Maybe you’ve read somewhere that I don’t like grocery shopping. Maybe Dionne Warwick told you or you were one of the privileged people who have witnessed me throwing myself into Henry’s shoulder and whining about hating grocery shopping while I’m at the grocery store. (A very rare occurrence, though I was just there a few weeks ago to  make sure Henry bought all of the fruit for our popsicle throwdown.)

I just think it’s boring  there at the grocery store. Utterly, skull-fuckingly boring.

And confusing. And occasionally stinky.

I can’t even be trusted to go grocery shopping alone. Once, Henry was busy at home doing other things that any mediocre-to-good housewife should be doing, and he asked me to run to the store to grab stuff to make cookies. I’m sorry, but there is no “running to the store” with me. That’s a term for people who can enter a supermarket without winding up crying in the dairy aisle or dry-heaving near the meat counter.  Henry saddled me with a shopping list and then also sent Janna and Blake with me, so I just let them do everything and it was OK.

This is usually why Henry does the grocery shopping without me. So when he asked me if I wanted to go with him Sunday night, I was a little apprehensive.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “To spend time together?”

Janna was at the house, playing Wii with Chooch. So my options were to stay and watch them both fail in impossible ways at baseball (and possibly hear my son spout off some new slurs), or tag along with Henry and ask him 15 game shows-worth of questions just in the produce section alone.

And then I went back to my initial suspicion of why he asked me in the first place. Maybe he had a present for me! Maybe there was a new puppy in the trunk of the car! Maybe he was going to propose! (And I would get to say “fuck no!” Seriously, it’s Warped Tour or not at all.) So that is how someone who hates grocery stores ended up at Shop n Save on a Sunday night with Henry.

Evidently, he really just wanted to spend time with me. No presents, puppies or proposals. Just produce.

In the first three minutes, I learned the difference between peaches and nectarines and that I shouldn’t grope a bunch of hot peppers (they were so cute and had something to do with bonnets) and then touch my eyes. Then I watched disgustedly as Henry contemplated what kind of seemingly identical package of hot dogs to toss in the cart.

We were headed back toward the check-out lines in record time when I realized that Henry hadn’t gotten a pineapple, and Janna really wanted him to get a pineapple. I know this because she said three times, “Don’t forget to get a pineapple, Henry!” He was going to cook out that night, and Janna thought it would be positively swell if he grilled fruit too. Specifically pineapple. It was her dying wish.

He grabbed a can of pineapple slices and set it in the cart. (He sets things in the cart; I PLUNK TOSS & THROW things in the cart, and then I kick it. Fuck a cart.)

“Canned? Really? Janna wanted a real pineapple.” I was in the mood to make things difficult.

And that’s how we ended up back in the produce, so Henry could prove to me that the fresh pineapples did not seem ripe to him. But I wasn’t listening to him, because that’s when I saw her for the first time.

This adorable little old Asian woman with a squished face. I was grandma-smitten.

“She looks like Gizmo!” I whispered to Henry, who sighed and called me racist. (I still don’t understand why—I thought I was being complimentary.)

We were at the check-out by this point, and I was kicking myself for not taking her picture. I was already forgetting what she looked like (in my mind she was looking less like Gizmo and more like a kaiser roll); that wasn’t going to be very conducive to my grandma daydreams.

“I need to go back and find her,” I whispered hoarsely to Henry, who shrugged me off. “Do you think she’s still here?”

“You only saw her three minutes ago,” Henry snapped. And as he was bagging the groceries, that’s when I decided it was now or never.

“I’m going to go find her!” I cried.

“Whatever, child,” Henry mumbled irritably. I noticed the cashier was listening, so I put my head down and slunk away, back into the bowels of the store. When I turned the corner, I started to run and swivel my head all around, looking for my target.

I have this major malfunction when it comes to covert operations. I don’t know how to be casual, calm, or anything that you wouldn’t expect from a meth addict on the prowl. I am jittery, clumsy, completely obvious. Which is why when I found her near the meat, I came to a jarring, obvious halt and fumbled with my iPhone. While her husband was perusing the meats, she was inspecting a table full of buns, so I stood next to her and picked up a package to seemingly scrutinize when really I was just using it as a proverbial potted plant.

It was not a good time to take the picture, so I followed her as she rejoined her husband, pretending to be beyond interested in the row of Bob Evans mashed potatoes hanging a few feet away from the meat. Neither of them seemed to pay much attention to me as they pushed their cart behind me and continued on their way. I threw down the packet of mashed potatoes and followed them as inconspicuously as I know how to, which is, you know, not very inconspicuous.

