Today, I’m reposting these photos because Andrea is coming back to visit next month and I’m excited to do another zombie-esque photo shoot.

And probably by then, I can just give her some bath salts so no makeup will be needed.

Chooch could have stood to be more cooperative (children! ugh), but it was overall a really fun day. Wendy even came out to spectate and then wound up a victim.

Meanwhile, Henry leaned against the car for most of the time, playing Words With Friends and being annoyed.

It was awesome!

This was given to me yesterday because I’m now known at work as the girl who likes weird carrots. I’m cool with that.

Jonny Craig is on the cover of the latest Alternative Press! When I was screaming about it at work, Carey asked, “Is this a magazine you made up?” because she hates Jonny and hates me too!

Anyway, my subscriber copy finally arrived yesterday WHILE I WAS ALREADY AT WORK so Henry texted me a picture of it and then proceeded to make idle threats.

Came home from work to a gingeriffic photo spread of Jonny AND a joint package from Andrea and Chuck. They sent me one of Chuck’s Killer Klown masterpieces! I almost died. Chuck is famous in the Halloween industry for his amazing masks and horror props, and when he asked me to write descriptions for his two new products, I was so honored!

Chooch painted Jonny for me. I have relinquished all my blank canvases and jumbled box of paint to him, for he is the new Somnambulant. Bow before him. (But be careful he doesn’t puke on your back–he does that shit.)

I’m writing this while waiting for the trolley because Henry ruined my life.

I think Henry has been afraid to visit Rossi’s Pop-Up Market ever since I posted the essay I wrote about it for a writing class at Pitt, but every once in awhile he gets a hankering to peruse a blighted pastiche of some hick’s grandma’s soiled doilies and the contents of Leatherface’s tool shed splayed out on a card table for $1 a (rusty) pop all while enjoying the warbling notes of doo wop classics crackling out of a retro sound system.

Or maybe it was the fact that he had money burning in his pocket after THREE KITTEN SELLERS pulled out from under him, but I am not allowed to write about it because “it didn’t happen to you!! It happened to me!! You don’t know!! If anyone is going to tell the story it’s me!!”

OK, Mr. Leave My Life Outta Your Blog.

Anyway, I was happy to tag along because I have found some great religious bullshit at that place in the past (all of which is in my bathroom), and also the best 50¢ picture frame of all time.

Gary Puckett serenaded us with his cautionary & subtly-statutory love song “Young Girl” as we regarded a cesspool of 1980s board games and framed autographed photos of old Steelers inside one of the rooms of the abandoned multiplex-cum-bargain basement; I wished Henry had crooned that to me eleven years ago. Maybe I would  have heeded the warning.

BETTER RUN GIRL. YOU’RE MUCH TOO YOUNG GIRL = why didn’t anyone say that to me back then?! OH WAIT. Pretty much every single person did except for HENRY who was practically prematurely ejaculating at the thought of my cradle.

We had made it to the parking lot portion of Rossi’s just as my 11-years-too-late musical warning was ending. Chooch and I made the mistake of lingering a bit too long at a table of still-packaged singing stuffed animals.

“TWO BUCKS FOR THAT RIGHT THERE” a Marlboro-ravaged voice rasped threateningly from a few feet back. I dropped the stuffed toy down on the table and mumbled a few non-committal syllables while shoving Chooch away from the threatening Rasper. Making eye contact AND conversation with a junk vendor is pretty much the kiss of death at flea markets.

I took a few casual steps and then ran away, using my jazz hands to accelerate.

This shit never happens to Henry.

Chooch: I want a rainbow snocone.

Henry: Okayyyyy….what flavor is that?

A duet of Chooch & Erin: Rainbow.

Henry: So….what? Like, lemon….lime….[lifts his glasses up to see the picture on the side of the truck better.]

Me, annoyed / Chooch, still slightly forgiving: RAINBOW.

Henry: Yeah, OK. I know that, but what flavors?

Me, losing it: RAINBOW. RAINBOW RAINBOW RAINBOW. READ THE MOTHERFUCKING SIGN — RAINBOW.

Henry, squinting at the flavor menu: Oh. I didn’t know rainbow was a flavor.

Probably because it was invented while he was in the SERVICE; that’s his excuse for everything he doesn’t know about: snocone flavors, birth control, grammar and the pilot episode of Miami Vice.

