My week can be summarized in two parts:

• OMG MY BACK HURTS OW OW GRAB MY CANE
• OMG I LOVE JONNY CRAIG EVEN THOUGH HE IS A RODENT-LOOKING DOUCHEBAG

Let’s start with my back. I guess it’s a pinched nerve, I don’t know. I’m not actually a doctor (don’t tell those Mexican girls waiting in my basement for an abortion). Every time it starts to feel OK, I exercise (because I’m weight-obsessed, if you hadn’t noticed; please send tape worms to My House, Pittsburgh PA 15226) and then it gets all jacked up again and I have to listen to Henry say the words, “I told you so” which always makes me hate his face even more than usual.

If I’m lucky, I can get my lazy, uncaring son to walk on my back which floods me with relief, but I can only have him do this when Henry is home supervising, otherwise I might be typing this right now from a straw in my mouth. The other day, Chooch said to Henry, “I can’t wait for Mommy’s head to hurt so I can walk on her face.”

And then at the playground on Wednesday, he ran past me with a bunch of kids. With frantic jazz-hands he said, “My mom can’t play with us” and then in a shitty tone laden with sarcasm and packed with more condescension than any 5-year-old should be able to muster, he added, “because her BACK hurts her!” What a fucker. I yelled after him, “I wouldn’t play with you anyway!”

Five-year-olds are assholes.

Meanwhile, there were grandparents at the playground more able-bodied than me, running across tire-bridges and playing tag with their grandkids while I was curled up arthritically on a bench, looking all sad and pouty-lipped.

And in Jonny Craig news, it’s been getting really out of control in my house. I should explain myself lest anyone thinks I seriously AM 15-years-old: My mania is in large part attributed to the fact that it annoys the shit out of Henry. And what is my sole purpose in life? Annoying the shit out of Henry.

Jonny Craig is a HUGE douche bag. In fact, two years ago on this blog I wrote about him being a piece of shit, and it is to-this-day the single most viewed post I’ve ever written. The search terms for my blog every day are variations of “Jonny Craig is an asshole.” Random kids STILL comment on that post, sharing their tales of Jonny-woe. He is notorious in the post-hardcore scene. The only thing that keeps me coming back for more Jonny Craig is that I am absolutely head-over-heels in love with his voice. Literally, it will make me quake and get all stupid-swoony and light-headed and this concerns Henry because he cannot provide me with such ecstacy.

Therefore, Henry hates Jonny Craig.

So what better way to get under Henry’s skin than to project my love for Emarosa and Dance Gavin Dance onto their fire-crotched arrogant vocalist (ex-vocalist, in Emarosa’s case)? Jonny is already our desktop background and my iPhone wallpaper. On Tuesday, I made a special trip to Target to buy an 8×10 frame for the picture of him at Bamboozle that I tore out of Alternative Press months ago. It’s now hanging on our wall and Henry is very unhappy about this.

“Why don’t you just tape up some posters too?” he spat miserbly so I went on eBay that night at work to look for some.

Yesterday, I painted my nails and then etched Jonny’s name on my left hand.

It was supposed to be a surprise, I wanted to see how long it would take Henry to notice when he came home, but fucking Chooch the Snitch called him immediately and said, “Ugh, Mommy put Jonny Craig’s name on her NAILS.” Still, when Henry came home, I made sure to lovingly stroke his beard with my Jonny-hand. (And I do mean the beard on his face.) He kept shrugging me away from him. I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY.

Then at work last night, Barb, Sandy and I posted pictures of Jonny Craig on Henry’s Facebook wall, which gave me great joy.

“I need to find a real douchey one,” Barb said, Googling his name.

“Yeah, that’s not going to be hard,” I said.

Henry never said a word about it when I came home last night.

This one from Sandy was my favorite, so I made it my profile picture:

That moustache alone should get its own entry in the Douchebag Dictionary.

But back to my broken back: we’re supposed to be going to the Westmoreland County Fair tomorrow, so that should add a new dimension to the usual pain of the carnival rides. The last time we went to this one, I had a broken toe and the carnies had to help me on all of the rides, which was hotter than anything I experience at home with Henry. Perhaps he’ll let me interview him again! (Provided he doesn’t dump me for someone more age-appropriate before then.)

Randomly, we were at some family reunion on Saturday. Someone Henry’s mom is friends with invited us. It wasn’t awkward at all. (It was awkward.)

Anyway, after an hour or so, I noticed this guy straight out of the 1970’s skulking along the perimeter of the pavilion. He had on some sort of muscle tee paired with denim cut-offs that were just a hair or eighteen too short. At first I thought he was just some random creeper trying to con a free wiener off the grill, but Henry said he was part of the family and belonged there more than us.

He was even talking about his Trans Am at one point. (This is according to Henry, who it turns out also was captivated by him.)

But the kicker was his hair, which was akin to Willie Aames circa Eight is Enough, and I couldn’t stop laughing about this because Henry is basically a walking Kristy McNichol. They could have talked about their penchant for keeping alive the coifs of washed-up 1970s child actors.

Look at that natural feathering!!

This picture is over a month old. His hair is already halfway to the luxurious length Kristy sports in the picture above. He keeps threatening to get a hair cut, but I’m REALLY trying to go as Little Darlings for Halloween.

Back view of his far-out McNicholish locks.

My little Henry McNicholhair.

ETA: Today when I came to work, Sandy had printed out a copy of this and taped it to my monitor, so now all of my co-workers know I’m dating a weenered Kristy McNichol.

Usually, it’s pretty fun working at the Law Firm, especially when you have weirdos like Barb sitting behind you, trying to kill herself with popcorn-filled plastic bags and being buried alive under a mound of paper towels.

There’s Judas Kaitlin in the background.

