Henry was gone all day on Saturday, helping out at Castle Blood. I thought, “Oh, this will be OK. Chooch and I can go off and have a cute little photo shoot, celebrate our independence, etc. etc.” But before Henry left, I called him back in the house to have him fetch the wheelchair and put it in the car for me. Independence could wait a few minutes.

“Do you think we can do this successfully?” I asked Chooch when we were on our way to the (damned) location.

He answered quite matter-of-factly, “By ourselves? No.” That kid knows what’s up.

Everything was great. We sang “Call Me Maybe” loudly and repeatedly en route. I even stopped at a gas station and bought him a drink! Look at me! Taking care of my kid’s needs! But then we rolled up on the designated site (Coulterville, an area where many of my photo shoots are located), and that was when I realized I had to lug a wheelchair; a unicorn mask; the camera bag; and a plastic bag filled with clowns, doll heads, an empty bottle of Old Crow and a jack in the box all on my own because my goddamn son is a fucking divo.

This is where Henry’s blue-collar arms would have come in handy.

Originally, I wanted to cross the train tracks and walk toward the river, because there are some really cool spots back there. But then I realized, “Holy shit, I can’t lift this wheelchair up to the tracks” so I started swearing and crying. We were going to take the pictures at the nearby cemetery and abandoned church after that, but Chooch was being totally uncooperative and we screamed, “I HATE YOU!” at each other with enough fury to raise the dead, and then not one but TWO trains passed us and we were both shook to the core because OMG WE ALMOST TRIED TO CROSS THOSE TRACKS AND WE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED.

That made me flip out even harder, and then Chooch started crying because he lost his (broken) sunglasses and I wouldn’t help him look for them because the trains were freaking me out so bad and all I wanted to do was push the fucking wheelchair back to the car (IT WAS ALL UPHILL, THANKS).

There are people who live around there. I sure hope they heard our histrionics. Especially when I threatened to orphan him and he snarled, “NOT IF I GO TO THE ORPHANGE FIRST.”

I was NOT going home. Not after driving all the way out there. So we stopped at McDonald’s (after I flipped out for the 79879876th time because the gas light was on and I couldn’t find a gas station and then when I did, I had to make an illegal turn to reach it) and I said out loud, “Fuck this. I’m getting a frappe. I goddamn earned it.” But first we had to wait for the oldest woman alive to send back all of her food and then proceed to sit there in her dumb minivan even after she got the right stuff, and I started yelling at her which made Chooch laugh to the point of tears, but then seriously say, “Mommy, she’s just an old lady.”

AND THEN THEY GAVE ME MY FRAPPE WITHOUT A MOTHERFUCKING STRAW. I didn’t want to park and go inside to get one, because I couldn’t leave Chooch alone in the car (I checked the manual real quick for that one) and he didn’t have his shoes on plus I was all sweaty and tear-soaked and had dirt all over me from god only knows what. So I drank that bitch without a straw and had chocolate syrup all over my face; I can assure you I didn’t really care at that point. I had accepted my new role as the poster woman for Defeat.

Did I leave out the part where I called Henry 87 times while he was trying to cut doors in walls at Castle Blood, screaming at him because I didn’t know how to fold the wheelchair and it was THE WORST DAY EVER and I might as well just KILL MYSELF? Oh, well that totally didn’t happen.

We ended up going to the place where the Easter pictures happened. (Click that link if you haven’t seen those photos; Henry has on makeup in them!) At first glance, I thought the abandoned structures had been demolished, but really it was just because the area was so overgrown with frondescence that it was no longer visible from the road. Where was my machete when I really needed it?

I think I lost 10 pounds that day from crying, sweating, raging & hiking thru weeds and mud with a wheelchair. And we both have cuts and scrapes all over us from trampling through walls of jagger bushes, with Chooch wailing, “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE MAKING ME DO THISSSSSS” and me screaming, “IT’S FOR ART, STFU!!”

By the time Henry came home, Chooch and I were both languid on the couch, eyes glazed over, looking extremely pathetic. “Can we go out to eat?” Henry asked. “I worked so hard today and I’m starving.” With my eyes, I mentally castrated him.

Later that night, Chooch was telling Henry something unrelated to the photo shoot, and added, “I think that was when Mommy was in the car, crying.”

My weekend was full of unicorns, Halloween desk decorating blueprints, Hare Krishnas, pretty-haired friends and glorious cafeterias; while it was incredibly fun, I’m looking forward to winding down with a night of MTV reality smut. I EARNED IT, YOU GUYS.

