Earth-shattering updates throughout the day. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 15:01 I am very close to picking up smoking again. Like, so close it’s almost perverse. #
• 15:27 I like how when Henry texts me cooking instructions that require a lite coating of vegetable oil, he makes sure to repeat “lite coating.” #
• 15:30 Henry said he quit his second job & for a brief moment I felt like maybe I wouldn’t have to kill myself. He was bluffing though. #
• 17:28 Cashier @ CVS apologized for laffing when Chooch & I argued over peppernint candies being eye balls. Chooch thinks they are, not me, FYI. #
• 17:29 On the way home he squeezed a ball of dogshit because he thought it was falafel. Washed his hand in snow & ran the rest of the way home. #
• 19:14 I really feel like raising this kid on my own could be like some kind of gang initiation. #
• 23:41 Wouldn’t be able 2 live in that Real World house. Someone breaks a coffee table in front of me, they’re getting stabbed w/ a glass shard. #

• 07:53 Someone has military school in their future. #
• 13:42 Holy shit. Some free time to jumprope??? #
• 16:49 Desperately seeking: companionship, nail polish remover. #  *****
• 17:08 tried to be Heloise-y & dumped carpet potpourri on the steps but can’t get it to vacuum up. now it looks like the bathroom counter @ CBGBs. #
• 17:09 NOT THAT I KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT CLUBS AND COCAINE. #
• 20:04 I’m glad @awoodhick works two jobs so that I can have cherry pie at Eat n Park. #
• 20:23 @Dyannnnna is at my house, lip-synching songs from Labyrinth and protecting Chooch from the vacuum cleaner. #
• 20:47 And @dyannnnna just dicovered my purple hand chair and collapsed into giddy convulsions. #
• 23:50 i am like a nightstand curio. #

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***** It was a miracle. Dyanna granted not just one, but BOTH of my tweet-wishes, by bringing me nail polish remover and staying to hang out. It was nearly tear-worthy. And she’s good with kids (she just doesn’t know how to put shoes on, haha), so it ended up being a very stressless night.  And she even watched iCarly with us and laughed appropriately. When you factor in the warm and gooey cherry sex pie I had at Eat n Park, it was a pretty perfect night.

As Week Two draws to a close, I have in my head a list of things I am thankful for.

1. Wine
2. Puzzles that occupy Chooch
3. Ability to shut Chooch out when he starts whining in frustration over said puzzle
4. iCarly, for being one of the few shows that can keep Chooch quiet for the entire episode
5. Janna, who has babysat me numerous times while I in turn babysit Chooch
6. CVS, for being in walking distance
7. Wine
8. That I don’t own a gun (thankfulness on this tip is debatable and changes by the hour)
9. the convenient way tablespoons are marked on butter wrapper so idiots like me don’t have to panic
10. Wine
11. MTV reality shows
12. “Annie”,

a. because I forgot how much I love to emulate the theatrical warbling of raggedy orphans

1 . and this in turn gives Chooch a taste of his own obnoxious-coated medicine

b. it keeps alive my dream that the sun really will come out tomorrow, and by that, I mean a rich man will adopt me and it will be all “Henry who?” and you will see me tapdancing into the sunset, my friends.

Did something amazing yesterday, I did. I made cornbread on my own, and I only had to text Henry once for help. I even added real life corn into the mix (which tastes real good, by the way, salmonella be damned) and then, oh you will never believe this, while it was baking in the oven (yes, I made sure all the extraneous cookware was cleared out first. I learned the hard way when I still lived at home and attempted to bake cookies while a bag of missed crackers still sat in the corner of the oven-turned-pantry) I even took it upon myself to mix my own HONEY BUTTER. When it was done, I swiped a finger through it and exclaimed, “I did that!

” which is the same thing Chooch says when he shits on the potty/Sharpies the wall/blows up the neighborhood with a homemade grenade.

And then of course, after all my slaving in the kitchen, Chooch was like, “Are you fucking kidding me, fool?

I ain’t eating that shit.” Even when I tried to say it was cake, he backed away in horror and said, “I can’t like that.” Even when I lied and said, “Daddy made it!” he was like, “Uh, no, YOU made it. I watched you, retard.”

