After we surrendered Don to Fallen Timber (his burial is this Thursday), I went straight to my room and basically bathed in a body wash of my own tears for the next two hours. But even I can only take so much sulking and despair, so I demanded that Henry take us to the park. I needed to get out of the house and keep busy.

Of course I still cried at the park too, which perfectly accentuated a ridiculous argument Henry and Chooch were having about his scooter and Henry being the worst dad ever. Hopefully someone recorded that for child services. That and when Choochie Knoxville LET GO of the swing, flew through the air backward, and landed in a perfectly painful bellyflop, at which point he protected his pain into anger, slapped my arm and said, “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!

” (Literally, right now he just reminded me of the centimeter-size scrape on his elbow and said “Wah.”)

Hating us. And that was BEFORE his swing stunt.

I don’t know anything about the reproductive process of bees, but these two were either fornicating or fighting, and they even took it airborne after awhile. It was a nice distraction.

Henry bought us ice cream afterward but was all grumpy about it.

Seriously, he makes the innocent act of ice cream cone indulgence look like gay porn EVERY TIME.

Look at his total “caught in the act” expression!

Watching Chooch wear his ice cream makes me ill. I hate food messes.

After Chooch went to bed, Henry and I sat outside with Marcy. He had some beer, I had some wine, and we talked about Don. I think Henry is sadder than he is letting on.

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[See Also: Don-Don, Puppy, Pup-n-Stuf, Jesus, Elephant (while making a trunk with your arm), Golilla (yes, with an l), Puppy Time, Donegal, and Pierre.]

It was approximately 9:00 AM on a fall morning in 2004 and I was about to embark on my descent down the steps. Don was nestled in the shadows of the top step, unbeknownst to me, when my bare foot began to sink into his furry pudge, and we both freaked the fuck out. He jumped up into the air at the same time I propelled myself skyward in attempt to leap over him. This resulted in Don running away unscathed and cowering under my bed, while I plummeted head first down the steps.

One broken toe, a carpet-burned foot, a purple lower right leg, a bent back finger nail, one bruised wrist, and tons of shame having had this happen in front of Henry. But it was worth it to keep Don unharmed.

***

Marcy gave birth to her first litter March of 2000. One of those kittens was this gray blob with a sweet chubby face and an ashy Afro. I knew without a doubt in my mind that I was keeping him and named him Don, after his Afro doppelgänger Don King.

Don was one of those cats that even cat-haters couldn’t resist. (You know who else couldn’t resist him? Speck. They dated off and on for years.) Like a puppy who purrs, he’d plop right down in your lap, or against your side, and knock down your feline-abhorring walls. He was charming, the comedic relief of our cat clan, and such a huge part of our family. But if ever came to my house, even once, you probably know all of this already, and more than likely left with an extra layering of clothing made solely from half of his soft coat.

An outgoing people person, he was always in the thick of things. (Unless Chooch was around. In all of Chooch’s years – at least the mobile ones – Don never did come around to him. Kind of like how horses steer clear of evil.) He was loud and vocal, we would often meow back and forth at each other. And if I didn’t get out of bed and feed him RIGHTAWAY every morning, he would head butt me and cry like an extra in a Sally Struthers commercial.

He had all of these great traits, but what he apparently also had was a large mass taking up most of his side, forcing him to breathe with just one lung. The vet said that it more than likely was this way for some time, but he had become used to breathing off one lung and that’s why nothing seemed off to us. Seeing him laying in that oxygen chamber, the way he looked at me with sad, exhausted eyes, and the fact that he let Chooch pet him through the porthole, all these things painted a pretty gloomy and grim picture of his future.

Today, Don took his last breath while I held him on my lap. The vet gave me some time alone with him and I can imagine it looked like a scene from some awful Lifetime movie, me rocking back and forth, crying and saying, “Why?!” over and over. It was fucking devastating.

But now Don and Speck are together, and I can’t help but wish I was with them, too. It’s just too much to bear right now.

I will do a proper photo tribute in a few days; I owe him that much. I moved most of my pictures off my phone, and I just don’t have the will to get out of bed right now.

I would fall down the steps a million more times to bring him back to me.

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I found one of the extras in a kitchen drawer last week and my fingers spontaneously cramped at the memory of the labor.

It took so long to make these, but it was so worth it.

It was Chooch’s first birthday after all! I can’t wait until he’s a teenager and tries to pull that “You’ve never done anything for me!” bullshit, so I can scroll through my blog and show him pictorial evidence of EVERYTHING that spoiled kid has had done for him. You know, since he is so endangered and neglected.