But then there are days like today, when you have to say goodbye to one of the coolest people you have ever worked with. Kaitlin was my first friend here and even though I’m so happy that she’s moving on to bigger and better things (and hopefully moving one foot closer to opening the doors to her very own bakery!), I am beyond sad to see her leave. She was the first person here I trusted enough to share my blog with. She always had the right things to say to make me feel better when I was having a bad day (usually because Henry is a douche bag). We had the same enemies here and shared a vested interest in Lisa, the mail lady.

And today I had to say goodbye to all of that, and even though I have been diligently reminding myself that she is not dead, just leaving, it’s not helping me and I have already cried three times.

Remember a year ago, when Chooch busted his face all up at the spray park? Kaitlin made him get well cupcakes, capped with bloody eyeballs. To return the favor, Chooch drew her a going away picture:

It’s a zombie eating a cupcake. Kaitlin hates zombies, but I think she can tolerate Chooch’s renditions of the walking dead.

She has spoiled this department with her effortless baking skills over the last year and a half, and she STILL pampered us with treats even on her last day, when it should have been the other way around. I was going to bake her something, but I didn’t want her last work memory of me to be clouded with salmonella. So instead I just gave her something that (hopefully) won’t make her sick — one of my pendants. I even tied the ribbon around the box all by myself.

That’s how you know I care.

I mean, I just don’t even know what else to say except this sucks. I have cried three times already, but I keep trying to tell everyone it’s because of my back pain. You know, because I am so notorious* for my hardened emotional walls.  Barb quoting Steel Magnolias didn’t help.

(*Seriously, in the year and a half I’ve been at the Law Firm, I think I’ve already cried in front of people 87 times. And once was just remembering the Penguins winning the Stanley Cup in 2009. I rule at self-control.)

Good luck, Kaitlin! Please don’t forget about me! (Seriously, don’t or I’ll start writing bad reviews about Zia – Custom Desserts.)

“Henry!” I said all breathlessly into the phone, which is his cue to brace himself. “I just saw the line up for the Rock Yourself To Sleep tour and guess who’s co-headlining?”

In a bored monotone, Henry muttered, “I don’t know.”

“No, guess!”

“Chiodos,” Henry guessed with a heavy sigh.

“Wha—? No!” I couldn’t believe he didn’t get it right off the bat.

“D.R.U.G.S.,” was Henry’s noncommittal second guess.

Meanwhile, I have my kid sitting next to me yelling, “THE CURE! Jonny Craig!”

“God, it’s Dance Gavin Dance!” I yelled into the phone. “I can’t believe that wasn’t your first guess.”

“I didn’t want to guess it,” Henry said in a tired voice. “Because I didn’t want it to be true.”

I HOPE IT COMES TO/NEAR PITTSBURGH!

***

In other pre-teen glee, we went to my friend John’s son’s 4th birthday party yesterday. I didn’t know anyone there at the park, and Chooch pushed the birthday boy down a hill within the first 15 minutes of us arriving*, so I was grateful when John’s cousin Chrissy sat across from me and introduced herself. Her daughter Alex joined us and my first thought was, “I wonder where she got that cool bow in her hair?”

(*This is why we don’t get invited places.)

“Look, Erin’s nails are painted almost the same as yours,” Chrissy said to Alex. (We both had symbols painted on just one hand, opting to keep the other hand plain.) A few minutes later, she also pointed out that Alex and I are both vegetarians (though I do fancy some fish nowadays, to be fair).

When Henry and I were alone a few minutes later, I said to him, “Isn’t it funny that the one person here I have the most in common with is a fourteen-year-old girl? I wonder if she wants to run away from home all the time, too.”

“Sad,” Henry mumbled.

But considering that Henry always compares me to twelve-year-olds, this is an improvement, no? In fact, on the way to the party, he was ridiculing me in the car.

“You have the hands of a 12-year-old,” he scoffed when I fanned out my left hand in front of his face. The fact that every ring I wore that day was made of neon plastic and cost a quarter only gave him more reason to jeer. “‘Look what I did, Daddy!'” he mocked, rolling his eyes at the ampersand I painstakingly painted on my thumb the night before.

“I should have painted ‘Jonny Craig’ on my nails,” I said, mostly to myself.

“Jesus Christ,” Henry mumbled, looking out the window, clearly wishing he commanded my attention as much as this ginger douchebag does.

Back at the party, Chrissy was pointing at my shoes and asking, “Are those TOMS? Alex wants a pair of those.” A little bit later, Alex walked by and said, “I like your shoes!” causing Henry to shake his head and flash me one of his signature Disappointed Smirks.

When we were leaving, Chrissy said jokingly, “You and my daughter will have to hang out sometime!”

(Only if she likes Dance Gavin Dance!)

Henry looked all chagrined by this, and Chrissy added, “What, you don’t want her to be an old lady, do you Henry?” YEAH HENRY! I AM WHO I AM, OK ? Stop trying to make me boring.

I never realize how much of a jerk parent I am until I say things out loud to co-workers and their fingers involuntarily look up the number for Child Protective Services.

The other day, Sandy and Barb were complaining about a co-worker who was coughing and sneezing all day.

“There goes Typhoid Mary again,” Sandy said, all annoyed.

“Oh, I know what you mean. Yesterday, Chooch sneezed like eighteen times in succession and I was like, ‘God, get a life!'” I said, feeling a real sense of camardarie.

“You told him to get a life?” Barb reiterated.

“Well yeah, because he was annoying me. I mean, who needs to sneeze that much?”

They both laughed, but I guess I kind of saw how maybe I could have chosen my words better. Or, you know, offered him a tissue instead.

***

I hurt my back today. I started to notice it while I was exercising, but I’m on an intense “I’m Fat and Should Die” kick so I sucked it up and continued through the pain. By the time I was done, I was laying on the floor, whimpering and unable to stand up.

Chooch took no pity on me.

