To break up the monotony of being essentially housebound all week, Janna and I took Chooch to McDonald’s last Friday night. I love Playland because, unlike Chuck E Cheese, I can actually sit and relax and have adult conversations while Chooch acts a fool up in the tubes.

Chooch has a routine at McDonald’s: he’ll crawl the course of the tubes, come down the slide, push a bitch or two, then run back to where I’m sitting in order to plug a nugget in his loud mouth like a rag in a Molotov cocktail. Janna sat there and talked while I eye-flirted with the single dad sitting across from me, which made Janna roll her eyes.

A few minutes into Chooch’s reign of terror, a young boy stamped over to me and shouted, “Your kid keeps calling me a baby and I am FIVE YEARS OLD.” Chooch stood there and grinned proudly and I was like, “Oh. OK.” Then to Chooch, I mumbled with little to no conviction, “Quit calling him a baby.” Dealing with kids is not my forte. Later, that kid stole Chooch’s Spiderman, and after his grandma forced him to return it and apologize, Chooch laughed and slapped the thief’s arm which aroused chuckles in the other parents sitting nearby. The kid tried to tattle, but his grandma laughed at him, so one point scored for Team Chooch.

My pretend boyfriend and I, after making friendly eye contact and laughing at Chooch’s antics together, graduated into innocent small talk. I made sure I tweeted about it so Henry would know that I had an opportunity to upgrade.

A few minutes passed and I said to Janna, “I haven’t seen Chooch in awhile, have you?” and she realized that she hadn’t either. I knew I definitely hadn’t seen him come down the slide, so I assumed he was still up there in the tubes, but it made me nervous to see that all the other kids seemed to be running in a pack that didn’t include him. I didn’t even hear his obnoxious taunts and devilish laughs.

So I approached my pretend boyfriend’s son and I ask him if he’s seen my kid. He climbed up into the bowels of Playland, returned almost immediately and says, in a horror-stricken tone, “He’s up there and he doesn’t have no clothes on!”

My first thought was, “FUCK, Henry’s not here so now I have to actually be a fucking parent, are you goddamn kidding me.” As I began climbing up (and fuck you, McDonald’s! I kept my fucking shoes on), the little boy loudly added, “I saw your baby’s penis!” As my heart banged away in my ears, I vaguely recall hearing a small uproar of parental murmurings as they overheard this, and at that point, it might as well have been me who was naked.

I got to the top of the tower and turned around to see my son, completely fucking nude, lounging in a yellow tunnel. A group of children surrounded him on two sides, taking in impromptu Anatomy 101 with wide eyes and mouths agape. Chooch, he was just grinning away.

I’d have preferred a smaller audience for the night my son chose to announce his new lifestyle.

“Get your ass over here,” I hissed in a low whisper, and when he scrambled close enough I grabbed his arm–not so hard as to appear abusive!– and yanked him the rest of the way. Scanning the area, my heart sank as I discovered his clothes weren’t anywhere near him. A girl who appeared to be around seven or eight fetched them for me. Then she goes, “Oh, and here’s his diaper. Ew.” However, I was relieved to see there was no poop in it.

Or smeared across the tubes in Satanic shapes.

I gathered all his clothes and perched him on a ledge, angrily stuffing his head through his sweater. It was hot as hell in there and stank of dirty feet, prepubescent B.O. and stale fries, but I refused to drag him back down in his present full-frontal state. Some of the kids expressed their annoyance at my presence, and dramatically asked me to please move. I snapped on one kid and growled, “You have plenty of room to get past me, are you kidding?” Fucking children.

My favorite part, I think, was when I could hear one of the McDonald’s employees talking about the super exciting action with some of the adults. “And the mother’s up there now?” she asked. “Oh, that is just so cute! How funny!” YES, HOW FUCKING CUTE. AND FUNNY, INDEED.

As I stuffed clothing back on his nude body, I asked Chooch why he took his clothes off, anyway.

“I wanted my socks off,” he replied nonchalantly, like it was as sensible as a salad with low-fat dressing for dinner.

Once he was decent, I made him go back down with me. Janna and my pretend boyfriend were standing there smiling, and I just lost it, totally fucking cracked up. Janna and I talked about it for a few minutes when I realized again that Chooch’s absence was lingering a little bit too long for my liking. Pretend boyfriend sent his son back in, and he came back to report, “Well, he took his shirt off. But then he put it back on.”

To his father, I laughed, “This is a new thing, apparently.” And then I defeatedly mumbled a sardonic, “Awesome.”

Right then, Chooch came shooting out of the slide with his sweater completely inside out, and you better believe I grabbed his little exhibitionist ass. I plopped him down at our table and began stuffing his little asshole feet into his shoes while he took a swig of his drink.

“I can’t like lemonade,” he announced with disgust, setting the cup back on the table.

“Oh, so now that you’re a nudist, you don’t like lemonade?” Then I tried to explain to him the virtues of  the “no shirt, no service” rule.

On our way out, some kid sitting with his parents pointed to Chooch and shouted, “That’s the kid right there! The one who took his clothes off!”