When Henry came home last night, I begged him to try some. He kept giving me excuses like:

• I’m not hungry
• I’m allergic
• I don’t like cornbread
• Look, you’re missing the Real World, omg!

But finally he conceded.

“It’s good right?” I asked expectedly. “I even put real corn in it. It’s like an actual Mexican made it, Henry.”

He said it was decent.

“Although….”

“What?” he asked, cornbread mastication ceased in apprehension.

“Well, the expiration date was from a year ago. But that’s probably OK, right? I mean, it tasted fine to me.”

He quit eating it after that, but swears it was just because he was full.

Whatever. I used fresh milk and eggs, at least. Besides, it said it was a SUGGESTED date. My personal suggestion was to use it yesterday.

“Joke’s on you, mommy-asshole.”

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:59 Made the mistake of telling Chooch he missed the boat, and now he’s frantically asking “What? Where? Where’s the boat? What?” #
• 17:15 Er, chooch just announced that he’s busy. Well, excuse me. I’m busy too, watching cartoons. Leave a message, brat. #
• 17:31 If weeners were manicotti, I’d suck a whole lot more of them. #
• 20:59 When Chooch takes a bath, he says his hands are “broccoli,” and when I try to tell him its “wrinkly” (or pruney), he flips his shit. #
  

  ---

• 09:09 I feel like everything I do is so noisy. #
• 09:21 Well, I did like the TI/Timberlake song. 52359653 plays ago. #
• 10:00 We’re trading Henry in for Daddy Warbucks. #
• 10:54 twitpic.com/1o11o – Chooch wants me to read this but these kids are scaring me. That cake looks tasty though. #
• 11:16 Billy Brown Makes Something Grand? Oh I’m sure he does. #
• 15:07 Mr. Attitude rolled his eyes at me & followed it w/ a delightful “blah blah blah.” Can’t wait til he’s done with teenage angst. O wait. #
• 16:01 These tears? From watching previews for The Hills: Season 4. Somewhere along the way, I got ruined. #
• 16:52 twitpic.com/1o9gz – Reluctantly brought him out for snow play. Gross. #
• 17:35 Watching Monster Squad with Chooch and hoping he’ll want to start his own. With me as President, of course. I’d make a good president. #
• 19:22 found a mix of cornbread in the cupboard & rejoiced, then discovered we have no eggs. Shoulda bought that hen when I had the chance. #
• 19:23 srsly need sugar. shaking. i’m an addict. #
• 20:47 Chooch, the resident Lady Gaga fanatic, pokes his face every time he hears Poker Face. I’m amazed at how much music he knows already. #
• 21:43 Impossible to hear the pres address when my kid is crashing toy cars on a candyland board one foot away. #
  

  ---

• 09:55 God help me. #
• 11:03 Everything’s calm & then the stupid cat saunters stupidly into the room and its stupid pandemonium. #
• 12:57 I hate that I’m so sentimental. I wish I could be a stone like @awoodhick. #

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While Chooch runs around trying to slaughter cats and making up shiny swear words that probably would move our Lord Jesus Christ to tears, I paint these bitches all night long. It’s the closest thing to catharticism I’ve found, short of retreating to an Indian reservation and getting my opium fix while being swaddled in a Navaho blanket.

Bathroom slang, bringing peace up in this bitch since This Month of ’09.

And the glowing reviews have been pouring in!

Jen Shitcan from Missouri has been heard saying, “Shiiit, I was so sick of my bitch ass husband bringing his broads home from the bar and asking me where the can was so they can empty their Diva Cup.  Now they just look for the sign and I don’t gotta be bustin’ caps no more.”

Isaac Outhouse from the wiilderness sent a telegram saying, “Sign good. Rust proof.”

Peter Pisser from a place with a large blind population sent a box of chocolates with a note saying, “Works good. Except my one blind friend still needs help finding the commode. Make one in braille, you should.”

And Alyson from Waltham, MA was so thrilled to have her friends stop crapping in her potted plants that she left this flowery feedback: Thanks so much!! I absolutely love it!! My house plants thank you from the bottom of their rooty hearts. It’s the perfect size, too!

Possibly only one of those are real.

