I wasn’t at my desk for more than ten minutes when I noticed the dead body.

I always do a quick sea monkey count when I get to work. There have only been four adults for the last few months now, even though two of them have been furiously fornicating off and on. Maybe it’s not hetero sex that I’ve been spectating like someone completely hard-pressed for office porn.

Anyway, today the count dropped to three. The deceased was lying in the middle of the intersection (my sea monkey tank is a miniature city), looking fragile and completely snuffed out. My heart was banging against my ribcage as I prodded it with the feeding spoon, but it only caused its limp body to ride the waves in a decidedly dead fashion.

“Hit and run?” one of my co-workers asked, and I yelled at him for making jokes. TOO SOON.

Wendy encouraged me to scoop him out. I thought it was because she was going to give him a proper burial, but it was actually because she wanted to sniff it and then taunt passing by co-workers with its dead sea carcass.

I took it off of her before she decided to get all Anthony Bourdain and eat it like its some fucking Toys R Us delicacy. On a Post-It, I laid out its dead body all nice and gently and immediately realized he or she had no name. Barb kept calling it Sea Monkey #1, so I went with that. Sorry for being generic, #1.

I displayed its body on the ledge next to my desk and promptly forgot about it. One of the analysts, Chris, came over and was talking to us. When he walked away, Wendy shouted, “It moved!”

“It’s been resurrected?” I cried excitedly, thinking I could scrape him back into the tank. But then we quickly realized that he hadn’t moved so much as been SMUDGED by Chris’s elbow when he was leaning against the ledge.

Barb said, “Well, he needs to come back here so we can examine his shirt.” She then called him at his office and told him to come back, that it was serious.

Once he found out what was going on, he was pretty annoyed.

All that remains: a tiny balled-up smudge in the upper lefthand corner.

It was absolutely horrific. It’s still sitting up there, festering in the barbaric ball Chris rolled it in like it’s nothing more than some kid’s booger, ready for a flickin’. So now when mourners come over to say goodbye and wonder why they can’t see #1 in his true, God-given form (though I’m 99% sure God had nothing to do with the creation of sea monkeys; more like some freak scientist pissing around in his mom’s basement), I have to explain over and over again the brutal act starring Chris’s Elbow.

What a way to be remembered. What a fucking way to be remembered. Goddamn.

Barb then sent out a department-wide email:

It is with deep sadness that we announce the unexpected passing of Erin Kelly’s Sea Monkey #1.

#1 will lie in state at Erin Kelly’s desk for the duration of the today and all day tomorrow. A brief memorial service will be held at 5:00 pm tomorrow for those wishing to attend.

#1 was a fabulous pet. He (she) never jumped out of his (her) container when the lid was off, a sign that he (she) was mentally stable and had no thoughts of spontaneous suicide. #1 brought pleasure and laughter to our department, and he (she) will be sorely missed.

buy neurontin online buy neurontin generic

Please stop by at some point to pay your respects to our lost friend and also to provide words of encouragement to his (her) remaining bowl mates.

RIP, #1 – we will miss you!

I can only imagine that the next step will be to slap his picture on our department Wall of Death.

Get your 40s ready, my friends.

Henry’s mom Judy babysat Chooch for us last night while we were soul skating. As soon as we came home, Judy said in a worried, apprehensive tone, “There’s something you should know.

”

Apparently, Chooch had a lovely conversation with our neighbor Toya (the Mr. Wilson to his Dennis the Menace — he is seriously all up in that woman’s grill while she’s trying to garden).

“He told that nice woman over there that you painted a picture of her,” Judy said, looking nervous.

My first thought was that Toya probably thought I was in love with her. That I had some grandiose portrait of her above the bed and made out with it every night before stirring my vat of black market love potion.

“She asked him if it was a nice picture, and he said no,” Judy continued.

“Chooch!” I yelled. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s a monster,” he reasoned.

Judy said Toya was all, “OH REALLY??” And then Chooch tore the house apart, trying to find it.