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:09 Chooch can’t like broth, he’d rather have pickles. #
• 15:58 I sort of miss the days when Ice Box was played on the radio every hour. No, really. #
• 17:36 Thank you YouTube for having lewd Dora videos for my toddler to accidentally watch. #
• 17:37 Dora picked up the phone and the infamous Alec Baldwin voicemail played. Chooch turns around and goes, “Pain in the ass?” #
• 17:46 And now he’s watching a video on how to spraypaint. The side of my house is gon’ look tight by the time he’s 5. #
• 18:55 Emarosa makes my heart feel paralyzed. If I wasn’t playing trains right now, I’d be doggy-paddling in a kiddie pool of teen angst. #
• 18:57 And also I’d probably be drunk. #
• 19:44 Oh my sweetly spanked Mussolini, my life is incomplete without Twister Hopscotch. I’m buying it & starting a league. Signups begin now. #
• 20:28 I love how startled Chooch gets watching the Pens games with me. Just doing my mommerly job by teaching him heartattack sensations. #
  

  ---

• 10:47 I wish my job was listening to music all the livelong day, and then going to shows every night. I live in the wrong city. #
• 12:35 I wonder what it feels like to have patience. Like lounging on a marshmallow cloud, I bet, as opposed to having your head in an oven. #
• 14:13 Every time chooch sees the Paramore “Decode” video, he points and goes “get ur hair like hers????”. Might as well, I’m not working. #
• 14:38 Henry said, “Chooch still needs 2 be watched @ the playground.” No shit, like I’m gonna sit w/ my back toward him & suck a weener. #
• 14:38 Henry: “if it was 5 yrs ago, u probably would.” Awesome!!!! #
• 17:42 Happy to be at the playground without any other parents. #
• 20:00 Would like to see how many times Chooch can call Alisha an asshole before she buries him. #
• 21:32 twitpic.com/20kex – Chooch is harassing 2 teen girls on the playground. He’s starting so young. #
  

  ---

• 10:43 twitpic.com/2123s – Wish I could hang him by that hair-hook. #
• 12:09 Some guy just walked by and he totally looks like a scene kid from the back, but he’s at least as old as Henry. (Read: OLD.) #
• 12:18 Me: “I love this season of the Real World.” Henry: “why? Because its childish like you?” #
• 18:17 Quick! I’m making noodles and I have olive oil. Now what do I do to make it delicious? #  
• 18:33 There is something terribly wrong about these noodles. #
• 19:55 And suddenly I feel 17 again. #
  

  ---

• 09:55 I’ve always had a particular fondness for rubber chicken nuggets. #
• 14:58 My tickets for Cold just arrived and now it seems way more real. #
• 18:54 I have so much disdain for McDonald’s. #
• 19:12 MY McDonald’s boyfriend wears a Lamb of God hat. We’re making sexy eye contact. Hi, @awoodhick. . #
• 19:26 My McDonald’s boyfriend looks like Mark Duplass in camo pants. He looked at my b00bies. Hi, @awoodhick. #
• 19:28 We just spoke. There was a verbal exchange. Wedding bells, I hear them. #
• 19:39 So I hadn’t heard from chooch for awhile and obv it was bc he was up in a Playland tower, completely nude. #
• 19:52 And my McDonald’s boyfriend’s 5yo son said, “I saw your baby’s penis.” #
• 21:04 twitpic.com/22o78 – Pre-strip show. #
• 21:35 Getting Chooch a strippers pole for his Hth birthday. (He’s going to be H years old.) #
• 22:07 Just watched Chooch piece together a two-sided puzzle for the first time in 15 minutes. Am scared. #
• 01:28 I’m drunk on wine and being the target of Henry’s and Christina’s psychoanalysis tagteam. #
• 01:44 Henry: “you’re not drunk, you’re just Erin.” #
• 01:48 AWKWARD. #
• 01:52 Christina just invited Henry to sit on her knee. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter. Now you can rest easy, knowing my (sometimes incriminating) inner-most thoughts and actions.

The Suckers:

• Janna
• Blake
• Collin
• Corey
• Kaycee
• Dyanna*
• Justin*
• Jessi*
• Bill*
• Alisha*

(* all new to the horror of my game nights.)

When I sent out the Evite for game night, I apparently excluded the words “game” and “night” from the invitation. I wondered why Blake’s RSVP was all, “Yes but will there be games?” I guess Henry probably clarified that for him, though, so he wouldn’t think he was walking into a lingerie party. Because that would probably suck for a sixteen year old dude.

So this Game Night was special because finally, after including him on every Evite, my Michigan friend Bill was finally like, “OK FINE YOU WIN” and attended, along with his lovely girlfriend Jessi. I was worried that even after spending the entire day with me, once they saw my true colors (because game night brings them out in fucking prism-style, trust) they’d be all, “Yeah, let’s never come back here. Ever. Except for those cupcakes.” But they still like me! Even after I introduced them to a crowded room as “Bill & Jessi, sometimes they talk funny.”

We started off with Catchphrase as usual because that’s the best game to get everyone acclimated with the screaming that is bound to escalate as I imbibe more and more Woodchuck. Unfortunately, my two mouthpieces – Kara & Rhonda – were unable to attend so I had to actually be a hostess and explain the game to the people who had never played it. And then I had to start it too. It was really upsetting, not having anyone to do it for me. I like it better when someone else takes the reins and I sit around lollygagging, which is something that I truly excel at.

I like this picture because that’s pretty much how Collin looked the entire eight months we worked together.

Kaycee’s default clue is usually, “Oh my God, shit. I don’t know! He’s like an actor I think!” Somehow she is always on my team and somehow, we always figure out what the fuck she’s getting at. Also, this is one of two expressions typically found on my brother’s face at game night. The other is utter boredom.

My friend Alisha and I recently reconnected and I can tell by this photo that she is supremely thrilled to be sucked back into the maddening vortex that is my pathetically retarded social gatherings. I think the last party she came to, I threw a fit during wiffle ball because Henry called me out when I was quite clearly SAFE ON FIRST but he is dumb cooze with crooked glasses and was trying to look all badass in front of his big shot friend Randy. But lookie, she came back for more!

Bill and Jessi are serious game-players. I’m surprised Bill didn’t issue tickets when people on his team fucked up (like Janna, but that’s just her nature and I think Bill realized and accepted that, so she was kind of written off as the retarded person at the institution who cuts the grass behind someone else with a mower). She even forgot to give her team a point after one round and if she had been on my team, I’d have cold-cocked her and then turned her into a drug mule.  Just throwing that out there.