“Stop being a crybaby,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt that bad, let’s go outside.”

So we went outside, where I writhed on the front porch and reminded him every 3 seconds of the excruciating pain I was in.

Then he scraped himself and got all Wounded Animal on me, but I scoffed. “You didn’t care about my back, so I don’t care about your scrape!”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. I only found that out when I came to work and told Barb and Kaitlin about how much of a bastard my own son was being to me while I clearly have a broken back.

“Erin!” Barb exclaimed. “Who’s the adult here?”

“But he hurt my feelings!” I argued.

“Yeah, but—he’s five!”

I mean, at least I’m not hitting him in the face with hot frying pans, right? Is that not good enough?

Well then, I guess tonight if you need me, I’ll be sitting in my room working on the parent rosary.

Guest List:

• Henry & Chooch (they were uninvited a multitude of times before Sunday)
• Janna
• Blake & Shannon
• Robbie & Karen
• Wendy
• Mary
• Barb
• Jeannie
• Kristen
• Sean & Leon
• Kaitlin
• Glenn & Amanda
• Regina
• Judy
• Kelly
• Brian, Sam, Steph & Zac
• Gina & Elissa
• Laura & Mike
• Kara, Chris & Harland
• Kristy, Nate & Sarah
• Bill, Natasha & Demi
• Jimmy Wenger
• Bill & Deena
• and of course at least 20 no-shows because I’m the most unpopular girl on the block & people suck.

Glenn would rather be riding the Wacky Worm.

I have been thinking about what to write all week and I’ve decided that I just can’t put it into words. It was literally like reliving my childhood, from the skates on my feet to the music in the rink to the Orange Crush in my mouth. And being surrounded by my closest friends, most of whom surprised me by actually skating (even Barb!), it was just the best feeling ever. It totally made up for the last several lackluster birthdays.

There were some downsides:

1. Not having anyone there who knew how to use my camera. I just wanted to skate, not take pictures! Janna gave it a whirl and managed to get some salvageable shots out of my finicky Canon (he only loves me) but most of the guests were lucky and escaped being photographed so it looks like only 5 people came to Loser Erin’s Pathetic Party.
2. The rink is not air-conditioned. Hello, it’s August. I was the true definition of Hot Mess because when I skate, I SKATE. So I got to transfer sweat-through-hugs to all of my dry guests. I mean, the people who see me every day are used to me looking like shit, so at least this wasn’t a new look for them. And it was obvious that Chooch was my kid because he and I looked like we had both just squeegeed a giant’s armpit. We were the sweatiest kids there, no contest.
3. My inability to convince God to let me operate his celestial Claw Machine in order to grab all of my favorite faraway friends and plop them down at the Neville Roller Drome. You know who you guys are.
4. Henry didn’t wear his hat like Jonny Craig.

When we arrived at the rink, Henry went to the side entrance to let the owners know we were there a little early. He came back to the front door and asked, “Why do they think this is your graduation party?”

Well, because a few weeks ago, when I was ironing out details with the owner on the phone, we were just about wrapping up the conversation when he said, “And hey, congratulations again on graduating!”

A normal person in my shoes would have corrected him and said, “Oh, no. This is for a birthday, not graduation.” You know, set him straight right away.

Me? I simply said, “Thanks!” and hung up.

And hey, I’ve never graduated from anything since pre-school, so maybe I kind of liked the idea of being a graduate for a night, alright?

Harland, Chris and Kara, post-getting yelled at by Roller DJ for breaking the rink rules.

Mary, Barb and Wendy. This might have been after Barb’s “spill.” I even offered to knock down Janna to take some of the heat off her.

Robbie & Karen, blasphemous roller bladers.

Bill, whom I met when we came to last year’s Pie Party with my friend Shannon. I thought it was so awesome of him to come to my birthday party. He brought his friend Deena who skated for a minute before yelling “OH THIS AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN!” and stormed out. I don’t know where she went, but she never came back. That was the most drama my party saw, however, which is unusual for an Erin Rachelle Kelly affair.

Rink Ref was trying to teach me strides, which is great and all, but I didn’t ask.

“Um, do you like give lessons or anything?” I asked, hoping we could schedule something for a time when I wasn’t hosting a party.

“Yeah, I’m giving you one right now!”

“OK, because I really just want to skate fast, you know?” I said, itching to be set loose.

Rink Ref sighed and said, “Go. Enjoy your party.”

God! Thank you!

I caught Henry skating really close to him later on. I fell into place with them and hoped to hear some juicy convo, like maybe what really happened the night Darrel Fell!, but it sounded kind of boring so I lost interest after about 4 seconds like any other time Henry is talking. I later asked Henry what he was doing with him and he said, “Networking.” Seriously? Doesn’t he know that’s what Facebook is for? People don’t actually talk to each other’s faces anymore.

And what kind of networking could one seriously accomplish with a rink ref?

Back in March, I approached Kaitlin, baker goddess, about making me a custom cake for my birthday. I have wanted a Robert Smith cake for as long as I could remember and had it all laid out in my mind exactly how it would look.

Kaitlin exceeded my expectations. When she walked into the rink with it (while The Cure’s “The Baby Screams” was playing, no less!), I nearly cried (I actually did later that night though when I read her birthday card). It was everything I had envisioned, minimalistic and instantly recognizable. Chooch ran by, paused, and said, “Oh it’s Robert” and then kept running.

Oh you guys, that cake. It was hands down the best birthday cake I have ever had. Fuck Bethel Bakery, it’s Zia’s Custom Desserts from here on out. (Seriously, if you live anywhere even remotely close to Western Pennsylvania, you’ll want to get a cake from her. Or macarons!) Beneath the beautiful Robert Smith circa-1987 veneer was layer upon layer of moist vanilla cake and raspberry filling. It was worth being pulled off the rink for. Even if I was forced to stand in front of everyone, dripping sweat all over my Wacky Worm shirt, while the entire snack room serenaded me. Worst part about birthday parties. I never know what to do! I mean, I’m awkward enough without a roomful of people singing in my face, thanks.