When I’m stalking people, every sense is heightened. If people try to speak to me while I’m on the hunt, I lose all sense of “normal tone” and tend to answer in the high-pitched yells of a tweaker.

But then opportunity shone down on me as she stopped in front of an open air cooler of condiments and other such sundry. I tripped over myself to get to the other side, placing myself directly across from her and a wide array of Sabra hummus, which happens to be something I know a lot about (the pine nut kind is my favorite) and I was happy I no longer had to pretend to know what I was doing in front of a goddamn wall of MEAT. Finally, I had her in my cross-hairs I had to rise up on my tip-toes to get a picture of her, and at that point, I was over trying to be surreptitious. My Machiavellian qualities surged to the forefront long enough for the image to be captured for prosperity. I then stutter-walked my way out of the store, openly laughing alone. And it was this deranged, guttural, low-octave cacchination that I tend to reserve for moments of near-insanity. Like when riding the Caterpillar or posting old Service pictures of Henry on the Internet. It’s my asshole siren, if you will.

Henry was loading the last bag in the car by the time I made it out to the parking lot, still sounding off with my Corky chortle. He frowned and shook his head. I talked about her the whole way home.

OK, maybe she’s half past Gizmo, more toward Shar-Pei. That doesn’t make her any less huggable.

Two of my favorite bands have new videos so please indulge me while I put on my giddy 16-year-old scene girl face and watch them repeatedly for days. I have a real post forthcoming, but I couldn’t resist sharing these.

Craig or no Craig, Chiodos is still so fantastic. Hopefully people will accept that they’re doing just fine, if not better, with Brandon Bolmer and then start going to their shows again. The one I went to last winter had a pretty dismal turn-out and these dudes deserve better than that, so get stoked for Chiodos you guys.

This is probably my least favorite song on Selfish Machines, but I still love it because even though it sounds so poppy, the lyrics are actually dark and pretty devastating. Vic Fuentes is such an underrated songwriter. Hope they make a video for “Besitos.”

(OMG Warped Tour is in 9 days!)

My favorite carny!

Corey didn’t know there was a slide.

Filthy feet at the fair.

Sorry guys. I just really love the fair.

Yes, he washed his hands after this. And another 87,000 times during class.

I enrolled Chooch in a cooking class at the Young Chefs Academy this past Saturday. I figured someone’s going to have to cook for me once Henry dies (or we break up, whichever comes first), and that someone is probably going to be my son.

Plus, when I asked him if he had any interest in learning, he seemed very enthusiastic. Probably because when he thinks of cooking, his dark mind conjures images of sharp knives.

He also loves it when Chef Ramsey goes ballistic on Hell’s Kitchen.

Chooch was wearing his Ask Me About My Zombie Shirt t-shirt (I swear to God, it does get washed between wears!), which made him an immediate hit with the two instructors. All the moms of the little girls in cutesy-couture sundresses grimaced. Suck it, yuppie moms. (There was a pregnant one who was the yuppiest of them all. Her husband came after the class ended and I immediately wanted to cough the word “douche” into my fist.)

All it took was Chooch putting an apron on to surpass my cooking skills. I mean, he was actually eager to do this! I am never eager to do anything in the kitchen except bark orders at Henry. Now that is something I excel at. And then three separate times, he yelled out, “DADDY, WE SHOULDA PAINTED THE KITCHEN LIKE THIS ONE!” and at first I was like, “God, child, shut your big mouth. You’re drawing attention to me while I’m trying to stew in the corner” but then I was like, “HENRY YOU SHOULDA PAINTED THE KITCHEN LIKE THIS ONE.”

God, what a happy land that could potentially make our house. It might even curb my suicide daydreams.

Some boy started crying and wailing, “I don’t want to do this!” when the instructor put an apron on him. Seriously? Give me a fucking break. I was having this scathing internal commentary about this crybaby bitch until I checked myself. I mean, really checked myself. Wouldn’t I too cry if some stranger tied an apron to my torso and told me I was going to spend a perfectly fine Saturday morning learning how to make my own fucking lunch?

Chooch just sat there on his stool, staring at this sobbing three-year-old. Then he looked at me, the kind of disgusted look that asked, “What is this asshole’s issue?” But I just shrugged sheepishly.