I can’t remember what Blake was trying to describe, but I remember he was super happy when Dyanna took this picture (I dumped my camera on her for the night, and she didn’t seem to mind, but that  unfortunately means that there is only like, one picture with her in it, shit). If it was just me and Blake on a team, we’d have won. Unfortunately we were saddled with Collin and he can bring down even the best team.

I covet Blake’s scarf.

After Catchphrase, Alisha cried uncle as she ran out the door so we switched to Apples and Apples, which Jessi explained so I could sit back and stew in my drunkeness. Henry didn’t play at all, he just stood there wearing a DARE shirt that I bought off some man at a gas station last year because I felt bad for him. I feel like this shirt gave Henry some unwritten license to puff out his chest all night and it was really kind of making me sick. Every time someone arrived that night, I would make the proper introductions and then slip in a, “Look at how gay Henry’s shirt is” to which he would haughtily mumble, “It was the only clean shirt I had.” I really wish he had worn his Vietnam belt buckle with it.

I think this was the first time anyone had played Apples to Apples, and naturally I won. There was no competition, I was practically playing alone. (Like when I play Boggle.) But I particularly enjoyed playing judge. It made me feel powerful, like I could smite the entire room with a bolt of cyborg semen from my metal-ensconced fist. Which I don’t really have, by the way, but now I feel I need to. Dyanna totally kept trying to make me cheat for her. She’s a sneaky one, that girl.

After two or three rounds, much to Collin’s chagrin, we dusted off good old Scattergories. Everyone had to pair up, and Blake immediately sidled on over to me and I’ll tell you why: It’s because I’m a winner and if you want to win, you join forces with the masteress of win. Henry was a little disturbed at the answers we came up with and reminded me after everyone had left that Blake is only sixteen and I shouldn’t be answering movie title categories with Candy Can’t Cum or putting “candied cunts” as a disease (when meanwhile Henry was finishing that thought with, “now that’s a disease I’D like to treat.”) Then he mumbled something about how annoying it is when Blake and I are together because suddenly I’m sixteen too, and I go, “Well, maybe it’s more that Blake is 29, too.”

After a fleeting pause Henry reiterated, “No, you’re sixteen.”

Bill mentioned the next day that there came a point when he was less concerned with winning and more amused by Collin’s visible agitation with my answers.

I think everyone officially left around 1:30am or so, and I sure hope Dyanna’s boyfriend Justin doesn’t think I’m a complete loudmouthed lunatic. I only yelled, “FUCK YOU” once out the window to random bypassers.

This is what I’ve been contending with every single night. Capn’ Cusspants of the Shit-Eating Grin Clan.

I’m not going to lie– he scares me sometimes.

Since last weekend was all about cucpakes and game night, I find it apropos to repost an old LiveJournal post about the same subjects. And hopefully sometime Capn’ Cusspants will let Mommy have a fucking minute to sit down and write about the recent game night. If not, Doctor Nyquil might have to make an appearance. (KIDDING.)

Originally posted January 21, 2007

 Bathing in a tub of warmed pistachio pudding with buoyant sponge caked-rubber duckies.

These are the sensations I imagined would wash over me while I tackled the cupcakes last week. I did not feel any of these things. Instead, I felt tired, bored, agitated. All the things I normally feel when spending time with Henry.

First, he quickly talked me out of the “from scratch” mindset and set me free in the baking aisle of Giant Eagle, where I bought three boxes of cake mix and decorative thingies and neon food coloring. There was so much more I wanted to buy but I don’t know where to go to get the good baking stuff. I wanted to encrust my cakes with edible diamonds and sugared seaweed, but time was fleeting.

My cupcake-baking enthusiasm quickly waned as I struggled to mix the batter, but interest was regained when Henry took the blending-reins and set me free with a kitchen-full of ingredients to plop into each pocket. He lingered close-by, though, to make sure that everything I used was edible. Just because I had hoped to fill the innards with mud, grass, thumb tacks and soiled baby wipes, I guess. Henry was disgusted and even remarked that I have the audacity to wonder why I can’t keep friends. And here I thought it was because of my wicked mood swings and inability to trust!

Here is what I learned:

• Cheerios shrivel and get very hard when baked
• Fruit snacks don’t melt; they still stick to your teeth even after being baked into batter
• Fistfuls of marshmallows should not be allowed inside a cupcake because then Henry has to use a knife to cut the finished product out of the pan. And then your guests think that one was nibbled on by your cats. And then you feel like shit because people think your house is unsanitary and they start holding cupcakes up to the light to inspect further.
  
• Maraschino cherry sauce sinks and congeals at the bottom for a bloody good-looking finished product
• Janna will eat her weight in cupcakes flavored with blueberry preserves, and won’t even notice that a well-concealed olive is awaiting her beneath a cap of green icing
• Chopped dates blend into cake batter and come out the other end of the baking process undetected. Seriously, who ate the one with the dates? No one knows
• When Henry urges me to only fill each baking cup halfway, I should listen

The next morning, Henry and I stood in the kitchen staring at two dozen un-iced cupcakes. We marveled over their non-uniformity and I grabbed the next box of mix.

“Whoa! Oh no. You are not making anymore. Are we looking at the same cupcakes here? You got two dozen disgusting cupcakes sitting here and let me tell you something: once your little friends find out what’s in them, ain’t no one going to be eating them. We don’t need any more cupcakes going to waste.”

I was enraged, yet relieved. Baking is tiring business, you guys. It’s not fun like it looks like on TV. I couldn’t even read the directions on my own. I tried, but words blended together and it started to look like a word problem which angered me because numbers just don’t belong in sentences with words because it makes my brain seize up a little. But I ate a lot (a lot) of batter and felt like it might have been my last day on earth.

So instead of boarding the baking train, we (read: Henry) whipped up some butter cream icing which was then separated into several bowls so I could get all Picasso with my food coloring.

“Just put like, two drops in,” Henry advised as I meat-fisted the small vial and sent at least fifteen droplets splattering into the icing.