So I took pictures to make them feel awkward, too.

Glenn’s yawning, which isn’t surprising. He IS 50, after all. Also, a pretty great indicator of how much fun people were having. :(

After Henry cut paper-thin slices of cake for everyone (which I bitched about until later when I saw that there was no cake leftover and then quickly understood Henry’s stingy-slicing reasoning; also I think people had seconds and eighths), it was time for me to open presents! Chooch came over and tried to do this for me, at which point I turned into bitchy 12-year-old sister Erin and yelled, “GO AWAY THEY’RE MINE NOT YOURS” so he crossed his arms over his chest and ran out of the room with Barb calling after him, “Wait! I have something for you too!”

Record scratch.

She didn’t bring something for me to his party in May.

“Well, I thought you might be more mature than that,” Barb said, but that was right when I realized I was missing “Easy Lover” and started unwrapping faster.

My friend Bill, who was the Kaitlin of my old job (the one with Tina and Eleanore!) baked me BROWNIES. I was like, “Oh shit, Bill’s brownies!” and immediately glued one to my paw. I spent the rest of the time opening presents with a brownie in my hand, even though Barb kept saying, “You know you can put the brownie down, right?”

Not gon’ happen!

I got some great gifts! But really I was just happy that people showed up. That was all I really needed. (Ha-ha, what a lie. I wanted presents, all of the presents.)

Jimmy Wenger! He sat next to Jeannie, who strategically wore a dress so she wouldn’t be tempted to put skates on. Then someone pointed out that Blake’s girlfriend Shannon was wearing a dress & skating, foiling Jeannie’s plan.

Three hours went by way too quickly. (Everyone else: “God, three hours at the rink is a fucking long ass time! Shoot it dead!”) I’m happy that some people showed up and skated and I hope everyone had as much fun as I did, because it was like being a kid again, skating to all the songs that molded me into who I am today, underneath twinkling rainbow lights with all of my favorite people (plus Henry). And that is exactly what I needed after the week I had.

To summarize: it was fun and I was the best skater there.

I should have invited the Steel City Rollers, though. Fuck.

The rink owner told me I could bring in my own music for Roller DJ to play during my party, and you better believe I did just that. I slaved over this mix for weeks, trying to get it as close to three hours as possible. It started out as a list on paper, just a casual scribbling of possibilities that soon morphed into The Most Important List in the World and had me getting out of bed in the middle of the night to add to it. (So this is why, when Janna said she was going to request the Hokey Pokey, I almost chewed her face off. THERE WAS NO TIME FOR SHENANIGANS! I had it down to the second.)

When I gave Roller DJ the music, I said to him, “I only have one request. Before “Heart & Soul” by T’Pau comes on, can you give me a birthday shout out?” Roller DJ is pretty experienced with me by now, so he just sighed and said sure.

AND HE DID JUST THAT TOO. It was like 1988 all over again, except I was wearing a side pony with an over-sized bow in my hair.

(Why wasn’t I wearing a side pony with an over-sized bow in my hair?)

I really wanted to have some comfort songs from my childhood, back when roller skating was the popular thing to do and didn’t inspire the “Whoa, people still roller skate in 2011?” reaction that I normally get. So I threw on some New Order, Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys, Naked Eyes, the Cure of course, Duran Duran, Mummy Calls, Siouxsie and the Banshees…at one point, the rink owner snagged me during my party (people kept doing this when I was clearly trying to be a dream on wheels!) and said laughingly, “Hey Erin, do you work at a discotheque?”

YES, HOW DID YOU KNOW.

I also wanted to have the other side of the 80’s spectrum: Some Phil Collins/Genesis such as “Tonight Tonight Tonight” and “Easy Lover,” which I was very vocal about missing while I was unwrapping presents.  Billy Ocean and Madonna when she was still cool (“Borderline” FTW). Whitesnake and Foreigner to fulfill the monster ballad quota. Some 90s throwbacks in the form of Sophie B. Hawkins and Boyz II Men (Henry wouldn’t skate with me during “End of the Road” even though he knew it was dying wish).

“Return of the Mack” of course. There is no way I will ever not skate to “Return of the Mack.” Quintessential skate jam.

The day before my party, I jokingly tweeted that I even included “Jackie Blue” because I wanted to have something from Barb’s generation to make her happy. Coincidentally, that happened to be the song that was playing when she arrived at the rink. We were both like, “Whaaaaat is happening right now.” (I seriously do love the shit out of that song, though. It backfired though because I think it made Henry feel more at home on the rink. And giving him an enjoyable time is the opposite of my life’s mission.)

And then when Kaitlin arrived with my Robert Smith cake (which stopped me in my tracks, it was so perfect), “The Baby Screams” was playing.

Creepy but awesome.

Of course I wanted to appease everyone with the music selection, especially after Henry lectured me about alienating people. I had some current r&b and pop hits, some Fall Out Boy for Henry’s nieces, Britney Spears and Rihanna, but you know there was that part of me that was itching for my favorites, those songs that make my heart bleed. So I loaded up some Dance Gavin Dance, Emarosa and Chiodos as well. I was dying to hear some post-hardcore at the roller rink.

Roller DJ kicked off my party by playing an Emarosa track.

“Not gonna lie, this is pretty cool,” Blake said when I skated past him and pointed up at the speakers.

Near the end of the night, when Jonny Craig’s voice permeated the Roller Drome with the words “Tailored sheets,”  Chooch and I screamed in unison from opposite sides of the rink. His voice sounded even more beautiful to me, reverberating off that smooth wooden floor, making my knees all weak. It was the only time of the night I almost fell.