First they made Popcorn Crunch which was essentially a shoddy batch of Cracker Jack. The instructors passed out plastic pizza cutters and gave each child a small mound of peanuts. Then they expected them to use the pizza cutters to crush the peanuts.

Now, I’m no Alton Brown (who has the same birthday as me; no wonder why he’s so awesome), but that seemed to me like maybe not the best means to crush peanuts. And I was right! It failed miserably. Peanuts were shooting across the floor and kids were getting all frustrated. They switched to plastic baggies and rolling pins after that.

Meanwhile, Chooch and the kid next to him—Noah—began to hit it off. This means they both started talking stupid and ratting on each other.

“YOU JUST TOUCHED YOUR HAIR! NOW YOU HAVE TO WASH YOUR HANDS!

“

It was obnoxious. But at least those two were diligent with their sanitation. That’s more than I can say for most of those grubby raggamuffins.

The girl on the left started crying when it was time to eat their plate of germs because she didn’t like it. God, kids are so fucking childish.

Then other stuff happened with the popcorn. Things were added. There was a bowl at one point, with two big green plastic things that I thought were cacti but Henry condescendingly informed me that they were mixing paddles. I think. But they looked like plastic cacti.

Next on the menu was Curbside Sandwich, which was basically a turkey wrap. The kids got to spend the next 19 days grating carrots. I’m pretty sure they each got to use three different grating instruments. It only took Chooch 1 second to do it better than me. Only because I don’t think I have ever grated a carrot.

(Have I ever grated a carrot, Henry?)

(We watched this 1970’s French porn once that had a little bit of carrot-play in it. No grating, though, leaving me inexperienced still.)

As the one instructor passed out turkey slices, someone called out loudly, “People KILL turkeys, you know.” The other moms tittered nervously.

“Who said that?” I asked Henry, because I had been busy Tweeting my suicide note. (You guys, it was so boring there.)

“Who do you think?” Henry muttered.

Apparently, he and Henry had JUST watched something on TV about people killing turkeys. Thank god for perfect timing.

Noah and Chooch being creeps.

Chooch made me taste the popcorn. I almost puked it back up just thinking about how many of those filthy hands had touched it.

But then Henry reminded me of all the filthy weeners I put in my mouth to which I politely replied, “HAHAHAHA YOU’RE RIGHT HENRY THANK GOD I HAVE ORBIT IN MY PURSE.”

Goddammit.

Then Chooch harangued Noah for not liking lemonade, which hopefully will give him a complex, since I had at least 59 dozen complexes growing up and firmly believe all children should experience what that’s like. It makes you stronger, children! Miss Erin promises! Better get used to the taste of Slim-Fast now while you’re young!

On the way home, I was recounting all the ladies I didn’t like (including one mom with her pedicured whore-toes shoved into athletic sandals, whose daughter dropped her sandwich on the ground and made me laugh out loud).

“Good thing you don’t judge people,” Henry mumbled.

Chooch claims he had “so much fun” so why am I still struggling to serve him cereal and salami sandwiches everyday? What do I get out of this deal?

Life had been pretty rocky for the last few days for me, just all kinds of stress and relationship doubts that culminated into a four-day crying spree.

Something had to give.

I figured if anything was going to put a smile back on my face, it was the Big Butler Fair. And it ended up being the best day ever. Henry even held my hand! And he didn’t bitch once when I thrust my purse into his chest so I could run off with Corey to ride the Zipper and the Freak Out. The weather was perfect (although Janna complained constantly about how she hadn’t been that hot since she was stuffed in that mobster’s trunk on a particularly steamy August afternoon back in ’06).

We were still in the parking lot and Chooch and I were already cheering and tugging on Henry and Janna’s arms, in a feeble attempt to hurry them up. The motherfucking fair, you guys. THE MOTHERFUCKING FAIR. If that can’t make a bitch smile, then she obviously has just had to have her lips excised due to making out with Snookie.

Corey wasn’t going to go but he did! It could have been because I laid on the guilt via text. We were halfway there when he texted me back and said he decided to meet us there after all. AND HE EVEN BOUGHT THE RIDE-ALL-DAY WRISTBAND.

Secretly Siblings. Seriously, get a load of their twin mouths. Something was making them all disgusted and it definitely could not have been me.

This broad made me feel so patriotically inadequate.

One of the things I love about fairs is that walking down the midway is akin to sashaying down a catwalk. Those carnies working the games really want to take that $5 out of your pocket and they will flatter you senseless in an effort to achieve this goal. If you’re a woman, they will have you feeling like the prettiest piece of pork this side of the Demolition Derby.