We made purple (regular flavored), pink (amaretto), lime (almond), blue (marshmallow) and then I got bored and ditched Henry. He used this quiet time to concoct his own icing: bright green flavored with a hint of red pepper, which left a pleasant warmth in the mouth. It was my favorite, but none of the game night attendees noticed and had to be told what was happening. Sometimes I wonder if Janna’s mommy has to accompany her to the potty since Janna seems to need dialogue added to her every action.

“Now you’re passing a corn-studded turd through your anus. Here it comes! Plunk! That was the sound of it dropping into the toilet water! Now wipe yourself good, Janna. Front to back!”

Honestly. She probably didn’t notice the olive because I wasn’t giving her a play-by-play.

After I finished slathering my disfigured cupcakes, it was finally time to decorate them! Except that I didn’t give a shit anymore! I half-heartedly dusted each one with sprinkles and plopped a cherry on some of them. I was kind of over it. I mustered enough energy to impale two of them with toothpicks in order to create a two-story cupcake shanty.

It’s a shame really, because I had big plans of desecrating each iced dome with obscenities and unmentionables and maybe even using a piping bag to scrawl out some of Janna’s dirty secrets, but my belly ached from the fingerfuls of icing I had scooped out–behind Henry’s back–and jammed into the back of my throat like an orphan eating porridge. (I’ve been obsessed with porridge all weekend.)

I guess baking wasn’t the worst thing for me to find out I don’t mesh with. It could have been something dangerous, like knife-fighting. (Which isn’t to say that’s not a hobby I’ve flirted with in my head.)

For some reason, my guests actually ate all but five or six, forcing Henry to eat his words. There were several murmurings of “What is that sticking to my tooth?” but I really think that Henry’s delicious icing (ugh) overpowered my misuse of creative baking license.

Granted, two of my guests were stoned, but hey–I’ll take it.

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

• 18:51 Henry proudly announced that he OWNS A BOOK. My mind, its blown. #
• 19:40 Chooch just ate butter dipped in melted chocolate ice cream and said “mmm that’s good butter.” #
• 20:39 Some guy at Oh Yeah convinced me to force down a bottle of Synergy, which includes strands of live culture. He said he believes in me. #
• 20:22 The good thing is that when I puke back into this bottle, the juice will still taste the same. #
• 20:16 I give it an hour before separation anxiety kicks in. #
• 15:03 twitpic.com/1xsl9 – It’s been 4 hrs & I’m still drinking this shit. It promises to regenerate so hopefully tmrw I’ll have an auxiliary vagina on my cheek  #
• 17:14 OH YEAH I FINISHED THAT SHIT. Waiting for a glowing third nipple to sprout. #
• 21:08 Am I the only one Twitter is discriminating against today? #
• 22:57 Chooch is currently working three puzzles at once. #
• 00:36 Spit in Henry’s mouth and almost peed on his weener. #
• 01:12 Yay all my tweets from 8 hrs ago are coming in now in random order. #
•  01:34 All of my meals today have consisted of sugar, fat, and dips. #
  

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• 12:44 Operation Kitchen Facelift is underway! Henry is putting together shelves and I suggested we also paint the walls. His reply was mumbled. #
• 12:49 I really want to hang up actual food porn on the walls but I have a feeling Henry might use his big gun veto powers on that one. #
• 12:51 Like, a picture of a bratwurst penetrating a roasted chicken. (I know, sometimes my vegetarianism is so blatant.) #
• 13:20 Chooch: “daddy’s awesome” Me: “what am i?” Chooch: “asshole bitch.” #
• 14:34 Just pointed out a robin to Chooch & he goes “where’s the Batman bird?” #
• 17:10 Janna just took Damien, I mean Chooch, for a walk to prevent me from killing him. #
• 19:03 Crabapple in the hizzy! #
• 22:44 Here’s hoping this annoying night comes to an end soon! Ideally by a noose tightening around my neck, but I guess bedtime would suffice. #
  

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• 00:37 I enjoy being a boxing ring for cats and I don’t think that’s weird at all. #
• 00:48 @Bed_In_Revolt I’m hoping there was enough crack in them to lure you guys back! #
• 00:49 Whoever thought I’d agree with Tom Green. #
• 11:30 My kitchen is almost to the point where people can enter it & I won’t combust with embarrassment! Now I just need to paint it purple/green. #
• 11:30 and by that I clearly mean Henry will paint it. #
• 11:34 @dartfaerie OK! And I will take a Vic Fuentes from Pierce the Veil! #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter. Now you can rest easy, knowing my (sometimes incriminating) inner-most thoughts and actions.

So Twitter was being a gayblade and holding tweets hostage all weekend, then squirting them out in random order. I tried to re-order them  so they make sense, but I didn’t bother fixing the time stamps.

The adults on the street got all atwitter anytime he stepped out of his house.

“There he is, it’s Filthy Frank,” they’d whisper in clandestine tones, the women instinctively shielding their breasts with folded arms.

But the kids, they didn’t get it.

“Frank doesn’t look filthy to me,” the Steeple’s son said one day.

“I know! My arms and hands have layers of grit on top of streaks of dried mucous, and no one calls ME filthy,” the ripe son of the Mooneys added.

But what the neighborhood kids were too young to realize was that there are several definitions of “filthy.” And Frank was the sort of “filthy” who invented variations of the Dirty Sanchez while on a bathroom break at the Adult Bookstore and waved to their mommies in special ways when no one was looking.

Hung out with these freaks all weekend. I’ve known Bill there for about five years now, thanks to LiveJournal. In Internet years, that’s pretty much long enough to qualify for kidney donorship. He lives out near Chiodostown (i.e. Detroit, and I swear that’s not the only reason I like him) but we’ve never met in person until this weekend. And not to take anything away from Bill,  but recently I started talking to his girlfriend Jessi and she is just the total package of awesome, smart, pretty and fun, professionally wrapped with those curly ribbons that I always end up shredding when I try to curl them myself. Luckily, I kept my scissor blades away from her.

