!

Another break-up in the books.

Anyway, Henry left to go to the craft store for burlap and tacks and also pick up some cases of water and ice, so Chooch and I pretty much just sat there, swinging our legs and being super bored with nothing to do. And then Henry came back and I said, “Oh good, give me the burlap” and he shouted, “DAMMIT” because of course he forgot the burlap. I was going to make him leave again but then people started showing up and that’s when we realized we didn’t have FORKS. So that took my mind off the burlap. Luckily, Kara had just arrived in time to save Henry from being disemboweled by my simmering glare because she had a bag of plastic utensils leftover in her car from Harland’s birthday party a few weeks ago, bless her goddamn party supply-hoarding heart.

And then Elizabeth came bearing thingies of coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts (and also her husband Mike and daughter Rachel) and I was like, “If I weren’t so socially awkward I would hug you” but instead I mumbled something about being stressed out and wanting to kill Henry. Elizabeth asked if I needed help and I kind of remember saying yes but not giving her anything to do. But god, that coffee was very appreciated. Thank you, Elizabeth!

It’s a fucking pie party. Nothing is happening other than people eating pie. I’m not walking down any fucking aisles, last time I checked, but I still get so stressed out that I’m almost (almost!) unable to enjoy myself. Luckily, I get distracted once people start showing up and eventually stop caring that half of the last pie table is un-burlapped.

A small crowd had assembled within a half hour and it finally occurred to me that no one was eating pie. “You didn’t tell them to,” Henry pointed out. So I stood up and said, “You can eat pie now” and then everyone did. I was unhappy with the plates Henry bought, but then too many people were there by the time I noticed so I guess that’s a fight we’ll have to save for another time.

At one point, I saw Henry flinch but I couldn’t tell if it was from my icy glare or the cupcake pie against his teeth.

I think I delegated too many pies to Henry, but he seems to be managing. So far, he has the two main pies baked and cooling. I tried to help him by assembling the chalkboard tags for the pies, but even that was too extreme for me. I hate crafting so bad, I can barely even muster the words to explain it. Even gluing is too much for me.

At one point, I walked in the kitchen to get something and Henry straight growled at me. Pie Baking Henry is scary. And also negligent. Chooch and I have literally been left to our own devices all day. We realized eventually that Henry hadn’t fed us yet!!!! So I had to order pizza all on my own, but thank god for online ordering. However, it’s still delivered by a human being, so I screamed like I always do when anyone knocks on the door and ran upstairs. Chooch, who has been dancing to Never Shout Never all day in his tightie whities, followed suit, so Henry had to drop the oven mitts and open the door. He was so angry about it too and pretty much dropped the pizza down on the dining room table and stalked back into the kitchen. It was like watching a horror movie that wasn’t supposed to be funny but totally made us laugh anyway.

So Chooch and I were quietly eating our pizza when I caught him smearing pizza grease all over his nude torso. “Ew! Why are you doing that?” I cried.

“Because Daddy didn’t give me a napkin,” Chooch replied with a shrug.

We are so doomed.

And then a few minutes later, Chooch said, “Remember when Daddy called us retards?”

Yes, son. Mommy remembers and wishes Daddy hadn’t used that word!

Meanwhile, Henry made a cupcake pie, which is either going to be fucking disgusting or a tongue orgasm. Basically, he poured some kind of custard concoction over this and then baked it. I mean, it smells wonderful! So we’ll see if anyone tries to discreetly upchuck their inaugural bite into a napkin.

Now Henry is popping popcorn for the pie-flavored popcorn that we’re making. HAHAHA don’t you love my insistence on plural pronouns. It was my idea at least.

Chooch and I are going to a haunted hayride tonight with Janna and Laura so Henry will be able to continue his baking marathon in peace. Maybe he can crank some Nugent on Spotify and bake in his underroos. If it gets the job done, what do I care?

Hope you’re having an exceptional Saturday, pie-eaters! And if you’re a Pittsburgh person, hope to see you at the pie party tomorrow! FOURTH ANNUAL, HOLLA.

After work on Friday, Girl-Chris and I headed over to that one bridge, where a full-blown rubber duck celebration was underway. There were vendors set up all across the bridge and one of the KISS FM DJs had a stage set up so people could do interpretive rubber duck dances to Mackelmore and Fergie.

By the time we got out of work, there was only about an hour left of the party, but the bridge was still packed. I was a little bit, OK a lot, freaked out though, because Amber2 had stopped back to the office after being down there with her husband and apparently they saw some random, unattended orange backpack on the bridge, and then a little while later a cop wouldn’t let them through and said there was a BOMB WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKK.

I didn’t actually hear Amber2 telling this story, but Chris relayed it to me right before we left the office and my legs got all gelatinous. Chris said she looked online and didn’t see any mention of a bomb scare, and I don’t know what I was expecting when we emerged from the Law Firm (a bomb squad parade, I guess), but everyone was just milling about casually, laughing and smiling. No pandemonium. No mob scene. So we went to the bridge and it was a blast without actually involving a blast!

There was one point though where Chris said, “Look at that backpack!” and I was like, “OMG WHAT WHERE?!” but before I fell to my knees and covered my head with my purse, I saw that it was just some guy wearing a duck backpack. My bowels dropped a little in that split second though, Jesus Christ, Chris!

We stood in line for official duck merch, but the stuff the Toonseum was selling, like the above Night of the Living Dead spoof, was way better. Unfortunately, they had packed up their booth and split by the time we made it back with smaller bills.

Pittsburgh Pottery was there and I bought some of their non-duck-related pottered things, like a small bowl featuring what appears to be a man projectile vomiting blood, and also a CLOWN RING from some chatty lady who loved my iPhone case. Ugh, small talk. Worth it though because that ring is cute as shit.

I generally dislike crowds and bridges and things that are popular and well, basically anything involving having fun with strangers. But I’m glad that I went because it was really kind of exciting to see something like this here, in boring old Pittsburgh. It’s making people so happy!

As the party fizzled out around 10, the duck made its move to the Point, where it will be moored (I JUST LEARNED THIS WORD BECAUSE OF THE DUCK) until October 20th, I think. (Who has time for fact-checking these days?) Chris and I decided to walk along the river and follow it to the Point. Along the way, we discovered a hobo beach beneath one of the overpasses, so that was exciting.

In spite of all of the buzz and legit joy this over-sized duck has brought my city, I’ve noticed that there are rubber duck-haters on Facebook. Of course there are. People are “sick of it,” and it’s “making Facebook so annoying!” Yeah, THAT’s what’s making Facebook annoying.

IT’S A GIANT RUBBER DUCK. ON THE RIVER. IT’S CUTE! IT’S NOVEL! IT WON’T BE HERE FOREVER! Find some  joy in your life, Jesus. Go post some more Some eCards while the rest of us have fun with the rubber duck.

Chooch & I, pre-birthday dinner. (His Lollipop Guild smirk cracks me up!)

I remember reading somewhere in my blog-travels that people should cease having birthday parties once they become grown-ups, like literally just stop cold turkey straight out of high school I guess. And that drinks at a bar with other grown-ups is an acceptable form of celebrating ones day of birth.

I have to politely disagree. In fact, I started writing this whole quasi-rant about birthdays last week which I might still post (especially after the film screening that Wendy and I went to Saturday night, because it all kind of ties together), but the gist of it is, why is it so obnoxious to celebrate ourselves once a fucking year. I spent many, many birthdays alone, pouting, feeling sorry for myself, etc etc. The 20s are hard years, you guys! But now, I choose to spend my birthday with as many friends as I can round up because that is what makes me happy. It’s not alllll about the attention or the presents (I mean, it kind of is—I can always use a Hot Topic gift card!—but not totally), it’s about being with my people, my homies, my FOLLOWERS. It’s all very Kumbaya, really.

Also, I’m a Leo with the emotional age of a 12-year-old, so birthdays are important to me, you guys! Even OTHER PEOPLE’S birthdays! Can you imagine!? I care about things sometimes that don’t have anything to do with me, OMG.

But really, I’m not even kidding: If my house wasn’t a pit of despair, I would totally have birthday sleepovers and make everyone watch “Paperhouse” and “April Fool’s Day.” Probably “St. Elmo’s Fire” too.