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 12:44 I always imagine ppl walking past my house and seeing the roof bouncing up and down from all the hysterics inside. #
• 13:07 I just spelled my name wrong three times in a row. Clearly that’s GOD telling me to change it to Errian. #
• 13:35 Chooch pushed me to the edge so I blurted out, “yeah well, barbra streisand wants to take a dump on your face.” #
• 15:05 Janna just put herself on the sacrificial slab, and by that, I mean she offered to come over tonight. #
• 17:01 Somehow I always end up apologizing when I’m nowhere near sorry and its not my fault. Fuck you, solipsistic family. #
• 17:15 Henry had me sign him up for twitter. @awoodhick. This should be jolly. #
• 17:35 I need to find a wine delivery service. #
• 17:56 Chooch had me draw a picture of @awoodhick drowning in a river. We laughed vigorously. #
• 21:36 Tonight is a very good night. I am breathing regularly and am not preparing for shooting pain in left arm #
• 21:46 Chooch keeps going “whatever loser” & making an L with his hand. He does it better than I did in the nineties, whatever that’s worth. #
• 22:06 Making Janna listen to Danity Kane and near-tears as I tell her their saga. #

• 14:18 God henry, why don’t you just get a THIRD job!? #
• 15:10 At Blue Flame having a placemat draw-off with Henry. I’m winning, but that’s like, the definition of duh. #
• 15:19 twitpic.com/1m5jc – Winning entry. #
• 16:00 iCarly merch temptation=fail. #
• 16:07 twitpic.com/1m75c – Trying to beat iCarly merch temptation. #
• 17:38 I don’t need help cooking, I just need someone to do it for me. Realize that, Henry! #
• 18:54 Henry’s pissing around in the other room on the computer. I guess the prospect of viewing Annie for the 56th time doesn’t appeal to him. #

• 10:54 Chooch is eating 3 very different kinds of cereal in the same bowl and just watching is doing painful things to my gag reflex. #
• 13:44 We are currently at the gas station where I picked up Mel the Homeless Man last year. Memories. Now I’m not even sure if that’s his name? # ****
• 15:17 dear henry is painting my nails #
• 15:34 Yeah. That worked well. It looks like I stumbled into a psych ward, gave a schizo some acid & had him dunk my fingertips in tar. Thx Henry.#
• 16:14 I hope I never have a need in life to perform the sign for the letter “k.” It is much too complex for a high school dropout like myself. #
• 20:30 At the Squirrel Cage with @dyannnnna and Janna. Janna is being a douchebitch. #
• 21:18 I am going to Beck’s Romance Motel with @awoodhick. He just doesn’t know yet. #
• 22:05 http://twitpic.com/1n77j – Well fuck you too, Janna. #
• 22:15 Just performed in a Math-a-lon while amaretto’d. #
• 22:50 Holy shit. Its not even 11 and my kid is asleep? A miracle. #

• 10:09 Sometimes my son is so sweet and angelic, I have to wonder if he was switched out during the night. #
• 10:09 Like God feels a moment of compassion & says “ok, give this bitch a break. Bring the Good Kid back. Just for an afternoon.” #
• 15:35 ‘Bout to start diggin’ sum ditches, ya’ll. Holler if you’s need me. #

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**** I had to go back and look because it was driving me nuts. Aw, memories: Mel the Occasional Hobo.

This is my friend Alisha and me at Henry’s FORTIETH birthday pity party in 2005. I don’t know why my expression screams post-rubber cement sniffing session, but I am wearing a purple bowtie and that’s all that really matters.

Alisha and I hadn’t been in touch for a few years, but we reconnected recently and went out to lunch last Sunday. It was awesome to have a little bit of familiarity after all the changes that have going down lately. I guess I expected some tension, but there was none to be found. On my end, at least. After I forced a high-five upon her, we walked to the Elbow Room where we had super greasy grilled cheeses (the best kind) and reminisced about all the ridiculous memories of 2005, like when I talked her into going roller skating with me.

It’s a wonder that she ever came back for more, to be honest.