I’m going to sleep well tonight.

The fries I had with my sandwich at Frank & Shirley’s were the kinds that make me close my eyes and cry out in disturbing ecstasy. Deep-fried crispy shell with a buttery middle that melted on my dirty tongue, holy shit I ate those bitches like it was a fucking religious experience.

“I can’t remember the last time I had fries this good,” I moaned. I’m the kind of broad who will pick through fries on my dining companions’ plates, searching for “good ones.” Past boyfriends have written case studies on it.

“California,” Henry answered.

“Huh?” I asked, tonguing a masticated potato like I was being filmed for money.

“At that Greek restaurant, remember?”

“Um, Henry? I barely remember anything about that trip [to Coachella in ’04]; I had major rage blackouts.”

And then Henry finished the rest of his omelet with a frown, because I guess that trip meant more to him.

“Nice moccasins,” said everyone in Williamsburg.

I may have posted this before but I just found it on my LiveJournal yesterday and died at how similarly dramatic Chooch and I are.

Case in point, Henry abandoned us today to help our friends at Castle Blood, and you would have thought he told us he was leaving for a job in Alaska.

Then Chooch and I were bickering when Henry was on his way out the door.

“She won’t play with me!” Chooch wailed to Henry.

“Yeah, because he’s being a dick!

” I cried in defense.

Henry just stood there, assessing the situation with a disappointed look, and said, “Jesus Christ, it’s like I’m leaving two ten-year-olds.

”

WHAT? WHY DOES CHOOCH GET TO BE OLDER?!

Anyway, the day quickly unraveled, but that’s a post for another day. (Like, tomorrow.)

Work Henry (aka Glenn) taped this up on my desk the other day.

Analyzing Erin R. Kelly. What a massive undertaking that would be.

We’re having a baby shower for Colleen today at work; Barb knew better than to ask for my help decorating, but I still contributed a little.

I came out of retirement to paint this for the baby’s room. I hope Colleen (and the baby) like it!

When Barb saw the gift bag on my desk, she got seriously disgusted and yelled, “NOW who are you getting gifts from?

! This is getting ridic—” Then she realized it was Colleen’s baby gift and said, “Oh,” in a tiny voice.

Speaking of parties, I had one thrown for me Sunday night. No, I take that back—it wasn’t a party. It was BETTER than a party. It was so good, in fact, that I am still stunned two days later and every time I try to sit down and write about it, I wind up staring off into the distance with a goofy smile on my goofy face.

Soon!

The “This is Erin’s Special Evening So I’m Going To Wear This Wig Like She Told Me To & Try To Force My Uncomfortable Smirk Into a Weak Smile” Non-Frown.

Kids at a creepy/rockabilly/steampunk car show.

Went to the Creeprod Car Show yesterday in Lawrenceville, which was spearheaded by the brain trust that is Trundle Manor. Pete and Seri came with us, so we had a combined set of three boys under the age of 7, and this event was decidedly not kid friendly so I don’t know what I was thinking. All three of them got screamed at by some fat slob when they came within a foot of his car; for someone who was so protective of it, he sure was REALLY FUCKING FAR AWAY, drinking his brewski and slurring Yinzer-slang with his buddies clear on the other side of the fence.

This happened kind of early on, and it made me mentally check out.

Gayle had a booth there, right across from a guy selling lamps made out of animal bones and right next to our old neighbor, 1950s HOMEMAKER OMG I FORGOT ABOUT THAT BITCH. (*She is mentioned at the end of the post I linked to.) Now I know what she was sewing all those times I was washing dishes and saw her from the kitchen window sitting behind a sewing machine: really stupid 1950s HOMEMAKER aprons.

I took refuge under Gayle’s tent and talked to her for awhile and got to meet her fiance, Jeff, who was very nice. At least they didn’t yell at the kids.

All Chooch cared about was that there was sticker inside this car (Trixie, the official ride of Mr. ARM and Velda Von Minx) of a naked broad.

Henry’s Blue Collar Gang sign? I have no idea. I think he was actually counting nickels with which to buy a soda pop. And Pete? He was quietly bartering with the Parenting Overlords to just take the rest of his will to live and be done with it.

Ugh. God only knows.

Drooooool.

Really, what stands out the most to me when I think about yesterday was when Chooch was petting someone’s dog and said to the owner, “My mommy had a cat, her name was Speck, and she used to give my mommy high fives.”