This year, I decided (kind of last minute) that I wanted to have dinner at this restaurant called Shakespeare’s, because the website falsely alluded of tackiness. It turns out that it wasn’t tacky at all (though there WERE dragonhead door handles and suits of armor), but actually a really nice restaurant on a golf course.

Since it wasn’t a milestone birthday of any sort, I tried not to go overboard with it because god forbid Henry should have to ask for the banquet hall. That might be too wedding reception-esque for him, and we all know he’s allergic to the W-word. The only thing Henry had to do other than making reservations was order my fucking cake. I asked him to do this a month ago, before I even had birthday plans, and he was all, “OMG YOU MAKE ME DO EVERYTHING!” Excuse me for wanting to someone else to actually take the reins for once, my god! I always have to plan my parties, which is fine, but a little help would be nice. And ordering my own birthday cake made me feel sad and pathetic. I figured he would have asked Kaitlin to FINALLY make me that Jonny Craig cake I’ve been loudly hinting around about for the last two years, but then I found out last week that he still hadn’t gotten off his birthday cake La-Z-Boy.

“Can’t you just ask Kaitlin yourself?” he asked. Yes, 6 days before my birthday dinner and while she’s on vacation in California. That works, Henry.

Saturday, I begged him to admit that he was bluffing. “No, I really didn’t get a cake. I thought about it…”

THE THOUGHT DOESN’T COUNT THIS TIME, YOU MOTHERFUCKER. I mean, it’s just a cake! You don’t even have to bake it! Here, how about this: Find a fucking bakery or I’m going to find Chooch a new father.

By Sunday, we had a fullblown about it and I uninvited him to my dinner 18 different times, gave him a list of things to fuck himself with, and then made sure to remind him of all the ex-boyfriends I have who would have ordered me a fucking cake, which just happens to be ALL OF THEM.

He stayed upstairs for another hour and I assumed he was sulking; meanwhile, I searched for bakeries that are open on Sundays and don’t suck, when I remembered that my favorite cupcakery in the city is in fact open on Sundays and I like cupcakes better than cake anyway! So when Henry came downstairs, I barked at him to go to Vanilla Pastry Studio.

Apparently, he had the same idea. “I know. That’s why I’m dressed,” he mumbled. (Usually on Sunday mornings he’s just in his UNDERWEAR EWWWWW.) So then we laughed about it and he apologized, which is all I wanted anyway, for him to admit that he sucks at life.

But now that I think about it, I don’t remember ever re-inviting him to my birthday party….

So this place ended up being about 45 minutes away from Pittsburgh, which I thought for sure my friends would bitch about, and maybe they did behind my back, but look! People came! And I didn’t have to sit by Henry! (I did miss Chooch, though, but it’s too hard for us to share attention when we’re right next to each other. It was better this way. And he really did a great job entertaining that section of the table, from what I hear.)

Henry’s mom came with us and she spent the whole time talking about people we don’t know and cooing over the scenery.

“I want to move out here,” she cried as we drove down the main street of some small, totally quaint town that I would bore me in about 3 hours.

“Then you better do it soon,” Henry said dryly.

I always get super on edge before a party of any kind, even my pie parties, so I was pretty much like, “Can you all kindly STFU please?!” It was looking like we were going to be late, so I was completely stressed out. Everyone pretty much arrived at the same time though, so we all walked in together and it was fine because they didn’t even have our stupid table ready anyway.

“Isn’t that the point of a reservation?” Gina asked rhetorically AND I HOPE THE GUY IN THE TIE HEARD HER.

Barb was stoked because she’s obsessed with Game of Thrones and this place was very reminiscent of it, I guess. I do not watch that show, nor am I even a big Shakespeare fan, so it’s kind of unclear why I was so insistent upon celebrating my 34 years here.

Deciding what to order was hard work, you guys. Henry’s mom was memorizing her menu across from Gina, which made her nervous.

“I feel like I just finished a test early but everyone else is still working,” Gina said, picking up her menu to fit in.

LOOK! PEOPLE ARE LAUGHING AT ONE OF MY PARTIES! This is so much better than when people yawn, which is what typically happens. (i.e. GLENN YAWNING AT THE ROLLER RINK.)

Chooch antagonized Barb from across the table all night. At least he didn’t scream, “YOU INVITED BARB?!” like he did at his fifth birthday party. (An outcry that has become legendary.)

Elissa and Gina were sweet enough to come to my dinner straight from a weekend of debauchery in Cleveland.

Janna and Chooch basically talked about Minecraft the whole night. I kept overhearing snippets and my mind would melt a little each time. Good job, Janna!!

Wonka a/k/a Shawn is one of my favorite people ever but we don’t get to hang out nearly enough (the fact that he lived in Texas for way too long didn’t help). This my first time meeting his girlfriend Jess and she is totally sweet and adorable (we bonded over our mutual pink/purple/blue hair highlights). Definitely looking forward to getting to know her!

Shawn also happens to be one of Marcy’s worst victims:

My front steps were stained with blood for months after that maiming.

Why does Henry look so paranoid in all of my Shakespearean feast photos? Or maybe that’s just his “bracing for the check” face. And poor Wendy—she had to hang out with me two nights in a row! Probably explains her tired smile.

Bill and Natasha arrived while we were all still loitering in the entry way under the watchful stares of the hostess and manager, waiting for the table to be prepared. In lieu of a simple hello, Chooch spat, “Oh, great. Thanks for talking while we were trying to watch the Walking Dead!” Which is something that happened back on Easter and that’s apparently how he identifies Bill and Natasha now. That kid is such a dick sometimes.

Laura & Mike, as seen by Janna’s iPhone. I’m so glad these two came! Plus, they sat across from Shawn and Jess, and I think that was the best accidental pairing of all time, because every time I glanced down the table, the four of them seemed embroiled in conversation. I like it when my friends get along!

Kara even came out with her 2-week-old baby, Theo. That is a good friend! Theo was much quieter than Chooch, who sat with his arms folded and said, “Blah blah blah” while everyone sang Happy Birthday to me. God forbid someone else should have a birthday!

And I loved my non-tacky dinner! I got some sort of salmon thing only because it came with a maple strawberry glaze and I’m on a maple kick ever since Parker’s Maple Barn’s maple coffee last June, which I was telling everyone about and then realized that I hadn’t actually had anything else maple-y since then, so I guess it’s not that great of a kick. More of an idea of a kick? I don’t know. But that glaze was motherfucking delightful.

Henry of course has been bitching about his sirloin ever since that night so I’m 7,697,908,709 times more glad now that I didn’t have to sit next to him and hear his complaints in real time. Jesus. Like it matters anyway if he liked it or not, it wasn’t HIS birthday dinner!

In order to make the prospect of having to drive great distances for my birthday dinner, I told my friends that they didn’t even have to get me presents. And I almost meant it too! I must be getting old, for real, because all I could think about was how I would rather have nice company than gifts. WHO AM I?! I DON’T EVEN KNOW ANYMORE. God, age 34 has been so fucking weird so far.

Anyway, Shawn and his girlfriend Jess got me this beautful wooden birdcage thingie with some kind of cedar things inside, which lead me, Barb, Judy, Gina and Elissa to believe that perhaps this was some sort of candle holder.

“But it’s wood,” someone pointed out, I forget who now.

“You could just fill it with doll heads,” Gina suggested because she knows. I was overjoyed at this suggestion so now I’m going to the flea market this weekend to collect some more heads.

Barb wasn’t satisfied, though, and yelled down the table to Shawn, who answered that it was a torture chamber for moths.

That made sense to me, but Barb thought he was joking. I asked him later to confirm, and that was indeed his intended purpose for the wooden cage. “That’s why I even put those cedar chips in there!”

I told Shawn and Jess about Gina’s doll head idea and they were on board with that as well, but maybe I’ll try to lure some moths in there anyway for good measure.

The cupcakes turned out to be better than serving an entire cake, I think. And I like that the waitresses brought them out on big serving platters and let me pick mine first because I rule, and then everyone else got to fight each other for their desired flavor. Well played, Shakespeare’s Restaurant.

Chooch was all pissed because Barb got a chocolate one, so she was nice enough (smart enough?) to give him hers and choose another, only to find out he swapped the chocolate one for whatever Henry had chosen.