Even with melted remnants of my waffle ice cream sandwich (not as great as it sounds) on my flesh-intertube-covering t-shirt, these snaggle-toothed, dart-holding guardians of balloon-walls made me feel deceitfully attractive. Until I later went into the restroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my hair whipped and knotted into a natural straw hat upon my head and eyeliner smeared under my eyes. I whined to Henry that I looked like  I just had a train ran on me in the middle of a barn by a gang of chubby chasers. In other words, I said, “I look like shit.”

“No, you look like you’re having fun,” Henry argued. Yeah, having fun competing for Ugliest Broad at the Fair.

But then I ran into the girl who actually did win the County Fair pageant and I felt much better about myself. I opened my mouth to start heckling her, but Henry was five steps ahead of me (he always is) and was quick to point out that her mom was right in front of us. (They were wearing matching dresses. Jesus.)

Corey got roped into riding the Sizzler and Tilt-a-Whirl more times than Tracy Gold throws up in a day, which is awesome, because those two rides make me, well—-they make me throw up more times than Tracy Gold does in a day.  Corey said during the ride that Chooch was talking about what it would be like if our cats rode the Sizzler. Apparently Willie, Marcy’s daughter, would be “really pissed.” Later, we were all on the ferris wheel together (not Henry though, he’s too scared), and Chooch mockingly sneered at Corey, “Ha-ha, I won!”

“How do you win at the ferris wheel?” Corey said, slightly annoyed at losing something he didn’t know he was playing.

I’m just glad they have conversations with each other now.

Chooch’s “Ask Me About My Zombie Shirt” shirt impressed the MC of the freak show so much that he granted Chooch free admission. Henry still had to pay though, and was all annoyed because Chooch wouldn’t stop long enough for him to get his $3 worth. I don’t know what that entails—looking for a glory hole behind the Fiji Mermaid?

Meanwhile, Corey and I rode the Zipper, which is absolutely my favorite carnival ride. I love it so much, it’s borderline compulsion when I see it. Somehow Corey has never been on the Zipper. And how do you explain the Zipper to a virgin rider? Normally I would say it’s like sex in a plane crash, but I didn’t want to say that to my BROTHER, considering we were about to be pinned down together inside a cage, with his right foot completely smashed.

Here is Corey’s review:

Before riding it: It doesn’t look that bad.

While riding it: OMG ARE YOU KIDDING ME THIS RIDE DOESN’T FUCK AROUND.

After riding it: Wait, where am I? How was that even legal?

Seriously the best ride. And it allows me a good three minutes of vocal exercising for my forthcoming screamo release.

Sizzler, Take 87

I run from Henry  all the time, too.

Did you know at county fairs, there’s basically no height requirements for the bumper cars? This is perfect if you’re Britney Spears or some other random, unfamous mom who enjoys putting her baby in vehicular peril. Most amusement parks want kids to be 46″ before they get the thrill of whiplash. God. Safety much?

Chooch can’t get with bumpy wit’ it at Kennywood, but he’s free to drive recklessly (or navigate, at least) at the county fair!

Looks pretty, right? So majestic? Too bad it’s the biggest cock-sucker of all the land. Fuck you, Skydiver.

Additional things to note about me, specifically when I am at carnivals:

• I won’t ride ferris wheels unless it’s the kind with big round seats and an enclosed top.
• I do not play games (except mind games with Henry, of course).
• Food is my last priority.
• I put my own happiness above all others.
• My self-esteem is just low enough to find myself flattered at the hands of lecherous carnies whose main objective is to take my money.
• It’s going to take more than some broad wearing bunny ears to get me sit down for a round of Bingo.
• I am completely mesmerized by carnival lights, to the point that I blindly walk into the backs of strangers.
• Deep-fried [insert random dessert-food here] always sounds like the Best Idea Ever until I cave and eat it, at which point it never fails to be my sole post-carnival regret.

“Thank God we won goldfish.”

Henry won two goldfish at ping pong ball toss, which he generally fails at, as he does with most things in life. I wasn’t too thrilled about this. Carnival fish never live long! Still, I accepted ownership of the gold one when Chooch so generously gifted it to me.

