I kind of always wanted to get summoned for jury duty. Not that I think it’s glamorous or fun, but fuck–what a prime opportunity to people-watch, right? And that’s kind of my thing.

A few weeks ago, I got my official notice in the mail, filled it out immediately and tucked it back in the mail slot for the mailman to retrieve the next day. When Henry came home from work that day, he saw the torn-open notice and asked, “Where’s the rest of it?”

“In the mail slot, already filled out!” I answered all incredulously, like how was this not his first guess? “I REALLY want to do this!”

“You’re fucked up. No one WANTS to do jury duty.” (Too bad at least TEN people have told me otherwise in the last day.) And then Henry dampened my parade by explaining to me the ins and outs of jury duty, how I would need to check the website on a designated date to see if I was even summoned in the first place.

Well, that day was yesterday and OMG I was!

But my joy soon turned into panic. Do you guys know me at all? I’m pretty much helpless. And now I’m expected to be turned loose into the real world, to ENTER A COURTHOUSE without setting off five alarms, to find a particular room without crying….

“What room is it?” Barb asked me and I told her it was 3-something. “OK, so take the elevator to the third floor—”

“BUT WHERE ARE THE ELEVATORS, OH MY GOD BARB?!”

There better be attendants at every corner, waiting to point me in the correct direction.

“Will I have to talk to people?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Barb said. “You might get asked questions.”

“IN FRONT OF PEOPLE?” I cried.

And then I found out that this doesn’t even mean I’ve been chosen? I have to sit there all day, in a room I may or may not find, waiting to see if they want me?

Talk about my life story.

Henry agreed to drive me down there tomorrow morning so I’ll have one less thing to worry about, like: WHEN SHOULD I GET OFF THE TROLLEY? AND THEN WHAT?! And then he tried to explain to me how to walk to work afterward. Seriously. I do not understand downtown Pittsburgh. There are roads and people and buildings; lots of them.

Today on the way to work, I pointed at every building we passed and asked, “Is that the courthouse? What about that one?”

“We’re not even on the right side of town,” Henry mumbled exasperatedly.

“You said you were going to show me!” I wailed, about to get hysterical. I have lots of…complexities, we’ll call them…when it comes to going somewhere alone for the first time. I like to over-think things until I’m sure that I’m going walk into a building for the first time and promptly fall into a hole to a land of Katy Perry-soundtracked church sermons and food overrun with crunchy onions because how would I know that it was there when I HAVE NEVER BEEN THERE BEFORE.

“I am going to show you,” Henry said. “Tomorrow morning when I drop you off in front of it.”

Then he tried to explain to me how to get to work once I’m released.

“This is too confusing,” I sighed as he was trying to point out landmarks. “It’s a good thing my phone has a compass.”

“Yeah but do you even know what direction to go to begin with?” After his question was met with silence, he said, “Didn’t think so.”

I was starting to feel OK about it at work as my co-worker Cheryl said, “Oh you’ll be fine! You mostly just sit around. And then you break for an hour and a half for lunch—”

An hour and a half? NINETY MINUTES?? What the fuck am I going to do for ninety minutes? Find a bathroom stall in which to tremble and cry?

Barb did her best to comfort me. “I’m trying to think if there is anywhere to eat inside the courthouse,” she mused, knowing full well that if I attempted to stray outside, I might never find my way back and wind up having to change my address to:
Some Guy’s Occupy Pittsburgh Tent Some Random St.
Pgh (I think), PA.

“If you need to, you can just call me. I’ll come find you,” she promised, and that made me feel like maybe I could survive this day.

“Just stand outside and shine a mirror into the sun; I’ll follow the light signal,” I said, trying to complicate this into some failed Choose Your Own Adventure book.

But then Wendy came over and said, “Fool, just walk outside the courthouse and look up. You can see our building, duh.”

Why does this have to be downtown? Why can’t it be on a farm that’s easy to find and full of boughs pregnant with apples. (My apple obsession is still going strong. More on that later.)

So that’s where I’ll be tomorrow if you need me, walking around in circles and looking up at the sky. I should probably take that bloody pie server thing out of my purse first, though.

I met Andrea through an Etsy street team, but I always thanked my blog for luring her in. I use it as a friend-capturing device to make people believe that I am really this cool broad from Pittsburgh and then by the time they realize that I’m pretty boring and average, if not wildly whiny and ditzy, in real life, IT’S TOO LATE. THEY’RE ALREADY IN MY WEB. I AM FEEDING FROM THEIR STOMACH CAVITIES RIGHT NOW.

