One of the things I hated about Chooch’s old school was that Halloween was treated like Satan’s bachelor party — to the point where it was called the “H-word.” The preschool classes were miraculously permitted to celebrate it. I remember, being a party helper, following the kids on their parade route through the school and hearing the other teachers saying, “No, don’t say the H-word! Don’t let [the principal] hear that!”

Give me a fucking break.

But apparently, some public schools are following suit. A letter was sent home a few weeks ago stating that in lieu of Halloween parties, the classes would be having “Fall Celebrations.” No costumes, no parade.

Shit, I was on a warpath, talking about spearheading a movement, writing letters, homeschooling my child (ha-ha, yeah right — that was just my angry estrogen levels doing their psycho pelvic thrust on that last part). Apparently, other parents must have complained because an amended letter was sent home saying that the parade was going to happen after all, and that all the kids could bring their costumes to school, but please no: weapons, masks, makeup and/or accessories.

OK, the weapons part I get. Especially being the city. But what’s left after you strip a a kids costume of makeup, accessories, masks?

This actually didn’t affect the first graders, because they had a pumpkin patch field trip that day. But thanks to Hurricane Sandy, the field trip was canceled, so I was left scrambling  to throw together a school-approved costume for Chooch.

[His actual costume is Daryl from The Walking Dead, but without a crossbow (weapon), dirt/blood on face (makeup), zombie ear necklace (accessory), and squirrel (accessory) hanging from his side, what’s the point?]

(I should also note that his Nerf crossbow — which I won with THREE SECONDS LEFT on eBay — isn’t scheduled to be delivered until tomorrow. Thankfully, trick-or-treating has been postponed until Saturday due to the horrible weather. So that’s one thing I can thank Hurricane Sandy for. She’s still a cunt, though.)

Short of sending Chooch to school with a sheet over his head*, he took a trench coat-type thing, his pin-striped vest and a fedora for the most half-assed, unrecognizable gangster of all-time. He must have asked me 17 times on the walk to school to remind him what he’s supposed to be.

(* The school probably would have considered this a tripping hazard, anyway.)

So, I guess no Halloween pictures until the weekend.  Here’s last year’s, in case you were really pining for some Oh Honestly Halloween bullshit (which I doubt):

************

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 was just telling Henry who I would want to help me raise Chooch in the event of Henry’s death. (And by that I mostly mean “fill my man void.”)

“Who would you want to help you with Chooch if I died?” I asked.

“Uh, I wouldn’t NEED help raising him,” Henry said, reminding me in one short sentence that he’s basically both parents to Chooch already.

It’s nice to know that Henry wouldn’t be too crippled by grief and loss.

No need to send any casseroles, ladies!

And if you could’ve seen that frown…

Aladdin Glenn, Lizzie Borden Glenn, Garden Gnome Glenn, Wolf Glenn, Dios de los Muertos Glenn, Bob Ross Glenn

I have the day off tomorrow, so there will still be one more post for the last few Glenn stragglers on Thursday, but I don’t think there are many more that I haven’t photographed already. I was really disappointed that I didn’t get much free time tonight at work to knock out some more.

Priorities. I gots ’em.

But mostly, this is it. The Last of the Glennhicans.

More Cowbell Glenn (requested by my friend Chris who doesn’t work with me but has greatly delighted my co-workers with this one!

), Tippi Hedren/The Birds Glenn, Monopoly Banker Glenn, Miss Piggy Glenn, Charles Manson Glenn, Walmart Greeter Glenn

Mama Cass Glenn, Magnum P.I. Glenn, Conan Glenn, Astronaut Glenn, Marie Antoinette Glenn (this one was a gigantic bomb), The Shining Glenn

Candy Striper Glenn, Just Married Glenn, Octomom Glenn, King Kong Glenn (for Tyler, one of the envied Law Firm escapees), Dorothy Glenn, Malibu Glenn (for Heather)

The Beatles Glenn, Glenny Appleseed, Shark Attack Glenn

There are only a handful left in the big giant Glenn dispenser for people to pick tomorrow. I’m sad I won’t be there! But then I remember it’s work, and suddenly I’m OK with having the day off.

Can’t really see it, but he’s wearing a Robert Smith shirt and making my heart melt!

On the way to Baby Q and Cyrus’s birthday party!

He tries to play hard to get with Wendy because she’s blond (and blonds make him blush faster than Snooki’s neighbors programmed CPS into their phones), except when she was the only one willing to teach him how to play pool on Saturday.

Birthday boy Cyrus!

He went to three haunted houses this weekend, which is good since he started his OWN HAUNTED HOUSE JOURNAL! Oh my god, you guys. Oh my god. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of him! However, the one I took him to last night really shook him up. He didn’t cry, but he was super pissed off at me. I can only imagine what that particular entry is going to be like.

Persevering through the Dick Ages (3-5) really paid off because six has been a pretty epic age so far. Six-year-old Chooch is totally my bro.

Even though he totally drew this Friday night:

At least he didn’t draw me fat.

This has been my jam lately. Reppin’ Captain Midnite always, what!

Go download this, for real. Played the whole EP 87 times the other night on the way to a haunted trail: back roads on a crisp autumn night + Captain Midnite = chilled cherry on top the ambiance sundae.

Would I ever lie to you?

Friday night, Seri and I were standing in line for a shuttle that would take us to a nearby haunted house. We were the first people in line, when suddenly a carful of assholes oozed across the parking lot, and I just knew the mom unit of the pack was going to try and plant her mom-jeaned saddle bags right in front of me.

You know who doesn’t play the line jumping game? One Erin Rachelle Kelly.