The very next day, the gold one died while Chooch was at his cousin’s house. I was pretty upset and worried about how he was going to react when he came home and discovered this. However, it took him about four hours to notice, at which point he sighed with relief and said, “Oh it was just yours that died! Thank God.”” And then, considering this for half a second, he began to heckle me over the loss of my fish. What a little fucker. Of course, his is still kicking. He named him Roger, which does not follow suit with our previously weapon-named fish. (RIP Switchblade, Grenade and Machete.)

I love the county fairs so much that I’m in the process of compiling individual photobooks of pictures and my blog entries for each one, because I get cheered up anytime I revisit them. (Henry thinks it’s a waste of money.) I hope I never outgrow that feeling.

Until next year, Big Butler Fair. :(

Where’s Henry? Oh, just standing alone.

Ever wonder what it’s like to be Old and Joyless at the county fair? Me too, so I decided to interview* Henry  to get the geriatric scoop.

*I tried to accomplish this unbeknownst to him, but as soon as he answered the phone, it went something like this:

Henry: What.

Me: [throaty giggles]

Henry, with apprehension: What did you do?

Me, in a robotic cadence: [more giggles, staccato with giddiness] Can I ask you a few questions?

Henry, senses heightened: What? Why?

Me, still giggling & speaking like a robot with a dick in its throat: What is your favorite food at the fair?

Henry, sighing: I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.

Me: WAIT! THIS IS IMPORTANT!

Henry: [Dial tone.]

The rest of the interview was conducted both over text and in person when he came home from work, only because he kept hanging up on me every time I called him.

Henry slides his glasses down, grandpa-style, and Googles “fastest way to kill yourself at the county fair.”

Me: Is it true that you don’t ride anything because you’re worried the wind will rape your perfectly feathered hair?

Henry: No, because it makes my stomach upset. What the fuck?

Henry engaged in his favorite activity at the fair: eating. This typically occurs  only after he takes care of feeding his son and girlfriend.

Me, via text message this time so as not to chase the subject away with my giggles: Seriously, what is your favorite part about the fair, and don’t say “Leaving.”

Henry: The food.

Me: Can you be more specific and maybe answer in complete sentences using lots of descriptive words?

Henry: No. I don’t trust yoi [sic].

I feel like it must be hot sausage, his favorite food I mean, because that’s what he got on Saturday and also in 2009 at the Westmoreland County Fair. Clearly I’ve been collecting evidence. He also got french fries molested with a sublime bourbon glaze, most of which I ate though.

Henry is never in on the joke.

Me: I understand that you ran into an “old friend from work” at the fair. Were you surprised that your so-so personality made enough of an impression that he remembered you?

Henry, walking away in a huff after reading the above and below questions: No, and you’re an asshole.

Me: Did you ever covet his wife? I mean, you seemed so excited to tell me that she’s a traveling horse vet and I know how much you’re into pony play. So…?

Henry: [see above response.]

It’s true! Henry has a friend who considers him a friend back! They’re even friends on FACEBOOK so you know it’s real. They talked about really boring Old People things and all I kept thinking was, “I could have ridden the Caterpillar three times by now.” So now I hate that guy. Whatever his name is.

Henry will bitch about how much of his Faygo paycheck is spent at the fair, yet he sees no problem with throwing away next month’s rent on carnival games. Yay, $45 for two goldfish! There goes dinner for next week.

Me: About how much, approximately, of our son’s college tuition did you give to the carnies? And I’m talking about just the games, not the reacharounds:

Henry: Um, about fifteen bucks. OK, maybe about twenty.

Great. I could have bought a CD with that.

Me: What is your favorite carnival game that you like to pretend you’re good at?

Henry, sounding extremely annoyed to the max: I don’t know. I don’t want to do this, you know that.

This means he knows deep down he’s not good at anything.

Henry poses pretty and only smiles when he thinks no one is looking. His smiles usually occur when I am far, far away.

(This is also a widely unknown yoga pose for truckers.)

Me: Would you rather, and this going to hurt your heart so be prepared, give up Mountain Dew for life or trade your collection of non-descript t-shirts for ones with….logos and designs?

Henry, after making me repeat the question because I was laughing too hard and we’re now doing this from separate rooms: Give up Mountain Dew for life.

I do not know what this has to do with the fair.

Henry, in the middle of saying: “No.” “Stop it.” “Grow up.” “You’re an idiot.” “Get that pine cone out of my ass.” Pick one.

Me: It has been proven that the Caterpillar is the Best Ride In the Whole Fucking World. So why wouldn’t you ride it?

Henry: Because it’s a KIDS RIDE and I’m NOT A KID.

You got that right.