Roller skating to Emarosa and Dance Gavin Dance was the best birthday present EVER.

Remember a few weeks ago when I had that exceptionally whiny post about how Henry never does anything for my birthday, and you guys were all like, “What a motherfucker he is!” and I was all like, “Fuck yeah, you dig the hole, I’ll kill him!”? And then I told you how this year, I put Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” on repeat, got all Take Action and decided to be a Strong, American Woman by having a birthday party for myself, and Henry can just eat a dick while that’s happening?

Well…

The day after my party, Barb said, “Well, I guess I can tell you this now…” at which point she said that at Chooch’s birthday party (in May), Henry approached her about wanting to throw me a surprise party.

Which I ruined by being so bull-headed about “taking matters into my own hands.” And I don’t regret doing that, because look at all the times I sat around waiting for something that was never going to happen.

But what I do regret is being such an asshole to him, to his face and on this blog.

He read that post, which was so awful and bitchy, and he never said anything.

If it were me, I would have been like, “I was GOING to have a party for you, you asshole” and then set fire to his face, but Henry is not like me. Henry is nice and calm. So he read all my mean words and went about his day without even mentioning it.

(Barb said he’s also probably used to it.)

So here is where I put on my best “oopsies” smile and apologize in a Degrassi accent.

(You still failed on the present front, though. Better luck next year.)

I came home after randomly spending NINETY MINUTES conversing with Momesis* at the playground (yes, this really happened and I can’t believe my fingers are about to admit this, but: it wasn’t so bad) to find a package from the lovely and oh-so multi-faceted Brandy of Zen Master Flash fame.

(*A preschool mom who hijacked the class Halloween party last year, which did not sit well with me. I’ve referred to her as “Momesis” ever since.)

She made me my own personal scene kids for my birthday, you guys. I was stunned when I unwrapped them. Stunned.  Unless you just met me a minute ago when you tried to sell me ya-yo out of that hobo’s boot,  you should know how much I love scene kids and wish to be a mother to them all.

Of course, Chooch immediately tried to swipe them, so I brought them to work with me, which is where they will live, next to my picture of Austin Carlile and Chiodos, because the other thing you would probably learn about me after spending like, an hour on my blog is that I don’t like to share.

Not even with my own kid.

And also, Chooch and I fight like rabid siblings. Henry’s mom was over my house when I was opening the package and it looked like she was getting ready to take a wooden spoon to both of our asses for acting like spoiled bitches.

It’s funny, because Brandy posted a picture of the scene kids on her blog last week, and I fucking flew to her Etsy shop, hoping to find them because I was so ready to buy the shit out of them. I had no idea they were made for me!

And she gave me one of her signature Freak Flags!

You guys should all check out her blog and her Etsy shop if you’re not previously privy, because she’s a real class act.

***

I know I don’t get serious on here a lot, but I am just genuinely struck by the kindness and generosity I’ve encountered in the people I’ve met through blogging. In the last week alone, the outpouring of love and condolences from you guys after I broke the news of my grandma’s death was astounding, and just what I needed to get through the week. I never really had much support growing up, so to have it now is a really incredible feeling, and not something that I take for granted. There are so many times I feel like I just want to quit blogging, but then someone will remind me that at the end of the day, this is why I do it: To make friends. To feel less alone. To feel like I matter.

So to all the people who come back and read this even though I might be abrasive and obnoxious a lot of (most of) the time: You matter to me, too. Thank you. <3

Spending a birthday at the county fair seems like a great idea on paper: gut-churning rides, complimentary (if not downright sleazy) carnies, fried desserts (calorie counts are nil on birthdays, everyone knows that), the cacophony of laughing children and tractor pulls (forgetting for a moment that I hate children and anything with even the slightest redneck-tilt).

Yes, a perfect day!

But then you add in Henry, whose face threatens to crack a million different ways if even the slightest hint of a smile creeps upon his lips; Blake, who is apparently an 80-year-old retiree in an 18-year-old’s body, adverse to sunlight and complaining of back pain and lethargy all day; Chooch, who is a little motherfucking birthday killer-in-training who makes the day all about HIM HIM HIM; and Janna, who won’t ride anything aside from a carousel and a 20-second-long Haunted Mansion ride that Henry’s SAT score out-scares.

Not to mention the fact that these assholes weren’t constantly fawning over me and winning me plush Family Guy characters. IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY, NEED I REMIND YOU.

Blake and his new friends, planning their upcoming move to Florida.

Awkward Standing.

At first glance, I was like, “Aw shit, this fair might be pretty good.” I mean, it was run by Powers Great American Midway, after all, and I am obsessed with them. However, it was only about half the size of the Big Butler Fair, and I’ll tell you: That fair can spoil a bitch. Power’s light blue unit brought along some choice rides. (Is it sad that I know which “unit” PGAM deployed to the Fayette County fairgrounds? Maybe I look at their website too much.) And I saw lots of familiar carny faces, one of which was Kirk’s! I didn’t talk to him, though. What’s the point when my lame non-carny boyfriend was glued to my side all day?

But the layout of the fair sucked. And it was super muddy and smelled like sewage, but that was probably because Henry kept standing so close to me. Still: 100% better than the shitty Washington County Fair. (I go to county fairs a lot. It’s kind of become A Thing.)

You know you go to a lot of fairs when you start to recognize carnies, is all I’m sayin’.

Blake: Jeepers, it’s so hot! I think I’m dying! And I left my cane at the home and missed my 3:00pm dinner! I wonder if Dad has any individually-wrapped prunes in his pocket before I pass out.