Meanwhile, Chooch had to pee and the line wasn’t moving, so Henry tiredly asked me to take Chooch inside to pee. Me! Of all people!

“Uh, do you even know what you’re doing?” Chooch asked in the tone of a sixteen-year-old watching his mom fumble with a bong as I steered him in between ain’t-slinging barterers and garbage cans full of empty Skoal tins and last night’s vomit until I finally made it to the entrance of Rossi’s interior without getting redneck juice wiped on me.

Funny how Chooch’s need-to-pee was suddenly silenced when he came upon a table full of Hot Wheels.

“Keep moving,” I said, steering him toward the restrooms. Nothing very interesting happened while I waited, which is surprising. Chooch came out on the heels of several older men and loudly announced, “OH MY GOD, IT REALLY STINKS IN THERE.” Well, there’s something you might not have known: a flea market restroom STINKS. Thank you Chooch, astute as always.

He almost knocked over a mannequin on the way back out. That would have been amazing, and I would have been Some Stranger helping him find his mommy and daddy.

“I don’t even want this now.”

“Henry can I—”

“No.”

He did however actually let me buy a blinged-out elephant bracelet. (When I say he “let” me, please note that yes, I have a job, but Henry is the one with the foresight to take money out of the ATM before we go to the flea market, while all I have on me is plastic. Which means I have to play the But I’ve Been So Good! game. Infuriating.) It was expensive for a flea market buy (a whopping $12!), but I had to have it. Chooch was with me when the transaction went down and conned a dollar from me, which he carried at his side with a PURPOSE.

Rossi’s employs their own MC, who sits outside on a stage and periodically announces things like, “Jimmy Maplebitch finally scrubbed out the feces in the corner of his stall and wants ya’ll to go and check out his shitty baseball card collection! That’s Jimmy Maplebitch’s stall inside, next to the colored girl’s wig stand.” I don’t know what he was saying that made Chooch stop dead in his tracks, but when I tried to get him to keep walking, he held up one hand, shushed me and irritably barked, “I’m tryna listen to him.”

Oooh-kay.

During one of his spiels, he got unreasonably patriotic (the MC, not my son) and excitedly suggested that all the Vets and SERVICE people (what are they called?) go up on the stage with him, at which point I basically turned into a tug boat in my effort to drag Henry to the stage.  He just shrugged me off with one swift motion and stalked off into a sunset of broken weed wackers and Jane Fonda work-out videos on VHS. This makes me think he went AWOL while he was in the SERVICE.

Chooch finally found a track set for his cars. He was satiated (for a whole 20 minutes).

As we were about to go back inside the old theater, that goddamn MC got all serious and exclaimed, “LOOK! DO YOU SEE THAT!?”

“What?!” I yelled to no one, just the sky and the ghost of the ringworm that I had in 2002. (Lionel. That was his name, and he is always with me.)

“IT’S A STEALTH BOMBER!” he hollered, and I was spinning around on my heels now, looking like a fat man playing a ballerina, except that I am a girl but just as clunky and oafish.

“Where?! I don’t see it!” I whined, just as that fucker laughed into his stupid microphone and said, “You can’t see it because it’s so STEALTHY!”

Henry rolled his eyes at me for falling for it and kept ten paces ahead of me after that.

We ended our flea market experience with cupcakes that some broad was selling, and since I saw stacks of pretty pink boxes behind her counter, I took that to mean she was legit and not baking her cakes in a moldy Easy Bake oven purchased right there at Rossi’s yesterday. The one with the jelly splooge was mine: there’s always time for cupcakes, especially when it’s Peanut Butter Jelly Time.

It was good enough to bring me back out to Rossi’s more than just twice a year, that’s for sure. I’d probably still eat it even if it was prepared in an Easy Bake oven.

Right before we left, Henry stopped to buy some cookies off an impatient grandma. Some guy let Henry go ahead of him, which apparently frazzled him, so Henry ordered one chocolate chip cookie and that was it. On the way to the car, he moped about wanting to also order a banana split cookie, which sounds utterly disgusting to me.

“So, why didn’t you?” I asked impatiently.

“Because that guy let me go ahead of him and I felt rushed!” he whined.

And he talks about me.