Broke my goddamn heart. It was all I could do not to burst into tears right there on the street, mere feet away from a dancing rockabilly crackhead.

Chooch was actually kind of moderately good, until he became obsessed with being thirsty. God, isn’t it enough I grew the kid? Now I have to replenish his fluids too? Parenting is so hard.

Post-car show Wendy’s with a trio of monsters. I’m not a big fast food person (just a regular big person), but I had an oatmeal raisin bar thing that was just delightful.

Yesterday was just plain weird, and not in the good, typical Erin-way.

The “I’ve Been a Motherdicker to Erin All Day, So She’s the One With the Right to Frown” frown.

There is some conflict happening in our department right now involving the placement of paper clips upon the copier. I’m so angry about it that when I explain it out loud to people, I actually fear that my words are going to grudge-fuck each other and spawn a fiery hate baby.

Until then, thank god pretzels and severed fingers are permitted.

This sign is actually looking out for people so I’ll let it slide.

My friend Michelle sent me the best mug ever! She said it probably won’t do much to improve my reputation at work, but that’s OK. Everyone there will agree that it fits in perfectly on my Desk of Inappropriate Things.

Elsewhere at work, I was having problems that only the Help Desk could fix. The guy I spoke with was pleasant and polite, but I couldn’t tell if he had a speech impediment or an accent, but whatever it was made him say “eggcellent” when I permitted him to remotely access my computer.

I answered all of his questions in a standard “I have shit to do, IT dude” tone.

After we hung up, he emailed me I have me try another avenue to reach computer victory. His name was Alex and his last name was approximately 9 syllables long so I felt compelled to look him up in the Firm directory.

HELLO ALEX.

Even Barb and Debbie were like, “Yes, this is the man you should cheat on Henry with. Go for it.”

I was on my lunch break a few minutes later and even though the sensible “what will the neighbors think” side of my brain was saying “No, don’t do it, dumdum,” I found myself typing his name in Facebook anyway.

DOUBLE HELLO ALEX.

“OMG OMG!” I cried giddily, making Barb stand up to look at my computer screen, with Alex’s HOT FACE AND NAKED TORSO looking back.

From there, I learned that while he lives in Boston now, he’s actually from BELARUS and lived there at least through high school, based on his “about” section. That explains the accent and HOTNESS.

I guess I’ll have to stop making fun of the Belarus athletes in the Olympics now.

I also learned that he recently traveled to Doha and he’s 38 which is pretty much my ideal age.

“You should make that picture your new computer background,” Barb laughed, but I seriously considered it until I realized that there was a possibility he’d need to remotely access my computer again, which made Barb crack up at the thought.

Then she REALLY wanted me to make his picture my background.

The last email I got from him yesterday said he had some ideas about how to fix my issue and that he was going to go home and sleep on it.

“OMG HE’S TALKING TO ME ABOUT SLEEPING HOW INTIMATE!” I hyperventilated.

Meanwhile, before any of this happened, I ran into my co-worker Cheryl in the kitchen who told me that it sounded like something a different department was going to fix for me, and that I should just email them. And I was going to do that, but then I had to go and look up Alex’s picture in the directory and it just totally snowballed.

“I’m totally stringing him along,” I admitted to Barb, and then told her what Cheryl had suggested I do. “But that was before I fell in love with Alex,” I explained. I didn’t even care about gaining access to this particular Outlook inbox anymore — I just wanted to keep Alex in my life for as long as possible.

When I got to work this afternoon, I had an email from him telling me to let him him know when I had a “minuet” [sic] because he wanted to try something out, which I of course construed into a million different sexual contexts and did that creepy, throaty laugh I do when I’m being weird.

He called me again, and this time I was totally perky and excitable, a complete 180 from yesterday when I spoke to him in a bored and distracted manner.

However, while we were on the phone, I noticed that everything had been fixed and I now had access to some stupid Outlook inbox, though I’d have preferred access to Alex’s pants.

I was really whiny for awhile after that.

“Maybe he looked you up on Compass too and did the same thing!” Barb suggested soothingly.

“Ugh, if he saw my picture on Compass, there is no way he’d have felt compelled to look me up on Facebook!” I pouted. Seriously, my Firm photo is Fug City. Plus, my hair was still dark brown and hanging all limply around my fat mongoloid face when it was taken.

Later in the night, I told my friend Kristen the whole saga, so she immediately looked him up in the Firm directory and noticed that HIS CELL PHONE NUMBER IS LISTED.

She texted it to me but I haven’t done anything with it yet. Alex better pray I don’t find a way to Boston sometime soon.

