The thing about Lakemont is that as far as amusement parks go, it’s puny. Nothing about it is really “new,” except this time when we were there, we noticed that one of the rides had been removed so maybe next year there will be an upgrade in its place. And how shocking that would be. Especially if it was anything manufactured post-1980.

But for some reason, I love the hell out of this park! People-watching is prime, the rides they do have are an amalgamation of bizarre and retro, and best of all—it’s cheap. Extremely cheap. We always go on the same weekend in September when Lakemont hosts some sort of Altoona craft bazaar, because it’s only $5 that weekend and there is almost no lines to stand in at all.

NOT EVEN FOR THE WINE SLUSHIES.

One of the bigger draws at Lakemont is a small wooden coaster called Leap the Dips, which also happens to be the oldest running coaster in the WORLD.

THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD.

It costs an extra $2.50 to ride it. They didn’t charge extra the last time, but I guess this is their effort to do everything possible to maintain and preserve it for future use. The old man who sold us the tickets was hilarious and teased us mercilessly. He wouldn’t hand over the tickets until I was able to tell him how much it would cost for three. This of course caused sweat-on-the-brain but I was able to answer before Janna and that’s all that matters.

It’s so old that the young farm-handish employee had to actually run and push our car to give it momentum. But not before making fun of my iCarly messenger bag. (He accused it of being Hannah Montana and I felt the vinyl flap featuring Carly and Sam’s mug heat up as it rejected his insinuation. )

Janna and Laura quickly learned the meaning behind “Leap the Dips” as they were nearly catapulted out of their seats when we went over the first dip and our car became airborne.

It’s one fucking rough ride. Henry won’t ride it due to the fact that it agitates his hemorrhoids.

Proof.

Lakemont’s Wacky Worm is definitely the Toboggan (I finally learned how to spell it! Gold stars all around!). This was Chooch’s first time riding it and he took to it immediately. We must have been ejected from that vertical tube 20 times that evening. Such a stupid yet fun ride.

If we’re being honest, it was the guys running the thing that kept me coming back for me. They were hilarious and cute and coveted  my iCarly messenger bag. The thing with the Toboggan is that there is a lot of sitting around in the cars, waiting for your turn to be carried up through the tube and then waiting for all of the other cars to come back before being unlatched and set free. But these two guys would walk back and forth, antagoning us, showing us stupid magic tricks and just being all-around completely entertaining.

It made me remember why I enjoy Lakemont so much — the kids working there actually give a shit about their jobs and have fun doing it! What a novel concept!

OK good, I did spell it right.

Isn’t it majestic?

Someone watches too much 16 & Pregnant.

Moments later, I almost lost an arm and leg when Chooch stamped down on the gas pedal before I was all the way inside the car. It was a pretty great scene for all the people standing in line.

This was the first time I was actually proud of my kid. Not for nearly spontaneously amputating me (though I would finally have weighed less!), but as far as riding things at amusement parks go. Of course I’m already proud of his sarcastic, biting words; knowledge of horror movies; and independence in the kitchen. He rode the shit out of everything he was tall enough to ride and I felt like we were really in sync with each other that day as we frolicked from ride to ride; even Henry rode his fair share AND EVEN SMILED AT TIMES.

Considering we had spent the morning screaming at each other over money, the day ended up being pretty spectacular and Henry even held my hand at one point (!!!) and said he was glad he came along after all. See that? My brilliant day trip ideas SAVE RELATIONSHIPS.

Can’t wait to do this again next September! WHO’S IN?

***

On the drive home, Janna admitted to not being able to see, provoking Laura and me to nervously suggest in tandem for her to pull the fuck over. Since I was now driving, I told Janna it was her turn to entertain us, and after whining for awhile about not having any stories, she launched into this shoddily-detailed narrative about going to a party when she lived in DC but then ended up getting a chili dog instead and then parking in a loading dock by her apartment and eating it in the car. I kept waiting for the climax, at the very least a car-jacking, but nothing ever happened other than her eating a chili dog while illegally parked.

Kids, don’t blow off parties for chili dogs or you too will grow up to not have any stories to tell.

[Read Henry’s harrowing account of the day here.]

It was pretty stupid.

My friend Carey from work had a kid-friendly Halloween party last night; Chooch and I were so excited that we did our makeup hours before we left the house and then proceeded to wipe blood on Henry while he was trying to take a nap.