Corey and I were duped into thinking that the Mattress Factory had switched exhibitions, so we lassoed up his girlfriend Danielle and my friend Laura and revisited the industrial abode of contemporary art yesterday. Turns out, it was the last day for the current exhibits, so we got to ogle a roomful of handheld bread rolls again. But Corey and I didn’t really care, we were just happy to get out of the sweltering July sneak peek-heat.

EXCEPT THAT THE MATTRESS FACTORY IS NOT AIR-CONDITIONED. FOILED!!

I was pretty upset that the balloon room I saw on the website was not there. I really wanted to release a balloon, and then write my own dreams and wishes on one to replace it.

I’m pretty sure everyone was getting completely annoyed with me whining about it.

Thank god Jonny Craig was there to console me. When he wasn’t getting nipple-nuzzled.

At this moment, Corey was in the middle of saying something and then just stopped. I guess the view of Northside rooftops stunned the words back into his mouth.

It was so face-meltingly hot in that joint that it was almost hard to enjoy everything. And then I accidentally accosted someone in a dark hallway, poking them so hard that my finger bent all the way back. I screamed as a reflex (probably in their face, I couldn’t see) and then we all got a good laugh. Well, me and my group did anyway. I think the person I finger-jabbed was this older man whom I kept mistaking for Philip Seymour Hoffman every time I would see him in my periphery. I do not think he nor his non-smiling wife were amused by any of us at any point during our cultural sojourn, and Corey and I weren’t even really being assholes on this day. It was just too hot!

Got this ring from the gift shop! I had openly coveted it when Corey and I were there over the winter, but I think I had like, $20 in my bank account that I needed to stretch out for the next week. So I did not indulge.  This time, however, I could’t resist, though I did text Henry and ask him as a courtesy. His reply was “How much is it?” and then after making me wait forev-hev-er (at least it was air-conditioned in the gift shop), he finally texted back a simple “whatever” that I just knew was oozing defeat and possibly even a little hatred.

Since it was “art,” it wasn’t as cheap as most of my jewelry is (flea market swag!).

The Mattress Factory has an additional building down the street, called the Annex. It was closed when Corey and I were last there, but this time it was open. That is how I learned that there would be balloons after all! Yes, I realize that I essentially paid $12 for the opportunity to choose a balloon. I’m alright with that.

Along the length of outside wall of the Annex, there are red downspouts. Some of them had mirrors placed inside so you could look in and essentially see nothing, but that was still wildly exciting for me. My favorite was the one that had an illustration of an ear at the opening, and if you put your head against it, you could hear music playing from inside the building.

It’s the little things.

This scene of a woman getting out of the shower was projected on a wall.  There was also, on the ceiling above a staircase,  a projection of a woman walking up stairs, and a bathroom that had a projection of a design on the shower curtain with a recording of some lady singing behind it. IDEAS FOR MY FUTURE HOUSE.

BALLOONS! FINALLY! BALLOONS AND DREAMS EVERYWHERE!!! $12 BALLOONS!

I’m afraid to know what Corey wrote on his.

This is the one he took to release, specifically because someone wrote “I wish I banged her” on it. I took one that said, “I wish for the liberation of the moose.” Because that is a solid wish that deserves to come true.

The handrail had water runnng down it. I touched it, expecting it to be crisp and cold, refreshing; but instead it was WARM BORDERING ON BOILING. I screamed, “OMG IT’S HOT!!” at an alarming decibel.

There was a midget-considerate door which was just enough ajar to let us peek inside at a projection of (presumably) the same woman from the other procted scenes, this time getting her spin on.

All that fuss over the balloons, and I didn’t even release mine myself. I took it home and let my neglected son do it, since I’m such a shitty mother.

All this (and more*) happened on a balcony at the Mattress Factory.

(*No really, that was it.)

More later: Henry’s watching Miami Vice, trying to find new hairstyles. Probably he’ll start a new Pinterest board for that shit. Meanwhile, I’m totally inspired to dig out my Miami Vice soundtrack which Henry is apparently not surprised I have.

Good talk.

It is super hot in Pittsburgh. We’ve spent most of the day trying not to melt. So here is my day in pictures because I’m too uncomfortable to sit at the computer and tell you about how a kitten totally made Henry flip his shit.

Spent some time sweating in my favorite cemetery, then the cops came because they apparently like like loitering there too.

Marcy got her hairs brushed out at the pet salon, totally hates her life today.