In other Twitter news, now that Henry is working this second job I talked him into signing up for Twitter so that my savory tweets can breathe some will to live into his weary soul. Or utterly disgust and annoy him, it’s hard to tell with him sometimes. He left it up to me, which is like giving a thief your PIN, and by Friday afternoon our little Henry became the proud owner of his very own Twitter account: A Woodhick. I even went ahead and added John McCain as his very first friend! I figured it’s the least I could do since it’s been a whole three years since I placed a personal ad for him.

He was not happy with the name I gave him. It’s a funny little story, really. (No, it’s not really.) But one time last year, we were watching some local show called  Dave and Dave’s Excellent Adventures and on that particular episode, they were at some lumber thingie. I don’t really fucking remember, but I know that they were talking to some jackass who worked there and that jackass was all, “Yeah, we’re known as woodhicks.” And I started laughing because before I knew Henry, he was a delivery driver for a lumber yard. So in my most obnoxious manner, I was all, “Haha, Henry was a woodhick.” And of course, Henry had to bring logic to the table and remind me that he never actually cut down trees. But it was too late. The image of him as a woodhick, wearing a trucker cap with “WOODHICK” emblazoned on it in hot pink threading, was already seared into my mind. In some variations of this vision, he’s wearing suspenders.

I decided to change his name in my phone from “Asshole” to “Woodhick” but was not pleased when I realized this would knock him all the way down to the end of the list. So he’s in there as “A Woodhick.” (And to further anger him, I put “Gayblade Juice” as his company instead of Everfresh Juice, and his title is “Head Fag”.) God help me if I die when I’m with someone and they can’t find Henry’s number in my phone. I thnk about that all the time. I should really do that ICE thing.

Speaking of phone book entries, I was going through Henry’s contacts one day (he was sitting next to me, chill! I’m not one of those crazies who sneak peeks at their partners call logs/text messages when they’re sleeping. That’s creepy, even for me) and was a little disappointed to see that there were so many people listed above me. So I changed my name to Adrian to ensure I’d be #1. In fact, I think I should do this for all of my friends’ cell phones.

This concludes an intimate glimpse into my delightful relationship with Henri the Woodhick.

In the town of Snuffilmburg, everyone lives in small huts which squat low to the ground. Frederico never gave this a second thought until his girlfriend admitted to be running around behind his back with the fire-domed Sylvan; and this revelation fanned some latent desire Frederico held inside to fling himself off a rooftop.

Frederico just could not understand — Sylvan had the physique of ten lumpy pillows and all the humor of a still-born lamb. And the more he thought about this, the more delicious his suicide agenda became.

Hitching a ride with a blue-beehived truckette named Myrtle, Frederico arrived in Big City three hours later, twirling a Slim Jim between his lips. (Thanks, Myrtle.)

Looking up and all around, Frederico saw before him a panoply of shimmering roof tops, and also thousands of glistening windows from which he could defenestrate if he so chose.

Then he turned around and saw a marquee, surrounded by a parade of chasing lights, boasting a 2:00pm viewing of Boobies Without Pasties II.

“Well, I guess I could postpone my death for an hour or two,” Frederico murmured as he felt up his pockets for a few wadded bills.

It has been three years and Frederico is now the proprietor of his own adult theater. He has since outgrown that old dream of his.

Last night was relatively calm for the most part.

I was able to get Chooch interested in “Annie,” but I don’t think he was listening to my story about how I tried to orchestrate a reproduction of it in eighth grade and Jason Jones was going to play Punjab, but then my ex-friend Keri couldn’t take it anymore and kept deep six-ing my cast list. I think that may have had something to do with the fact that every time she would sleep over, I’d put the soundtrack on repeat.

My love for Annie runs deep, like a stream of piss in Hell’s urinal.

I had him in bed by 10:30 (early for him, believe me) but then Henry had to come in the house like a fucking bumbling burglar and Chooch was all, “Huh? Daddy’s home?” and then it was stomp-stomp-stomp down the stairs, at which point his mild mood completely mutated into whirling dervish mode and he started throwing toys and spilling apple juice. And I took no part in it. I stared emotionlessly at the TV and mumbled, “He was fine all night.

You  make him turn into an asshole. He’s all yours, have a ball, Daddy.”