Of course though, I waited until the day before to think to myself, “I should probably find a costume.

” I still don’t have my costume for the Trundle Manor party next week either, but for Carey’s party, I opted for an old tattered nightgown that I bought a few years ago from Goodwill specifically for the photo shoot portion of Chooch’s zombie birthday party. (That particular party was also the origin of “douche cup,” for anyone writing an oral history of Chooch slang.)

Thank god I never throw shit like that away.

I stuffed Chooch in his pj’s, equipped us both with a stuffed animal and slapped us with the Slumber Party Zombies label. I put minimal effort into everything I do.

It was a pretty weak concept, but Chooch’s doofus zombie act is worn out by now and I had nothing else to wear. Henry refused to dress up, so I told people he was our meal. (Because “douchebag” isn’t a costume, it’s his everyday uniform.)

Chooch took this for me. I’m actually being less zombie, more controlling camera freak in this picture. “YOU’RE NOT HOLDING IT STEADY ENOUGH!” He was like, “Damn bitch, take your own picture then.

“

Seriously.

We got to Carey’s and her partner Liz’s house and Chooch immediately walked off like he had been there a dozen times, helping himself to food and exploring the bathroom.

(He is fascinated by other people’s bathrooms.) Then Liz put the hockey game on and I became That Person who sits at a party and watches a sporting event instead of mingling. (I did talk to people though; Henry was proud. This was actually not very hard to accomplish because all of their friends were normal and nice and not once did I have to steal off to a dark corner and imagine certain heads exploding.) I caught myself at one point, during the last few minutes of the third period, literally cuddling my stuffed elephant and biting my nails, like I was for real at a slumber party watching a scary movie.

There were other kids there so Chooch ran off with them and Henry and I we mildly concerned at first because hello, it’s Chooch; but then I remembered I had a near-empty glass of wine and went back to being concerned about getting a refill.

Eating small meatballs. Carey had lots of vegetarian-friendly cheese possibilities as well. I love party food.

I think I was already half-drunk in this photo, and we had only been there 20 minutes.

This is Carey, as seen while Henry’s intrusive form engulfs the lens.

Cheating on FAYGO!!

When other guests found out I work with Carey, they would ask, “Oh, are you a lawyer, too?” and the absurdity of it would make me laugh quietly to myself. And when asked, Henry would tell people he’s a warehouse manager for a beverage company, at which point I would rabidly interject, “He delivers FAYGO!”

It never gets old to me.

I’m so supportive of him.

Chooch and his new enemy.

What a fun night. And Chooch didn’t do anything douchey, break any vases or cut their cat’s ear. Can it just stay October forever?

It’s been over a month since this wondrous event happened, I’m not sure I will ever be able to do it justice now. There’s just too much that has been going on since that day and it kept getting pushed to the backburner; completely unacceptable. But there are pictures and I really want to post them, so I will do my best.

First Stop: DelGrosso’s

All you really need to know about DelGrosso’s is that I got really fucking sick. I had just rode back-to-back spinny rides with Chooch, Laura and Janna (one of which was the Tilt-a-Whirl, and Chooch and I kept laughing because Janna rode alone; I am raising my child right, in case you haven’t noticed) before agreeing immediately to ride this thing called the Casino with Chooch.

Laura and Janna opted out.

First, Chooch and I had to stand next to an unoccupied seat, waiting for the girl running the ride to help us unlatch it while everyone who was already situated stared at us like they couldn’t believe it was our first time at an amusement park. The girl kept getting distracted, or she was just pointedly ignoring us, who knows; but I should have taken it as a sign and walked away.

Instead, we stood there like idiots until the door was unlatched for us (there were like, three whole steps to unlock it; no way would I have ever cracked that code) and then within one and half revolutions, I felt my equilibrium throat-fucking me.

Really, it wasn’t so bad: just some slight undulating motions as the roulette wheel spun us around, but then, joy of joys, it went BACKWARDS.

And that is where my first trimester of pregnancy came back to haunt me. I instinctively reached into my pocket for a peppermint disc, but I didn’t have any on account that I am not actually pregnant anymore.

Oh, look at Little Miss Thrill Ride Queen, nearly barfing all over the occupants of the Casino.