Chooch is absolutely obsessed with them, thanks to Bill giving him piggy back rides, Jessi allowing him to punch her boob so long as he prefaced it with “Give me my money”, and the fact that they brought him a puzzle, a Mr. Noisy book (apropos) and a Benjamin Franklin book (seriously, the kid really likes him).

However, about an hour after they left today, Chooch seemed in a zone. I assume he was having some sort of sentimental montage of the weekend, because he adoringly cooed, “Bill and Jessi…” but then he followed it up with, “Ha-ha, those assholes.”

I couldn’t have been happier with how much fun and comfortable it was with them. And we spent A LOT of time together! And not once did I feel smothered or bored or agitated, not even when Bill carelessly let a REALLY HEAVY wooden door slam into me. Not even when they dragged me into a STEELERS MEMORABILIA store. (You know I like a bitch when I suffer through a claustrophobic tomb of Sixburgh t-shirts, as I did the last time they won the SuperGayBowl and my good friend Alyson came to visit and wanted swag. Sometimes it is exhausting being such a great friend.)

(I hope you know my tongue is in my cheek right now.)

There are more stories to come featuring these guys. And then hopefully even more after that, since I begged them to move to Pittsburgh and naturally that means they’ll be quitting their jobs this week.

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

• 18:36 Janna’s asking me questions about a gyro platter from a local pizza place. Because like all good vegetarians, I eat the fuck out of gyros. #
• 08:31 I feel like I could die without a Bugville Butterfly Treehouse. #
• 14:59 Cut Chooch a square of bubble wrap and now all is quiet. Well, all except for the subtle pops of air and plastic. And that I’ll take. #
• 17:36 When asked if he liked his life, Chooch said no. #
• 17:44 I pretended like the apple juice Chooch is drinking is mine and he goes “No! You go drink wine.” Wonderful. #
• 18:24 Soon I’ll be meeting @bed_in_revolt and @daboogmang for the first time and I’m trying not to pee my pants. But maybe they’d like that? #
• 22:00 Chooch lured @daboogmang under the dining room table. #
• 22:41 Bill taught Chooch to say “don’t be an asshole, go to McDonald’s.” #

• 10:11 I was promised a trip to the bait shop today and I swear to god I couldn’t sleep last night like it was fucking Xmas Eve. #
• 13:51 Hello on the way to the bait shop. BUTTERFLIES!!!!! #
• 14:05 Shortest interview ever. Bait shop is no longer in business. #
• 14:26 Dear @awoodhick, plz to be waking up. U is be ruinin’ mama’s planz0rz. #
• 13:51 Hello on the way to the bait shop. BUTTERFLIES!!!!! #
• 14:05 Shortest interview ever. Bait shop is no longer in business. #
• 14:26 Dear @awoodhick, plz to be waking up. U is be ruinin’ mama’s planz0rz. #
• 14:46 Bill just saw Heinz Stadium and I’m afraid his seat may be wet now. #
• 15:17 I JUST SPOKE TO THE SUGAR FAIRY AND IM SHAKING NOW. #
• 15:24 twitpic.com/1wv98 – *##*!!!!???#* OMG. #
• 15:29 Bill just pissed off a bunch of ppl by purchasing the last of the cupcakes. #
• 15:49 Agony is riding in a van with a dozen cupcakes and not swan-diving into the box. This restraint should get me into Heaven. #
• 16:01 Yes Bill, the Incline is a house moving up and down the hill. #
• 16:03 I thought Bill was protecting Jessi from crashing through the windshield, but it was actually the cupcakes he was lifeguarding. #
• 16:14 Was forced to enter a store called Steelers Country and I might puke. Bill’s lucky he bought me cupcakes. #
• 16:21 Someone honestly just said God bless the Steelers. #
• 16:28 Yes, Huey Lewis is the perfect music to be played in this store. #
• 16:44 Bill just dubbed some white trash woman’s hairstyle a “corn mullet” because it was corn-mazed on top and long in the back. #
• 16:47 twitpic.com/1wyt4 – Jessi has securely buckled in the cupcakes. #
• 17:29 u’d think we never bought beer b4 by the way Bill hit me with a door upon entering a bar, like he was nervous to show his fake ID. #
• 22:15 Game Night is ridic. Chooch is winning. #
• 22:36 Its not officially Game Night until someone throws up in their mouth. #
• 22:43 twitpic.com/1xas9 – Game Night up in the dirty asshole of Hell. #
• 23:24 Someone outside walked past and said fuck you so I retaliated and Henry chastised me that fucking pacifist. FUCK. #
• 23:42 Me: “I almost just fell.” Collin: “Off a chair that’s enveloping you?” #
• 23:47 @dyannnnna and her boyfriend Justin went to the bathroom together!!!! And Blake has a scarf!!!! #
• 23:55 twitpic.com/1xcnj – We’re all on drugs here. #
• 00:45 @dyannnnna snorts a lot. #
• 07:27 We are playing scattergories right now and Collin is so agitated. Itchy Crotch as term of endearment was just vetoed but secretly we win. #

• 11:26 I want to open a scene shelter at my house where all the scene kids can seek refuge when their parents are being gay. #
• 12:51 twitpic.com/1xohe – Wish Henry would play chess with me!!!! #

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“Daddy’s home!” Chooch cried from the window yesterday. I looked out and sure enough, there was Henry, parked across the street in the lot. The driver’s side window was cracked open, and he appeared to be talking on the phone. He’ll do that sometimes, hide in the quiet sanctity of the car while on the phone in lieu of walking into the Killing Fields, aka Home.