I was going to include his OMGHOTBELARUSIAN photo in this post, but…remember what you learned this year about being stupid with photos on your blog, Erin.

Man, this week has been rich with far-fetched crushes.

Can you believe I went to an amusement park and have very little to say about it? It’s not even that I didn’t enjoy myself at Waldameer last weekend, but I think it’s because I tried to be “smart” by taking some preventative Dramamine even though I have never really had a need for such measures. Sure, as I get older, I have to space the spinny rides; no more jumping off and getting right back on the Tilt-a-Whirl. And sometimes I might have to have an extended stay on a bench while I try to kick the cold sweats. But my motion sickness has never been so bad that I couldn’t ride something.

But still, I took some fucking Dramamine and it proceeded to completely ruin my day. I was so tired and irritable, it was unbelievable. And when I went on the Ali Baba, after harassing Chooch until he finally broke down and rode it with me, I spent the whole ride swallowing bile. Chooch, on the other hand, ended up loving it.

The main reason I wanted to go to Waldameer was to ride through the Whacky Shack. I love dark rides more than roller coasters, and this one didn’t disappoint. It was like being transported back to the ’60s with all the psychedelia and old school drug store Halloween props. I loved it so much. And I should note that the line for this ride, by mid-afternoon, was longer than the lines for the two wooden coasters. Erie peeps know what’s up.

I think this was my favorite part. As we rode through each door, the sound of a beating heart played above us.

I wanted to live there! Look how stupid Henry looks.

Stupid Henry looks stupid.

Across from the Whacky Shack was another dark ride called Pirate’s Cove. It was a walk-thru and had the unmistakable dank stench of your Aunt Martha’s basement. Oh, it was like getting a whiff of my childhood and I loved it! During one part that had us walking through a serpentined queue in a black-lit slanted room, I said that I thought it felt familiar to me.

“Yeah, because the Noah’s Ark at Kennywood used to have a room like this,” Henry said ruefully. I can’t believe that it’s been so long since stupid Kennywood desecrated the best dark ride in the world that I couldn’t even remember that. In fact, so many parts of the Pirate’s Cove seemed similar after that realization, that we wondered if the two were made by the same company.

(Here is an article not written by this hack about Noah’s Ark .)

Oh God, don’t I wish.

I kept seeing signs for French waffles, which sounded absolutely delightful, because I like waffles and I also like French.

French vanilla.

French kissing.

French prosthetics.

French porn.

French dressing.

French furries.

French furries filming salad dressing porn.

Then I did that thing where I get all pouty and spoiled-bratty when I say I’m hungry and Henry has the nerve to ask me what I want when he should KNOW WHAT I WANT since I’ve done nothing but say things like, “I wonder what the fuck a French waffle is?” all goddamn day. Fuck!

So I finally got my damn French waffle with a generous coating of powdered sugar.

“Go sit down and eat that,” Henry said patronizingly, and just to be a walking Fuck You! montage, I thrust the waffle to my mouth and bit down faster than I could realize that the waffle wasn’t actually as soft and doughy as I imagined, but crisp and thin and the pressure of my aggressive mastication presented quite a pickle when it caused the other end of the fake breakfast staple to flip up and smack me in the mouth, sending puffs of powdered sugar ALL OVER MY FACE, HAIR AND CLOTHING.

There was that incredibly awkward moment where it felt like everyone inside Waldameer had stopped dead in their tracks and were mocking me along with the entire country of France.

“I told you to sit the fuck down before eating that,” Henry sighed. “Good for you.”

It totally wasn’t even worth it and I started whining about how I should have just stuck with funnel cake and no, I can’t just go ahead and get some funnel cake because I’m too fat, how dare you, Henry.

If you happen to walk past my house and hear me mercilessly heckling all of the French athletes in every Olympic event, know it’s perpetuated by a waffle.

Henry broke his “no spinny rides” policy to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl and acted like a goddamn hero about it for the rest of the day. OK, Henry. We get it. You were in the SERVICE and can withstand a slight brain scrambling. Jesus Christ.

(Speaking of Henry being in the SERVICE, I was watching the Olympics the other night which is basically all I do now—be thankful if you don’t follow me on Twitter—and it taught me that the invasion of Grenada was real & not just some SERVICE story that Henry made up to look cool.)

(Speaking some more of Henry being in the SERVICE, I’m trying to get him to find his dog tags so I can wear them ironically.)

Chooch rode the bumper cars with Henry, so he had a successful experience this time and will probably never ever want to ride with his asshole mom again.