One more revolution, and it would have been that puking scene in Problem Child all up in DelGrosso’s.

After the ride ended and we waited to be released from our maximum security cell, Chooch skipped off into the horizon while I staggered slowly after him, finally nailing the zombie gait that I so pathetically pantomimed during my zombie self-defense class last spring.

Without a word to Janna, Laura and Henry, I slowly took a supine position on a bench.

“Maybe the train will be a nice break for you,” Laura suggested, so we all got in line for the most lamest amusement park train ride of all time. We didn’t make it on right away and had to stay in line for one more go-around. I considered sliding down the wall into a heap of sweat, stomach acid and minced stomach lining instead of standing with everyone else.

I was that nauseated that even standing was giving me the spins.

However, I was not too nauseated to laugh evilly when an older woman got out of her seat before the train started to take a picture of her family, only to lose her balance and fall back into the seat, sprawling across her embarrassed husband’s lap and absolutely cracking the fuck out of her shin.

It was a pure delight to witness. I guess it wasn’t all that exciting though because Laura and Janna admitted afterward that they must have missed it. It gave me tears, that’s how much I enjoyed myself.

The train ride did not help my churning stomach. I clutched the front of the seat with whitened knuckles, wishing the sunshine would un-blanch my complexion instead of coaxing the bile up my throat.

Afterward, I waved the white flag and collapsed on a bench. I urged Henry to take Chooch to kiddieland and encouraged Janna and Laura to ride the Crazy Mouse again without me.

“Don’t worry about me,” I moaned in the stoic tone of a fallen soldier. “I’ll be fine.” And then I wept behind the privacy of my sunglasses.

Everyone rejoined me after about 15 minutes and I decided that I needed to try and eat, so we all trooped back over to the food area, where Chooch and I sat alone on a bench, me with my head between my knees.

“Let’s go on the Wacky Worm again,” Chooch cheered.

I started to say, but then on second thought, I said, “Yeah, OK. Let’s do it.” And damn if that fucking ride didn’t make me feel better.

“Where were you?” Henry said when we found him holding a plate of pizza.

“On the Wacky Worm!” I shouted happily.

“But you’re sick…” he started.

“NOT ANYMORE, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Laura and Henry both wore black shirts because they’re in a pigment race gang.

We rode the Wacky Worm one more time before we left, while Henry stood sullenly off to the side and stared with disapproval.

“So, what did you think of the Wacky Worm?” I interrogated Laura on the way back to the car.

“It’s a…ride,” she answered uncertainly.

I’ll say! THE BEST RIDE EVER!

Today is Barb’s birthday! Happy birthday, Barb!

Something you should know about Barb is that she sometimes cannot tell the difference between giraffes and zebras and that she thinks Bill Paxton is the worst actor of all time. She lost a hockey bet last year at work and her punishment was using a picture of Bill as her desktop wallpaper.

Because I can’t ever not be a dick to the people I like best, I made her a birthday card.

I’m sure she will cherish it forever. I mean, she better.

Yesterday was the official voting for the Halloween decorating contest at work, but I had to spend the first hour of my shift in an Adobe Acrobat training session, and the BOSS was also in this class, which made it drag on and on because she kept asking questions and for the first time in my life, I honestly knew what Pee Wee felt like in the motherfucking Alamo, with everyone asking stupid questions and all he wanted to do was get to the goddamn basement.

Or, in my case – the ballot box.

I even floated up out of my body at one point. It was so frustrating.

Afterward, I had to sit at my desk and pretend to do work while Barb had a crowd around her as she counted the ballots and everyone was taunting me, making me feel paranoid.

At one point, I was honestly convinced that I was going to lose and I was scanning papers while practicing my best faux-gracious loser face. (Which doesn’t actually exist so I guess the proper thing to say is that I was trying to invent one, not practice it.

)

Meanwhile, I used this as an opportunity to steal away to the other side of the floor and plant incriminating evidence in Glenn’s desk locker (a skull with a former employee’s name tacked to it) and then I casually strew a finger and key across his keyboard, which had originally been inside a secret box cut inside the killer’s diary.

Anyway, I wound up winning, but by a very slim margin.

It took Henry AN HOUR to congratulate me and then he MOCKED my winnings by saying, “Yay, cigarettes and gasoline for everyone!” But then he’ll be the first person asking to use it.