Thank God Lisa and her husband Matt met us out there a few hours after we arrived. They joined us in standing around awkwardly, which is something that people need to master before even attempting to hang out with me. (I suggest going to a crowded store and standing right in front of a doorway or at the top of an escalator for practice. Do not move when you find that you are blocking foot traffic, and ignore the scowls you inspire. Only then can we hang out.)  Lisa was in a really good mood and I like to think it’s because she knows how delicate of a situation my birthday is, like the entire premise of Speed, with less bus more birthday cake, but actually Lisa is always pretty chill and somehow wasn’t completely put off by the foul moods of my companions who need to be reminded that SOME PEOPLE AREN’T LUCKY ENOUGH TO GET TO GO TO THE FAIR.

Fuck!

Within minutes, Chooch claimed Matt and I’m sure everyone at the fair assumed they were father and son after that. I’m sorry, Matt. But Henry and I were relieved to be off the hook for awhile.

***

A week before the fair, I was on the phone with Lisa.

“I hope the fair is a good one,” she said thoughtfully.

“Um, Lisa? Of course it will be. It’s run by Powers Great American Midways,” I informed her haughtily.

“I don’t know what that means.”

THAT’S BECAUSE SOMEONE DOESN’T READ MY BLOG.

***

Lisa and Matt agreed to ride the Orbiter with me immediately after they arrived. I was SO EXCITED. Finally! I get to ride something moderately extreme! But then we got in line and I saw it said “No single riders” and those asshole words are ALWAYS BEING SNEERED AT ME at fairs because I am perpetually single in this world of grinding traps of pleasure (amusement rides, not vagina dentata).  I looked at Janna who had accompanied us to the line and she said no before I even asked her. Way to tag along on something you’re not a part of, then Janna! So I had to run over to Henry and Blake, who had combined to form a Dildo-ic Duo while Chooch rode some stupid train operated by Kirk.

I hadn’t even approached them yet and I was already absolutely wailing about how Janna ruined my life and wouldn’t ride with me and Blake, while I was still approaching them mid-run, said no. Henry, however, said: “Fine.”

“What?” I asked in surprise.

“I said fine,” he sighed.

I guess he was trying to make up for the fact that he failed epically in the birthday present department once again. (Seriously, he got me a shirt that I already have, which proves that he doesn’t look at me. Ever.) This was the SECOND ride he rode on! (We rode on the Swings when we first got there. They made him sick.)

Oh, I was so happy! And the best part was that it took so long for the ride to get loaded to capacity, that Henry and I had plenty of time to talk about Jonny Craig!

Henry bitched about the Oribiter for the rest of his time at the fair. “I have cold sweats,” he kept complaining, though I’m not sure to whom because last time I checked, his mommy didn’t come with us and she’s the only person who gives a shit about him. He didn’t ride anything else after that, though I kept trying to con him into being my partner on the Skydiver, since it’s less commitment that being my partner for life. He kept saying, “We’ll see,” which everyone knows means NO.

After Chooch and Matt, Lisa, Janna and I had our turn at sliding down the Fun Slide, which I hadn’t done since I was a kid and good goddamn is that scary. Ascending the steps alone made me clutch my heart. I felt like there was going to be a religious cult waiting at the top to push me back down the steps into God’s eternal arms. It was like walking into the hospital on D-Day and wanting to run back out the doors but having 3 nurses pull you back in because “that baby’s gotta come out one way or another, sweetheart!” Longest climb of my life.

“I’m scared,” I told the Mexican carny who smiled, probably assuming I said, “Let’s go fuck behind that lemon cart you pushed across the border.” What? The Pennsylvania border, you guys.

Lisa thought it was the funnest thing at the fair, Janna had no comment, and I was just glad I didn’t slide through piss, shit, vomit, a chewed-up wad of Skoal or semen. And by “it,” I mean the Fun Slide, not Mexican carny sex. I know you were probably confused.

Things took a turn for the worse when I decided I was ready to eat something and made everyone halt and bow to my whims. I ended up getting a small bowl of haluski, which seemed like an OK choice as far as keeping my stomach lining primed and at the ready for vigorous riding.  (And yes, finally I’m talking about sex!)  Besides, it was either that or throw away 16 years of vegetarianism for some unidentifiable meat on a stick. There was some lame square dance bullshit happening inside the 4H building, so we all sat around and pretended to care about that while I ate. (Lisa really did care, though. She likes the simpler things in life.) This was about the time Chooch turned into the biggest prick of all the fair, and Blake did nothing but antagonize him which only increased Chooch’s crowd-drawing by 500%.

I attempted to not look like I belonged to the two of them by focusing my attention on the asshole inside the 4H building who was singing the most ridiculous square dance songs for these idiotic plaid-tastic children to clomp around to. I almost wished he had CDs for sale so I could buy one and break it in front of his face. God, get fucked with your pathetic farm melodies, douchebag square dance warbler.

In the middle of the Chooch & Blake: American Assholes show, there was an older lady sitting nearby (the blond Peg Bundy in the background of the above picture) who said about Chooch, “Boy he sure is cute” but what she meant to say was, “Damn, child. Your mama needs to put you in a cage because you are acting like one hell of a mother fucker.” And then to me, she said, “We just ate some fried Oreos for dessert. Boy they sure were good!” and what she meant by that was, “Bitch, why don’t you go to the other side of the fairgrounds, far away from me, and choke your bastard child on some fried Oreos, because he is being one hell of a mother fucker.”

Chooch flipped over a chair in response while I pretended that Janna was his mom.

The square dance brigade had some young child canvassing the area with literature. He approached me with his stack of white and green papers and said, “Would you like one, they’re free?”

“I want a green one,” I said with just the right drop of bitchy entitlement. He looked slightly stunned, like no one had ever bothered to make a color request before. While he shuffled through the stack in search of a green one, I said smugly, “It’s my birthday.”

Lisa and Janna were watching this pan out. Lisa looked mildly amused and Janna looked like she was bracing herself for the ‘splaining she was going to have to do to the kid’s mom by the time I was done antagonizing him. This is just how I talk to children: in a very demeaning, ironic way. They seem to like it.