I had scheduled a phone call with my new friend Jessi. When you’re raising a hellion, phone calls can no longer be fielded at whimsy. And it’s always fantastic when you have to tell people, “Don’t call me until after 11pm” because you know it’s going to sound like Oakland rioting in the house up until then. Fortunately, when Jessi called, Chooch and Henry had at least taken their screaming show upstairs, but the ruckus was still jarring enough that I had to strain  to concentrate on parts of the conversation. I could hear Henry shouting, “Get back in bed!” and Chooch answering from across the hall, “No way!” and then devilishy laughing and chucking what sounded like boulders out of his crib. Finally, it quieted down (apparently Chooch ended up falling asleep in our bed while I was still on the phone and Henry had no idea. We make a great parenting team) and I was able to enjoy a grown-up conversation with a really cool girl.

Today, I woke up and remembered, “Fuck, I promised I’d make French toast for breakfast.” I can’t remember why exactly I promised, what horrendous activity I was trying to bribe the child to quit, but I do know that he reacted well to the bribe and was, for the most part, a decent human being last night. And when I promise him things, I make sure to follow through because the last thing I want is to be like my own mother. (That song “Promises, Promises” by Naked Eyes? ALWAYS makes me think of her.)

So I google “easy french toast” and only 68798097 results turn up, oh lucky day. Quickly, I become confused. Every recipe is different. One says one egg and two slices of bread, another says 2 eggs and 6 slices of bread. I’m not even in the  kitchen yet and I’m in tears.

But I did it. Sort of. I mixed all the shit together and became mildly frustrated at the way the cinnamon melded into a curdled skin with the milk. I didn’t know exactly what “grease the pan” meant, because that was so vague.

So I wiped it with canola oil. That didn’t seem greasy enough, so I sprayed it with Pam. Finally, I caved and plopped some fucking butter up in that shit and marveled at the sizzle.

The first piece, thank God I tried it before serving it to Chooch, because it was wack. Totally raw. The pieces that followed were not much better, but I felt confident that the eggs were no longer raw. One piece actually had a little scrambled egg hanging off it like a breakfast dingleberry. It was cute, but tasted absolutely disgusting.

I let Chooch and myself ingest several bites. But I noticed that there was something terribly off with them, so I said, “Er, maybe we should not eat anymore, Chooch.”

And then Henry came home. Scraps of evidence remained on both of our plates, and Henry asked, “Did you cook it enough?” as he held up a piece tentatively between two fingertips, like he was trying to spy the contents of his cheating wife’s mail.

“I’ll tell you right now what you did, you used too much milk.” He said it in that superior “I watch Alton Brown” tone that makes me want to castrate him sometimes, with an Alton Brown-approved cutlery set. But then, sniffing the kitchen, he added, “You caught it on fire, didn’t you?” And then, upon further inspection of my damning trail, he yelled, “Tell me you did NOT use this metal spatula on my non-stick pan!!!!??”

Later, after he was sure that Chooch and I weren’t going to need our stomachs pumped of swirling raw eggs, Henry tried to reason with me. After eight years, he still tries this sometime. It’s kind of adorable.

“You know, cooking’s not that hard. Your problem is that you rush. You want it done NOW.”

“Well, duh. Why else would there be the high setting on the stove, if not to help me cook things as fast as possible?” And Henry did this thing where he holds up to his hands in a silent prayer, like he’s telepathically asking some entity to please provide patience.

Finally, I snapped, “Look, cooking is not fun for me. I DO NOT LIKE IT. I do not get joy from rooting around the refrigerator for ingredients, I do not like the way my head feels when struggling to read a sentence that contains words AND numbers, and I absolutely do NOT enjoy standing in front of a stove wondering when this shit is going to be done.”

I don’t care if I suck at this. I do not like to cook, not here not now not then not there. And if it takes me writing it out Dr. Seuss-style to get it through his head, then I will gladly work on that shit this weekend. That is, after I bathe in a tub of vodka and have a harem cater to me. “That’s right, you drop that tab in mama’s mouth, just like that.”