“Please! Just let me use it on one stick of beef jerky!” Fuck you, Henry.

(Oh, he just texted me and said “That’s awesome” in response to a card I made. Look at him sucking up already. Anything to fill up the tank!)

Glenn eventually figured out that he was the killer, but not without Sean and I holding his hand and walking him through it. Then he came over to my desk and admitted that he hadn’t really read Ken Lobe’s diary, which—-hello!—-had most of the clues in it. It all started to come together for him though, and what a treat it was to watch.

I guess tonight I’ll start taking my stuff down.

I’m going to miss sitting amongst bloodied plastic liners, teeth in a salt shaker, fake skin and a pig mask. Goddammit, I’m getting all choked up.

I’ll probably at least keep my pictures of Lizzie Borden and John Wayne Gacy in the frames.

Who needs pictures of their children on their desk, anyway? I see my kid every day.

Or: How Barb Found Another Way To Ruin My Life

Or: That Fucking Tomato, The Sequel

Before Barb left work on Monday, she had to go and fuck up my whole world by offering me an apple. I just smiled and said thanks, but what was really happening at that moment was that a vignette of cumulative  botched apple-cutting situations began whirring around in my head,  my inner-wrists started tingling at even the suggestion of wielding a paring knife, and my teeth were curling back inside my gums at the thought of biting into a whole apple.

Meanwhile the ghost of Johnny Appleseed openly mocked me from above my desk.

It just sat there all night, to the left of me, this glowing red/yellow orb of temptation. If I had been the original Eve, the Bible as we know it (and I don’t really know it) would be drastically altered, because I have a feeling Adam would have been too busy exploring holes with his dick to cut a fucking apple.

We might all be walking around nude right now.

Eventually, I tossed it into my purse, thinking I would just find some way to eat it at home. And by that I of course mean Henry would put a Gerber bib on me and slice the apple into Erin-appropriate wedges.

That night at work, I ate peanuts and Halloween candy instead. Fucking apple.

***

I forgot the apple was in my purse until the next morning and Henry had the audacity to not drop everything and come home from work wearing his produce armor to cut my fucking apple.

“Where did you get an apple?!” he asked, probably thinking I was trying to eat random growths from neighborhood trees again.

Gee, I don’t know, Henry. An old fucking lady brought it up to my cottage window while goddamn bluebirds sang Disney songs behind her.

“Barb gave it to me last night and I put it in my purse! Don’t act like you don’t go through my purse!” I answered defensively, like I was trying to deny an affair with a bait shop owner.

(This all happened via Facebook; look at me, making it appear that Henry and I have real life conversations that don’t take place via the Internet, text, and Post-It Notes!)

Seriously, when will apples shake their stigma? WE NEARLY BROKE UP OVER THIS.

I had people on twitter sending me tutorials but the first I watched said I needed a melon baller and I started to break a sweat because I was pretty sure we don’t have a melon baller and also because I think I used a melon baller as a torture device in a short story I wrote a long time ago.

I decided to just wait for Henry to come home from work.

***

Henry hadn’t yet had a chance to get both feet through the door before I was blocking his path and shoving an apple-fist in his face.

He looked tired and disgruntled.

“Give me the fucking thing,” he said, snatching the apple from my hand. As he disappeared into the kitchen, I heard him grumble, “You’re pathetic.”

Nice to know he worries about my safety and the possibility of apple-induced arterial spray.

He practically frisbee’d a plate of shoddily-cut apple wedges at me before storming out the door to pick up our son, who will have to learn how to cut his own apples if he ever so much as dreams of eating one when Henry is away from the house.

This was definitely the product of a pissed off man with a knife. I call it Henry Sliced the Apple: the shocking conclusion to How Will Erin Eat Her Apple?

***

When I got to work later that day, I regaled Barb with the horrors of what had come to be known as Applegate. I did a lot of hand-wringing to further illustrate the distress her stupid apple had put me under.

“Oh, honey,” she said in her Babying Erin Voice,  which you might have figured gets a ton of use. “You should have just used the apple corer we keep here.”

WHAT APPLE CORER.

I took a picture of Barb demonstrating, so I could look back on it for reference.

That night, Barb left me another apple, the apple corer thing, and an assignment: to try it by myself.