“He’s just like his mother,” Henry mumbled.

Barb said that Chooch looked like a young Frank Sinatra. Then to me she whispered, “That’s a compliment”— like I don’t know who Frank Sinatra is! I’m flattered that Barb thinks I was born yesterday, though.

For some reason, it wasn’t clear to me that this was the women’s room and I was very hesitant to enter. Everyone who had gone before me had come back speaking of the nipple-chilling temps in there, but I was unable to fully understand until I sat on the frigid commode myself.

There was literally even a blast of cold air when I opened the door to the throne, like I was being duped into a future of hanging from a meat hook in a walk-in freezer.

Oh, but how the regal mirrors made up for the uncomfortable temperature!

On my actual birthday, Janna and I went to dinner and then I turned the light out on her when she went into the bathroom. I was telling everyone that it was the highlight of my birthday, and the reaction I got was one of, “You poor, sad, pathetic girl.” What?? I enjoy fucking with Janna! It’s my role in this world.

Can we all just stop and observe the fact that Henry is about to ejaculate from a camera?

Basically, I made all my friends drive far away to a fake castle just so I could have my stupid picture taken with a suit of armor.

My Leno chin even came out to party.

Elissa and Gina brought Chooch a belated birthday gift (they know how to win his affections), which included some cat stickers. Chooch put one on his shirt (as pictured above) and now I wish I could get it to stay there permanently because everyone was all, “OMG Chooch’s shirt is so cool.” Find a way, Henry.

So much to love about this picture: Shawn’s party hat horns, Mike ogling Shawn’s party hat horns, Chooch desperately trying to photobomb Shawn’s party hat horns.

I tried this new thing this year called “Not Nagging People,” so once I sent out the Facebook invitation, I posted ONE message closer to the date just to remind people that I needed a head count, and then left it at that at. Of course, there were people who ended up not seeing the invitation at all until after the fact when I began posting pictures from the dinner on Facebook so now I just feel sad that I wasn’t more of an RSVP Hitler like I typically am. I just can’t win.

That was fun you guys. Thanks to everyone who came out and ate birthday foods with me! Because at the end of the day, this really was just an elaborate excuse to hang out with my peeps!

(This is definitely not a blog post about food trucks.)

The Union Project is an old church transformed into a community space full of yoga, dance and ceramics classes, and it can also be rented out for weddings, parties and Goth Blacklight Bingo nights. (Seriously, if anyone is interested in organizing this with me, get in touch.) It’s your basic Feel Good city establishment.

We have love for this place because it’s where Chooch’s recent ceramics classes were held. (And um, also where his old child psychologist’s office is. What? He snipped our cat’s ear with scissors when he was three and I needed to know he wasn’t going to be the next Ed Gein, OK?)

Anyway, the story is something like: once their floor was sloped and now it is flat, so the awesome people behind the Union Project threw a big party last Friday evening to commemorate this momentous occasion. And the ceramics cooperative decided to have a little exhibition in tandem with the party, so Chooch submitted one of his pieces: a ceramic monster pinch-pot bank.

He named it Dawn, you guys. Dawn! I almost died when I saw that! I’m so happy that my son is following in my footsteps of taking the smallest detail of Henry’s life and running it into the ground with endless punch lines.

The heart swells.

I took a half day under the pretense of “You guys, what kind of mom would I be if I missed my kid’s first art show?” But really, it was for the FOOD TRUCKS. I even worked out extra long that morning to prepare for the astronomical calorie count I was planning to rack up.

I was THIS excited for food trucks, too, Chooch.

While we waited for the food trucks to set up, we killed some time playing cornhole, which is how I learned I am exceptionally bad at cornhole.

Still waiting for the food trucks to get their shit together.

My friend Elizabeth showed up with her little girl Rachel and, like me, she was there for the food trucks, not Chooch’s ceramic talent. It’s amazing how excited people get just from the prospect of buying food from a mobile truck. Pgh Taco Truck was there, but I was most looking forward to Fukuda because I wanted some exotic street food. Turns out Fukuda did not opt to include anything vegetarian-friendly on their truncated traveling menu, instead parking their pork belly-palooza curbside. (I didn’t bother to ask if they could modify it either because I dislike speaking to strangers.)

Fukuda you, Fukuda.

My back-up plan would have been to get a vegetarian hot dog from Franktuary, but those motherfukudas were no shows.

So I ended up with a guacamole taco. I mean, a curried potato taco soused under a niagara of guacamole. It was only OK and so I pouted internally for the rest of the night. I did have a really satisfying apple rosemary popsicle though from some hippie urban farmer people. (Aren’t they all hippie urban farmer people in that part of town though? I think so. Nice people, though!

If you ask Chooch though, he had the best taco ever thrown together. I was just happy he was eating something that didn’t come out of a gas station. That kid couldn’t name one component of the food pyramid even if there was $100 on the line.

I blame Henry.

Later, after losing 87 quarts of sweat from running around in circles and pretending to be Ju-On, Chooch took approximately three bites of a peanut butter banana Nutella crepe that took Henry THIRTY MINUTES to order and procure because he is so fucking passive aggressive and let some assholes take his crepe. This was the second time in one week that he was the victim of a food-swiping! But you would have known that if he had lived up to his end of the bargain and blogged about his funnel cake fukuda-up at DelGrosso’s.

The crepe was OK (the savory ones looked like they were better), but the real props need to go out to the crepe booth’s name: Creped Crusaders.

Chooch mocked Rachel at one point and I made him apologize. I’m not sure if he followed through though, because he was intercepted by a couple with a dog on his way over to deliver his apology. And he is almost as obsessed with dogs as he is with cats, so he pretty much hung out with these strangers and their dog for what was left of the evening.

I’m not sure what ever happened with the art exhibit. Prizes were promised to be awarded, but anytime we went inside to check out what was going on, no one was around. It was too nice of an evening and every one wanted to be outside. This probably had nothing to do with the food trucks.

Nothing at all.

We bailed during the last hour because I wanted to go home and watch the hockey game like any good mom would. Sidney Crosby had a hat trick that night! Probably thinking of food trucks.

I had plans to go roller skating this past Saturday with my friends Sandy and Elizabeth. This was monumental for several reasons:

1. I hadn’t been skating since Chooch’s birthday party a year ago, what the fuck?!
2. This was going to be my first time hanging out with Elizabeth, with whom I became blog-friends through Sandy. (Though we did technically meet very quick-like at the Big Butler Fair last year, long enough for a handshake, and then the Wacky Worm pulled me in another direction.)
3. CHOOCH AND I WERE GOING WITHOUT HENRY.

Henry, who has been pulled all over the great state of Pennsylvania nearly every weekend lately, decided that this would be the perfect chance for him to finally get some shit done around the house.

At first I was like, “OMG WE CAN’T POSSIBLY DO THIS WITHOUT YOU HOW COULD YOU ABANDON US LIKE THIS YOU MONSTER!” But then I thought, “Wait….I get to go skating and then come home to a clean house? Tell me more. No, wait — STFU and just start cleaning, motherfucker.”

I think that the fact that Sandy and Elizabeth were going to be there made Henry feel a little more confident in his decision to usher us out the door, nary a compass nor bag of breadcrumbs. Not even a helmet for our precious heads!

Before we could even think about leaving, though, Henry had to go and put gas in the car, make sure we were properly monied-up, and then remind us of our respective skate sizes. It was a pretty large undertaking, but soon Chooch and I were on our way — and I didn’t even need directions!

Sandy and her daughter Elena were already there when we got there, and I proudly told her that Chooch and I had made it there all on our own. Sandy has worked with me for three years now so she is fully aware of my crippling dependence on Henry so it was all Blame Henry up in that parking lot for about 5 seconds and then my excitement for rollerskating eclipsed my abandonment issues.

*****

Parenting

I will say that skating-up took way longer than it would have if Henry had been there. Because when Henry is there, he laces both mine and Chooch’s skates before worrying about his own. Sandy would not do this for us, so Chooch wound up with his skates on the wrong feet, forcing me to rub my Care Bear belly-stretchmarks to radiate some of my dormant maternal magic upon the situation. (At least I put my skates on the right feet.)