I opened the window for Chooch to protrude his cantaloped head, at which time he began hollering, “Daddy! Daddy’s a dumbass!” causing entire voleries of birds to fly away in horror. Because I’m five-years-old, this seemed like a fun way to waste time, so I joined him. Along with the heckling, I brought to the table an impressive scale of operatic screams. And then Chooch outshone me by screeching, “MAGGOTS MICHAEL!” over and over. In addition to Henry’s, we caused quite a few people to whip their heads in our direction.

This went on without relent for a good fifteen minutes, and every time Henry would turn his face toward us, we would laugh even harder.

“I bet Daddy is SO PISSED,” I laughed, elbowing Chooch.

“Don’t elbow me! I can’t like that,” Chooch whined, adding some devil eyes for impact. (Chooch never says he doesn’t like something, it’s always that he CAN’T like it.

)

Then he threw his pacifier out the window, which caused him to cheer and clap before realizing the severity of the situation. I assured him that Henry would be off the phone anytime now and that he would get it, because Mommy didn’t have her shoes on.

But then another ten minutes passed and I’m starting to think, “What the fuck, who is he talking to out there?

” First I’m annoyed, but then all kinds of hypothetical horrors begin to cross my mind, all of which involve his ex-wife. Especially since he kept making hostile hand movements and he only does that while on the phone with her. (Probably me too, but obviously I can’t witness that.)  Meanwhile, Chooch had remembered that he tossed his paci out for the birds and commanded that  I go and get  my shoes on.

I made a big production of going outside for paci-retrieval, picking it up and thrusting it in the direction of Henry, silently miming, “Fuck you, I saved the day for Chooch, you worthless father!” There I was, standing in the front yard, wearing green capri sweatpants, green and white striped knee-highs and green tennis shoes. And a shirt, don’t worry, my boobs were clothed. I’m standing out there, looking like the tallest Leprechaun, commemorating my annoyance for Henry with a puppet show of universal lewd gesticulations and bellowing “GET OFF THE PHONE, DOUCHEBARREL!”

Ew, I was so pissed that he was just SITTING THERE on the phone that whole time, when he should have been in the house spending what little free time he has with Chooch. And making me lunch.

I called him, and of course he didn’t click over. I thought to myself that he had better be on the phone with a jeweler ironing out details of a blood-infused diamond ring if he wanted his balls to remain un-thumbtacked.

I was about to go outside and storm the car, grab my battering ram on the way out, but I knew there was no way Chooch would stay in the house and wait for me. You got lucky this time Henry, I thought with a scowl.

And then, I don’t know what happened. Something must have distracted me because Chooch and I left our post at the window and moved on to other things. Which probably means iCarly was on.

Somewhere around twenty minutes later, Chooch yelled, “Daddy!” again. I looked out in time to see Henry pulling out of the lot. I figured he was going to pull into the driveway, probably he brought some cases of beverage home from work for us. So Chooch and I are smashed against the door, jumping around like assholes and shouting, when Henry drove right past the house.

Chooch immediately burst into tears. But I made eye contact just long enough to realize that it wasn’t Henry after all. We had spent the better part of an hour harrassing a perfect stranger. A perfect stranger who will probably never again park across from my house to engage in a phone conversation.

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

• 15:42 Today I was asked where I want to be in 5 yrs and immediately I pictured myself draped across a baby grand. #
• 20:02 Chooch is playing his toy piano while watching the Cure’s Greatest Hits DVD. The Forest came on & he pretended like he was stroking out. #
  

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• 14:32 Maybe if Henry gets a THIRD job he’ll have less time to urinate all over the bathroom floor. #
• 15:03 I want to make something with fake bacon and maraschino cherries. Tarts? Cupcakes? Chowder? #
• 17:29 I’m going to turn into a noodle. Its the only food I only fuck up 75% of the time. #
• 17:47 Surely there’s a way to turn bread into a cookie. #
• 09:59 Chooch is on a Benjamin Franklin kick. He makes me Google images of him, and then giggles, “Oh, Ben Franklin.” #
  

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• 15:17 ESPN, blowin’ up my shit with all the tradin’. #
•  16:21 Chooch is at the window, waiting for pizza that hasn’t been ordered yet. #
• 17:44 Someone plz teach my kid how to take turns. What? That’s MY job? Oh. I quit. #
• 21:31 Just enjoyed a mini fireworks display in the microwave. Thanks, non-microwavable SueBee honey bottle! #
• 22:41 Watching Who Framed Roger Rabbit and wanting desperately to play it on old school Nintendo. #
  

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• 03:34 The things that keep me up @ night: not past due bills, but “I hope I can make that show in Cleveland”. Priorities are 4 suckers. #
• 09:03 I like the Fray and I don’t care. I also like the Pussycat Dolls, so eat that, indie cred. #
• 13:06 Spent about an hour harrassing some guy across the street whom I assumed was Henry. It was not. #
• 13:31 Today is a day full of really super awesome information. And I’m eating a good salad on top of it all. Literally, eating on a pile of info. #

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The day was sunny, with a breeze just strong enough to blow back long locks and whip skirts around knee caps.
Monty and his mother were out in the park, eating mustard and lemon curd sandwiches and flicking raisins to the stray children lingering near a see-saw.

Monty loved his mother.  He thought she was the epitome of femininity, with her tautly coiled pin-curls, high-heels that made her legs soar to the heavens like a pair of nylon’d beanstalks, and perfectly starched floral a-line dresses. He loved bringing home kids from school so they could see how much better his mother was, with well-placed smudges of flour layered delicately upon her rouge cheekbones,  reminding everyone that she was the state champion in zucchini bread-baking while the rest of the mommies could barely toast a slice of bread without exploding their crack den. Monty would  secretly smirk knowing those downtrodden kids would go home later to their river rat mommies who barked out obscenities in a smoker’s croak and left dime store lipstick prints on their chipped mugs of Sanka.

“Go get the frisbee from the car, Monty!” his mother sang out, smoothing out the back of her tulip’d skirt as she stood.