I waited until everybody but the late shift people had gone for the day, just in case I wound up causing a scene. You never can be too safe. My first attempt propelled the apple with great force against the kitchen wall, knocking over the paper towel holder. (Speaking of the paper towel holder: The roll was empty the other night and I put a new one on all by myself. So now no one can say I haven’t helped out around there.) I think I didn’t have it properly centered because I might not have been paying attention.

My second attempt sent me lurching into the kitchen counter, but I did reach some low level of success. I couldn’t get the blades to split the apple the whole way through and wound up having to break it off the corer thing, but this was a win as far as Things Erin Tries To Do In The Kitchen goes.

Then I happily ate my apple, while  saying, “I did this myself!” to everyone who walked by. (And by everyone, I mean just Carey.)

And that is how I learned to cut an apple at work.

(You should see me with an orange.)

You probably haven’t figured this out, but I am kind of obsessed with a singer named JONNY CRAIG.

If you didn’t already know that, it’s OK.

It’s not like I name-drop him on every other post I write on here or anything. You just need to know that I was going to see his band play in Columbus, OH next month but now they’re on hiatus because motherfucking Jonny got arrested for narcotics possession.

So now I’m sad.

Which prompted Sandy’s Henry Sketch Submission to look like this:

Jesus Christ, I love this so much. Sandy, you are the best.

There is more to this whole apple thing, a whole SAGA really. I will type out all the traumatic details tomorrow in between watching ‘tween shows, talking to my cats, and crying over Jonny Craig into one of Henry’s bandannas.

1 comment

The first mix tape I ever made  I was 3 or 4 and using a Fisher Price tape recorder, the kind that came with the attached microphone on a coil. The mixtape was opaque yellow with a rainbow on it and I vividly remember jamming the mic into the speaker of the TV while the video for Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” was on. Years later, I taped over some of the more frivolous recordings with speaker-crackling songs from my favorite 80’s movie, Back to the Beach.

In addition to that were snippets of adult conversations I would clandestinely record: my mom and Grandma whispering in the kitchen, my Pappap on business calls. God, I miss mix tapes. I miss THAT mixtape, especially.

This painting is an homage to those neon-flavored lo-fi years. It’s painted on a repurposed piece of stock art I found at the flea market & purchased for the frame. It comes varnished and ready-to-hang. Get stoked!

With the frame, this measures approx. 9in. x 9in.

If you want it, you can get it here.

(I was  going to keep it for myself, but it’s time to let go of some things.)

I’m not one of those people who has a dream and then needs to bore everyone with it immediately, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about (and feeling) the one I had two nights ago.

Chooch and I were at a party for someone who was late to arrive and there was no one else there we knew, just a bunch of family members looking at us all weird. The party was in a one-room house standing on cinder blocks and all I knew was that we needed to leave.

And so we did, despite being grabbed at by white trash alcoholics trying to forcibly tug us back into the house. I kept trying to run faster but I was having a hard time because I didn’t have any feet on account of Henry cutting them off the day before.

I wasn’t mad at him for doing it though. I understand that in order for him to fix my pants, he needed to cut off my feet, but he hadn’t yet had a chance to see them back on. So Chooch and I began our search for Henry, who worked in some seedy clinic for poor people.

On the way, I ran into some people I knew who casually asked, “Why are you running around with no feet again?” and then it occurred to me that this wasn’t the first time Henry had found a need to remove parts of me and as my REM-camera panned out I began to notice the accumulation of shoddy stitch-work across my body from all the times Henry had reassembled me.

My ankles have felt tender and ticklish ever since I woke up that morning.

Then there was this whole interlude where I inadvertently left Chooch* neglected and alone in the car when we arrived at the clinic  & only realized what I had done when I turned around and noticed a couple peering at him through the window and looking alarmed. I ran back to the car and gave them my best “I meant to do that” Pee Wee impression.

[*Like anyone could just “forget” that Chooch was in the backseat. That’s kid never shuts the fuck up.]

What the fuck does all this mean, other than that I should dump Henry and someone should call CYS on me.

ETA: I SOLVED IT! Yesterday, Barb gave me an apple. I put it in my purse. Today, I really want to eat that apple, but I have a biting-into-whole-apple paranoia. And of course I don’t know how to cut an apple. Why would I?

I wanted Henry to come home from work to cut it for me, but he was all, “Blah blah, I have a job and that is more important than your nutrition” so, outraged, I decided to do it myself.