Anyhow, Andrea has been such a big cheerleader for my blog and whenever I get down about it, she gives me a good dose of Tough Love; a kick in the ass via text message; and sometimes, if I’m lucky, a care package of new My Pretty Zombie eyeshadow colors and gummy body parts. Being able to call her a friend is one of the best things that came from this blog.

She has been supremely busy out there in California, yet still made time to dig through for some of her favorites. Thank you, Andrea! (Everyone thank her! God!)

***

1. McDonald’s Got Racy

Andrea’s favorite Chooch story.

2. Date Night at the Home

According to Andrea, this is a good cross-section of my BRILLIANCE, you guys. Take that, absentee SAT-score.

3. At Least It Wasn’t Chucky

“That one where you almost hooked up with that Chucky guy,” I believe is how Andrea referred to this one.

Fun fact: the actor who played Andy in Child’s Play actually found this blog post and we’re now Facebook friends because of it. Even though I was practically sexually harassing him via the Internet. Good to know I can get away with that shit.

4. How Not to Talk to Strangers In a Cemetery

5. Bullying, Chooch and Mommy-style

This is Andrea’s favorite one of all time. I could write a post that would lead to me befriending Lil’ Wayne in real life, which would then lead to me setting him up with her on a blind date and that would inevitably lead to a marriage full of shiny gold grills, facial tattoos and gratuitous jock spritzing and she would still say, “No, the one about you and Chooch being assholes is still my favorite.”

***

And don’t forget to come back at the end of the week to sign up for the Oh Honestly, Erin giveaway, which will include 5 full-size jars of My Pretty Zombie eyeshadow and one blush (your choice of colors)! If you’re a dude, you should still go for it. I’ll have a painting and a set of my zombie notecards in the mix too, plus other stuff which I have yet to decide. Besides, you might look nice with some lavender lids.

I’ve been friends with Janna since sixth grade. SIXTH GRADE. She’s always been one of my few “IRL” friends who supported my blogging efforts (habits?), but fear could have something to do with that. Next to Henry, she probably knows me better than anyone else, so I’m honored that she chose some of her favorites to share. Especially considering I drag her through the mud nearly as much as I do Henry.

So without further ado, here she is. Thank you, Janna!

***

Picking my favorites from this blog was not an easy choice because there is SO much good stuff here that Erin has written over the years. Eventually I was able to narrow my list of favorites down to five. I’ve got to say it was fun to read far back to the beginning of this blog to remind myself of some of the early stories and rediscover those baby Chooch pictures.

1. Franklin’s Bar

I wanted to have one of the short stories in my list because these were so well written and enjoyable to read. Out of Erin’s short stories, (which she needs to write more of), I picked Franklin’s Bar. I think a lot of my explanations for my favorites are going to hard for me to verbalize other than “I just thought it was great”. This story is great. As with many, if not all of the stories Erin’s written, the last few lines are the best. They’re something twisted and funny and dark and make me finish the story laughing. Well, the whole story is that stuff. This is my favorite line(s) from Franklin. “Back then, if you would have told me that Franklin’s was where I’d meet the man I was going to rape, I’d have laughed at you. Then kicked your ass.”

2. A Really Lame Carnival

I was there, believe me, it was lame. BUT the way Erin wrote about it made the thing way way WAY more interesting than I ever observed it to be. So why I like this post and added it to my favorites is basically the amount of sarcasm used to describe things that make me weeze with laughter to this day.

3. A Cure Pilgrimage:Part 1

(Though the whole entirety of this trip is amazing.) Again, I’m going to have to go with “This thing is just great” because of my lack of ability to really explain why I love this. I guess I really enjoy the details and comedy in Erin’s story telling. This trip is a great example of that. Two things mainly stick out for me- trying to get Henry to give directions over the phone “Henry: What are you near? Me: A black lady in really high boots.” and the description of that motel make this post completely awesome.

4. Haunted House History

I can tell from the writing (and personal knowledge) how much these memories are important to Erin. I love it not only because it’s nostalgia for me, but I can see how much this stuff means to her.

5. Undead Abduction

I picked one of the photo posts to be part of this list because, just like the short stories, the pictures are an important part of this blog. I chose the post with the pictures of Andrea and Chooch in the cemetery. Not only are they ridiculously fantastic, I LOVE these because of the story that they show.

My brother Corey and I first visited Trundle Manor in September of 2010* and it was one of the most culturally and intellectually fulfilling nights I had had in quite awhile. (I live with Henry full-time, remember.) The residents, Anton and Rachel (aka Mr.ARM and Velda, respectively) were gracious and charming hosts who didn’t make Corey and I feel like Abercrombie nerds; instead, they recognized our inner weirdness and made us feel at home.

(* For real, read that post—their residence is amazing.)