Just then, a vigorous gust of wind blew through the meadow, pummeling his mother’s skirt into her face.

The kids by the see-saw burst into a taunting orchestra as Monty learned that his mother was not quite a woman after all.

Here. Enjoy an old LiveJournal entry while I continue digging my grave. Thanks.

Where Erin Finally Gets Her Breakdown

Originally posted August 6, 2007

For my birthday, I made the four-and-a-half hour trek to Cincinnati, where I got out some of my teenage angst at Warped Tour with my best friend Christina. I left Ohio the next morning with plenty of time to get home, chill for an hour or so, and then go to work. With the Pennsylvania border nearly in sight, my asshole car decided to curiously stop accelerating, no matter how loud I childishly shrieked while stomping on the pedal. A few more rounds of that, and I’d have been Flinstone’in it.

Even curious-er, the warning lights on the dash, each and every last one, began lighting up and blinking like an arcade game. Before my common sense had a chance to wallop my crown with a mallet, I took it upon myself to ease the car off the highway and onto the shoulder, where I then bashed in the button for the flasher with the heel of my hand.

First I laughed, because of course I would break down. Of course. Why not? The laughter was cut off by shock. I stared straight ahead, mouth agape, and reached for my phone without blinking. I dialed Henry. As soon as he answered, the tears flowed freely.

“No you did not. Nuh uh,” he stammered. I was surprised he could even hear me without having a dog translate. While waiting for him to say the magic words to make the car miraculously re-start, I became unnervingly aware that I was unable to pull off as far as I probably should have to avoid impending vehicular manslaughter. Each semi that passed sent the car rocking and swaying perilously. Even smaller trucks and cars made their presence known as they barrelled by. I considered exiting the car and stepping back to safety, but then my suicidal tendencies rose to the occasion and I screamed out loud, “Hit me! Come on, hit me! I welcome it! My flesh begs to become one with the road!”

I then sent my pal Lauren a suicide-drenched text message, to which she promptly responded via real time phone call. She suggested I try to push the car further back onto the shoulder and I started whining about not wanting to defile the white shorts I was wearing and as my luck goes, my period would probably burst through the gates, like Old Faithful looking festive for Valentine’s Day, leaving me to moon all the lewd truck drivers with a sanguine bull’s eye.

Because of course I’d be wearing white shorts that day. Better than the latex sundress with the human hair fringe, I suppose.

I sat there in the ninety-degree heat for about an hour, fluctuating between crying, kicking the tires with my flip-flopped feet, rage-dialing Henry, and happily rifling through my Warped Tour swag; it was a very Sybil roadside display.

Toward the tail end of my towtruck wait, the heat began to make me forget the value of life and I floated away on a daydream’s wings, imagining a pair of hill dwellers emerging from the woods near my car and dragging me back to their dirt mound where I would spend the rest of my life frolicking around in a frayed potato sack, guzzling moonshine with my breakfast of stranded roadside traveler’s roasted left buttock, and shootin’ at the highway patrol with a makeshift archery set.

Unfortunately, the dashing (scruffy) young (middle-aged) man (man) operating the tow truck glided to a halt in front of me, bursting my savory fantasy into shards of disappintment. Wiping away tears, I informed him that I wanted to kill myself, and, taking in my disheveled and sweat-soaked appearance, he awkwardly cleared his throat and suggested that I go sit in the truck and cool off. And that’s what I did, too; it was me, the AC, and the loud notes of Wheeling, West Virginia’s finest country music station ricocheting twangingly through the cab. The AC was on full blast and kicked around my sweaty tendrils with its icy breeze, a temporary relief until the driver entered the cab and we embarked on a ride grappled by awkward silence.

He only had to drive me about a mile or two up the highway, where he dumped me off at the Pennsylvania Welcome Center, but not before pestering me for payment that one would think Henry would have handled for his poor, stranded girlfriend (who was too busy skirting past suicide’s calcified nails), before continuing on to the Wheeling Nissan dealership. Incidently, this is where my broken carriage still sits in a heap.

I was left to maunder around the welcome center with my giant purse, bright green tote bag, and that motherfucking red Vincent Black Shadow plastic shopping bag from Warped Tour. I looked like a fucking runaway, my skin slick and oleaginous with an amalgamation of sweat, gritty dirt, and failure.  I’d have sloughed it off with a white rag, but I was too busy flying it high above my crown in surrender.

Prior to the towing, I had already called work and informed them of my plight, so they knew I would be late. Standing in the middle of a tractor trailer-dominated parking lot, I glanced at my cell for a time check, which made me choke on the fact that the possibility of being late had quickly turned into a reality, and if there’s one thing that pin pricks the ulcer, it’s being late to work.

Struggling to find a proper balance with all of my bags, I staggered inside the welcome center, where I was assaulted by a throng of happy travelers, bustling to and fro like crows during a midnight scavenge.

Hooray for Pennsylvania!

Oooh, brochures!

Coffee from a vending machine; oh the wonderment!

You know that scene in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, after he discovers his bike has been stolen? And he’s skulking down a dark alley in the rain, hissing at anyone who passes? That was me in the welcome center, trying desperately to eschew the probablity that someone would mistake me for a homeless hooker and try to read me the word of the Lord. Luckily, the fusion of the aforementioned hiss and the fact that I smelled like the entire Warped Tour was rotting under my arm pits, like bodies of punks in Ed Gein’s garage, was enough to make like Moses and part the horde of smilers.

Freshening up was futile, if you consider the fact that my deoderant had melted in the heat. So my sprucing consisted of peeing like I had downed a six-pack at the rib fest, followed by several strategic water-splashes. And by strategic I mean: in my face with cupped hands, so really — not that strategic.