Chooch found his old pacifier and I suddenly got all wistful, missing the days when I could plug his mouth and enjoy the silence. If today had to be summarized by a hashtag, it would totally be: #STFUkid

Ate sandwiches in another cemetery; Jonny was my date. <3

SPOILER ALERT. Gee, thanks Breaking News.

On our way back to the Sweatbox.

Maybe you already know that Castle Blood is one of my all-time favorite, can’t-miss haunted houses, but if you didn’t already know, Castle Blood is one of my all-time favorite, can’t-miss haunted houses. I think there were only 2 or 3 Halloween seasons that I didn’t make it out there since I first started going when I was 16. (DAMN! Sixteen years ago.)

(And probably you’re thinking, “Why is this broad writing about haunted houses in May?!” Keep reading.)

Castle Blood is undergoing a makeover, which includes a brand new location for 2012! This location, an old library in Monessen, PA, will serve as the temporary digs for the Castle, after which the denizens and decor will mosey on down to their future, permanent abode, also in Monessen.

Gravely MacCabre graciously invited me out last weekend for a sneak peek of the new soon-to-be Gothic space. (I let Henry and Chooch come too, God forbid.)

Gravely was at the old site, loading up carfuls of decor and props to be sent to the new place, where our friends Chris and Dawn (whom I hadn’t seen since the Trundle Manor Halloween party since she has the nerve to live in dumb Canada!) were doing all sorts of heavy-lifting.

Essentially a shell yet to be filled, I still insisted that Dawn give us the grand tour of the building, during which we had to heavily rely on our imaginations to picture what the new Castle Blood experience will entail. (This means Henry basically blacked out and drooled, probably thought about maps and buying more Vidal Sassoon for his unkempt McNichol-locks. “Uh-maj-uh-nayyyyy-shun? Wot’s that?”)

Transvestite Little Mermaid mural in the childrens section of the old library, which was scary enough in itself. There were also Teletubbies in there. I shivered.

During our visit, a revolving door of denizens arrived with more stock to be moved into the new building. I didn’t recognize anyone sans graveyard makeup and prosthetic facial slabs until Dawn would point them out by their Castle Blood names. (This was also the first time I had ever seen Dawn without her makeup on too! It was exciting.)

Eventually, Dawn reluctantly said that while she would love to stand around with me and talk about how fantastic I am, she had better get back to work. I know Henry was itching to flash his blue collar, his foot was experiencing phantom pallet jack twitches, and the fact that Dawn was wearing work gloves was definitely giving him a manual labor boner, so the next thing I knew he was marching past me with a dead pirate balanced on his shoulder. Chooch decided he wanted to help too (which is a surprise since he’s basically Little Erin when it comes to doing things for other people, especially things that require lifting and being a good person), and actually took his role very seriously. He made me hold a cup of water, which he’d pause and chug from theatrically, I guess to show everyone how hard he was laboring, I don’t know. Holding his water was really asking a lot from me, since I was so busy standing around, taking pictures, and doing what I do best: generally getting in the way. It was truly my time to shine.

OMG I wanted to swim in this.

Chooch thankfully didn’t bust anything. He was even entrusted with glass lanterns at one point and I almost had a mom-stroke.

Chris pointed out that this was basically just Henry doing his regular day job: lugging beverage.

And then everyone talked at length about Henry’s awesomeness and I almost vomited. HENRY HENRY HENRY!

Chooch is absolutely obsessed with Castle Blood now, even moreso than he had been. I think he really enjoyed helping out that day, and getting to see what it looks like before all the magic happens. As soon as we came home that day, he immediately made me go to their website for him, which he pored over for quite some time and talked excitedly about wanting to have a part in their no-scare matinees. (I believe what he said was, “Yeah. HELL yeah.” when asked.)

The next night, I came home from the movies and he proudly showed me the Castle Blood mascot he crafted.

“Is that a weener?” I asked exasperatedly.

“No. It’s his….zipper,” Chooch stammered. “Yeah, it’s totally his weener,” he eventually conceded.

I was about to lecture him when I remembered that he’s only like this because of me. Dammit.

***

Even though this is essentially an end of an era for Castle Blood, I do think it’s exciting to see what will rise from the proverbial ashes. I know that they’re going to own it, totally make it their bitch, because that’s what a cast of haunt-loving geniuses do. And let’s be honest, Gravely could make a shanty under a bridge into a world-class haunted attraction, and would probably even find a role for the hobos living in it.