Since then, their incredible home collection has gotten a ton of press, culminating with a spot on MTV’s Extreme Cribs a few months ago.

So when I got the invitation to their Halloween party, there was no way I was declining. I’m still filled with regret for missing last year’s, all because I couldn’t get anyone to go with me. (Lamest reason ever, but we all know I’m the modern poster girl for “square.” Except that I’m so round.) This time, I asked my friend Wendy right away if she wanted to go and she didn’t even hesitate to say yes. We spent the next month giddily talking about what to wear and bragging about it to our co-workers who just looked at us blankly. (Except for Barb, who was excited! I wish she would have come with us.)

We settled on zombie housewives. Being a housewife is a huge stretch for me, so I really had to use my imagination. I basically just wore my Perdoozy sugar skull apron over top of an old black chiffon-ish dress I found at Goodwill; I carried around a bloody pie serving thing because Henry said we didn’t have an egg beater, which is originally what I wanted so thanks for defecating on my vision, Henry.

(How the fuck does the Kitchen King not have an egg beater? And not even a wooden spoon?! Best get thyself to Williams-Sonoma, ye culinary poser.)

Wendy also wore an apron, but she bloodied hers up (my one caveat was that I didn’t want to fuck up my apron; I really like that thing!) and tucked a duster into it, which party-goers kept mistaking for some small, furry pet that she couldn’t leave home without.

As soon as we arrived, we met Angie, who had come alone and didn’t know anyone else there. She was really awesome, had on a lovely homemade gown and flashed scary-sharp fangs every time she smiled. She also happened to be knowledgeable about absinthe, which Anton was serving straight from a fountain. As he extended a plastic wine glass full of the Listerine-tinted poison, I was transported back to that nightmarish after-work happy hour at Meat and Potatoes, where I battled a glass of absinthe and had my stomach punched by anise-flavored fists.

This stuff was not bad at all, though, and I somehow drained my glass well before Angie and Wendy, because that’s how classy I drink.

Wendy, being a creeper.

Meeting Olivia’s tumor again. (Seriously, it’s a real tumor from their belly dancer friend, Olivia. Don’t worry, she’s still alive.)

There were a lot of steampunk people there, some had come as far as Chicago and Canada. I love steampunk, but as usual, it’s yet another scene of which I’m only on the periphery. I had a massive, instantaneous crush on one of them, but we were all pretty sure he was gay. That didn’t stop me from photo-stalking him all night until Wendy finally had enough and started talking to him. His name is Matthew and he is so fucking adorable. Oh my god.

Rachel always looks amazing, Halloween party or not.

They had tons of carnival food there, like popcorn, funnel cake, fried Oreos, and corn dogs that Anton really wanted people to eat.

There were some amazing costumes there, not that I was surprised. There was a particularly dudded-up pirate whose way I kept getting in everywhere I went. He nearly sideswiped me with his obnoxiously-girthed hat at one point and I was beginning to think he hated me and my bulky presence in and around doorways. I think it was the squinty glare that gave it away.

The back of my steampunk boyfriend.

Random Trundle Manor decor that makes the demented interior designer in me salivate.  Their house is literally the structural version of what my dreams are made of.

Henry would never agree to a couples costume. He’s so fucking lame. Wendy pointed out one guy that she thought was dressed as Henry, if he were a hipster who wore corduroy blazers and Converse.

Here’s Anton on the roof during a merry performance by the Bloody Seamen, who tossed gold coins to the crowd before getting shut down by the cops. Of course the bloodiest of the seamen—the singer—was the same pirate whose path I repeatedly obstructed throughout the night. Sorry, dude. Good show!

Wendy standing by the hobo fire while the Bloody Seamen performed behind her in a small circus tent.

Another co-worker  from The Law Firm—Patty—is friends with Anton and Rachel, so we hung out with her and her fiance sporadically. And one of her friends gave me a cigarette, which made Henry immediately sniff and wrinkle his nose when I came home later that night.

We did not look like housewives at all. The only thing that made me feel better about our costumes was the fact that some people weren’t wearing costumes at all. At least we were better than those people.

OMG IT’S MATTHEW HI MATTHEW YOU’RE SO ADORABLE LET’S  MAKE OUT BY SOME DEAD THINGS IN JARS.

Three of my new Castle Blood friends arrived around 10 so it actually appeared that Wendy and I were perhaps part of a crew.

We happened to be standing near a table at the exact moment new party goers arrived with a giant baker’s box of cupcakes. You best believe my paws were in that box snatching a pumpkin variety like  Snooki dislodging an errant condom from her kooka.

“I’m so happy we were standing here when that happened,” I murmured around a giant mouthful, having one of my signature sugar orgasms. My face didn’t get this fat by itself, you know.