“I didn’t know what to say!” Judy cried. “I couldn’t think fast enough. So I just told her it probably was very nice and that she should come over and ask you to see it.

”

Three years ago, when I was on that monster-painting kick, I had just finished one and it needed a name. So I asked Chooch to name it. He had just got done pestering Toya from the side window, so naturally he wanted to name it after her.

THREE YEARS AGO.

But Toya probably thinks I have some hideous interpretation of her, hanging on my wall, and that maybe sometimes I fling cat shit at it to relieve my deep-rooted frustrations.

So now I’m going to have to seek her out today and show her this stupid painting of a stupid monster and explain that no, I don’t think she’s a monster, or looks like a monster, or acts like a monster; that my SON is the one who named the fucking thing in the first place.

It doesn’t help that she and I started off on the wrong foot when she moved here 4 years ago.

Still, this is decidedly not as bad as the time he told our other neighbor that I hate her. (Truth.) Thanks, son.

Kaitlin had a whole Macy’s box full of leftover macaron shells that were no longer good enough for her to use (but still edible, and trust me, we edibled them) so she brought them in for me to play with.  I am a huge fan of her macarons, so it was an excruciating test of restraint to not tongue the entire box right there at work. Then I had to live in the same house as them for TWO DAYS.

Henry, Chooch and I took them to the cemetery yesterday for a little photoshoot, and the whole time Chooch whined, “NOW can I eat one?”

He really wanted one with sprinkles, but there weren’t very many of those ones so I definitely wouldn’t let him eat any until I was done. I’m the meanest mom ever.

Henry wouldn’t help me AT ALL because I yelled at him on Friday when he walked out of the kitchen with a macaron shell hanging out of his mouth, dribbling crumbs all over the floor.

He probably would have consumed the whole box before I got in a single shot if I hadn’t been watching that box like your uncle Cletus watches porn.

When we came home from the cemetery, I finally let Chooch indulge himself.

He’s such a cookie creep.

These have got to be among the filthiest hands to ever handle a French macaron.

“If any guy ever WOKE ME UP to ask me what color my eyes are, I’d be like, ‘Fuck you, motherfucker! You should have every facet of me memorized because I am the best thing that will ever happen to you!’ as I detached their penis with hedge-clippers,” I spat to Henry during the 86729864389317409 listen of Dance Gavin Dance’s “Blue Dream,” which ends with a recording of a phone call asking just that.

I should have just kept my mouth shut, allowed (what’s left of) Henry’s wavering male worth to be fumigated by my strong female independence, but instead I went on to add, “Unless it was Jonny Craig. Then I’d be all, ‘Why, what color do you want them to be? Tell me AND I WILL MAKE THEM CHANGE!'” I said this in a very weak and feminine tone, with a hint of floral and batting eyelashes. Because even though he’s a veritable petri dish for new and exciting STD strands, and has rodent eyes, I would drop Henry for him like a sack of hot balls.

Henry looked at me with a certain visage that made me think he finally realized he stinks of sewage. “You’re pathetic,” he sneered.

I just single-handedly fucked Girl Power in its liberated Susan Powter vagina. I HAVE MY WEAKNESSES  TOO, OK.

(I have no idea where Susan Powter came from, but go with it.)

I took Chooch’s thank you cards to school on Wednesday morning for his teacher to hand out. She (and Momesis, who was also there) began cooing over my handwriting. It’s really nothing special, but I only had eight envelopes to address so I spent a little more time making them look cool.

“I have a lot of time on my hands,” I laughed, brushing off their compliments because I am SO MODEST.

Today when I was waiting outside the classroom to get Chooch, his teacher came out and said, “Oh good, you’re here! I have something to ask you! You can say no if you want!”

I braced myself. When people tack that on to the end of favor-askin’, I get scared. One of these days it’s going to be an organ request, I just know it.

Anyway, she wants me to write all the kids’ names on their graduation certificates. Including the 3-year-olds, it’s a total of 24. I said yes, it’s not like I have much else going on & I myself enjoy the arthritic sensations of pen-gripping.