But on my way to the kitchen, I had a flashing premonition of me slicing off my hand and then Henry having to come home and sew it back on.

So my dream was clearly a reminder to not try and cut foodstuffs with knives on my own. (And also that I’m a bad mom.)

I am extremely manic today.

And then we shared an uproarious laugh.

(pg. 69 of the Living with Henry book of poetry.)

The Living with Henry book of poetry doesn’t actually exist, but maybe if everyone drew a picture of Henry and sent it to me, something amazing could be born. (Because I really need an additional project.) I’d sell it on Etsy for $3 and maybe use it as bribe money to get some more SERVICE stories out of him. Or at least fund his next Desitin and individually-wrapped prunes purchase. I bet Henry would really fucking love that.

Weeners optional, but encouraged.

[Sketches can be sent to: butgavincantdance@gmail.com]

6 comments

Here are some iPhone photos from Zom-B-Rama. (The rest can be seen in yesterday’s post.

)

Someday, I feel that Chooch will have his own set of bloody handprints on the Maul of Fame. Or on a caution tape-cordoned wall.

When I got pregnant in 2005, I had friends who were all, “Ha-ha, you’re not going to be able to do anything fun once you become a mom!” But pre-Chooch, I never would have done this shit. I guess having a kid with an aversion to age-appropriate television shows and a propensity for horror helps.

I was a little leery of getting Chooch all made-up for Zom-B-Rama since last year he wanted to leave after 20 minutes. But a year makes a big difference and proves that 5-year-olds can be less dick-ish in some ways than 4-year-olds.

(Don’t get me wrong, there are still at least 68 occasions a day when I cry to the gods, “WHY CAN’T HE GO BACK TO BEING 4!” before flipping off my ovaries. Especially now that there’s all these kid politics in Kindergarten.)

I gave his recent zombie dweeb costume a reprisal because I’m lazy and didn’t feel like thinking of anything new. I have a bad case of mental exhaustion. Anyway, it seemed to be a hit with his zombie brethren at the Monroeville Mall arcade.

We arrived just in time for a short performance by a zombified Rocky Horror Picture Show troupe.

“I hate this song,” Chooch mumbled as the zombie Eddie lip-synched to Meatloaf. But apparently, “Hot Patootie / Bless My Soul” be damned, Eddie’s performance really won over Chooch, who spent the rest of the afternoon coveting his leather jacket and emphatically remarking that he was the best zombie there that day.

My friend/zombie self-defense class partner Kristy was there with her little zombie lover-in-training, Sarah, so it was nice to be able to hang out with them in the downtime after the RHPS performance. Aside from several zombie-themed carnival games and the museum in the back (which we’ve walked through a thousand times, and yes it’s awesome! But not very time-consuming) there was little else to do but stand around awkwardly. Kristy and Sarah split after about an hour and wound up missing the scintillating 2:00 performance of Time Warp.

But by then, Wendy and her step-daughter had arrived so they got to be wow’d by the flesh-eating RHPS cast.

They really drew a crowd each time they took the “stage,” including random non-zombie mall-walkers, but then people would leave as soon as it was over. Hey Zom-B-Rama: NEEDS MORE ENTERTAINMENT! There was not enough to keep everyone stimulated. Give me a call, I have some (like, a million) ideas for next year.

(Not really, but if asked to think of some, I would.)

“Is that your kid?” some guy asked Henry and me. “Because he is seriously creeping me out.” All he was doing was roaming around, bored because we were talking to Wendy and not showering him with money to burn. But I took that as a big compliment considering I AM THE ONE WHO DID HIS MAKEUP while Henry just stood there doing nothing. I win yet again.

Chooch actually played games this year. Some of the zombies were letting him win, which I thought was super-sweet. He accumulated enough tickets to get some sort of cowboy gun that he apparently has always wanted. Since when? I clearly don’t know my kid.

Chooch was less interested in the zombies, more interested in spending our paychecks on the claw machines.Wendy’s friend won a ball and Chooch was dead set on winning his own after that. Finally, Henry threw his hands up in defeat and cried, “I will just BUY you a ball, Chooch! For Christ’s sake!”

After Henry’s epic defeat, Chooch conned Wendy into trying to win him something.