I won’t even get into Chooch’s lacing-skills. Anyone walking by would have thought for sure he was an inbreed based on his skate-lacing alone. Jesus Christ.

(Sandy even took a picture of me fixing Chooch’s skates for parenting proof.)

We had barely begun skating before Chooch was all, “I’m hungry, feed me.”

I panicked briefly until I remembered that there was change from our rink admission. So I balled it up into Chooch’s hand and steered him toward the snack room. Thank god he is way more self-sufficient than me and was able to procure his own food. However, he summoned me from the doorway and made me sit with him, which was really annoying because seven-year-olds should be able to eat by themselves. But instead, I sat with him, straining every few seconds to hear what AWESOME POP SONG we were missing but sure to hear 87 more times throughout the day, thanks a lot for having the audacity to be hungry, kid.

He shared his nachos with me, at least.

*****

Socks & Socializing Attempts

Sandy forgot to bring socks so it was either wait for Elizabeth to bring her a pair or pay $2.50 for a pair at the skate shop and god only knows where they get their socks. This was such an epic subplot to the day—would she wait for Elizabeth or go sock-commando and risk contracting some fatal strain of Athlete’s Foot?!— that I might create a Twitter handle* for it.

*(SandysSocks, obviously.)

But then Elizabeth and her husband Mike arrived with a spare pair of socks before Sandy had to resort to wrapping her feet in snack bar napkins. Elizabeth informed me later that it was kind of a big deal that Mike agreed to come because he had some terrible spill at a skating party in 6th grade which was caught on tape and he has never quite healed. So I scratched his name off the adult supervision list.

The problem with meeting friends at the skate rink is that skating isn’t conducive to conversation. At least not for me anyway. Because I like to skate FAST. Too fast to talk!

Sometimes I will slow down long enough to comment on the current song situation though. Like when “Call Me Maybe” was playing, I had to make sure that everyone knew Chooch and I requested it. “Didn’t they already play this?” either Sandy or Elizabeth wondered, and I can’t remember which right now because every time I close my eyes to try and re-picture the scene, all I see are blurs because I skate SO FAST REMEMBER.

(I actually wasn’t skating at Turbo Speed on this day. I didn’t want to die! And god help the poor soul that would have to help lift me off the rink, seriously.)

We mutually decided that maybe next time, we will go out for drinks, fancy food, all of the above.

*****

Roller DJ Reunion

Before I could even consider skating, I had to get my obligatory chastising by Roller DJ out of the way. I mean, he gets angry when I take a season off, so I braced myself for the scathing I was about to get for being AWOL an entire year.

I made up some on-the-spot excuse about scheduling conflicts and sicknesses, and by that I meant, like, the flu, but I guess Roller DJ took it to some terminal level and gasped, “Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that!” So I just kind of ran with that because at least he wasn’t making me feel like a skating poser for dipping out of the scene. He was probably picturing Henry cloistered in a darkened infirmary run by monks, finally succumbing to some disgusting disease he contracted when he was in the SERVICE. Fucking Panama!

Or maybe that’s just me who would picture that.

On the outside of the DJ booth is a big neon-lit sign that boasts DJ Big Will.

“That’s new!” I observed, and Roller DJ beamed.

“I just had it made!” he shouted proudly over throbbing basslines. “You have to like my page on Facebook!” Oh, you bet I will!

Sadly, Roller DJ’s ‘fro is no more. Maybe I should make a Twitter handle for that, too.

*****

Falls

I have to be honest here — I was scared when I first stepped out into the rink. I thought for sure, being out of the groove for a year, that this was going to be the day when the rink transformed into one consecutive banana peel and I was going to have all sorts of bones protruding from my limbs and poor little Elena was going to proficiently skate past this writhing mass of contusions and shrieking curse words and be utterly traumatized for at least the next three years and then will probably forget about it until one day in her twenties when she hears Justin Bieber’s “Beauty and the Beat” on some oldies station in a grocery store and wonders why she wants to puke more violently than people typically do when they hear any song by that dickstick.

Oh, that’s just the repressed images of Miss Erin’s “Grey’s Anatomy”-caliber rollerskating injury that the Biebs is helping you to re-see, Elena.

And oh god, can you imagine if I sucked in front of two people who BLOG? They would have a field day with their “ERIN FELL! READ ALL ABOUT IT!” blog posts. But I wasn’t as rusty as I anticipated! I mean, like Sandy said, I wasn’t wrapping my legs around my head or even at the very minimal doing the jumps during the Cha Cha Slide, but I could probably beat most of you turkeynoodles* in a race!

*(This was my attempt at cutting back on the swears because my vulgarity came up earlier today and now I’m feeling extremely self-conscious about it, fuck. The old Erin would have called you all cuntnoodles. I miss Old Erin already!)

The best part about this particular session is that it wasn’t crowded — it looked like one birthday party was going on and then a handful of inoffensive people. There really wasn’t anyone there that got on my nerves!

Just kidding.

There was some semi-chubby 10-year-old girl in head-to-toe spandex and blond ponytail and I don’t know what it was about her, but she rubbed me the wrong way.

Maybe it was because she reminded me a little bit of myself.

She fell during the Hokey Pokey and I had to summon every last morsel of restraint within myself to keep from publicly heckling her.

One perk of leaving Henry at home is that I was able to freely glide around the rink like the graceful swan that I am and no one could say, “You’re an OK skater, but DAMN—Henry can skate, y’all!”

Henry, Henry, Henry! — whined in the stylings of Jan Brady.

UGH! It gets pretty cold living in Henry’s shadow.

But seriously, aside from all of the skate guards and the two junior derby broads, I was totally the best skater there. Although, there was some older guy in a Clyde’s Auto Repair shirt and feet stuffed into fancy quads who was doing some moderately slick moves, but he fell A LOT and was pretty wobbly even when he wasn’t falling. I mean, I’m sure he was probably real sick in his day, but is pretty washed-up by 2013’s standards. Sorry, bro. I’m better than you.

(This is based solely on the fact that I didn’t fall, even though Chooch kept trying to tell Henry that I did.)

In fact, you can tell that I must have skated without break the whole time based on the fact that I only have one picture from that afternoon. (No phones on the rink, duh!)

There was another dad-type there who flipped over the wall, which was incredibly hysterical and I hope Elizabeth’s husband saw it because that’s gotta make him feel better about his own vintage roller skating birthday party blunders.

You know who else fell a lot? My damn kid. Jesus Christ! I don’t know how we didn’t cap off the day with a Children’s Hospital visit. This is how I learned that I would be a terrible skate guard because I struggled every time I had to help him pick himself back up.

Plus, the whole “lacking compassion” aspect.

Meanwhile, Elena was diligently skating around the rink relatively independently with a skate gate to aid her. (Sadly, she seems like she’s way more independent than me in most life situations. And she’s only 3.) “You skate better than your mom!” I yelled at her encouragingly as I skated past. “Yeah!” she yelled happily. She fell a few times, as kids do, but considering she is already so low to the ground, none of these falls produced any tears. Still, Chooch was all concerned about her every time and had to check for himself to make sure she was OK.

I don’t know where he gets that! Two years of Catholic school, maybe? Nah, those people were dicks.

Maybe if the rink had offered those skate gates two years ago, more people would have skated at my birthday party.

*****

Music

So, my music tastes are definitely pretty off the grid, varying from 80s goth to screamo, synthpop to post-rock, but I do really enjoy pop music. And really, nothing is better to skate to than some bubblegum-poppin’ Top 40. Therefore, I requested “Heart Attack” by Demi Lovato without a single ironic fuck given.

“I don’t have that,” Roller DJ said without apology.

“Seriously?!” I cried. I mean, that joint has constant radio rotation!

“Is this it?” he asked, playing Trey Songz.

“No,” I sighed with attitude.

“Are you sure?” he pressed on. Meanwhile, Chooch had fallen on his hip right outside of the DJ booth and I was struggling to pull up 70 pounds of dead weight while assuring Roller DJ that I was positive it was not the song because that was a man singing and Demi Lovato is A GIRL.

“This is the only ‘Heart Attack’ I have, so it’s gotta be it,” he argued.

OMFG! One is R&B, the other is Pop!!! I was like, “Just forget it!” and skated off.