“You must get asked to do this all the time,” his teacher laughed as she prepared a list of names for me.

“No, not really,” I said, flashbacks of four years being the signage bitch at a meat company running through my mind like a stop-motion slasher reel.

The only downside is that now there is pressure to perform perfectly. I just know I’m going to accidentally write “Jonny Craig” on one of them, probably a penis-doodle, too.

Recommended: watching your co-workers react to someone’s water breaking. It’s exhilarating, high-energy drama.

It all started around 4:30 on Wednesday. I was REALLY BUSY, working HARD and DILIGENTLY, when Sandy walked over to my desk, looking all pale and scared-rabbit. All I managed to decipher from her hushed tone was “bathroom” and “water broke.”

I immediately started to panic because we have two pregnant girls in our department, and neither of them should be walking around, breaking water.

But then I heard “travel office” and my compassion dulled a bit, because it was just one of “Those People” who share the same floor as us but aren’t cool enough to be a real part of our department, yet they like to swipe our food when we have parties like that’s going to infuse them with our Awesome.

Sandy, Barb and Sue were all in the bathroom together, probably saying disparaging things about me, when the owner of the broken water called out from behind a stall that she needed someone to get one of the travel office ladies. Right now, I’m picturing the “Fuck off” look that likely had taken over Barb’s face, until she learned that this poor girl was pregnant and splashing around back there in amniotic fluid.

Somehow, Sandy was able to slink back over to my desk to tell me what was happening.

“I’m really bad in emergencies,” she said in a small voice. So now I know that Sandy and I would make the worst superhero team in the history of comic books. In the background of each cell, you’d see Sandy, paralyzed and pale-faced with her emanating fear blending into the gray background, while I’m throwing up all over my cape.

It didn’t take long for a small crowd to form by the bathroom. Kristen stopped by my desk, having just broken through the crowd of birth fans. “I’m the girl you want in an emergency,” she said, all smiles, as if there wasn’t some pregnant lady spilling baby juice all over the department. “But, I’m going to Starbucks!” There’s our third superhero, drinking a latte while the world collapses around her. Sometimes I go out for drinks after work with Kristen and Sandy, and now I’m starting to rethink this. I feel so unsafe!

Meanwhile, Sue was marching all over the floor with her game face on. I’m not sure where she was marching to, but I know it wasn’t to pilfer through Barb’s snack drawer like it usually is. She was going to call 911 but said the girl had asked her not to because she didn’t want to ride in an ambulance. Sue disappeared around the corner, and I assumed she was going to her office to retrieve her forceps. And Barb was running around, looking for spare clothes to give the girl who was apparently pretty drenched. She was going to steal Wendy’s gym clothes but thought better of it and ended up giving the girl a pair of her own sweatpants.

All this fuss over spare clothes when someone could have just asked Gayle. She could have crocheted something right quick with a nice Navajo pattern. She probably would have given the girl matching earrings too, and maybe even thrown in a floral headband for the baby.

DO NOT FORGET THAT SANDY WAS THERE TOO! Barb re-worked the script every time she recounted the bathroom horrors to other co-workers, completely writing Sandy out of it. If you ask me, that’s discrimination against scared people and I don’t think Sandy should stand for it.

I bet when Barb tells her non-Law Firm friends about Waterbreak ’11, it entails her ripping the door right off the bathroom stall and delivering one of “those babies” right then and there with her auxiliary knapsack of obstetric apparati.

Something like an hour had gone by before Sandy finally snapped out of it and realized she had a towel that she could contribute. She walked by later, triumphantly holding up the soggy towel in garbage bag. She was going to take it home as a souvenir, but Sue convinced her to throw it out, which I think is rude because people should be allowed to collect the things they want to collect.

Me? I just sat there and watched all the adults handle business. It was exciting. I’m glad no one asked me to help. I mean, YES—I was a Girl Scout, but the only thing that taught me was how to dance to NKOTB’s “Funky, Funky Christmas” and to Quick! Find a man to do everything for me. (Couldn’t find a man, but Henry will do.)