Oh, yeah! Speaking of not wanting to ride with his asshole mom, when we were in line for the most boring wooden roller coaster of all time (the Comet), Chooch was very vocal about how he wanted to ride with DADDY, not MOMMY and he kept saying it over and over again to the point where I was sure all the people around us were beginning to interpret that as, “I don’t want to ride with Mommy because her heroin needle always pokes me when I sit too close.”

Just utterly embarrassing.

So when it was our turn, I ran all the way to the front seat figuring that if Chooch really wanted to ride in the front like he kept saying, he would have no choice but to sit with Dreaded MOMMY. But that little shit was like, “Oh. No thanks then. I guess I’ll just sit in the SECOND SEAT with Daddy.”

What a jerk. AND ON MY BIRTHDAY WEEKEND! (Don’t worry, I said that at least 87 times that day.)

There was another coaster there called Ravine Flyer which was made from some of the most active ingredients in evil. I rode it alone because Chooch wasn’t tall enough, and I was super anxious because there was a sign there that said something about all single riders congregating to the middle and finding other lone riders to pair up with, like some strange roller coaster singles mixer, and what if I couldn’t find some other pathetic single rider? As luck would have it, there was some older man a few people behind me, so we ended up standing together in one of the queues.

But then, when the next coaster pulled up, I got into the far right seat and he didn’t get on after me! I was so offended that this piece of shit stranger didn’t want to ride with me. I know I’m Chubs City, but I don’t have fucking lesions, for Christ’s sake.

What a fucker.

And that roller coaster ended up being a major son of a bitch, so it would have been nice to have had a warm, fat body next to me to hold on to, that’s all I’m saying, asshole.

Really, that coaster was terrible. It might have been the roughest, fastest ride I took on wood, and yes I meant it that way. I didn’t even scream or put my arms up — I just sat there in my seat, completely stunned.

When Henry and Chooch were in line for the Whacky Shack, I got a text from Henry that said, “Jonny’s strung out near the entrance.” I almost died when I saw this guy, because he does kind of look like The Jonny Craig DelGrosso’s Doppelganger. Oh Jonny Craig, how you haunt me everywhere I go.

Then we stood in line to get lemonade behind some dumb bitch who apparently ordered an extra-colossal lemonade for an entire Girl Scout Troop, I don’t fucking know, but it seemed like the poor apathetic Waldameer kids in the little refreshment oven just kept churning out one giant cup after another, like Groundhog Day Part 2: Perpetual Refreshments. I kept thinking, “Why are we still standing in this line?” but I was too Dramamined to do anything about it.

Well, would you look at that. I guess I had things to write about Waldameer after all.

I found some pictures I took inside my grandparents house from 2007-2008. It’s mind-blowing to me how a house that was once so open and inviting (to family, anyway; most of my friends were afraid of it) turned into a bolted-up, secretive fortress. I haven’t been inside there since 2010, and that was for about 30 minutes before Sharon was shooing me out.

This painting was supposed to be mine. This was all I wanted, plus all the old photo albums. I don’t care about the money. I would rather continue living in pseudo-squalor than taking their handouts.

Chooch in the Clown Room, standing near a sharp-edged glass table, wooo parenting!

Master bathroom, one of my favorite rooms as a kid.

Someday I hope to have a house to cover in strange wallpaper.

Chooch in the kitchen. I just wanted to post a baby picture, that’s all.

WTF.

Someday, before the house is gone, I want to break in and take more pictures and just get one good, long look at what seemed so normal to me as a kid.

I spent some of the best days of my life at that house, watching “Golden Girls”, “Empty Nest” and “Hunter” during Saturday night sleepovers, eating grilled cheese, and playing PacMan in the game room while “She Bop” blared out of the jukebox.

It really depresses me to know how Grey Gardens it all has become.

(Susie, if you’re reading this and you have any photos of the house from when you were a kid, I would love to see them!)

That is all.

Oh, Ross. If you only knew.

****
EDIT! Just learned that Henry didn’t get Ross’s “I’ll be wearing a blue polo” email until after the fact, so he proceeded to approach every man in the CVS parking lot, asking, “Are you waiting for a phone?” like it was code for “Are you selling blow jobs?” Meanwhile, Chooch was laughing at Henry’s awkwardness and then when they finally found Ross, Chooch was sure to tell him how annoying his phone was.

God, I wish I had been there. I like blue polos.

Chooch came barreling into the house yesterday, having just come home from the grocery store with Henry.