Alas, he’d have to be happy with the fucking cowboy gun.

Hiding from the only thing that scared him all day…

…Zombie Spongebob. Seriously? He was so afraid of it. Wouldn’t even get close enough for me to take their picture together, even when Spongebob’s acquaintance persisted.

It’s weird the things that actually scare him when the obvious ones don’t.

Around 2:00, our new friends Rick and Tammy showed up with their daughter Jamie, who took on Chooch in a game of air hockey so rousing, some random man stood and watched the entire game play out.

That’s when I realized how much alike Chooch and I really are. He is a little smarmy cheater! However, he still lost, whereas I would have won. So, not entirely alike are we.

Then Henry and Rick meandered around the zombie museum, sharing memories of what it was like when the mall was still lit by gas lamps.

He quickly picked up his panhandling again, going so far as to beg Rick for $40 to buy a collector’s pack of Cereal Killers mini cereal boxes. Later on, Rick told him that if he could remember his and Tammy’s names, he would give him the .

Chooch came so close, but hesitated too long on Tammy’s name.

I silently exhaled, knowing that Chooch would have demolished those cereal boxes within .005 seconds of being placed in his grubby mitts.

PLEASE GIVE ME QUARTERS!

This was Rick and Tammy’s first time meeting Chooch, and Henry was quick to point out that contrary to how it appears, we don’t actually mainline caffeine and rock sugar into him. This is just Chooch, au naturale.

“He’s either going to make you a lot of money,” Rick remarked. “…or need to be locked up.”

That was definitely the quote of the day.

After 2 and a half hours of standing around in everyone’s way and letting strangers take pictures of our son (seriously, Rick is right; where’s my fucking check?!), Chooch had reached his “enclosed space” limit and we parted ways.

It’s cool having events like this to go to. If there’s one next year, we will likely go and hopefully they will have amassed more entertainment for us ornery folk.

Henry dropped me off at home and then went to the store with Chooch still scabbed and putrefied. Henry said some lady was all aghast and asked, “Was it a bike accident?”

Because that’s exactly where Henry would take our child immediately after the pavement fed off his face: the motherfucking dollar store.

My friend Chris from Castle Blood has lent me some tattooed skin for my desk, which has seriously increased the creep-factor.

My boss was looking at it the other night and asked me repeatedly if I was sure it wasn’t real. I guess she just expects some asshole like me to come carting in the real deal.

Another one of my bosses was reading the diary and I was telling her about how I plan to finish everything off next week.

She looked alternately worried and impressed.

“You’re scary smart,” she said, which was nice to hear because I didn’t even think I was “regular smart,” so it was a really great night after that.

I’m really happy with the way these add to the macabre motif, and that some people are questioning whether or not I gave Henry a good carving.

I also made some additions to the killer’s diary, but I forgot to take pictures of that. And I took the night off work so it’ll have to wait till Monday. (I have so much time accumulated, that I’m just picking random days to take off at this point. It’s kind of nice.)

And now that our killer, Glenn aka Ken Lobe, is back from vacation, it’s been even more fun watching him look at everything and fall just short of connecting all the dots. I stole one of his desk keys for next week’s finale and he hasn’t seemed to notice yet.

I haven’t really been able to explore my darker side since I quit writing short stories, so this has been a really great release for me. I don’t want it to end.

Shit, this sure feels familiar: Little over a week away and we have no costume for Chooch because he won’t pick one.

The closest we’ve come to locking in an idea was at the pie party. I can’t believe I forgot to mention this in that particular post, as it was one of the highlights of the day for me.

The party hadn’t yet started and Chooch was coloring with my brother Corey and his girlfriend Danielle. Unprovoked, Chooch blurted out, “Corey, I’m going to be you for Halloween.”

This of course was followed by a Walton-esque moment pregnant with “Aw!”s and sappy smiles. I figured we could just give him a hair cut, toss on a flannel and give him a cane decorated with a gray-toned rainbow as a shout-out to Corey’s tragic color blindness. Costume complete!

“Yeah,” Chooch continued, intently coloring his page from the Star Wars coloring book. “I’m going to slice your face off and wear it.”

We all laughed nervously.

Of COURSE this wasn’t going to end as a sweet, adorable page for the family scrapbook. Not when it involves dialogue from my kid.

So when people at work ask what he’s going to be, I just shrug.