Later that evening, the travel lady we dislike the most came over with her scary, soul-piercing eyes to tell us that the girl’s husband had come to pick her up and she was currently en route to the hospital.

“I’m going to have nightmares,” Barb said after the travel lady walked away. She was probably talking about the entire odyssey, but I was still shivering from the icy-penetration of travel lady’s eyes. All I could picture was a stork with travel lady’s head on it, so I told Barb about it in hopes of planting the image into her subconscious and it growing into some gnarly night-terror.

And then, because catastrophes totally wind up my giddy-box, I laughed about this so hard that I started crying at my desk.

[I didn’t want to post this until I knew for sure that everything was OK. Travel Girl had the baby that night; she was 2 months premature, but they are both doing fine. Barb prefaced her email to me about it with: “I know you don’t care, but…” I do care! Kind of!]

Just now, I was sitting at the dining room table, talking to Henry about amniotic fluid while he eats his dinner.

Chooch came over with my phone and said, “Wait until you see this, I got to the next level. I jumped over—-”

While Chooch was droning on about what was happening on the game he was playing, I noticed that Henry was trying not to laugh, and also that my phone was aimed directly at me. A (very dim) light went off in my head, prompting me to snatch my phone from Chooch.

That little fucker’s “game” was just a ruse to take my picture.

My annoyance only made him crack up harder.

“What an asshole,” I muttered to Henry after Chooch walked away.

“A smart asshole,” Henry corrected.

And I can’t even be mad because he learned this shit from me.

It was too nice on Sunday to spend the day indoors at the roller rink, so I suggested we go back to Old Economy Park and get our nature on.

“But you hate nature,” Henry reminded me hesitantly.

“That’s not true! Only sometimes,” I argued, forgetting that my “sometimes” actually means “all of the time.

”

I grabbed some old school Fall Out Boy (as in: pre-mainstream explosion) and Finch for old time’s sake, and we actually had an enjoyable, leisurely Sunday joyride to the park, which is no small feat when there’s a  hyperactive five-year-old in the backseat. I’m pretty sure he has nature’s equivalent of Pixie Stix and Pop Rocks coursing through his bloodstream on a daily basis.

We were at the park for ten minutes, but probably much less, before I started bitching about bugs and humidity and foreign stenches. Then I walked through a spider web and bitched about that for awhile.

If you ask Henry, he’ll tell you his favorite part was when I started sliding down a muddy deer path and gained so much momentum that the only way I could stop myself was by slamming into and promptly hugging a tree.

But if you ask me, I’ll tell you my favorite part was taking pictures of Henry pissing on God’s landscape and then swearing to Chooch that I heard Jason Voorhees in the woods. Because it’s not truly Sunday afternoon until urine, fear and paranoia enter the picture.

MOIST.

I know, thank god! A sea monkey post! Trust me, even though no one actually came right out and asked it, I could practically sense the global panic when people would come to the good old blog and find NO SEA MONKEY UPDATES OMG.

They’re alive! In fact, two of them have been furiously mating. I found that peeping on them all night at work kept my nerves tempered. Otherwise, it was a pretty agitating work night full of shouting, Facebook snubbing* and loud conversations about snapping turtles.

(*Sandy and I sent one of our co-workers a friend request on Friday and he has not confirmed us! We even mentioned it to him and he played the Facebook Ambivalence card but PROMISED that he would go home and confirm us post haste.

It is now Tuesday and my friend count is still at 346. I decided I was going to give him the cold shoulder but Sandy felt he wasn’t going to notice that I went from not having casual conversation with him to…not having casual conversation with him. I see her point.)

In other news, our friend Bill called me today and invited us to join him and Jessi at his time share in Gatlinburg, TN this summer! At first, I was like, “Oh. Tennessee.” All I really know about Tennessee is that Arrested Development wrote a peppy little tune about it. That song is also as close as I get to a game of horseshoes. But Bill said there is a ton of kitschy tourist traps in town and urged me to Google that shit.

So I did and OH MY GOD, I’M GOING TO TENNESSEE, YA’LL! I didn’t know that’s where motherfucking DOLLYWOOD is!