I have a feeling that the future of Castle Blood is going to be bloated with Really Great Things (and hopefully another celebrity appearance by Alex Vincent). October can’t come fast enough!

(P.S. In the end, I actually carried THREE WHOLE THINGS from a car into the building! I find it hard to believe that no one patted me on the back.)

I was listening to the new Spill Canvas today when I felt this nagging urge to revisit one of my favorite songs by them, even though I knew it was going to make me all pathetic and wistful. (What else is new, am I right Jonny Craig doll?)

My 2007 Warped Tour experience was my least favorite of all the years I’ve gone to it, mostly because I went to the one in Cincinnati and it was kind of a clusterfuck, we missed Chiodos, and I was with people I didn’t really want to be with. (Oh, and my car’s engine blew out on the way home.) But, The Spill Canvas was there, and even though I nearly passed out during their set (it was close to a hundred degrees that day; people were passing out all up in that joint), it was one of the few highlights for me.

“The Tide” is actually my all-time favorite Spill Canvas track, but that song makes me emotionally handicapped. It’s just so fucking depressing.

Goddammit, I just listened to it.

Because sometimes it’s nice to give the words a rest.

Note to self: Don’t leave Jonny alone with Henry.

Late night cable access laffs: Hip Hop with Cassie. (Couldn’t get Henry to participate.)

Choochelina: Shoe Model.

Jonny and I went to see Cabin in the Woods Sunday night. Don’t worry – Laura chaperoned.

Ended the weekend with new nails.

Studded swag, y’all.

(“Shit. If only she were always this succinct,” said everyone who is forced to read this blog.

)

A loud crash came from downstairs yesterday as I was getting ready for work. In a panic, I raced down the steps only to discover it was just the fan, which had tumbled from the front windowsill. As I was replacing it, I noticed an elderly man in a chambray shirt straight shambling toward my house from across the street. He was carrying something in his hand, maybe papers, I don’t know, because at that moment, we made legit eye contact. I screamed, like anyone else would do having just made a basic connection with another human being, and then threw myself flush against the wall. (I watch lots of CIA dramas. Mostly just “Covert Affairs,” but it teaches me a lot. Like how to run in heels and have very little personality but still have a new love interest in every episode. And also, how to stay flush against a wall.)

Craning my neck, I risked a peek out the window and saw that he was on my neighbor’s porch.

I started to walk away from the window, when I noticed that the dial of the fan had snapped off from the fall and was laying on the floor. When I walked back to the window to put it back on the fan, the stranger was now shambling across the yard to my sidewalk, at which point he TURNED AND LOOKED RIGHT AT ME.

More eye contact! I’ve really done it now, I thought, as I raced to the front door, slammed it shut and flipped over the dead bolt. He had just begun knocking by the time I reached the steps and clambered up them, hurtling over Marcy and diving onto my bedroom floor, which is where I stayed for the next several minutes with my hands covering my ears and my eyes squinted shut. I was convinced he was a zombie and was probably by now using his rotted wile to rip the screen off my front window. MY OPEN FRONT WINDOW.

Meanwhile, Marcy was perched at the top of the steps, growling. She hates visitors and suspected zombies, too.

I got up from the floor and turned the volume down on the bedroom radio, maintaining my hunched-over, in-hiding stature, until I determined that the knocking finally ceased. To be sure, I did my best war-zone shuffle over to the bedroom window and looked out just in time to see him standing in my yard, looking up at the house, one hand above his eyes like a visor.

“Hello!” he shouted. An actual English word, and not a strangulated, “UUUUnnnnnnnnnggggggggggggg” was how I determined that he was not actually a zombie, but perhaps a zombie choreographer.

I sprinted into the bathroom, where I paced in front of the sink, muttering words of strength and courage to myself, and then, just to see what would happen, I recited “Jonny Craig” three times into the mirror.

(Nothing happened, in case you were wondering. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be writing in here right now, I would be too busy hanging off his jock and begging him to sing “Thug City” JUST ONE MORE TIME PLEASE OMG.)

Since I was in there, I finished my eye makeup.

After another ten minutes of jumping at the sight of my shadow, I determined that it was safe to come out from under the proverbial covers, so I went downstairs and poked around on the front porch. He left no trace, not even Jesus papers, pizza shop menu, or a shut off notice.