A few minutes later, the Demi Lovato version came on and Chooch and I cheered. I gave Roller DJ a thumbs up when I whizzed past him and he gave me one of his scary, sly smiles.

Pop music is just really the best music to skate to — it’s fun and energetic and even if it’s fucking Katy Perry, I can usually tune out her shitty vocals and focus on just the beat. I have an unapologetic love for hot pop songs, you guys.

But then the opening notes of the next song trickled out onto the rink and there was a collective groan, which salvaged some of my faith in humanity.

It was Mackelmore’s “Thrift Shop.”

“THIS IS MY SONG!” Chubby Spandex Tween shouted to all of the friends that her parents bought for her. “I ASKED FOR THIS SONG!”

God, I knew I should have heckled her when she fell during the Hokey Pokey.

I don’t know what it is about “Thrift Shop” that makes me want to scream. That’s a lie. It’s the horns, it’s the beat, it’s that obnoxious child voice. I don’t dislike the other Mackelmore songs that I have heard though, just this one.  And besides my hatred for this song, it is really not a good song to skate to.

I guess everyone has that one song (or 50) that they absolutely cannot stand. Janna used to HATE that Billie Meyer’s song, “Kiss the Rain.” I purposely bought the CD (I think this was 1998 maybe?) and put that song on repeat one day when she was at my apartment because that’s how awesome of a friend I am. I even sent her a YouTube video of a live “Kiss the Rain” performance for her birthday the other day.

You know what other song drives me nuts? That fucking monotonous Icona Pop “I Love It” song which of course was played during Saturday’s skate session. Chooch loves that song though, so we always argue about.

“I wish she would crash her car into a bridge,” I muttered after hearing it for the 87th time one day.

“Why?” Chooch asked. “She won’t care.”

OH SNAP, SON.

*****

“So, don’t you and Chooch ever go anywhere together without Henry?” Barb asked me at work the following Monday, when we were sneaking hot beverage and conversation together over by the kitchen.

“I mean, if we have to, but….why would we?” I said with a shrug. Barb made some sort of “Yeah, really” expression and that was the end of that conversation.

Party Chick, officially.

Since we took Chooch to Knoebels on the other side of the state for his birthday, we toned down the actual party this time around and just had it at Games n’At, a retro alternative to Chuck E. Cheese with tons of Pittsburgh-flavor. It was a big hit with the kids, and awesome for Henry and me because literally all we had to do was drop off party hats, plates, etc the day before and they had everything set up for us. NO DECORATING! And each kid got to choose from a list of snack bar options, so NO PROVIDING OUR OWN FOOD!

Holy shit, it was a parental dream come true. With everything we’ve been doing lately, planning a party just wasn’t something that either of us had the energy for. And Chooch still had fun,which is all that matters.

“You’re only picking Ugli Doll stuff because you like it,” Henry accused me the day before at Party City. Well…I didn’t see any Minecraft stuff there! And Chooch likes Ugli Dolls too, God!

I secretly had Kaitlin make Chooch a “creeper” cake. It is my reluctant understanding that creepers are some sort of Minecraft villain and Chooch really likes them. When I met Kaitlin in an empty strip mall parking lot 9AM that morning, like some creepy—but delicious—drug deal, I was floored when she removed the top of the cake box to reveal this edible work of pixelated art. I mean, if it had been left up to me, I’d have just slathered green frosting on a rectangle and then finger-painted the face with black stuff.

Maybe the black stuff would be non-toxic. Maybe not.

But when you’re the presiding Queen of Zia’s Desserts, you go above and beyond and make that fondant pixels because THAT is what a true Minecraft player wants to eat.  When Chooch saw it, he gasped, “Kaitlin knows what creepers are!?!?”

When we first got to the arcade, I plopped my ass down on a couch across from some dad and watched the Penguins game for as long as I could until guests started to arrive. Fuck! I’m sorry, I know I’m the birthday boy’s mom, but theses are some important times in the NHL, OK? Step off

So then I tried to be actively involved for awhile. I even spoke with a parent! And heckled Janna mercilessly!

We all wanted something magical to be inside that armoire. But it was just a folded-up table. No Narnia.

But then something glorious happened: While I was in the party room talking to one of the parents (I did OK at that, you guys!), one of the arcade workers who looked uncannily like the dude from Ridiculousness approached me with a concerned expression and asked, “Do you want me to put the game on this TV here?” and then pointed to a TV in the corner that I hadn’t even noticed.

UM FUCK YES.

But then he couldn’t get it to turn on and kept leaving and returning with tools and various wires until finally he figured out that it wasn’t plugged in.

“Oh you have to pay for this,” Janna said, pulling her finger out of the Kiss-O-Meter and walking away.

You know who is really smart? Laura. She brought a present for me because she KNOWS. I was so excited and wanted to wear it right away but for some stupid reason, no one brought a switchblade to the Kid’s Birthday Party, so I couldn’t unleash it from the backing.

Ridiculousness serving up the food.

Chooch was so goddamn sweaty. No one else was. Just Chooch. God only knows.

Of course the kids were relatively uninterested in eating and decided to have an impromptu dance party instead. That might be because I said, “Hey you guys should have a dance party” and the Chooch’s cousin Zac started doing some frantic Gangnam Style seizure thing on the floor, which was a cattle call for the rest of the kids to get up and LOSE THEIR SHIT.

But hey. It’s not my house. Spaz it up, small people.

Blurry or not, you get the idea.

After the raucous cacophony of birthday serenading, Chooch started opening his presents. He was halfway through when he turned around and stopped mid-sentence.

“Where the heck did everyone go?” he cried when he realized he had been performing his gift-unwrapping in front of a roomful of adults.

“Dude, the kids went back out to the arcade a looooong time ago,” I said. Everyone cracked up but he just shrugged and went back to collecting his loot.

Meanwhile, I had made friends with the mom of one of the girls. But one thing to know about me is that I shit the bed when it comes to introductions. (Unless you’re in a band. Then I miraculously will remember your name right away.) So my memory proceeded to fuck her name into oblivion and I spent the rest of the party paralyzed every time someone came over that I wanted to introduce her to because I didn’t want to say, “Hey Laura, this is Astaria’s mom” because fuck if someone refers to ME as “Chooch’s mom.”

(Actually, this happens a lot and I’m OK with it. I think it happened 3x at Crafts from the Crypt in March. “Oh, you’re Chooch’s mom!” Castle Blood denizens would exclaim. Because everyone knows Chooch.)

So at one point, we were all sitting around a large table watching Game 3 of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, which had  gone into over time, and I was struggling to replay the scene when we introduced ourselves, but all I could hear was pinball machines and this one Pierce the Veil song that has been in my head for 5 years. So, I covertly texted Janna and ordered her to ask the mom what her name is.

Janna did my dirty work, and I saved the text so I will never forget, you guys.

I win at friend-making.

Chooch’s girlfriend of the week made him a card that stressed in no uncertain terms how awesome and cool he is.

Laura, arcade seductress.

I would probably look like that too if I had to work kids parties every weekend.

This is not true. You’re only a winner if you win. I hope all the kids there knew that.

Blake showed up right before the party ended and asked Henry for an envelope. Henry didn’t have an envelope, so I suggested that he just MAKE one, because isn’t that the kind of bullshit nonsense they learn to do in THE SERVICE?

(Or at the very least by watching “She’s Crafty.”)

I took pictures with my real camera but we have a new computer and the version of Photoshop I’m used to doesn’t work on it anymore and I’m too bull-headed to let Henry show me how to use something new so all of my pictures are just festering in a folder, unedited.

I know there comes a time when the big extravaganzas need to come to an end, and Chooch still had a blast even though this party was waaaaay scaled down, but I can’t help but feel the itch to have one more big party next year. Maybe in the park again, and CREEPY CARNIVAL-THEMED. I could use my papier mache clown head again! Chooch seems down with this idea.

Which is good, because I already started planning it.

On Sunday, we went to Round Hill Farm for my work friend Missy’s one-year-old son’s birthday party. I put a Jason Voorhees shirt on Chooch because that’s appropriate.

Missy had little treat boxes shaped like barns for all of the kids. Chooch was STOKED ON THIS. She even let him pick which stuffed animal he wanted, which of course was a vein-bulging decision. He ultimately chose a cow, and then immediately seemed to doubt himself. However, that cow never left his side all day. Except for when Henry was holding it.