God only knows what went on while I was eating that. I had completely peaced out from all conversation until the last bite was swallowed. Patty felt remorse because she didn’t have a chance to take a picture of this happening, and suggested that I go back for another.

“You can just hold it and put it back,” she said.

I declined; this broad doesn’t have that kind of willpower. Putting a cupcake in my hand and then taking it away? That’s like pretending you’re going to untack Christ from the cross, only to say, “HAHA. J/K!” while driving in an extra nail. WHY YOU WANNA HURT ME LIKE THAT, PATTY?

OMG Matthew playing DJ: he just got infinitely more hottererer.

Props to this old school robot costume. I wish I had let my mom get old school Halloween Costume Mom on me for this party, because then I could have been intentionally awkward.  But that would have required me actually speaking to my mom. So…

Wendy, creepily eating a corn dog. I think this was after she was traumatized by two pirates nearly fucking in front of her while waiting in line for the bathroom. She said that when the girl pirate went to walk away, the boy pirate pulled her back and said, “Bring your pussy over here; I want your pussy near me at all times.” Naturally, this became the catchphrase of the night.

This was Dawn’s first-ever corndog! She and Angie had to de-fang in order to partake.

Later on, Dawn emerged from the house and said that the game room was empty, so we moved our shivering caravan into the house and upstairs, where we got to continue our conversation with the Castle Blood denizens sans chattering teeth.

God, it’s not even possible to encapsulate in words how amazing that night was. Everything from the food, drink (fuck, I drank so much Everclear), music, people and conversation was just perfect. Trundle Manor throws the best party in town and I hope I get to go back next year.

***

The next morning, Chooch told me that my hair smelled like cat puke. I would say that’s a sign that the night was a success.

What are you waiting for? Get yo’selves over there for a tour!

On October 24, 2007, I left LiveJournal (where I was affectionately and rather grotesquely known as “vagynafondue”) and started Oh Honestly, Erin. It was scary, leaving a comfortable home for my writing after 6 years, but I felt it was time to move on, to claw my way out of the pigeon-hole, and to hopefully reach people outside of the members-only club that is LiveJournal.

It took me awhile to find my voice again, and WordPress caused a thousand knockdown-dragouts between Henry and me, but now I can’t imagine writing anywhere else. I don’t even know for sure if many people still read this thing, I know I lost a lot of my old LJ friends when I jumped ship, but it’s OK. Because it’s a part of me like a bad coke habit and I only see future possibilities, Henry exposés, and late night benders on the horizon.

With that, I’ve asked some of my friends to pick a few of their favorite OHE posts from years past, which I will be highlighting all week. Because maybe if people see that my friends actually read this shit, it will seem more legit. Otherwise, if left up to me, it will be a post full of county fair bullshit and Jonny Craig videos.

(Henry even said he would pretend like he knows how to read by choosing some of his own favorites. I’m not holding my breath on that one; blue never did look good on me.)

And if any of you have any personal favorites, please leave a comment and let me know. It would be like a virtual birthday cupcake for me.

And make sure to stop back at the end of the week, because there will be a “thanks for reading this shit” giveaway*. I felt bad that I dropped the ball on that last giveaway over the summer since, you know, my grandma died. But you forgive me, right?!

(*I promise to try and make it worthwhile.)

My friend Casey (formerly of the band Joke Flower) is here to kick things off. Thanks, Casey!

An Open (Love) Letter To Oh Honestly, Erin

Hello, Oh. How are you today?

On this occasion (your 4th birthday!), I wanted to let you know what you mean to me and how important you are in my life.

I know we haven’t been acquainted for a vast amount of time, but every moment I’ve spent with you has been precious to me.

I’ve been asked what my favorite parts of you are. How am I to answer this? I may as well be asked my favorite song, book or film.

It’s an impossible question to answer, for they are far too numerous!

Of course, I have been with many blogs in the past (haven’t we all?), but never have I laughed so much, or felt so at home, as when I’m in the warm embrace of your (often sarcastic) words and (frequently macabre) images. From the artistic beauty of blossoming zombie friendships in the cemetery, to the perfectly placed, exquisitely timed “motherfucker”s; from hilarious tales of law firm shenanigans, to images of Henry The Elder surrounded by gigantic, bright yellow cocks…each new missive becomes my favorite!

But I can’t even say that zombies, giant yellow peenz and “motherfucker”s define my love for you in themselves. You have also taught me so much. Through your words and pictures, I have discovered that Jonny Craig, although unquestionably talented, is a supreme douchebag; I have been introduced to the infinite joys of the wondrous Wacky Worm; I am now convinced of the timeless genius of Robert Smith and his merry band of minstrels, THE CURE. (TOLHURST!)