I called Henry and frantically reported the events to him.

“OK.”

That’s all he said: “OK.”

And then, “I have work to do. I’ll call you back.”

Now that I think about it, it was probably a bag of candy in that man’s hand. I WAS ALMOST ABDUCTED BY THE OLDEST MAN IN WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA. Nice of Henry to care. I wish I would have let him take me. Then the book “Deranged” would have to be reprinted with an epilogue about how the ghost of Albert Fish kidnapped some broad no one cared about in Brookline and then feasted upon her ample body for weeks.

(New weight loss tactic: lose all of the weight so as not to entice local cannibals. LOSE ALL OF IT NOW.)

****

When Henry came home from work, I jumped in small circles around him all the way to the kitchen, explaining in auctioneer-speed every last detail of what happened.

“Why didn’t you just answer the door, you idiot? What if he was here to give you a check for a million dollars?” Henry laughed at the absurdity of this, because everyone knows us Schleprocks don’t win things.

“Um, hello. Did you forget my aversion to opening the door for strangers?” I quickly recounted all the reasons: belligerent gas men, pushy Mormons, neighbors asking to borrow flashlights, THE STATE CONSTABLE*. I even run from the PIZZA GUY now, that’s how Pavlovian my response is to door-knocking.

(* This one is my favorite. Although, it wasn’t at the time.)

“Did he go anywhere else?” Henry quizzed me.

“I don’t know, Henry! I couldn’t see from my prostrate post on the bedroom floor without my periscope,” I whined.

“Was he here to shut something off?” Henry mused, knowing full well that we’ve been out of THAT hole for quite some time now.

“No, he wasn’t wearing a costume,” I said seriously.

“A costume?”

“Yeah, you know. A work costume.”

“It’s called a uniform, retard.”

****

Before bed last night, Henry came out of the bathroom holding the dial for the fan.

“I was looking for this all day, and I just found it on the sink. How the hell did it get in the bathroom?

” he said mostly to himself, sticking it back onto the fan which he had just brought up to our room.

I couldn’t help it: I started to laugh uncontrollably. “Well….when that guy was knocking—” I started to blurt out.

Henry just sighed and shook his head. “And I was going to blame Chooch,” he mumbled. “I should have known better.”

Old Dude on the Crazy Mouse, holla!

Usually when we go to county fairs or amusement parks, Henry declines getting on rides in lieu of standing off to the side, looking like a regular woman’s purse-holding creeper. But I guess this past Sunday, Henry really wanted to remember what it’s like to have all of the fun, so he actually allowed the elderly woman in the ticket booth to slap a ride-all-day wristband on his arm.

Either that or he just really wanted to feel the breeze cruisin’ through his McNichol-locks.

Me: So, which is it?

Henry, mocking me with a Santa laugh: I wanted to have all of the fun, of course.

He complained about neck pain a lot during and after the Crazy Mouse, which is such an old person thing to do.

****

Me: Seriously, how did it feel to actually be on a ride for once, and not ogling underaged girls with a twitch of your Selleck ‘stache?

Henry: Seriously, I’m not answering a question right this minute.

(Oh, that’s because his nose is in his phone, ogling underage girls with a twitch of his Selleck ‘stache on Facebook.)

Me: What was your favorite ride there, and don’t say ‘the ride home’?

Henry, in a tone that implies I’m a fool for not knowing: The Crazy Mouse.

Me: So, would you say that the Crazy Mouse is your Wacky Worm?

Henry, using the tactic of saying whatever I want to hear in an effort to appease me faster than ear-fucking me with Jonny Craig records: Yeah, I guess.

When it comes to bumper cars, I ususally tend to sit that one out and let Henry and Chooch do their thing. But on this day, I was feeling all sorts of female empowerment and decided what better way to celebrate my day as a mother than by getting all sorts of vehicular homicide on the sperm receptacle that knocked me up in the first place? I immediately regretted the decision when we ascended the steps and got into a line which was turnstiled inside an area the size of a walk-in closet (a regular person’s walk-in closet, not Kimora Lee Simmon’s walk-in closet; bitch, watch an episode of “Cribs” now and then, and you’d know). It was so cramped up in there that I had to stand stockstill, with my arms straight down my sides to avoid my white bread city flesh accidentally chafing against red neck farmhand brawn. Remember in my last Delgrosso’s editorial where I expounded on the social classes of its average patron? Well, it was here, in line for the bumper cars, that all my hyperbolic observations manifested themselves into an actual breathing and stinking family. Imagine the TV show Roseanne, but if the Connors lived in hills that have eyes and not Illinois; marry that with People of Wal-Mart; and then bathe them in liquid cabbage, body odor, vomit and spritz them with eau d’ petting zoo and then plant them right behind the judgmental girl with the over-sensitive olfactory system.