Me: Please tell us, best to your memory, what you were saying in the above picture.

Henry, in a tone becoming increasingly high-pitched with irritation: I don’t know! I don’t even know where that was taken! [I then remind him it was when we were making a mess with waffle ice cream sandwiches] I don’t know! Probably something like, “Wipe [Chooch’s] face off!”

Henry is the official beverage-holder at the fair. This prevents him from honking Tazmanian Devil-tattooed biker breasts, tugging his mouth into a frown.

Me: If you had to fight someone for the last piece of whatever your favorite carnival food is that you’re being so secretive about, would you rather it be one of the octogenarian ticket booth workers or one of the goody-goody 4H brats? Do you need me to tell you what “octogenarian” means?

Henry, rubbing his eyes tiredly: I don’t know. The octo—-[unable to pronounce it]. The ticket booth workers!

Henry tries to reflect on a time when he could still ride carnival rides, but comes up short. He’s just too old.

Me: Why don’t you ever smile at the fair? Is it because your moustache is too heavy?

Henry, from upstairs: I’m busy.

I then asked Henry to summarize his day at the fair. This is what the Man of Many Words had to say:

It was a good day. Today sucks because you just ruined everything.

Presumably because I had the audacity to make him talk to me. This took 4 hours to extract answers from him, but if there’s anything you want to ask Henry about his big day at the fair, leave a comment and I’ll see what I can do!

I have an obsessive personality, so it really shouldn’t surprise anyone that after riding the Wacky Worm (or, for those in the know, The Caterpillar) for the first time at last year’s Big Butler Fair, the hope that it would return in 2011 was one of the few things that kept me from hanging myself with a hobo’s necktie over the winter.

Who the fuck is this kid in the red shirt and why isn’t he cheering? You’re on the Wacky Worm; get stoked, motherfucker!

As soon as Janna, Chooch and I had our ride-all-day wristbands slapped on (so proud of Janna for sucking it up and going all-out! Henry, however, remains a pussy) I suggested we take a preemptive stroll around the fairgrounds. I was trying to stay cool about it, but the truth was that my pulse was quickening due to the fact that the Caterpillar was not in the same spot it was in last year and I couldn’t even begin to imagine a day at the fair without it. Especially since I spent an hour the night before coaxing and bribing Chooch to want to ride it. (He punked out last year and in that moment, I was no longer looking at my son, but at a 40″ failure. And you better believe I let him know it! And you better believe Henry lectured me for letting him know it.) So while I pretended to be interested in the money-guzzling midway games boasting oversized Rastafarian bananas as prizes and the joyful beam on my kid’s sweaty face as he rode on some kiddie truck ride (which was actually pretty awesome and I should have went on it too, why didn’t I go on it too?), I was actually craning my neck to see overtop tents and pendulating cages of death, in search of just one glimpse of my beloved Caterpillar.

THANK GOD IT WAS ON THE OTHER SIDE, YOU GUYS.

“Why do you keep laughing like Pee Wee Herman?” Janna asked me, herself laughing quite nervously as we embarked on the first of many frivolous journeys.

“I don’t know, I’m just having so much fun!” I answered a little defensively, like I now needed to prove I wasn’t going to whip out my penis and coat the Caterpillar with my gooey joy.

Corey met us there an hour later and immediately joined the fan club. I think we rode it like, 18 times, with no promise of ever slowing down. I’d still be riding it right now, if I could. I think The Law Firm should have one in the building. As a stress reliever. You know. Fuck yoga.

Unfortunately for Corey, who is six-foot-alot, he was unable to join us in raising the roof each time the Caterpillar cruised down the hill.

“I’ll for sure break my wrists,” he announced when he realized how low the track was above us.

I let him believe that that’s what would happen, when I really know that his arms would most likely get gruesomely divorced from the rest of his torso. And it would still remain the best ride ever.

At one point, I noticed that older kids started lining up for it.

“That’s because they hear you screaming and now they think this ride is fun,” Henry mumbled.

“Um, it is fun,” I corrected him.

“No, you’re just an idiot,” he sighed. How would he know when he wouldn’t even ride it? What the fuck, Henry. It’s because he was too scared. TOO SCARED OF EXPERIENCING 60 SECONDS OF SHEER DELIGHT.

It might actually force him to crack a smile, possibly even tack on a few more minutes to his miserable life, god forbid.