Oh, when I immerse myself in you, it’s like venturing into a small, warm room (perhaps like a closet) that’s full to the ceiling of treasures, just waiting to be discovered.

So, I just wanted to wish you the best of all possible birthdays, and I look forward to spending many more days with you, enjoying your endless charms.

In short, I love you lots like tater tots!

Yours truly,
Casey

I still have one more Halloween party to go to tomorrow night, therefore it is still acceptable to be writing about Halloweenish things on this here blog. Also, some people (my friend/haunted house companion Laura) would cry if I didn’t write about certain haunted houses from this season. And by doing so, I’m hoping that it will seduce some people (Laura) to comment.

Hundred Acres Manor

Gosh, thank god this one happened to open the same weekend Andrea was visiting from California. She had never gone to a haunted house before because she was under the impression that the “monsters” inside these things are allowed to touch people, and she is a HUGE germ freak. Plus, she would have rathered stay at my house and watch Lil’ Wayne videos on On Demand all night, but I made her see the light by doing a lot of whining and flashing my puppy-eyes, which have no effect on Henry anymore but always manage to arrest the will of newer people in my life.

In line for the Manor, Andrea got a Super Gulp of Pittsburghese, thanks to the Steelers-emblemed assholes behind us. I was actually kind of embarrassed by them and their careless, flagrant slinging of the word “yinz” and “jagoff.”

Luckily, we got to go inside the Manor without them, but they managed to catch up to us in one of the rooms, at which point we got to witness one of the girls say, “This is just like being in horror movie” except that she kept pronouncing it “whore” movie and Andrea and I were like YOU GOT THAT RIGHT.

Then a candlestick flung itself off a fireplace mantel and hit Andrea in the ribcage.

But at least it wasn’t a person touching her. (I wanted her to sue, but she rubbed her WWL’WD bracelet and said, “Nah, I’d rather just make it rain.”)

She claims she wasn’t scared, yet you should have seen her jump when we were inside the maze and a RANDOM MAN (not even a monster) rounded a corner and caught her off guard. It was the only time she screamed.

Me? Oh, I was fine. My usual valiant self. Until we arrived at the entrance of the maze and I could hear the chainsaw over yonder. I clung to Andrea and started doing this weird hunched-over side-step that I find myself resorting to every time I’m trying to creep around undetected by a chainsaw-wielder. But then, in addition to hearing that sickening mechanical whir, I began to smell the fumes, so I knew we were pee-stepping in the same direction as him and I just COULD NOT HANDLE IT so I started to run blindly, slamming into dead-ends, snagging Andrea’s purple granny-cardigan with one of my obnoxiously large and dangerous rings, until I rounded a corner and found myself face-to-face with him WITH NOWHERE TO GO BUT A FUCKING DEAD END. The exertion of my screaming combined with my heart slamming against my ribs nearly made me pass out until eventually I wasn’t able to scream at all, just wheeze and flail hysterically like an asthymatic teenager in a Little Red Riding Hood costume being chased around a barn at a Michael Myers-crashed Halloween party.

It was a really bad scene.

Chainsaw Guy eventually let me skirt past him, at which point I left Andrea and ran so fast that I somehow managed to find the exit without using my iPhone compass.

Walking back to the car afterward, I said to Andrea, “Um, that chainsaw wasn’t even on, was it?” And then she was like, “Oh my god, you’re right – it wasn’t. He was just holding it quietly at his side and you were crying like a little pussy.”

On the way home, I put on some Lil’ Wayne so Andrea could get her fix.

“That was fun,” she admitted, “but it was no afternoon at Planned Parenthood with Lil’ Wayne, that’s for sure.”

She really likes Lil’ Wayne.

Castle Blood

See here & here.

Cheeseman’s Fright Farm

This was my first haunted house with Laura! Do you know how hard it can be when you’re a 32-year-old “grown-up” to find other “grown-ups” to want to spend money on this shit? Not really all that hard, but still. I even made a Jonny Craig-centric mix CD for to brainwash Laura on the traffic-riddled drive out to Scary Farmland, PA.

The hayride was a little disappointing this year, although Laura’s thigh was nearly cauterized by a too-close chainsaw, and there were definitely some laughable moments. But there was no simulated humping between me and any Jason-wannabes, so that was kind of a downer.

The walk-thru part was entertaining as always though. Getting harassed and snarled at when you’re blindly combing your way through fog- and strobe light-filled corn maze is $12 well spent.

Plus, we got to pet some snakes. And I’m not talking about when I encountered Michael Myers in line and tried to shove my hand down his pants.

Real snakes!

But the scariest part was when we first arrived and staked out our spot in line.