Which was actually often, so nevermind.

(Side note: If Barb had thrown this party, she would have had a little barn gift for me, too. JUST SAYIN’, MISSY!)

Farm Frowns.

Sandy’s daughter Elena mimicked Chooch’s every word. He inadvertently taught her to say “derp” and “EAT IT!!!” while tossing bread into the pond. He kept sighing in faux-disgust, but c’mon, Chooch — you finally had the audience you always wanted! You could tell he was relishing this on the inside.

“If she goes home and wants to watch zombie movies, it’s not my fault,” I said to Sandy.

I also loved the contrast between his Jason Voorhees shirt and her pretty pink party dress.

Missy promised Elena a balloon and was trying to pass one off to her without any of the other children seeing because she wasn’t ready to start doling out party decor yet. But of course Chooch, who was probably one of the oldest kids there, saw and was all, “I WANT A BALLOON TOO OMG.” So while Missy was untying a balloon from the cake and present table inside the visitor’s center, Elena let go of her balloon and since Henry, Sandy and I are all under 12 feet tall, it now belonged to the ceiling.

When Chooch came running back to us with his balloon, I nudged him to give it to Elena. “Be the hero!” is what my elbow yelled into his shoulderblade. He did so begrudgingly, but I know my kid and if he didn’t REALLY WANT to give her his balloon, he wouldn’t have.

And then, before we could stop him, he ran back into the party room to hound Missy for another balloon.

\

While everyone was gathered inside the party room, singing Happy Birthday to little James, I momentarily lost sight of Chooch and Elena. Then I saw the only two balloons undulating above the small crowd, like bouncing beacons.

“This is probably why Missy didn’t want any of the kids to have balloons yet,” Sandy observed as their balloons drifted into people’s faces and other children craned their necks to covet the accessory that their hands did not have. The whole scene just made me laugh.

What you can’t see in Missy’s blurry hand is the GIGANTIC CAKE KNIFE she was swinging around like a princess wand, slicing up the air and god forbid any poor gnat that happened to be in the vicinity. My friend Sandy and I kind of just hugged the wall and allowed this to happen because it was entertaining and we were far enough away that we probably wouldn’t have gotten carved up like someone’s Thanksgiving turkey.

You would think that going to a one-year-old’s birthday party at a petting farm wouldn’t have much morbidity going on—and it didn’t, not until my kid took it there, anyway. But while Chooch was hanging off a tree, teaching Elena god only knows what, his balloon popped on one of the branches.

So he decided to have a funeral and bury it.

(This picture is courtesy of Sandy.)

Elena of course chose a stick of a dangerous size and joined in the labor. Some party guests walked by and did a double take. Chooch explained with a shrug, “This is how people used to dig holes in the past.”

RIP Red Balloon.

I promise, this was fake. At least I think so.

After the party, we drove down the street to the pet cemetery where Speck and Don are resting. After visiting with them, we wound up going inside and reserving two plots above theirs for Marcy and Willie, so that one day they can all be together again and not scattered in far apart plots all across the pet cemetery.

You know, cat lady problems.

So, a balloon funeral and pet cemetery plots. But we had birthday cake along the way so it all balances out.

Two years ago, Henry and I tried futilely to find a magician for Chooch’s 5th birthday rager.

Granted, we waited until the last minute, in typical Appledale/Robbins fashion.  We moved on to clowns, but struck out in that party entertainment park, too. (We did find one, but someone wrote a review saying she stole from the party guests.)

“I can’t believe you don’t know any magicians!” Henry scoffed, because everything is my fault, always.

(Maybe not, but at least I had two friends there who knew how to make balloon animals! )

A few months later, through our mutual friend Erica, I met and became friends with Rick, a real life mentalist!

In an effort to not only give a small mom and pop magic shop a boost, but also provide a meeting ground for those in the know, Rick organized a Magic Mob to descend upon the Cuckoo’s Nest Magic Shop on the Southside. Kind of like Record Store Day, but with less Cure albums and more torso-splitting swords.

NEWSFLASH: The magicians were not all wearing black capes, as I had imagined. I just can’t stop stereotyping!

Rick asked me to take photographs to accompany the article he wrote for a national magic magazine, and then mistakenly added, “Well, why don’t you check with Henry and see if he’s got any plans on Sunday—-”

I started cracking up. Like Henry actually has his own life, with his own agenda!

“—oh that’s right,” Rick continued. “I keep forgetting we’re in very different relationships.”

So that is how Henry, Chooch and I found ourselves commingling with approximately 58 magicians and rubber chickens for two hours on a Sunday. And, after hearing about what was going down, Janna wanted to come too so she tagged along with us. I mean really, when does “We’re hanging out at a magic shop” NOT sound like a fun idea?

I hadn’t been to the Cuckoo’s Nest probably since I was in high school and it was in a different location further down the street. (So, we’re talking about 17 years here, OK? I only act young.) I remember walking in with my magic-virgin friends, buying a bunch of cheap novelty tricks with my mom’s credit card and meeting my first real life “punk,” complete with mohawk and safety-pin in nose. (I think I have a picture of him somewhere.) For a suburban teenager, this was life-changing. Nearly two decades later, the shop still had that same laid back “anything could happen here” feel. Like Amazing Larry could walk in at any moment!

The face of a child who wants it all.

In addition to congregating in solidarity, Rick encouraged everyone to spend some money. (There’s a fine line between magic mob and loitering, after all.) As a thank you for my photographical services, he gifted Chooch with some cash.

Chooch, after spending most of his afternoon coveting an entire rack of puppets, settled on a rabbit puppet so that Fox will have a friend. He promptly, and obviously, named the new puppet “Rabbit.”

“He spent all day with his sweaty hand shoved inside that rabbit,” Henry muttered. “We were buying it whether he wanted it or not.”

I think the owner, Tom, was especially grateful that he didn’t need to dunk the puppet into a vat of Clorox and Febreeze at the end of the day.

Puppet Perusing = serious business.

Chooch’s frenemy Katelyn was there with her parents, Chris and Kari, and collected quite a haul. She was piling up all of her merchandise on a counter near her mom, and when she walked away, Chooch grabbed one of the items.

“I’m hiding this from her,” he whispered deviously to Kari and me.

“Are you sure you’re prepared to face her wrath?” Kari laughed.

When Katelyn came back, she started rooting through all her stuff but didn’t immediately notice that something was missing. Chooch, slinking back into a corner, was nearly bursting with impatience.

“I THINK SOMETHING IS MISSING!” he blurted out on a bed of giggles.

Katelyn rolled her eyes and snatched the magic trick from behind Chooch’s back. Totally anti-climatic.

God, Chooch and I have the exact same flirting strategies.

 Cha-ching!

Several times throughout the afternoon, the line to check out snaked all the way to the back of the store. On a normal day, that probably would have sent me into an anxious frenzy. But because I didn’t have to actually stand in the line (just harrass people with my camera), I was totally OK.

I did, however, feel like I was in the way a lot. Probably because I was. But that is not uncommon.

For most of our sojourn at the Cuckoo’s Nest, it was nearly physically impossible to move because so many magicians filled the narrow store.  It was an interesting social experiment for me. Average Day Erin would have walked into that shop, said “Holy shit” and then walked right back out. But on this day, I dealt with the incessant human friction because I was on a mission to collect photographical evidence. And again, Average Day Erin would have snapped some covert pictures and then ran. It was an interesting sensation to blatantly point my camera at a roomful of strangers, openly being a creep.

And true to my hypocritical nature, I dodged all of the other cameras to the best of my ability. (I noticed that Janna ended up in almost every since photo that the Cuckoo’s Nest posted on their Facebook page, which made me LOL. Maybe some up-and-coming magician will hire her as their assistant. THAT is a magic show I’d love to go to.)

The shop windows eventually succumbed to all of the magical breath and became coated with fog.

“When’s the last time a roomful of magicians were able to make a window fog?” one of the magic mobbers joked and I laughed because that’s what you do when someone makes a joke and you get it.