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 20:26 Just cried at iCarly in front of Janna. She’s all “are u really crying?” YES. YES IM A LOSER. #
• 21:31 Janna’s playing Candy Land with Chooch. Better her than me. #

• 12:21 Made Chooch scrambled eggs. Luckily, I got the serving with the shell. #
• 12:28 Chooch and I have been spending too much time together. God help us before someone gets killed. #
• 12:31 Henry to Chooch: “you’re just like your mother, climbing on me to show me what’s in your mouth.” #
• 14:24 Day Three: Wanting to return my Mommy badge. #
• 17:52 Ok, Ok! UNCLE! This housewife thing is for the birds. Oh shit, I need a job bad. #
• 20:25 My warden is running around chanting “chicken blood asshole” and laughing like Pee Wee Herman with a demon spirit up his ass. SOS. #
• 20:33 Its not a raisin, its an eraser, and it doesn’t work on pen!!!! ARGH someone slap me in the face!!!!!!! Crazytrain!!!!!! #
• 20:49 Was foolish to think the hardest part of this would be cooking dinner, when its actually the single-parenting. I surrender. #
• 20:54 Aaaaand a wet washcloth just bounced off my face. #
• 20:54 But then he says “aw mommy’s so cute” so how can I be mad?? Omg mindfuck. #
• 23:41 About to drunkrope. Jumpdrunk. Forget it. #

• 12:01 Chooch wants to be a pail of pee for next Halloween. Awesome. #
• 17:10 Forcing my “Annie” obsession upon Chooch. He’s not impressed. But he hasn’t seen Punjab yet. #
• 17:12 Could be that I’m singing loudly to all the songs. Chooch hates my theatrical warbling. He keeps saying “what’s THAT boy?” about Annie. #
• 17:18 Now hopefully my orphanage threat will have greater impact on Chooch. Except it probably looks fun to him. “Backflips on the bed? COOL!” #
• 19:03 twitpic.com/1ktan – Quietly watching Lost Boys. FOR NOW. #
• 19:59 I am so far over my minutes this month, it’s nauseating. I’m not cool enough to be part of the Verizon club, though. #
• 20:01 I forget what Henry looks like. #
• 20:02 But a quick perusal of the Megan”s Law website helped me remember. #

• 10:22 Why is french toast so hard to make? I’m so glad Henry isn’t here to witness this. #
• 10:25 This french toast tastes like no other. I hope chooch doesn’t remember it because living with a french toast aversion would be terrible. #
• 10:25 Also, I hope we don’t die from this. #
• 10:27 Something about this is very wrong. #
• 10:40 What good is a recipe if it doesn’t work? Because I’m sure my failure had NOTHING to do with me. #
• 10:56 Henry’s home, inspecting my french toast. He just asked if I even cooked it, then sniffed the kitchen. “U caught it on fire, didn’t you?” #

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When you invited me to your party, I had no idea what to do. Everyone knows you have it all: flashy car, secret cave full of jewels, world’s most extensive collection of ’70s superstar ‘staches, and a flourishing ant farm.

So on my way to your party, I thought about all these things that you have. I thought about the inevitable Cartier watch you’ll get from your parents, the mink coat from your grandmother, and the 40-carat ring from your boyfriend.

I could have picked you some fresh flowers, but you have your own florist. I could have written you a poem, but entire tomes of flowering prose have been published in your honor. I could have given you my heart, but I did that for your thirteenth birthday. So I pulled this star down from the sky. I hope you like it because it burned the shit out of my hands.

It is the end of Day Three: Henry’s Working Two Jobs Now.

I won’t try and be all courageous on your shit, saying that it’s all been fucking swell. It hasn’t. It has been really fucking stressful.

I know that there are people out there who do this shit every goddamn day of their lives and I feel like starting up a charity foundation in their honor because Jesus Fucking Shit-Packing Christ, these are some hard ass, arduous days. Right now I’m a little tanked on wine, I won’t kid.

Chooch is just —I mean, he’s my fucking kid, I love him, but good goddamn, one of us isn’t going to survive this. And I’m pretty sure that someone is me. I am laughing sardonically at myself for spending all this time fretting about the fact that I might have to actually boil a pot of water, when meanwhile, it’s the child-rearing that has me digging a grave.