“Just so you know, I’m holding this spot for like 10 more people,” a petite, older blond lady turned around and said.

Laura and I basically emitted sounds of ambivalence, because really — there was already a group of about 40 middle school kids in front of us, what the fuck is 10 more people at that point.

But instead of turning back around, she proceeded to talk to us for the next 30 minutes.

Here are things we learned:

• She lives in a ranch house in the middle of nowhere, but as soon as her divorce is over, she is moving the fuck back to the city
• Her son, who pays for her cell phone bill and why shouldn’t he — he’s a pharmacist, after all — has lived in a myriad of places in and around Pittsburgh since leaving home and I can name each and every place.
• She is a student at some college somewhere
• One of her classmates told her on the first day of class that he really likes blonds, then followed her to a bar afterward and put something in her drink, and she knows this because when she drank from it, she felt something go down her throat, so what did she do next? OH, SHE LEFT THE BAR AND DROVE HOME. But don’t worry, she’s a seasoned drunk so she knew what she was doing. (This is where I interject that she actually came off as being a semi-classy broad until THIS factoid gushed from her lips.)
• She is still in a class with her would-be rapist.
• One of the people she was waiting for was her soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law, Bill, and I SUSPECT THERE COULD BE AN AFFAIR going on there. But that’s just me being a speculating sleuth.

She got elbowed pretty hard in the head at one point by one of the middle school boys in front of her, who profusely apologized and swore that he didn’t see her, and I had to bite the knuckle of my thumb to keep from laughing. She was so angry that it happened, as evidenced by the scowl she flashed us.

Anyway, her posse eventually arrived, thank god. “That’s them!” she shouted to us, pointing to them and waving wildly. They slinked into line with her and I waited for her to introduce us, but she never did. I couldn’t even fucking believe it. Not even to Bill, who was wearing a blue flannel similar to Henry’s signature lumberjack uniform and sort of made me yearn for him which I mistakenly admitted to Laura, who threatened to out my mushy moment on Facebook and I wailed, “No don’t!” and suddenly had a deja vu moment of my “friends” bluffing about showing my 8th grade crush — Scott Dambaugh — the photo of him that they had blown up to an 8×10 for me at the pinnacle of my obsession.

Then, after talking about it for 30 minutes, Laura ran off to buy cotton candy, which came spun on a plastic stick that lit up and appeared to be a glowing pink nipple sticking out of the cotton’s crown. She kept jabbing it at me.

First I have to hear about this stranger almost getting dape-raped by a classmate half her age, and now this?

Our line friend never spoke to us again, which was fine by me, because her friends came equipt with flasks and crass language and I liked them way better than her anyway.

[FYI: I just wrote this at work while feeling like I’m on speed. Sorry if there are typos, but I need to go now and run repeatedly into a wall a few times. Then suck on some Fun Dip.]

Barb was nice enough to fill in for me at work so I could have the evening off to fulfill my quota of motherly obligations. And thank god, because Henry did absolute FUCK ALL as far as the costume went. In fact, he napped until about 20 minutes before it was time to trick or treat, I was so goddamn irritated.

“But my job is so hard! I don’t get very much sleep!”

Go cry to your mommy about it, OK Henry? Come back when you’re ready to be a real man and help put makeup on your son.

Thankfully, Chooch’s costume — zombie Justin Bieber — cost nothing. And thank god for that because Henry’s membership dues for the local Bronie chapter are late.

Thank you, Bieber, for being so easy to emulate.

I thought the lipstick prints were a nice touch, but unfortunately once the sun went down and it began to RAIN, I doubt anyone really noticed. Or bothered to wager a guess.

“You know what we need?” Henry asked, actually trying to get involved FIVE MINUTES before trick-or-treating started.

“A black kid to go with him as Usher?” I offered immediately, kicking myself for not asking our neighbor Toya’s son.

That was not what Henry had in mind, and I can’t remember what it was because it wasn’t very ingenious or memorable.

Chooch actually was using a much smaller treat bucket thing which Henry periodically dumped out in the Ugly Doll bag. We’re not that cruel to make him carry a tote bag half his size.

As soon as we walked out of the house, Chooch’s school buddy Nate and his older brother just happened to be at the house next to us, so they got to trick-or-treat together for awhile, but I feel like their aunt and uncle kept trying to ditch us.

I can’t imagine why.

At one of the houses, some guy who was maybe in his late teens/early 20s asked Chooch what his shirt said.Then to me, he said in this condescending tone of superiority, “I mean, I could see if he was a girl.”

Really? Is it seriously that common for a girl to dress as Justin Bieber?

So of course, I fixated on this for another block and a half, totally psycho-analyzing this fucker’s statement and questioning the obscurity of my kid’s costume.