My senses were all a’prickle. Even HENRY was like, “What the fuck is behind me, I’m too afraid to look, here use my periscope.” The Dan Connor of the family was wearing a billowing t-shirt with the arms cut off to allow for adequate stench expulsion from his putrid pits. One of the younger boys was a true ginger and I felt extreme sorrow for him. Also a little bit of disgust. The two pre-teen girls were dressed unintentionally whorish and one of them will probably fail a pregnancy test within the coming weeks while the other loses her virginity to a saw horse.

But the worst was by far the mom. Totally Roseanne Barr if Roseanne Barr was hatched from an egg under a troll bridge, she did nothing but fucking HOLLER at her family and repeat over and over again, “WE’S GON NEED 12 CARS YA’LL CUZ BRITNEY WANTS TO RIDE BY HERSELF! 12 CARS!” and it’s like, “OK! We get it! You can fucking count! You can put the abacus away now!” but really I wanted to know who (or what) she was counting, because I only saw 5 people in their party.

I think the bigger question is why were they spending money on Delgrosso’s admission and not TOILETRIES?

And then one of them, either the mom or dad, emitted the nastiest, wettest fart I’ve ever smelt, and I grew up with two younger brothers. A stew of John Wayne Gacy’s corpse pit, the Jersey Shore smoosh room and sauerkraut might have emitted a comparable fecal bouquet. It was so terrible that I actually CRIED OUT LOUD, DRY-HEAVED and made a big production of covering my nose and mouth.

We ended up getting the last two cars, so at least I was able to ram the fuck out of Henry’s backend without having to hold my nose. (In this case, anyway.)

****

Me: How good do you feel about yourself when you’re amongst the riffraff at Delgrosso’s, be honest? You probably feel hot like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Or at the very least, Michael Landon in Highway to Heaven*. TOTAL SELF ESTEEM BOOST, right?

(* I imagine this is someone Henry emulated in the 80s after his Erik Estrada infatuation fizzled.)

Henry: I don’t understand the question.

(OK. Maybe Henry isn’t that much better than the signature Delgrosso’s patron.)

Henry actually won something! A stuffed shark that his mom kept calling a whale the next day, much to Chooch’s chagrin.

Chooch didn’t understand why his hands weren’t sparking when he stuck them out of the Crazy Mouse car. How fucking precious.

****

Me: How close did that random redneck resemble Jesus Christ, I mean, Jonny Craig?

Henry: I don’t know, I never really looked at him.

Me: I’ve totally been squeezing my eyes shut and pretending you’re him, just so you know. Hey, speaking of Jonny Craig, what is your favorite Emarosa song?

Henry, before I even finished the question: I don’t have one.

(Well, he better get one, otherwise it’s going to be one excruciating wedding dance for him – OH WAIT WE’RE NOT GETTING MARRIED OH HO HO.)

There were girls in line with us, which explains the bewildered smile.

Henry didn’t want to go on the Swing Buggies until he heard Journey’s “Wheel in the Sky” playing, and then was suddenly all stoked. God, imagine if it had been Ted Nugent. He’d have plowed down girls in wheelchairs to get in line.

****

Me: Are you sure you don’t want to finally confess about what really happened that night at the Nugent show in 19OMGYROLD?

Henry: OH SHUT UP! GOD!

This is really what Chooch looks like. I photoshop all his other pictures.

If there are maps, Henry will read them.

****

Me: What are your favorite kinds of maps to read, and how badly do you want to have sex on top a stack of atlases?

Henry: WHAT? WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT? I DON’T HAVE A FAVORITE KIND OF MAP TO READ. Murmuring: What’s my favorite kind of map to read. You’re so fucked up.

Me: [reiterating the atlas part of the question and flinching even though this part of the exposé is now being conducted via telephone — you don’t think I actually get him to answer everything in one sitting, do you? We’re going on FIVE DAYS NOW.]