The Cuckoo’s Nest had a couple of demonstrators on hand and this guy Vince was my favorite, even though he forced me to volunteer for a card trick. I hate volunteering because I always feel like I’m being primed and primped as a laughingstock. Chooch and some other little girl kept trying in vain to volunteer but Vince was all, “No, you’re both too small. I need someone who can reach the counter” and then used magic-eyes on me to bend my will.

God, I’m such a magic slut!

I think this was his way of retaliating since I had my camera up in his grill all afternoon.

Vince’s trick was really awesome. But my favorite was when he lit a small piece of paper on fire IN THE AIR and then it DISAPPEARED. I liked it so much that I shouted, “Do it again!”

AND HE DID.

I’m a magician’s best audience member because in addition to being pretty gullible and naive,  I don’t pay very good attention so they really only need to exercise a semi-sleight of hand….

…like another magician, Paul Gertner, did during his card demonstration. He purposely slowed down his card-dealing so the crowd could catch him as he cheated, but I still didn’t get it.

It’s amazing I can even leave the house wearing a matching pair of shoes, really.

Paul turned a dollar bill into a $50. I almost died.

Who needs pick-up lines or roofies when you’ve got that trick?! It works on even the thickest of blonds! (I know this because I am blond and thick.)

Paul Gertner amazes.

Sales!

I made Janna pose with these stage balls and she immediately dropped one.

“Now you have to buy that,” chided Tom the Owner. She looked all panicked about that and I began to openly mock her, which is what my fake college degree is in.

“Way to go Janna!” I cried. “And you were worried about the kids,” I joked to Tom.

Meanwhile, Janna had fished 35 cents out of her pocket in case Tom was serious.

It felt really good to be a part of something like this. Supporting your local brick and mortar shops is so important. I for one am guilty of bitching when a store I like closes, even though I know that I played a small part in their economic failure because I’m so quick to buy from Amazon or some stupid behemoth chain. (Target, I can’t quit you.) I am going to at least try to buy everyone’s birthday presents from real life stores from now on.

Andrea, you might be getting a Whoopie Cushion this year. Don’t worry — I’ll least draw Lil Wayne’s face on it.

Don’t drop his balls.

In addition to the rabbit puppet, Chooch also bought two small novelty tricks, but left the store with an entire birthday inventory in his head. I have a feeling we’ll be revisiting the Cuckoo’s Nest very soon. Get your tricks ready, Vince.

 [If you are local, please visit the Cuckoo’s Nest! It is rife with items to aid your next office prank or amateur ventriloquist hoe-down. FYI, you can shop online, too! For more (and better-written) information, here is what the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette had to say.]

Henry and I went to Church Brew Works on Saturday night for my friend Sean’s birthday. Places like this are kind of wasted on me because I’m not a big beer drinker. I’m really not any kind of beer drinker at all, although I was on a brief kick last fall where I was determined to try every pumpkin beer ever brewed until I finally found one I liked. (I didn’t. Not really, anyway. Although Blue Moon and that Summer Shandy bullshit is Erin-friendly.)

My frenemy Lee’s girlfriend Sam recommended something called Celestial Pale because it is apparently weak and appropriate for people like me who don’t understand beer. Lee and Henry started placing bets on how long it would take before Henry was finishing it for me, which made me determined to chug it.

I did not chug it though. I tried for one good chug but then almost drowned on the beer and my own weak palate.

Sandy arrived and confidently ordered a pinot grigio.

“What!? I can get wine here!?” I cried.

“Yeah,” she said, looking at me like she only just then realized I’m dumb.

I guess I thought that was like going to a steak house and asking for the vegetarian options. (Which I have done and did not actually bask in the frowns that were rained upon me. Not like you’d think, anyway.) Or like asking to see the basement of Alamo. I was not in the mood to get laughed at.

Then Henry noticed that there was something there called Wheat Wine so I made him ask the guy for a sample because for some reason, I wasn’t really into ordering for myself that night and had Henry being  my mouth piece.

I feel like this was probably a normal night, then.

Anyway, hot damn is wheat wine good! The bartender told us what it was, but I didn’t understand because he used big, masculine words like “barley” and “hops.” All I know is that it didn’t taste like wine, nor did it taste like beer, and it was apaprently expensive (I knew that based on the fancy glass in which it was served; Henry knew based on the bar tab). This is why we don’t go out often — god forbid I should ever settle on some $3 draft when I can get beverages that must have molten gold in them somewhere based on the cost.

I promptly slid my beer down to Henry and he started mumbling about how he hates warm beer. You know what he hates more than warm beer, though? Things that he’s paying for going to waste. Drink up, bitch.

Nate and his wife April arrived after 9, and by this point, we started to worry that we weren’t going to get a table. One happened to open up right near the bar, so Sam, Sandy and me all yelled for Lee to claim it. On his way over, he was beat out by the lamest group of older people. The one dude had a manicured Bob Ross hair helmet, or what I like to call Bossa Nova* Hair, and I think he may have been wearing an ascot.

*(A club in downtown Pittsburgh where single people over the age of 45 go to die. They also serve really good cheese plates.)

“And of all the people to lose the table to!” Sandy scolded him. But then those people ended up leaving for a different table, so Lee redeemed himself.

“I’m not getting beat by a bunch of yuppies,” Lee said.

“They were not yuppies,” Sandy sighed.

I don’t know what they were, but they were definitely not as awesome as us.

Kristen and her boyfriend Paul arrived just as we snagged a table, so we were all getting settled when we realized that no one made room for Glenn, who was there with his wife Amanda and one of their friends. HAHAHAHA No Glenns Allowed!

They got a table right next to us though, so I was able to summon Glenn over at one point and have my dreams come true:

Work Henry and Henry, disapproving of me in tandem! (You might not recognize Glenn in his true form, and not in a miniature, costumed collectible variety.) Then Glenn offered his condolences to Henry and I’m not sure BUT I THINK that was a slight affront to me.

 Henry and Sean, who probably doesn’t even remember us being there, he was so wasted! Actually, two of those Wheat Wines got me pretty close to his level. Not only do I rarely drink anymore, but I’ve been on Weight Watchers since the beginning of January, so I was doubly feeling it and almost lost a war with the steps in the bathroom. No one prepared me for the steps!  

It was just the kind of night that Henry and I really needed. I love my work buddies! And the Penguins won!

****

The next day, we went to the Cuckoo’s Nest Magic Shop for an event that my friend Rick put together, but I will save the long version for tomorrow.

I got to see a lot of good people this weekend. I’m pretty happy right now!

Two years ago, my friend Gayle reunited with Jeff, a man she dated thirty years ago. On Saturday, they got married!

Henry, Chooch and I were all invited, but Henry made us late (see also: Erin read the invitation wrong). By the time we arrived to the church in New Castle, Gayle must have JUST walked down the aisle, because it was quieter than a mime’s funeral up in that piece. So quiet that when the door slammed behind us, people in the back of the church turned and looked. Then Chooch started talking and it was like PING PING PING off the walls.

I clamped my hand over his mouth and pushed him down the hallway, away from the church door, and begged him to sit quietly with me on a bench. No way was I going to attempt to squeeze into a pew with the ceremony in progress, so we listened to it from the hallway, while Chooch spoke (in what he thinks is a whisper but is still totally loud and disruptive) about having to pee but really it was his ploy to get a good look around the church for the playroom that I stupidly told him was going to be available for the kids at the wedding.

Thankfully, the ceremony was seemingly performed by the Micro Machines guy and was over a few minutes after we arrived. Super bummed that we didn’t get to see any of it, but the advantage of being on the other side of the doors meant that we got to be the first people to hug and congratulate them! Chooch kept trying to ask her about that damn playroom, like that’s really what she’s thinking about 2 minutes after becoming Jeff’s wife.

Chooch was interrupted by the rest of the bridal party filing out, with all of the guests pouring out behind them, and we somehow got stuck standing alongside the bridal party, pinned against the wall by the receiving line. Some people seemed unsure if they were supposed to shake our hands too. It was incredibly awkward.

Henry was originally wearing his Freddy Krueger-striped henley but I made him change. He hates dressing nice. He would have worn his Everfresh pullover if he knew I wouldn’t castrate him with my former rich girl couth. But on the plus side, he didn’t frown once all night!