***

It’s the moment no one has been waiting for: all of Chooch’s birthday invitations are securely hot-glued together into a foam sandwich and have been mailed off to their respective recipients. For as much anguish as these little monsters cost me, I have to admit that I miss them and I was very sad to see them go. When I handed the last batch off to the postal worker, I felt a lump rise in my throat and memories of the past few weeks bled into my mind — the good, the bad, the extremely painful (glue guns hurt). It was like sending off 23 kids to college.

I free-handed them from foam and made each individual face, and then Hoover’s Big Assignment was to use one of those big bad exacto knives that make him feel like he has a big weener to insert each tongue, which includes all the party info when pulled down.

Some of these were taken before they had been surgically tongued, but you get the idea.

  The tongues need to be pulled on to get the party info.

Hopefully, everyone keeps theirs and then in a year or two we can orchestrate a reunion and play catch up while noshing on Russian tea cakes and whispering outrageous slurs behind Janna’s back.

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I love that my co-workers save all their degenerate foodstuffs for me. It reminds me of my cat Don’s weener when he was a kitten.

Except orange.

I guess this is my Wordless Wednesday contribution. Who even cares.

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[In light of recent activity, I have been struggling with whether to keep this blog up or take it down; I ultimately decided to keep it up because I haven’t done anything wrong; but this post, however, is password-protected* since it involves Chooch’s school friends and not these particular parents, but other parents in that class, have beef with me.]

[*Oh, fuck it. I don’t care who reads this shit anymore.]

Chooch decided a few months ago that he wanted to have the same birthday as his awesome mom. I mean, who can blame the kid for wanting to emulate such a loose cannon like myself. Hopefully, he develops a taste for foot and crow soon, because if he’s going to follow my path, he’s going to be dining on a lot of that.

So we rented out the rink for the kid and invited all his friends, most of which just happen to be grown-ups. I have never known a child to have so many grown-up friends. Which to me, that sounds like the opposite of a neglected, unloved child. But what do I know. I’ve only been a mom for six years.

Guest List

• My brother Corey and his girlfriend Danielle
• Henry’s mom Judy
• Henry’s sister Kelly
• Zac
• Steph and Kian, + a green-haired girl whose name I never got
• Danielle and Ean
• Lindsay, Anthony and Tiffany
• Lauren, Randy, Dean and Olivia
• Barb
• Lee
• Amber
• Wendy and Shawn
• Kaitlin
• Kaitlin’s famous cake
• Kristen
• Ricky, Chris, Kari and Katelyn, reppin’ Castle Blood
• Carol
• Laura
• Bill, Jessi and Tammy
• Mikayla, her sister and parents
• Nate, his brother and uncle
• Jacob, his sister and mom
• Emyle, her mom and cousin
• Bria, her sister and parents, who came from a wedding and changed in the bathroom, that’s how all about it they were
• Lisa and Matt
• Shawn, Cosi and Anais
• Peaches and Drake
• Our neighbor D and his friend who wouldn’t talk to me

Pretty sure that’s more people that came to my party. It’s hard being in the shadow of a six-year-old sometimes!

I. The Mix

I slaved over the perfect skating mix all week, staying cognizant of the fact that there would be Catholic school children in attendance, and let me tell you something: Rick Ross radio edits just don’t exist. EVEN IF IT SAYS “RADIO EDIT,” listen to that shit first, because I promise you it will all start to unravel by the end and you’ll find yourself clawing your way out of ramparts and carnage of “pussy” and “fuck.” Unbelievable that I actually rose to the occasion and did my due diligence on this one.

Reminding myself that it wasn’t MY party, I put on Chooch’s favorite Eisley song, which he totally missed because it came on while he was opening his presents. He asked for Frank Turner’s “Photosynthesis” (what 6-year-old requests that song, really), which proved to be horrible to skate to, but whatever – not my party. He threw me a bone and said I could put on “The Past Should Stay Dead” by Emarosa, but then when it came on, he switched directions just to clomp over to me and say, “Really Mommy? Emarosa? Really?” like he was totally disappointed in me WHEN HE GAVE ME PERMISSION! God, he’s always trying to make me look the fool.

But at least it came on after Lee and Amber were already there, so they got to hear what the true honey-tinged voice of a male siren sounds like. Even Lee admitted that he wasn’t that bad, for a drug addict.

That morning at breakfast, “Sussudio” came on, which made me, Tammy and Jessi laugh since we had just listened to an angry Phil Collins singing it the night before at my house.

“Well, this definitely has to go on the mix now, ” I laughed. AND IT DID.

And then after that, I mostly just threw on some 80s synthpop, Skrillex (unashamed dubstep fan in this hizzy), Britney Spears and some current r&b jams. At one point, I skated past Jacob’s mom, who was sitting on a bench talking to Bria’s parents, when I overheard her say, “And this music is so good. It’s really taking me back!”