Henry: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I’m going to kill you.

Me: Imagine that your daydreams of becoming a Universal Hemorrhoid Ambassador came true.

Henry: A universal what?!

Me, repeating myself and gagging on deep-throated giggles: How would you rate Delgrosso’s ‘rrhoid comfort level for your fellow sufferers on a scale from Preparation H-eaven to Bleeding From My Anus?

Henry, after making me repeat it again because he doesn’t understand my laughing slur: I don’t understand the question.

This is apparently Henry’s new go-to answer. Either that or I need to seriously work on my syntax.

Me: OMG Henry, how adorable are me and Chooch? (Answer wisely and this can be your last question.)

Henry, looks at me suspiciously: Very?

Jesus Christ, now I can’t wait for our annual Father’s Day romp in Kennywood!

I’m starting to think that Chooch acts like an asshole on Saturdays because he goes all week with being with just one of us since I work at night, and then all of a sudden Saturday arrives and it’s a parental double team on his bitchass.

He’s fine until the evening, at which point he totally overdoses on our dual presence and suffers an emotional meltdown.

First, his nemesis was Henry, so he vowed to have a yard sale in order to pawn him off on some poor fatherless sucker.

“And then hopefully Jonny Craig will drive by and be our new dad, RIGHT MOMMY?

!”

I was about to agree with raucous cheering, but Henry interjected snidely.

“Is he even allowed to drive?”

That’s a good point, although he does have a song called “I’m Jonny Craig, Bitch, and I Drive In Reverse” (Hi, I’ve been telling the Internet since 2008 that he’s a douchebag.)

Anyway, then I had the nerve to laugh at Chooch who was sitting on his little Cars chair by the front door, yelling about how he legit hates his life and this is THE WORST DAY EVER, so he angrily grabbed another piece of paper and drew up my walking papers.

“They can take BOTH OF YOU for two cents!” he spat as he scrawled out the new for sale sign with a fistful of fury. And then, “Stop LAUGHING AT ME!!!!”

He taped them to the front door and began screaming to all of Brookline that he had put both parents up on the market.

I like that I’m referred to as Erin, not Mommy.

Me: I’m going to start calling you Surly Shirley.
Chooch, totally spitting vitriol: Then I’m going to call you Jersey Shorely.

Damn. I don’t even know what that means, but sick burn, sonnnn.

The last two weeks have filled me with some of the most unimaginable grief, and having Don’s burial postponed until today did nothing to help me prepare. Every day, I get ready for work and completely lose it, and then I have to give myself the “Pull it together, Erin!” speech. Our house feels so empty and every moment I’m alone in there, my mind just reels and it’s like I’m suspended in this suffocating, quicksanded Hell, getting bitch-slapped in the face by bittersweet memories; plus I’ve been listening to a lot of Morcheeba lately, because that is apparently what I liked in 2002. Like swishing hot tea over a tooth ache, only in my heart. But it’s OK. I know that one day I will be able to look at pictures of Don and smile, just like I can now do with my Pappap, without becoming racked with misery.

I asked Henry to write some words in Don’s memory, because I’m not ready to close the door on my own. Still hurts too much.

I always love when Erin makes write a few words or answer a few questions about something we did or she made me do. Words just do not flow from my head like they do from hers. It takes planning and a lot of extra thought to get this little tribute in to motion, for Erin I would do almost anything though and if writing is what she wants then writing she shall have. When I first came along Don was already part of the family, but even though I was the stranger and not the biggest cat person at all, He was one of the first to warm up to me as he did everyone that entered his house, except for his nemesis ( as pictured in some rare pictures of both of them together) Chooch. He was always the first to come out and sit with you once Chooch went to sleep, he would sit next to as long as you didn’t try and hold him. Don has me made me some what of a cat person as long as they turn out like him. He will be missed!

The waitress at Sylvester and Tweety’s gave Chooch this drawing thing to entertain him (news flash: nothing placates my child).

“Here, let me write something,” I said, swiping it from him.

“Oh, please don’t write Jonny Craig,” Chooch sighed with exasperation right as my hand was perched to draw a heart with Jonny’s name inside.

“Dammit!” I cried out dejectedly, and then, “How did you know?!”

“Oh, come on,” Henry mumbled, insinuating that the whole Internet would have guessed what I was going to write.

I guess I need to work on my predictability.