Speaking of appearances, I was super self-conscious about how I looked. (When am I not?) Henry kept saying, “Seriously? No one is going to pay any attention to us with Chooch there.” And he was correct. That little fucker has a permanent spot light on him. The coolest girl at the wedding (her name is Kayla and we’re both friends with the Trundle Manor crew, so Gayle formally introduced us – she has a giant ice cream sundae tattoo on her arm and I totally have a girl-crush on her now) told Chooch he had the best outfit and his cheeks immediately flushed.

We weren’t in the reception room for 10 minutes before Chooch found a rolled-up rug to purposely trip over. I know I shouldn’t be, but I still get mortified when he does shit like this. It’s embarrassing! And the front of his pants were filthy afterward. My greatest fear was that he was going to face-plant into the wedding cake. I saw the way he was eying it up.

And thankfully, the chocolate fountain was far enough back on the table that he couldn’t reach his tongue into it.

We sat with my co-worker Pam and her 18-year-old nephew Dominic who kept Chooch entertained. Mostly by egging him on and encouraging his antics.

And it’s always wonderful when we’re in a church and he’s introducing himself to people as “Devil.” I don’t think Pam was very amused by that, but Dominic started choking.

Chooch kept pacing around, waiting for Gayle. “Where is she!?” he kept asking huffily. And when the bridal party finally entered the room, Chooch acted like he was going to rush at Gayle, so I had to grab him by his blazer.

“Jesus, Chooch — let her sit down!” Henry sighed.

We were the table furthest away from the food, so Pam started grumbling about how we were going to be the last table called. Henry and I agreed, but Chooch, always contrary, said, “Yeah, well, I bet we’re first!”

And we were first. We had to hear about that one all night, and part of the next day too. (“Remember when the whole table was WRONG but I was RIGHT?”)

On the way back to our table, dinner plate in hand, Chooch walked right up to Gayle at the bridal table, interrupted her conversation with another guest, and in a frustrated tone, he asked, “WHERE is the play room!?” She laughed and explained that they still had to clear their stuff out of it, and he walked away completely unsatisfied with this answer.

After we had eaten, we were joined by my another girl from the Law Firm, Patty, and her fiance Tim (they had a friend with them too but I am half-retarded and forgot his name). They’re big horror buffs so I told Chooch this, hoping it would distract him from his play room quest. They asked him what his favorite horror movie is and he said Ju-On without hesitation. I ook their surprised reaction as a seal of approval — my kid doesn’t fuck around when it comes to horror. I don’t know where he gets that.

Gayle came over to visit with us and finally took him to the goddamn play room, in which he spent a whopping five minutes before returning to our table.

“It’s just a room,” he sighed. “With a few toys.”

“Well, what the hell did you think it was going to be?! A water park?” I asked. At least I was able to enjoy my cake after that without having to hear about the mysterious play room.

Anyway, what a fun night! It was great to see Gayle so happy and positively a’glow, and I’m honored that we got to share her big day with her and even made it out of there without Chooch doing anything devastating. I get that he’s amusing to most people, but he makes me so goddamn nervous and I’m hyper-aware of his every movement.

(He did come close to crashing into the Irish-music-playing sound system at one point.)

Chooch’s wedding card. I don’t know what kind of idea the groom is having, but it might have something to do with the bride’s boobs, maybe?

I can think of a lot of ways to blow off steam after a stressful week, but “going to a party” seemed to be the safest, most legal, option.

Thank god for Trundle Manor. Rachel and Anton are smart as shit, planning their Halloween party in November and prolonging the Best Season Ever by a few weeks. This year’s theme was “insane asylum” so I decided to go as Fatal Attraction Glenn Close. Of course, I didn’t decide this until a week prior to the party, but Henry went to one thrift store and immediately found me a flouncy white skirt for $3. I would NEVER have that kind of luck.

And it’s an awesome skirt too, basically like a wedding dress underskirt/petticoat-type frock-thingie. I put it on three hours before leaving for the party on Saturday because it’s probably the closest thing to a wedding dress I’ll ever get to wear, and it felt good OK? All swishy and connubial.

I made my hair all Alex Forest-esque with a triple barrel iron. None of the pictures I took properly conveyed the true crimped Afroness of my mane. Short of getting a perm, it was the best I could muster.

Precious Henry, who didn’t go with me because he “doesn’t do parties,” made an old pot into a functional costume accessory by drilling holes in the sides and stringing rope through it so I could wear it as a purse instead of carrying it around all night.

(Henry wouldn’t have even had to dress up if he had gone! He could’ve just been the Co-Ed Killer Ed Kemper.)

If you have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, in the movie “Fatal Attraction,” Glenn Close has an affair with Michael Douglas and then boils his daughter’s pet bunny when she’s rejected. She also plays the wrist-slitting card to garner sympathy. But (SPOILER ALERT) his wife shoots in the end.

She doesn’t ever sit in a wheelchair in the movie, but I wish she did so I could have taken one of mine. Oh well.

Saturday was Wendy’s bowling night, so she couldn’t make it there until after 12:30. Luckily, my Castle Blood brood was there so I didn’t have to be That Awkward Girl siccing people for conversation. (Not that I would have had a problem — the friends of Trundle Manor are awesome people.) But still — I don’t like showing up to a party alone, so I made Henry text Ricky and ask him twenty questions about their anticipated arrival to the Manor.

Ricky was standing right near the driveway when I got there, so I didn’t have to walk more than five feet on my own (GOD FORBID). I apologized to him for being such a spaz about things; he put his arm around me and said, “But what else is new?”

Touche.

He deposited me with Dawn, at which point I started drinking, and the night was on a steady high after that.

Chris and Kari were also there, among other familiar Castle Blood faces (including the steam punk professor guy that I have a crush on), plus my friend Patty Cake from work. I recognized a lot of people from last year too, which was nice. Not that it mattered, because once I started imbibing absinthe, everyone’s faces started looking like Dali paintings.

Dawn & Ricky, being there.

The drink slinger’s face is glowing green from the absinthe fountain.

For being the second weekend in November, the weather was mild. Last year it was a week earlier and I remember we were all fighting to rub our hands above hobo fires. I survived without a coat, even. But that could be because all the booze I had consumed had formed an invisible anorak around my Alex Forest couture.

My Castle Blood homies split around 11. Even if Wendy hadn’t been coming later, I wasn’t ready to leave yet. The bands were just about to start playing! I found my friend Angie, whom I met one year ago at the last Trundle Manor Halloween event, and she was stuck with stumbling ass for the rest of the night.

Everything else is kind of a blur. I have a vague recollection of carrying around a mysterious sleeve of Oreos in my bunny boiler pot purse (I think Dawn had something to do with that?) and offering them to random people.

Those fucking Oreos had somehow become my delicious security blanket.

I remember talking at length to a pirate riding a blow-up ostrich and feeling regret when I realized I hadn’t offered him an Oreo.

And I remember dancing to the Bloody Seamen’s shanties and giving zero fucks about work and anything else, and meeting Gina the Trundle carny, who was very upset that I had a bloody bunny in my pot.

My phone didn’t capture it, but that big glow was actually a bunch of x-rays.

I had a crush on at least 87 revelers that night. Hey, that’s what happens when Henry sends me out into the world alone. WITHOUT A RING.

B-movies projected on the side of the house.

It was nearly 1:00am by the time Wendy arrived as Aileen Wuornos. The crowd was starting to disperse, but there were still a ton of crazy asses there (and I mean that in the best way). My favorite was this totally fucked up gay kid who I can only figure was dressed as Lady Gaga from the Love Game video. He came over and told us that he had walked an hour to get there, a bunch of stuff I couldn’t understand because he was slurring so heavily, and that he has a collection of rabbit things in his house and losing his pet rabbit Sprocket was the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He slurred out Sprocket’s name so many times, I don’t think I’ll forget him.

When I cried about my two dead cats to a drag queen named Curiosity, I knew it was probably time to call it a night.

I am forever thankful that I randomly took a tour of Trundle Manor two years ago and that Rachel and Anton continue to open up their home to me and so many other amazing individuals. Their parties are sick, totally unique and unforgettable. It’s a pretty amazing scene to be a part of.

Came home, poured one out for Sprocket, and then tried to not vomit on Henry as I rolled over him to get into bed. Best Halloween closure I’ve ever gotten!

No one ever did take any of my Oreos. More for me!