Meanwhile, the guy who was inside singing the square dance “songs” promised “this next one” would “speed up.”

“You should join our square dance group!” He sounded nervous, slightly intimidated by me. Just how I like boys to be.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, as I folded up the paper. (The age limit is 20, by the way. THAT KID RULES FOR THINKING I’M NOT OLDER THAN 20.)

“This next one” still hadn’t “sped up.”

“Dylan!” a lady called from inside the 4H house. “Come dance to this last song!” Sure, maybe there was some plaid lass inside who missed being partnered-up with Dylan, but I have suspicions that this lady just didn’t want him near me anymore.

“Yeah!” I yelled in my best “I’m riding the Wacky Worm, motherfuckers!” impression and when he looked at me all startled-like, I gave him a thumbs-up and said, “Do it! Wooo!”

Lisa hadn’t heard the lady call for him in the first place, and admitted later that she thought I was just spontaneously excited, though she was confused why I was telling some young boy to “do it.”

Then I called Dylan my “new son” and Chooch got all upset. I win at parenting.

I have no recollection of Henry being anywhere near us that whole time.

Oh apparently he was off supporting his cocaine habit.

I told Dylan I was going to watch him, but that was actually the time we rose up as a group and went to the petting zoo. Fucking with children is the one true talent your God gave me.

Here is all I remember about the petting zoo: I relayed my birthday woes to a camel and then Chooch fell in a pig sty and Henry had to take him and Blake home.

Coincidentally, my night really picked up after that! Janna bought me root beer in a tin mug from an old broad who tried too hard to sway our decisions and Lisa and I rode the Gravitron with the cast of Jersey Shore. It was fabulous!

Lisa encourages me to take pictures of every little thing she does. She’s like Chooch, but grown.

The only downside to the Fair: After Hours (read: After the Douches Left) was that neither Lisa nor Matt would ride the Zipper with me. I was only able to ride it once, earlier in the day before Blake’s desire to drink a glass of Metamucil and take a nap got the best of him. We talked a little bit about music while trapped inside the Zipper’s jaws, but I could tell he wasn’t having too much fun.

Everyone is growing up but me.

Janna, Lisa and I rode this moderate thrill ride called the Tornado, which is pretty tame but Janna was still clutching her rosary and trying not to re-eat her haluski while Lisa manually spun our car around on top of giving Janna dating advice. My favorite part was when the ride ended and Lisa’s safety bar didn’t release. She pulled it toward her, hoping it would spring back, but it only made it tighter. I fetched the carny and then ran away to stand outside of the ride’s gate by Matt, who had been relegated to little more than a Purse Tree at that point.

The carny gave Lisa a hard time for awhile before manually releasing the bar for her. As she and Janna approached Matt and me, Lisa yelled, “And I love how Erin just ran away!”

Behind her, looking a gorgeous shade of gangrene from her jaunt on the Tornado, Janna irritably mumbled, “Yeah. She does that.” Possibly Janna’s way of suggesting that Lisa spends more time with me.

Janna bought* me a birthday ice cream cone from a girl who had been punched in the eye. Lisa opted for more scatastically phallic fare. Then we said goodbye to the fair and immediately upon leaving the parking lot, Janna’s GPS lured us out onto un-lit backwoods lanes and I’m not going to lie: It was scarier than riding the Zipper in a lightning storm with the cage unlatched. This was after Janna got raped by a bug.

(* This mostly happened because when Henry left the fair, so did my money.)

Happy fucking birthday to me, to me, to me.

Here, have some pictures of the fucking fair. I will write more later.

I have a love/hate relationship with my Lensbaby lens. Barely use it because it can mostly go suck one.

Maybe the only thing that didn’t piss me off all day. Although, he did try to spit on me.

Who doesn’t though.

Henry: Portrait of a Serial Birthday Killer.

The other birthday killer.

Miserable people.

Chooch and his new dad.

More later, if you can stand it.

Ahhhhhh! Old Folk approaching! Hide your hard candy!

Have you ever wondered what Warped Tour is like for a super old man who shuns fun and is the Poster Elder for “surly”? You’re in luck because my very own, personal Old Man let me ask him some questions about his day spent outside in 95+ degree heat surrounded by machine-gun drumming and exploding-node screaming.

But he had this girl by his side, so how terrible could it have been, right?

(RIGHT!?)

Erin, pen in hand: Why do you wear a bandanna to Warped Tour? Is it because you think it makes you look hard? (Because it doesn’t.)

Henry, sitting next to me on the couch and glaring: Because it was hot. [Thinks deeper.] And it keeps the hair out of my eyes.

Erin: So does a hair cut.

I really believe he wears a bandanna because he feels like it will repel scene kids. Like if they see some dildo approaching them with a cotton condom fastened around his head, they’ll think he’s security or a member of a biker gang, when meanwhile he drives a Ford Focus and looks like the treasurer of a washed-up Village People fan club.

Erin, pressing the issue because I know people care about Henry’s head toppings: And how do you decide what color to wear?

Henry, mumbling as he works the TV remote: Whatever matches what shirt I’m wearing.

Erin: Now did you learn that on the “Blue-Collared Beverage Warehouse Manager” episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?

Henry, actually looking away from the TV for the first time since this writer has been asking questions: What? What the fuck are you talking about? [One corner of his mouth tugged up a bit, which constitutes as a SMILE in the world of bearded douchebags.]

Erin: Is it true you bought a graphic tee at Target specifically for Warped Tour so you’d fit in better and joke-block me of non-descript t-shirt fodder?

Henry: No. I didn’t buy ANYTHING for Warped Tour. [Scrunches up face in irritation, which most people would take as the universal visage for constipation.]

This is a complete lie. He bought sun screen and individually-wrapped prunes.