That gave me the courage I needed to broach conversation with the enemy. Actually, these parents aren’t the enemy. Those parents were too cowardly to bring their children to the Evil Woman’s son’s birthday party. More on that at a later date. (And that is only one of the reasons this post is password-protected. For now, anyway.)

“I made this mix!” I shouted over top of the Breakfast Club’s mostly forgotten track “Right on Track.” And then we all had a really nice conversation about Spinning Wheels, the local rink that was poppin’ back in the 80s, and how much we miss it. It’s a Busy Beaver now. Get fucked, Busy Beaver.

They all gushed (yes, they gushed) about how they were having such a great time and thanked me for inviting them. (We put on the invitations that the entire family was welcome to come, admission was free, and skate rental was comped for the kids. Yeah, I know what that’s called. Sucking up. And I’m not beneath it.)

“Good,” I gloated to myself. “Now go back and tell those other bitch moms.”

II. Henry is the Best Skater

Cue the trumpets! Roll out the red carpet! Henry is about to take his inaugural roll around the rink and HE IS THE BEST SKATER EVER says everyone at the goddamn party. I know this based on the amount of times I skated away from people in a huff. Yeah, he’s the best skater ever, if that means he’s nearly 5o and able to skate to the tune of Peaches and Herb in his head while maintaining absolutely no rhythm, yet not falling. Bravo. Name a rink after this man, already.

I was crying about it to Barb, Lee and Amber, who all said that they were actually just commenting on how good of a skater I am, and then proceeded to stick out their arms to collect high fives from me the next time I passed their side of the bench. This appeased me, though they were probably just sucking up because they knew they would have to hear me cry about it all week at work otherwise.

Seriously, Henry is not all that. Sure, he’s a better cook, aircraft-identifier, moss expert, parent and person than me, but can’t I at least have something that I excel at? Jesus!

I am never skating with him again.

My Color Blind Brother Corey & His Girlfriend Danielle. They Will Never Be Able To Admire Rainbows Together.

III. Ultimate Party Foul

I was in the snack room when I noticed my friend Lauren’s son was crying and holding an icepack against his wrist. She told me they were taking him to the hospital and I totally felt like the biggest asshole ever.

“Why?” Lauren asked. “You didn’t push him!” She was so calm about it too. I would have been puking in my purse. After they left, Wendy’s husband Shawn was like, “His arm is totally broken” which made me feel even worse. Later that night, Lauren posted a picture on Facebook of Dean, sitting in the exam room with his entire arm in a cast. At least he was smiling, though!

First, Dean had to spend two hours with me last fall while I took pictures of him and his sister, and then he breaks his arm at my kid’s birthday party. That kid is probably so adverse to me.

Of course, one of Chooch’s big mouth friends went to school and told everyone about it, so now all the mom’s have new fodder. “Kids get broken around that evil family! This is the work of SATAN!”

IV. Pictures of Children

Some of the moms at Chooch’s school found my blog. This happened in February. The first wave of confrontations came through the day before Valentine’s Day; I took it in stride and still found the will to bake that fucking cake for Henry. The biggest problem was that they saw what I had written about them (in various field trip posts), but they also made a stink about their kids’ pictures being on the Internet. So I took everything down and apologized. Still, this is not the reason this post is password-protected. Yes, something even worse than that happened. A story for a rainy day, though. (Although I will say my favorite part was when one of the moms said, “And I looked at some of the other stuff on your website and I just don’t want my family associated with ANY of…that.” I took that as a compliment.)

Now, none of the parents who came to the party are the ones who create phalange crosses and hiss when I walk into the room. But still, I wanted to show respect for those parents who allowed their kids to attend a heathen’s birthday party, thereby editing out the faces of their children before they even have a chance to cry foul.

It’s a moot point now that I made this post password protected.

(I left my friends’ kids intact, because I think you have to assume that if you attend one of my events, you’re going to have your picture taken. However, if anyone reading this is angry about it, say so and I will Jonny Craig your face, too.)

V. Afro Rink Douche

In lieu of Henry’s man-crush Paul the Rink Ref, two of the younger staff members were out there, flashing their skating prowess in their blue Neville Roller Drome shirts. At first I was like, “Thank god for built-in entertainment, now Bill & Jessi won’t have to pump out balloon animals like at last year’s party.” Except that the one with an afro took his job way too seriously and lambasted Bill for “going too slow” when it was his first time skating EVER. God, way to not only embarrass the guy, but make him not want to ever try skating again.