“Let it go,” Henry kept mumbling around mouthfuls of pick-pocketed candy.

BUT I COULD NOT LET IT GO.

I was so happy when I put the pictures on Facebook later that night and one of my guy friends commented with a simple “Bieber?” YES. YES, THANK YOU FOR GETTING IT.

Henry reminded me that the rain was preventing people from stopping to actually look at what the kids were dressed right as some home owner exclaimed, “OMG BOB THE BUILDER! HOW CUTE!” as the little fucker behind Chooch toddled up to punch his hand in the candy bowl.

If I really wanted to reach new heights as a Halloween pageant mom, I could have arranged for some of the girls in Chooch’s class to dress as his squealing entourage. This wouldn’t be hard to accomplish considering how much they fawn over him anyway. I could have just set them loose and they’d have chased him down the street like they do on any normal day.

(I have to take my vitamin now. Henry bought me an apple corer thing like Barb has, so now I am eating all of the apples and choking back vitamins. This is a New Erin.)

There was one (1) Baby Ruth in Chooch’s bag that night and I said, “All I want is that Baby Ruth. Please, no one eat it.” But then I guess I was too distracted by my new apple fetish so by the time I went back for it, Henry had already shat it out in the toilet.

I don’t feel like writing about Halloween just yet, so here are some iPhone pictures of Chooch in costume. His least favorite part was when I slathered on lipstick and kissed his cheek.

This costume cost $0.00.

The last time we took Chooch to Castle Blood’s daylight matinee, he was three-years-old; The Lost Boys was still his favorite movie; he was super-enchanted by one Jason Voorhees; and we still spontaneously flinched every time he opened his mouth in public, praying the word “Asshole” (or worse) wouldn’t come rolling out. He spent the whole goddamn tour of the castle bitching about Dracula’s absence.

The denizens had been waiting for Chooch and his silver-tongue to return and we finally had a chance to take him last Sunday. This was my friend Laura’s first October in Pittsburgh so I insisted that she come along because everyone needs to experience the Castle, even if it’s in daylight. Chooch never STFU once during the 40-minute car ride, and guess who was in the back with him? HIS WEARY MOTHER. We eventually joined “Are we there yet?” forces and Henry wanted to blow his brains out. He’s the only one who hates me sitting in the backseat more than me.

When we arrived, some of the denizens were milling about and suddenly it was all, “Chooch! Is that you? Chooch is here!” and he took a giant step behind my back because I guess he thought I was joking when I told him that they were all waiting for him. Normally he handles attention with way more panache than me (I go through life hiding behind Henry’s back like a kicked puppy), but I think the costumes were throwing him off. One minute we were just walking down a sidewalk in a quiet town and then bam—there’s a bunch of dead people in gowns with the facade of a castle behind them.

We got in line after formally introducing Chooch to everyone, and he was sort of starting to get that smart-ass Chooch attitude back while being asked questions by the denizen guarding the entrance, like he was so put out and exhausted having to talk to someone and he kept turning away from her but then I realized he was blushing through his zombie flesh-wounds, most likely because he was trying not to look at her boobs.

Uncle Vlad soon appeared on the front steps and we were sent in with the family of four behind us, the parents of whom I had originally used my Ph.d. in Debasement to prejudge because the dad had a mullet and the mom appeared to be blitzed off Benadryl, but they ended up being pretty inoffensive, plus they had two little girls whose presence alone was enough to hold Chooch’s tongue through the entire tour.

That and the bountiful corsets of the female denizens. I finally found my son’s Kryptonite and it’s the same as every other boy in the world.

He walked through the entire Castle looking nervous and blubber-ready anytime he was spoken to, but this didn’t stop him from nearly knocking a bitch down anytime a candy bowl was presented.

Meanwhile, the mulletted dad would laugh and look to me for some sort of approval every time one of his little girls would say something that was mildly funny but not enough to have Bill Cosby come calling. The mom was always trailing behind with her eyes mostly-closed, laughing to herself and trying TO BOND WITH ME. Clearly my “Don’t even!” exterior is softening because strangers are trying to penetrate my anti-social bubble more and more. Sometimes EVERYDAY.

I need to start practicing that snarl some more.

Oh goodie, the Gypsy Room! There are these beautiful strands of beads that fill the doorway into the Gypsy Room and on that day, I learned that not only are they beautiful, but sharp as fuck thanks to HENRY whipping one at me. One of the half moons or stars, I don’t know which but it was something with SPIKES AND THORNS ON IT, punched me in the lip in such a way that tears spontaneously sprung to my eyes it felt like my top lip had been triple-shot with Botox.