“You want to go to Dollywood?” Barb asked, all full of skepticism when I was gushing about this at work today.

“Barb, it has roller coasters. I’d go to Sarah Palinwood if it had roller coasters.” There was a moment of silence, and then we both laughed. I’d rather buy my own rape kit.

I spent a good portion of my night at work on various tourist sites and Roadside America. You can bet your ass I’M going to Christ in the (motherfucking) Smokies. Henry said I’ll be going by myself.

THAT’S OK. I need to see life-sized Jesus shit.

And to think we almost got roped into going to the lame beach with another couple (a story for another day). A lame beach with no Titantic Museum and NO BOARDWALK = NO THANKS.

Christina and I were driving around one night when I was visiting her in Cincinnati. A demo of this song came on the mix CD I brought with us, and even in its extreme shitty quality, it brought me to tears and I wanted to be home with Henry so bad.

But don’t tell him that.

It felt weird listening to them with her and not him.

Cold was here in March and I missed it.

That’s the first time I’ve ever missed them playing in Pittsburgh.

Sometimes I sincerely hate working nights.

Yesterday, Chooch and I were standing near the computer when he happened to glance at it. My blog was up and the current post at the time had a picture of him being chased by his school friend Emyle.

“Wha—-take that down. TAKE THAT OFF YOUR BLOG RIGHT NOW!” he yelled furiously.

That’s the first time that’s happened. (I mean with Chooch. Trust me, plenty of people have furiously demanded that I take things off my blog in the last 10 years.)

Chooch was kind of being a dick today, which is why I felt obliged to post this picture: the aftermath of the chase. Can’t wait till he’s old enough to read all these posts about him.

VI. Balloon Sweatshop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or just cut her.

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

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

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

I DON’T SEE ANY BALLOONS IN YOUR HANDS!

VII. Douche Cup

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

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

“Douche cup,” she said, snickering.

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

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

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

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

Douche cups.

VIII. The Guests

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IX. Fuck a Pinata

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

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

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

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

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

X. Cake, Part 2

Stapler makes a cameo.

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

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

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

“Um, cut the cake.” Obviously.

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

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

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

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

The cake totally won.

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

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

Bonecrusher zombified this Batman doll for him!

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

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

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

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

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

We took Chooch to the playground on Sunday and after a few minutes we began hearing, “Riley! It’s me! Emyle! From preschool!”

“I think that girl knows Chooch,” Henry deduced, Master Thinker that he is.

So Chooch spent the whole time running from her. One day, he’ll enjoy this activity. (Or maybe not, and that’s OK, too.

) She’d look at me and I would point which way he went, which Henry said was mean but girls have to stick together.

Chooch started playing with her younger sister. (He likes kids that are either younger or older than him, not usually kids his own age. I have no idea why.) This caused Emyle to lean against a pole with her arms crossed and head down.

Spitting image of me.

Before we left the park, she chased him down and made him hug her. It was pretty fantastic for me, as a mom, to watch this monster who ruined me during pregnancy/child birth squirm under the extreme discomfort of the situation. I was completely rooting for Emyle.

We went for a walk yesterday when he came home from school. Three minutes after this picture was taken, Chooch decided he was old enough to cross the street by himself. That ended THAT walk pretty quickly.

In work news, Grandma Cleavage has business cards for her “jewelry line” now. It has her phone number on it, which is all I care about. Manuel will be placing a bulk order for sure.

I was going to write more about the party today, but time is not on my side. I did, however, finally get my camera battery and charger back, so now I at least have the pictures. Which, when you’re as tightly wound as myself, is a small weight lifted.

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

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

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

I. The Parents

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except for:

II. The Stripper

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

And Sketcher mules.

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

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

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

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

III. Camera Died

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

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

The Internet groans!

IV. Star Wars Theme-fail

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

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

IV. Cake

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

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

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

Or at least comparable.

I take cake-ordering extremely seriously.

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

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

V. Work Friends!

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

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

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

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