This kid is going to kill me. He thinks he’s going to walk all over me, but he forgets that I bore him. He and I? We share the same stubborn gene. And we go round and round, we do.

Tonight, I decided to conpile a list of synonyms for “crazy.” I only made it as far as “loco” before being distracted by a ruddy-cheeked hooligan charging through the room growling “chicken blood asshole,” a not so cute and whimsical departure from the semi-adorable “cookie cake asshole.”

THE WEEK IS HALF OVER NOW GIVE ME SOME TEQUILA AND A STRIPPER.Oh, and a job-thing.

When Nedermier saw his ex-girlfriend at the Noodle Barn, feeding her new boyfriend lo mein off her acrylic nails, he felt a strong antipathy toward them both.

————-

My Vocab Series kind of caught on, so I started making some on the wooden plaques I’ve been using for the bathroom marker series. I like them because they’re small and compact and can be hung in odd areas where a regular canvas would be too bulky to fit. And besides, they’re really fun to make, which is good since I have all the time in the world now.

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 18:40 I just learned the words to Patty Cake. Yeah, I know. #
• 18:49 Hardest phone call I ever had to make. #
• 21:47 Niffer pretended to use bananas as telephones and because I am 6, it made my day #
• 06:14 It is frightening how little my family cares about my son. #
• 09:31 Ugh FUCK YOU, REO SPEEDWAGON. #
• 17:13 Henry is like my fucking Life Coach 4 realz0rz. And then Chooch spouts off wise gems like “Be friends with her! Asshole.” #
• 17:19 Chooch is tantruming because I suggested he get a tattoo that says “I like to cuddle with Mommy.” #
• 19.17 I want to flick my kid but I can’t reach him and its frustrating.

• 11:01 I feel mathematical today. I’m going to go measure things with my thumb.
• 16:41 NOT a good day to be hearing the Juliana Theory.
• 17:04 http://twitpic.com/1h166 – And ppl wonder why I hate rivers. It looks diseased right now. Shit I almost puked.
• 17:06 My manager asked me to work tonight. I hope they realize that the one they let go was the most reliable. This is awkward.

• 11:02 I love Henry and all but shit, that guy can fuck up a pot of coffee.
• 13:52 Having lunch at Mad Mex with my Valentine. And Henry.
• 13:59  http://twitpic.com/1hm8f – You’ll poke ur eye out, kid.
• 14:36 My fucking Valentine won’t share his ice cream and brownie with me. Typical man.
• 14:44 http://twitpic.com/1hnin – SELFISH.
• 15:03 http://twitpic.com/1ho2p – Pine cones have never been so funny. (Just to me, obv.)
• 16:11 Me: “Maybe I’m just a slut.” Henry: “Well, we knew that already.”
• 16:13 Chooch wanted a pine cone by our car so Henry was rummaging around on the ground by a dumpster & the image was so hilarious to me.
• 16:14 “Look at that gay man, collecting pine cones by the dumpster to stick up his ass.” I’m having a giggle fit & chooch told me to calm down.
• 17:08 I only want to get married so I can include something about “piercing my veil” in my vows. Then I can die after that.
• 20:44 Thank god for: 1. Tax refunds 2. Chooch the Deductible 3. Henry getting a second job.
• 21:38 Oh, Penguins. :(
• 23:54 Don’t call me peanut.
  

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• 12:43 I’m excited to be seeing Alisha today! And by seeing I mean hanging out, not spying on her from behind a tree. That’s tomorrow.
• 17:21 That was the best grilled cheese. For a myriad of reasons. #
• 21:05 twitpic.com/1ikuv – The only cat stupid enough to hang around Chooch. #
• 21:27 Watching Amazing Love Stories on TLC. Yeah, that’s a swell idea. Perhaps next I’ll swim in sewage. #
• 01:03 There are some people who give me chestpains. I hate those people. #
• 11:09 If I don’t get to see Pierce the Veil again soon, my inner teen will explode. #
• 13:40 Henry just said “Chooch will take care of you” after I panicked for the 5326th time today. The sad part is that its probably true. #
• 13:53 twitpic.com/1iweh – Listening to the Cure, like your typical toddler does. #
• 14:04 He’s leaving for his second job and I’m waaaaailing!!!!! If I had a little less respect, I’d have grabbed him by the ankle. #

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Something wonderful and terrible happened all at once: Henry got a second job. He starts today, at 3 and won’t be home until 11. This is awesome because hello, we need the money; but it’s tragic because it means I have to cook dinner for Chooch and myself EVERY NIGHT NOW.