Henry, reaching in his Old Man Cargo Shorts for an individually-wrapped prune. Note his expression: It never changed.

Erin: What was your favorite band of the day.

Henry: [LONG PAUSE. I thought he was thinking but really was watching Good Eats.]

Erin: [Stabbed him in the ribs with elbow.]

Henry: What?! [Notices me scribbling down my own answer on his behalf.] What are you writing? Don’t write Dance Gavin Dance, because it wasn’t.

This means it was Blood on the Dance Floor. Scantily-clad scene posers get him every time. Jeffree Star and all that.

Erin: Speaking of Dance Gavin Dance, what are your thoughts on them?

Henry: I don’t HAVE any thoughts on Dance Gavin Dance.

Maybe not, but he definitely dreams about them considering their last album is on constant repeat in the bedroom.

Erin: Not even on Jonny Craig?

Henry: Jonny Craig is a douchebag.

Erin: If you had to spend money at one merch booth, which would it be?

Henry: [Seriously considering for entirely too long.]

Me, noticing the small puff-shapes his lips are making: Hello! You’re falling asleep!

Henry, jolting at my shrill voice: No, I was thinking. And the thinking is putting me to sleep. [I have to repeat the question.] It would probably be what you want since I get no say in anything.

What he meant to say was, “The first merch booth we come across that has booty shorts in my size. I hope it’s Blood on the Dance Floor or Black Veil Brides!”

Henry’s “I ain’t got my dentures in & I just spent the last of your money on a Powerade” face.

Erin: How disappointed were you that Craig Owens (singer for D.R.U.G.S.) darkened his hair?

Henry: A little disappointed.

It was the FIRST THING he noticed when Craig came out on stage.

Erin: Does that make him less attractive to you?

Henry: No.

OMG that means he’s attracted to him in the first place.

Erin: Why wouldn’t you stand near me during Of Mice & Men? Was it because you didn’t want to get your face melted off?

Henry: Too many kids around me.

Lies. Here are my top 3 reasons why Henry took 87 giant steps back away from the crowd:

1. He didn’t want his pedophilia to be that transparent.
2. He doesn’t love me enough/have enough upper body strength to keep bodies from falling on my head, which won’t matter if he’s a million feet away from me.
   
3. He’s embarrassed to be seen too close to me. (Because I cry during shows, but mostly because I’m ugly.)

Erin: When you saw that girl pass out right before Set Your Goals, why didn’t you spring into action? Isn’t that what they taught you in THE SERVICE or were you too busy trying to look like Erik Estrada instead of attending all the Be a Hero seminars?

Henry: [For real sleeping.]

Erin: [Repeats question, and by that I mean I kneed him in the nuts.]

Henry: [Started to “think,” then fell back asleep.]

Erin: HENRY, PLEASE!

Henry, waking up abruptly: I don’t know! Because there were already people “springing into action!”

Or! Because he left his balls with his ex-wife.

Someone for Henry to share his prunes with!

Erin: Any tips for other elders attending Warped Tour? And don’t say, “Don’t go.”

Henry, about to say “don’t go.”: Damn. Bring plenty of money so you don’t have to drink tap water. Leave your girlfriend at home.

Erin: And don’t forget your joint cream.

Henry, forgetting that he’s like 80 years old: What do I need my joint cream for?

Erin: What was your favorite part of Warped Tour and don’t say leaving.

Henry: But that was my favorite part. Probably watching all the people run when it started to rain even though they were in bathing suits.

Translation: Watching all the wet under-age girls run in bathing suits. See? Warped Tour’s not all that bad!

Erin: Least favorite?

Henry, with no hesitation: The heat.

Erin: What heat? Don’t men of your blue-collared ilk spend their childhood summers working in my rich relative’s yards for milk money? You should be acclimated to the heat by now.

Henry: Whatever, asshole.

Erin: If (Warped Tour founder) Kevin Lyman named a stage after you, what bands would you demand be on the lineup? And don’t say Judas Priest.

Henry: I don’t know.

Ew, I hate when he says that. Especially when his voice cracks in irritation like he’s some pissed off Peter fucking Brady.

Erin: Henry, I will kick you in the nuts.

Henry, clearly peaced out from the interview process like a little prissy Girl Scout: I don’t know what bands I would have!

This means he’s too embarrassed to admit to the Internet that it would be Creed, Nickelback, whatever nü-metal bands are still together, and a Carpenters cover band.

Erin: Are you looking forward to next year’s Warped Tour?

Henry: I never look forward.

****

Thank you for reading this lame interview. Clearly I need to find more interesting subjects. You suck, Henry. Learn some words!

Chooch has lived in a houseful of animal masks since he was a baby, so stuffing a pig mask on his head in the middle of summer ain’t no thang. But when he saw that Kara’s not-quite-2-year-old son Harland was less than tickled with his new porky visage, it became a calculated game in torture and torment.

It’s probably for the best that I’m not giving him a younger sibling; the way he antagonizes other children makes me see so much of myself in him.

Henry is right: we are so similar it’s more alarming than cute.

Henry came home and took Chooch back to work with him so I could maybe avoid being admitted to the psych ward this afternoon. I spent my time alone laying outside with a book about Albert Fish called “Deranged” (entirely apropos) and taking pictures of the wildflowers in my front yard.

I never take pictures of flowers, ever. Endless photo streams of flowers is one of my least favorite things in the world. But I figured since my grandma was gypped out of a proper send-off, the least I could do is post some floral photos in her honor.

I practically live in the ghetto. I hope you weren’t expecting roses.

Everyone deserves flowers when they die. Fine, even Katy Perry.

Today was all kinds of fucked up. Cold and clinical. Bizarre and surreal. I wanted to post these pictures I took at the fair on Saturday to remind myself, and maybe you, that there are still things to smile about.

And it’s OK.