“MOMMY! DADDY FOUND SOMEONE’S PHONE ON THE ROAD AND HE GOT OUT OF THE VAN TO GET IT!” Chooch blurted out in one quick breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Henry muttered, coming in the door after him. “Why do you have to announce every single thing I do?” I think Henry expected me to be all apathetic about this turn of events, just like he was, but instead I got all excited and screamed, “OMG let me see it!”

“It’s just a Blackberry!” Henry barked, shouldering past me as I tried to snatch it from him. “God!”

The owner’s contact info was on the home screen, so Henry said he was just going to email him (his name is ROSS) and let him know he has it.

“OK, but let me think about this first. We should make it into some kind of fucked up, psychological mind game,” I murmured, mind reeling. “Kind of like ‘Saw’…” But before I could tell Henry to demand that Ross send us one of his teeth (or at least a nude), Henry had already sent him a Normal Person email reassuring him that his precious phone was not in danger. Goddammit! There were so many different ways this could have gone.

The rest of the evening was interspersed with me asking, “Did he reply to your email yet? How about how? Now? Or now? Here, let me email him—”

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like fate. I looked up the Blackberry owner on Facebook and went into full-blown Cinderella Story mode. I became convinced that Henry was meant to find this phone so I CAN FINALLY HAVE A HUSBAND YOU GUYS OMG. And then I saw that Ross went to school for mechanical engineering so surely that must mean he has a better job than Henry. However, the only activity he had listed on Facebook was fishing, and his profile picture was him holding a gigantic fish, which is really gross to me, and I couldn’t really see his face because of the giant fish carcass, but that’s OK because it made it easier for me to imagine he looks like Ryan Lochte.

And then I woke from a dream about Ross’s phone at 7:20am to Ross’s alarm going off, which means he must work normal hours unlike Henry whose alarm goes off at MIDNIGHT. I began fantasizing about having a normal relationship with a man who keeps normal hours, waking up together every morning in the same bed….

God, I hope he doesn’t snore.

But then I couldn’t get the alarm to stop, and it proceeded to go off every five minutes for the rest of the day, which will probably be the impetus to our first fight.

“Just take the battery out,” Henry said wearily after I called him for the 87th time in a row. (Hello, if he would just ANSWER the first time, I wouldn’t have to keep calling.) But I didn’t feel comfortable taking the battery out of some other person’s phone. Besides, then I wouldn’t be able to monitor his incoming calls.

I mean…what?

At 11:00, my sanity had splintered. Could not take the sound of that alarm anymore. So I came up with the best solution ever: A “Call Me Maybe” dance party! I put it on loud and on repeat, and Chooch and I totally wilded out. That song is like fucking sunshine for the ears, OK?

I should note that by “dancing,” I mean that I jumped around for 90 minutes, speed-bagging the air like one of those big inflatable balloon monsters outside of car lots, while Chooch repeatedly punched me, vigorously and with closed fists. I guess he learned that by watching me “dance” with Henry.

CHAIR DANCING TO “CALL ME, MAYBE”!

Even with Carly Rae Jepsen singing at her loudest, I could still hear the fucking phone alarm, so I ran upstairs and smothered it beneath Henry’s pillow. I could still hear it, but at least it was muffled, and at that point, it didn’t sound worse than any of the other sounds in my head, so who am I to complain, really.

“Look Mommy! I’m Ju-On dancing!” he cried, squirming beneath the chair like his favorite Japanese horror villain. OK. Whatever.

Weirdo.

UNICORN MASK DANCE PARTY! SAME SONG, DIFFERENT HEAD!

And then Henry came home and pooped on all of the fun. Turning down the volume to the best song of all time, he informed that he was meeting Ross (who lives right down the street, how convenient for my future booty calls!) at 6pm; Ross said if he can’t make it, he’ll just send his girlfriend.

Just like that, my dreams were dashed. Now I’m really regretting not taking all of those pictures of myself with his phone like I had considered. God, I’m so stupid.

As soon as we got in the car (read: The Juice Van; our car is still not fixed), “Call Me Maybe” came on the radio. Chooch and I cheered in tandem as I turned up the volume and began dramatically lip synching.

The “I’m Trying So Hard to Frown But It’s Hard To When I Secretly Love This Song, Goddamn You, Carly Rae Jepsen” faux-frown.

“Try to get a picture of Ross!” I called out over my shoulder when Henry dropped me off at work. I know he totally won’t, but I’m still in the best mood ever today.