I don’t know how to cook, remember? Not only that, but I don’t LIKE to cook.

I told Henry, “Son, you better do like all those good working mommies do and start freezing some shit.” So last night, he toiled away over a big cauldron and before I knew it, the fridge was stocked with small plastic containers of soup. “This should get you through until at least Wednesday,” he said, and I could tell by the way his voice was strained that he’s worried about this too, like he’s going to come home one night and find Chooch and I in an emaciated heap by the corner, being pissed on by cats mistaking us for rugs.

“I’ll freeze some spaghetti sauce, too,” he said on second thought, coming back from whatever faraway vision of horror he was screening.

When he came home from his first job today, he was in the kitchen stocking up the salad bowl for me. I came up behind him, gave him a desperate hug and whispered, “It’s like, the end of an era.”

“WHAT era?” he asked. The era of home-cooked meals, Henry.

The era of not having to touch the stove, ever.

Oh my shit, I’m going to miss that fucking man.

I can make cheese sandwiches (not grilled cheeses, though; that’s one step up from the three-year-old skill level I currently maintain), sometimes pasta but that’s pretty inconsistent, mac n cheese but Henry worries about the nutritional value when I get “creative” with it, and scrambled eggs but Henry worries that I will poison Chooch. I feel like there’s something else I can make but I can’t think.

Basically:

1. anything that can be cooked in the microwave
2. anything that can be toasted
3. anything that is ready to serve straight from a box
4. anything that doesn’t require SLICING
5. take out, though I’ve been known to fuck that up too on occasion

So, what I’m asking is for good, nutritionous and EASY (read: Erin-proof) recipes that I can confidently prepare for Chooch and myself. I don’t eat meat so I don’t know how to cook that shit. Please help.

And if anyone local feels like showing up on my doorstep with a crock pot full of vegetables, hope, and a grandmother’s love, I might be inclined to invite you in.

Chooch, looking forlorn at McDonald’s, moments before he befriended an autistic boy whom he dubbed “Hey Kid.”

When I was growing up, we weren’t a McDonald’s family (and the audience yells, “Then how’d ya get so fat, Erin?”). We’d go occasionally, but never actually eat inside. However, now that I’m a parent, I still don’t endorse the place but we do take Chooch there occasionally in the winter just so he can play with other kids. (Otherwise, his only play mate is his sixteen year old brother and that always starts out well but then Blake gets carried away and teases him mercilessly. Like an older brother should, in fact.)

It’s exciting for me to watch my kid interact with others, since he isn’t really around children his own age very much. (Alarmingly, I am usually the only parent who seems aware of what’s going on. One time, there was an againg wigger-dad who texted the whole time, only stopping to shout things like, “Get your ass over here and eat this!”)

The intricacies of child-interaction are pretty amazing to me, like being in the monkey house at the zoo. Interestingly, the older kids always seem to take him in under their wings, and they’ll even wait for him to catch up. When we were there last week, Chooch honestly had his own crew. He fucking ran that place and it was amazing to watch. He’s eithe rgoing to grow up to be a politician or a Blood kingpin.

I wasn’t like that as a kid. I always stuck around the adults, too shy to join a group of kids who had already established a clique. But not Chooch; shit, he dives right on it. And god only knows what goes on in those mysterious Playland tubes and tunnels, because at one point some small girl with a babydoll approached Chooch and yelled, “And don’t you hit me again, baby!” to which Chooch responded by laughing riotously in her face. You beat those bitches, son.

Thankfully, he stayed clear of the children who belonged to the table of washed-up strippers. One of the daughters was around 8 and totally not wearing any underwear, I fucking swear to shit. She’d bend over and her entire crack was smiling for all the see. Henry’s sister thought I was exaggerating, but later she goes, “Oh. Oh god. I know exactly what kid you were talking about.” She seemed scarred, as she should be.