So instead of joining us, he stood off to the side like some purse-toting pedophile, while all the other moms stood nearby and encouraged their respective children to cheer each time the caterpillar carried us past. Of course, this made me carry on even louder, like I was single-handedly trying to bring back the Arsenio;  sometimes I would even shout Henry’s name and then point at him so everyone would know we belonged together.

He was really enthused about that.

This guy and another younger Mexican were the official Wacky Worm operators of the day, and let me tell you—they tired of me real fast. I mean, REAL FAST. I was about as amusing to them as border-crossing and I’m certain they mistook me as mentally challenged. Or on drugs. Why? Because no one has that much fun on the Wacky Worm? Damn right no one has that much fun on the Wacky Worm!  I am the champion of the Wacky Worm!

Anyway, I’m glad he decided to fuck with the ride’s foundation while Corey and Chooch were on it, and not me.

Furthermore, why wasn’t I on it that time?! I have no idea. I’m sure I must have had some sort of reason to willingly pass up a joyride on the back of my beloved Caterpillar, but the only thing I can think of is that’s when I was giving a blow job to the Dunk-a-Clown under the bleachers during the tractor pull.

Let me try to walk you through the glory that is the Caterpillar (or Wacky Worm, whatever you feel most comfortable, as an adult, calling it). It’s like riding in Jesus’s lap (that can go either way you want, holla to the religious porn addicts) as a caterpillar ascends you up to the Heavens, far away from all the grouchy grown-ups, while tiny angel-dusted kitten paws knead biscuits of lost childhood memories on your belly, and all of a sudden you remember what it felt like to score that coveted Scratch n Sniff sticker you needed to fill the page and to not have bills to pay and a house to make sure isn’t exploded by your kid and a boyfriend who might have even been the same age as you, and it feels great. Great like freedom. You absolutely want to ride it 87 more times. Caterpillar, take me away.

I got to do something that I missed out on last summer: riding the Caterpillar at sunset. Nothing is better in life than riding the Caterpillar at sunset.

We never got to ride in the front seat, though we came close on our second-to-last go-around but the dumb bitch in front of us in line caught wind of our plans and pushed her way to the coveted front spot. Or it could have been that her beer-bellied dad was hollering, “GET THE FRONT, GIRL. GET IT!” when the carny opened the gate.

I tried to get Henry to act as a placeholder while we were on the ride. You know, have him stand alone in line, saving us a spot in the front; but he refused, mumbled something about not wanting to be the only adult male in line for a kiddie ride, at which point I had to argue that Powers Great American Midways mistakenly lists the Wacky Worm under the “kiddie ride” section of their website when they obviously meant for it to be under “spectacular rides.”

The next morning, Chooch came over to me and said, “Thank you, Mommy.” The fact that he said this earnestly and with no hint of sarcasm gave me pause.

“For what?” I asked hesitantly.

“For making me ride the Caterpillar yesterday. It was so awesome.”

That was my proudest moment as a parent.

***

Since I’m friends with Powers Great American Midways on Facebook (laugh all you want, it’s informative!), I know that they’re affiliated with the upcoming Fayette County Fair which is happening on my birthday. You better believe I’m going! I went to the PGAM website and filled out the contact form with a very pressing question:

This inspired Henry to sigh heavily and say various interpretations of disapproval, such as: Don’t send that; Get a life; You need help; Get the fuck over it.

They haven’t responded to my pressing inquiry yet. Until then, I will just watch my video continuously until Henry takes the Internet away from me:

(Henry thought I pushed that girl out of my way at the end. I promise you I employed great restraint not to. Also, I apparently wasn’t holding Janna’s phone properly BUT WHO CARES IT’S THE FUCKING CATERPILLAR YA’LL. Henry really wants me to stop calling it that. It’s apparently a completely different ride.)

In between the Big Butler Fair and trying unsuccessfully to clamp my hand over Chooch’s mouth as he booed the 4th of July fireworks, we worked on the kitchen. Of course you’ll understand that “we” means Henry, singularly. He rearranged all of the shelves and the microwave stand so that now three whole people can stand in the room at one time without ever having to press up against each other! It’s very feng shui in there now and it makes my heart do a little gyration of joy every time I enter the kitchen.

Henry was also able to extract the pocket door from the wall. (I just learned that it’s called a “pocket door.” Up until the other day, I had been calling it the Door That Was Inhaled By the Wall.