He also yelled “Keep moving!” to Amber who was leaning against the wall while on the rink and talking to Lee. Hello, I didn’t pay all that money renting a rink to have my friends yelled at by some neon-skated prick with a superiority complex.

(Although, if I were Amber, I would have totally blamed Lee.)

Next time I see that guy, I’ll have his Afro on a plate.

VI. Cake & Presents

Kaitlin went above and beyond as usual and made the most delicious white batter cake with this ambrosial lemon filling. She is just MAGIC. And I asked her to maybe decorate the cake with monsters, but you know what she did? She made RED VELVET CUPCAKE MONSTERS. Of course, this made the children (all the girls, natch) argue over which one they wanted, leaving Poor Henry as the official monster delegate. They were not pleased with him when he began quartering the monsters to ensure they each got a piece. And of course, there was one whole monster left over in the end. GOOD JOB HENRY.

Someone made a lofty remark about how I should be the one cutting the cake. What a fool. I wish I could remember who that was so I could call them a fool to their face.

And then Henry proceeded to cut orphan-portioned slices of cake for all of the guests. We ended up taking home HALF OF THE CAKE. My saddlebags thank you for your stinginess, Henry.

“This wasn’t on my list!” Chooch spat when he opened Barb’s present. This became the “You invited BARB!?” of 2012.

I really enjoyed that she and my cousin Danielle both stepped up to be present helpers, since I was doing other things. What was I doing? Tweeting and spinning on my stool, I think. And taking pictures! That’s important. That is a very important party task.

Corey, learning how to cut curmudgeonly cake slivers from the Master Miser.

My wonderful Michigan buds had to hit the road during Chooch’s snail-paced gift unwrapping session. As I hugged Bill, Jessi and Tammy goodbye, I noted that “Sussudio” was playing out on the rink. I think in Yacht Rock terms, that means we’re bonded for life.

Amber and Lee were competing to see whose gift Chooch liked the most. Apparently, Lee’s Skylanders warranted a “Daddy, look!” so Lee self-claimed the title.

I probably should have been writing down what he got.

Barb was smart and got me a Hot Topic gift card! She learned her lesson from my birthday party, when she was audacious enough to bring CHOOCH a present, making me cry out, “YOu didn’t bring ME a present to HIS party!” Even after I opened it, I set the small red gift bag on the table with all of his presents, just so I could sneer, “HA! That’s MOMMY’S present!” when Chooch reached for it.

And then I wonder why I’m getting accused of being a shit parent.

Chooch also got a card with a monetary gift from Rink Ref Robin, Roller DJ and Doorman Billy, who told me that they wanted to contribute to the party since Chooch always entertains them when we attend afternoon sessions. I wish I was as popular as my son. Actually, no. No, I don’t.

Two hours was totally not long enough. Before I knew it, Roller DJ was announcing that the session was over and Henry was counting out something to the tune of LIFE SAVINGS to pay the rink owners. Sophie, the owner’s wife, refused payment for the skate rentals, so we were at least able to eat dinner the next two days.

(If anyone was at the party and wants to contribute their own highlights and memories (and pictures too!), you should totally comment! It was such a whirlwind and I know I missed a ton. Like Bria sneezing on the cake, pre-Happy Birthday serenade.)

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After Corey’s commencements on Saturday, Henry and Chooch rejoined us and we all went out to dinner, which was nice because I don’t think Henry has ever gone out to dinner with me and my dad before, plus this was his first time meeting my grandma Kelly.

Even though I asked the waiter to put me, Chooch and Henry on a separate check, my dad picked up the tab.

Danielle was prepared to give him cash for her dinner but he waved her off.

“If I had known you were paying, I would’ve ordered something cheaper!” she said.

“I’d have ordered something more,” I mumbled, like the brat that I am.

Chooch didn’t swear it all! I guess my pep talk of, “PLEASE DON’T SWEAR PLEASE DON’T SWEAR” really got through to him. I can only imagine how fast my grandma Kelly would hold a crucifix to his forehead if he let an obscenity rip.

To his credit though, he’s really good about his word choice in public.

He got to sit by Corey, who is like a bright, shiny toy to him, so that helped keep his most monstrous antics recessed.

Bread was a hot commodity at that joint.

My grandma Kelly is such a sweet old woman. When we were sitting on the bleachers at the Sports Center, she told Danielle and me that women should never poop in public restrooms because it’s shameful and then segued right into asking me if I go to church every week.

I always feel like she can see my black, ashy aura.

At dinner, she slung her purse over the back of her chair and said, “It’s bad luck to put your purse on the floor.

Henry looked over at my purse, discarded in a heap next to my chair under the table, contents beginning to seep out like entrails, and said, “Well, that explains a lot.”

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