Of course, I couldn’t bitch about it to Henry right away because I didn’t want to interrupt the Gypsy and get a talking-to from our (extremely intimidating) guide, so I sulked in the back and periodically checked with my tongue for blood. But you better believe as soon as we walked out of that room, I gripped Henry’s arm and yelled at him the best I could without raising my voice above a strained hiss. If it had been bleeding, I would have sued his broke ass for a hard copy of his entire SERVICE history because I know he did it on purpose.

Meanwhile, the mom of the two girls in our group kept slurring for me to go on ahead of her, probably because she needed privacy to huff beneath a gargoryl.

In the pirate room, Henry was volunteered by our guide to get up in there and show his bravery, which made me snort to myself because unless bravery involves reading Food Magazine and having a foot run over by a pallet jack with no retaliation, Henry had no business being up there.

But on the bright side, it helped him realize he has a pirate fetish.

After the tour, we hung around outside and talked to our new friends while I tried to appear as socially together as possible but inside my head I was screaming, “MY HANDS! WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY HANDS!?” I ended up just keeping them inside my hoodie pockets.

Someone mentioned that Chooch was way quieter than they imagined; Henry and I, nearly in tandem, said, “It’s because there are girls around.” Even Laura seemed surprised at how docile he had become.

This was all the knowledge of my son that Professor Scrye and Lady Die’s little girl needed to know before chasing him around and antagonizing him with little else but her femininity. At one point, I think he was trying to dive into a garbage can.

The good thing about Chooch’s voice being smothered by estrogen was that he actually paid attention in there and took something away other than candy for the first time. Granted, he was still too young the other times we took him to really grasp the concept. I think 5 is the perfect age for a trip to Castle Blood. 5 and surrounded by little girls.

“I thought those little girls on the tour with us had makeup on, but then I realized they were just dirty,” Henry laughed like we’re so much better than them, I guess forgetting that people probably say that about our kid, too. Yesterday I unknowingly sent him to school with half of his head still caked in fake blood and he usually has last night’s meal hugging the corners of his mouth. My eyes don’t start properly seeing until at least noon, OK?

Chooch ate his whole bag of candy on the way home without me knowing (and by that I mean I wasn’t paying attention) and then caused a scene inside the gas station, making everyone in there believe that he earned his facial bruises and contusions.

Today is apparently All Saints Day, which never would have had any bearing on my life except that now my child is in Catholic school and they throw parties for this shit.

The paper he brought home a few weeks ago said something about costumes being optional, and I thought it was a joke. Kids actually dress up for this shit?

Besides, Chooch has been in 4 different costumes  in the last week, so I opted out on his behalf.

And what the fuck do sinners know about saints, anyway? I only know St. Francis, and that’s because I’m a spoiled brat who got to go to Assisi four times as a child, though all I really learned there was:

1. don’t piss off monks, particularly monks near chains
2. the hot chocolate there sucks
3. when you break something in a gift shop, run

So, short of strapping a bird bath to the front of Chooch, I really had no other clues and sent him to school in his street clothes.

Two kids in his class were already there when we arrived this morning: one girl was wearing basically a white potato sack with gold ribbing along the collar; her mom is one of those broads who has to have her hands in everything so I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “Of course she’s dressed up.” Another kid hadn’t put his on yet. Chooch was looking at me with these sad eyes and asked, “Why don’t I have a costume?”

“Because we don’t do saints,” I whispered, pretending to lovingly smooth out his hair but really that’s our secret code for “STFU before you embarrass mommy.”

I am hard-pressed to believe that every single child is going to come trouncing into the classroom in some ridiculous robe. You can’t have saints without sinners, right?

I had Henry bake cookies last night so I’d have something to contribute to the party, thereby acknowledging that this is a day to celebrate fictional Biblical characters. Hopefully chocolate chip and sugar cookies will suffice. I don’t know what these crazy Catholic schools do and as long as there aren’t any goats or rams being slaughtered on stone tables, they can have a fucking ball over there playing saint-related games and singing Biblical ballads. I just don’t need any detailed accounts.

“He could have been zombie Jesus,” Henry said when we were on the phone a little while ago and I think he was only semi-joking. I also think he doesn’t know that Jesus isn’t actually a saint.

Maybe we’ll pull that one out for the Easter party. They already know we’re fucking idiots.

[ETA: Apparently there is a feast involved in this holiday and now my interest is officially piqued. Maybe next year.]

[ETA pt. 2: The teacher told Henry that when the priest went around asking all the kids what saints they were dressed as, Chooch said he was God. Also, judging by all the shit Chooch brought home, all the other parents treated this as a Halloween party. NICE TO KNOW. There needs to be a handbook for heathen parents who send their kids to Catholic school.]