I passed by Vending Alley and salivated over shiny packs of HoHos and Doritos and refreshing cans of Mountain Dew and Slice, wishing I had some money and realizing that it had been a long time since cold wet beverages coursed down my gullet. Dejected, I leaned down for a squirt from the water fountain, mis-gauging the stream and getting water up my nostrils.

On my way back outside, an elderly couple stopped dead in their tracks, blocking my route to the door. Then they turned toward each other and struck up a leisurely conversation with each other. With bags slipping down my shoulders, my own body stench fluttering up my nostrils and hypothetical service station dollar signs spinning past my eyeballs, do you really think I was in the mood to watch these fucking aging yuppies, all gussied in their Eddie Bauer Senior’s Collection golf shorts and polos and holding their vending machine coffee cups with extended fingers, pause and chat like they’re sitting in a fucking jazz club?

NO. Mama was tired and angry and her fucking TOES hurt from repeatedly bending her car tires like Beckham, so get the fuck out of Mama’s way.

I utilized the universal Move IT DICKSHITTER hand motion and growled, “Come on!” which inspired them to smarten up by sidestepping and I bowled past them, muttering heart warming names like bitchcunt and AIDS-eater. Have fun at your condo on the lake, assholes.

I selected a picnic table further down from the welcome center’s hotbed of activity, and slammed all of my belongings down around me.  My friend Merry had the good fortune to call me at that exact moment, as I swiped away sweat beads from my brow and snarled at a fanny-packed lady walking her dog. It was not one of my finer telephone moments.

Thankfully, I only had to dodge eye contact for thirty minutes or so before Neighbor Chris pulled into the lot, with Henry and Chooch in tow. Chris ran into the welcome center without even waving hello to me; I assumed he had to pee really bad. Since it took them about an hour to get there (Ed. Note: it would never take me that long), Henry let Chooch out of the car seat so he could stretch his legs, and I don’t know, reunite with his mother whom he hadn’t seen in two days. When Henry pulled him out of the backseat, I was delighted to see that he looked like he had just rolled down the hills of West Virginia: his face was a collage of his meals and activities, his clothes were stained, and he was barefoot. A telltale sign of what goes on when Mommy’s out playin’.

We stood around and talked about the car, Henry being all optimistic while I was saying things like, “It’s a goner. It’s one dead motherfucker, Henry. Fuck that piece of shit, you know? Fuck it all the way in its asshole while its sucking Satan’s dong.”

I realized Chris had been gone a long time. “What, is there a spa in there that I don’t know about?” I asked disgustedly. I wanted to go home, take a cold shower, and go to work. Yes, I wanted to go to work! I welcomed the subarctic temperatures and the muted pallet of the cubicles. It’s like an eight hour massage for my brain. No bright lights, no loud noises, no Henry to fight with about the unknown state of the car.

“Oh, he’s looking for fishing maps,” Henry said, matter-of-factly.

“I’m out here half-dead, probably in need of a blood transfusion and shock therapy, and Chris is looking for fishing maps?” I yelled. We went inside to fetch him. He was really sad that he couldn’t find what he was looking for. Then Henry asked me if I had any change so he could get a drink and my inner Pazuzu nearly erupted from my mouth and skull-fucked him.

I was really hoping to do Blogathon again last summer but it was called off,  and I was bummed because I had an organization all picked out and I was ready to annoy the Internet with twenty-four hours of non-stop nonsensical drivel. I was thinking about that organization again recently and felt kind of helpless and frustrated that I’m currently unable to do as much for them as I’d like, but then I realized that there are things I can do, so I’m donating 10% of my entire sales (both Somnambulant & Appledale) for March to a great cause that hits close to the heart and that I have supported for some time now, To Write Love On Her Arms. I’m generally bitter and spiteful, but there actually are a few things I care about, can you believe it?

Please spread the word. It’s a good cause!

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

• 14:47 vagynafondue.livejournal.com/315871.html — This bitch tried to friend me on Facebook. Boy, I wish I could add her TWICE! #
• 17:11 Chooch was looking at my old LiveJournal user icons & yelled “UGH IM SCARED” before fleeing. I miss my icons. And comment parties w/ myself. #
• 17:39 Making Janna put Chooch’s car seat in her car. I wouldn’t want to break a nail. #
• 18:02 Chooch questioned my authority. Because I’m an adult, Chooch. & if I want to kill a bitch, I’m gon’ kill a bitch. #
• 19:18 Chuck E Cheese can suck it. I was in tears before we even walked in. #
• 20:25 Chooch is in the backseat, deliriously spouting off Lost Boys quotes. #
• 21:10 I believe Chooch just called his puzzle a drunk bitch. #
• 21:43 Chooch is quickly learning that Janna is a derelict who at times needs things spelled out. #
• 22:42 “Come see the monster, Mommy. Come see her. Out the window. Look at her.” NOT WHAT MOMMY WANTS TO HEAR, SON. #
• 22:57 Trying to make Henry check on the monster situation. #
  

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• 00:03 Swear I just heard Henry telling our cat Marcy to shake her blood stain. #
• 09:00 Stupidly thought about nipple amputation & now I can’t stop writhing in imagined anguish. #
  

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• 11:15 twitpic.com/1rxxd – Dyanna is spoiling me. #
• 11:16 I’m eating cashew and fig ice cream for breakfast. I might not leave this place. Ever. #
• 11:18 I feel like a country girl, going to the Big City & seeing a strip club for the first time #
• 15:11 A 3-year-old & 16-year-old are fighting in the backseat. #
• 15:15 You’re never fully dressed without a smile, @awoodhick. #
• 16:00 Found two rusty knives near a field, like fucking serendipity. #
• 16:21 OUR SONG is on right now at Denny’s but @awoodhick doesn’t care since he likes men now. #
• 16:31 twitpic.com/1s85v – This one has pee and this one has poop. #
• 17:08 Awesome. I just purse-dialed a woman who is trying to get me a job. And she already thought I was a retard prior to this. #

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