) I had been living in this house for a few years before I even noticed that the door was there, but whoever lived there before me had gone to great lengths to ensure that it couldn’t be used anymore. When Henry was painting last weekend, he felt inspired to do something about that (maybe because Chooch and I were screaming FIX THE DOOR FIX THE DOOR WE WANT THE DOOR! I even got out my pom-poms and did a split), which entailed him sawing through the dining room floor and forcefully prying out a strip of wood that had been glued inside the top of the door frame, only to find out that the outlet for the refridgerator was preventing the door from sliding all the way out. (I know, that part confused me, too. I’m actually just making stuff up now.)

Good thing Henry used to pretend to be an electrician in another life! He spent a good portion of Sunday fucking with wires and drills while I edited photos and listened to music, two things I excel at. Eventually, we had a door! I was half-expecting the remains of a putrified body to come falling out of the wall, or perhaps a treasure map to be adhered to the inside of the door with strips of aging masking tape, but no—-just a door.

Pretty anticlimatic.

I got to prime one side of it yesterday! It was horribly taxing and boring! Henry did the other side to shut me up.

We still have to do something about the floor.

I have big plans, specifically for a utensil holder that I want to make (no really, I can do it by myself!) but Henry seems pretty whatever about it.

I did notice that he never re-hung my 1970s rainbow picture frame. I really do have to do it all around here.

Anyway, I’m just happy that now I can have parties and not die of embarrassment when people accidentally wander into the kitchen, looking for a private nook in which to hook up.

This is a very boring post.

Last year, the Big Butler Fair was so much fun, I went twice and wrote five separate blog posts about it. It was hands-down one of my favorite days of the summer. This time, Henry is going with me so I’m keeping my hopes at sea level.

For old time’s sake, here’s a compilation of all the posts from last summer. They’re some of my favorite memories ever, you guys! I quite sincerely wish my job was to write about county fairs.

The Caterpillar

OMG my favorite ride at the fair!

Kirk vs Andrew + Awkward Soup-Slurping

This is where I had not one but TWO boyfriends and also, I slurped soup awkwardly.

Where I Turn Religious

I was given a Jesus keychain and was almost convinced to jump off a waterfall.

The Ride Round-Up

Here is where I tell you about the rides and which ones can suck a dick.

The Butler County Fair: Revisited

I went back with Henry and Chooch, who were sad puppies because I had the audacity to go without them the week before. Coincidentally, one of my friends just alerted me to the fact that the Big Butler Fair has literally every single one of the photos I took from last year on their website. Yes, even a very unflattering shot of Alisha, who I no longer speak to. I’m sure she would be just tickled to know this.

Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine why Alisha and I no longer speak.

Please pray that Henry doesn’t shit his sour grapes all over my hopefully fun day.

Awhile back, I wrote about one of my old neighbors whom I dubbed Tourette’s because of his oft-profane outbursts. He must still live closeby because I see him walking past the house a lot, and often run into him at the local Eat n Park and Tom’s Diner.

A few weeks ago, Chooch and I were walking home from CVS and had the great fortune of passing him, mid-outburst.

Chooch of course stopped after the man had walked by and proceeded to stare as he retreated.

“Why is he so mad?” he asked me. I didn’t really know what to say, so I just said that sometimes he likes to yell and swear for no reason.

“We should call the police on him,” Chooch suggested earnestly.

[I should remember this for the next time Chooch has his own (daily) outburst.]

“He might have a medical condition that makes him yell like that,” I tried to put delicately, when really I wanted to pee myself at the memory of epic lawnmower wrestling matches of yesteryear and whine, “He’s psychotic and really scares me! Hold me, son!”

“Or,” Chooch mused thoughtfully, “he might just watch The Family Guy a lot.”

OK. Or that.

The other day, we had the pleasure of sharing the sidewalk with him again on the way back from the store. I prayed and prayed and prayed that he wouldn’t be spouting off and that my outspoken kid wouldn’t feel inspired to confront him. I started flexing a hand in preparation of clamping Chooch’s mouth shut.

Luckily, one of Chooch’s neighborhood friends (he has a LOT of them; I have NONE) was across the street so Chooch ran ahead to greet them maniacally, never even noticing Tourettes. Crisis averted. (This time, anyway.)

My town is one big mental ward. I mean, I’m a resident, after all. I can only hope that I grow into one of those…”colorful” characters who skulk around town leaving a trail of mental dysfunction in their wake. I like to think I’m one of them in training.

I’m going to make my own Brookline postcards, make you all wish you were here.

Leave a comment if you want a slice of schizophrenia! (Seriously. I’ll email you for your address.

I love sending post cards!)