I made a point of taking an exaggerated step forward, just in case it wasn’t already clear that I was practically fucking the sign that said “Line for shuttle forms here.”

It worked. She took her white trash manners to the back of the line with all the other losers.

About a minute later, the shuttle arrived and I all but charged at it when I saw in my periphery that the assholes behind me were seriously going to attempt to go around me, usurping my head of the line title.

THEN WHAT IS THE POINT OF STANDING IN LINE.

However, I didn’t account for the fact that the shuttle was bringing people back to the lot as well, so when the doors opened, I almost got stampeded.

Look, I’m ALWAYS in a hurry, always acting like I’m trying to escape a burning building. And I REALLY REALLY REALLY like being first in line.

(For recreational things, that is. Not the dentist or the guillotine.) So I was pee-jigging it up, waiting for the shuttle to unload. I’m not sure what Seri was doing since I had my eyes on the prize (read: the front seat of the shuttle), but if I had to guess, she was probably wishing for a copy of 50 Shades of Gray to bury her face in, because that would be much less embarrassing than being associated with the Type A line stander.

Meanwhile, some asshole KIDS were encroaching my jurisdiction.

They were now standing to my side instead of behind me. I knew that as soon as the last motherfucker stepped off the shuttle, these brats were going to make a run for it.

NOT IF I RAN FASTER.

Last person exited the shuttle and I stuck out my arm like I was going to clothesline these dick kids; while bounding up the shuttle steps, I had direct shoulder-to-shoulder contact with one of them. One of the adults they were with snagged them by the backs of their hoodies, otherwise they might have trampled Seri, who I may have accidentally left behind in my haste.

When Seri fell into the front seat next to me, she shook her head.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not letting KIDS cut in front of me!” I cried.

“Gosh, Erin. You’d be a great example for my preschool class,” she laughed. And then, “Would you rather substitute for a preschool class, or high school?”

I didn’t even hesitate.

“Oh, high school. Totally. They’re practically my peers. I could talk to them about Jonny Craig.”

Oh, Jonny.

When we arrived at Demon House, I all but pushed Seri out of the seat so we could get off the shuttle first.

Two of my favorite things combined into one: Fisher Price Little People and wheelchairs! I was watching this eBay item like a hawk last weekend (it had 12 bids by the end!

) before royally fucking the high bidder at the last minute.

I now how to bide my time, suckers.

Look what my homeboy Henry brought home for me the other day! My very own prayer bench! Now I finally have a place to set the housekeys and junk mail. So pleased with this.

Marcy is not pleased with this. She smells too much God on it, I think.

 Glenn Close Glenn (Henry didn’t get this one!), Chef BoyarG, Luau Glenn, Glenn in the Hat, Miami Vice Glenn, Glenn Danzig Glenn.

 Elton John Glenn, Glenn of the Corn, Darth Glenn, Gary Bettman Glenn (NHL Commisioner, FYI), Jigsaw Glenn, Pulp Fiction Overdose Glenn.

 Devo Glenn, Einstein Glenn, Sea Monkey Glenn, Batman Glenn, Bill Cosby Glenn (with Puddin’ Pop and Jello!), Captain Ahab Glenn.

 Damsel in Distress Glenn!

 ALL OF THE GLENNS!

Also new for this week was Candy the Clown’s stomach contents, which was a big fail.

I had Henry make a big batch of slime, and then I added paper clips.

Because that is what Glenn the Clown made Candy choke on, you see. Paper clips. Someday I will explain the paper clip obsession.

Babes!!!

When we first arrived at the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum last Sunday evening, we only bought tickets for the haunted house and the flashlight tour of the morgue. “Most people come back and buy tickets for the second tour after they’re done with the first,” the ticket booth lady told us. And sure enough, once the flashlight tour was over, Seri and I exchanged knowing looks;  it was pretty clear we needed to take the other tour, too. God are we suckers.

I really liked that older couple up there in that picture! They were also in our group inside the haunted house and the old man was gracious enough to hang back after Seri and I got disoriented inside the foggy maze and I screamed, “PLEASE DON’T LEAVE US, WE’RE LO-HAWHAWHAWHAW-SSSST!” Andthen his wife-person handed us glossy advertisements for the joint after the wheelchaired ticket taker refused to relinquish the ticket stubs for the second flashlight tour. (I really thought I could fool him the second time around.)

We stayed inside the main building for this one, which would eventually land us in the Experimental Therapy ward. My Boyfriend In A Hoodie unfortunately did not join us for this tour. The Camera-Happy Couple did, though. Thank god.

The nurses would pass the patients cigarettes through this hole. If I were Henry, I would take me back to that place and pass me an engagement ring through that.

Henry would never think of something that romantic.

This picture accurately depicts what the world looks like to me without my Big Green Glasses. I took this picture because our guide told us that another guide had a tour up there (it was a ghost-hunting tour), and there was distinct activity coming from beyond those doors. When the guide suggested they check it out, the whole tour retreated to the stairwell and left her up there alone. WTF!? What a lame fucking group.

So our guide got us all amped for that, only to continue walking in the opposite direction! What the hell!?

One of the experimental therapy exam rooms! In addition to the standard shock therapy practices, this asylum also got all up in some eye sockets by administering trans-orbital lobotomies. I was totally into this part of the tour.

I was dawdling at the rear of the group in an effort to get a picture of this lonely wheelchair that would have such a great home with me, when a loud, staccato cry rang out in the next room where most of the group was.

There were two stairwells and numerous doors in this area; the sound seemed to have come from the left, away from our group, perhaps either from the stairwells or back in one of the other rooms. It was totally obvious that everyone heard it, people were shifting around nervously, but not one person said a thing about it. Not even the guide. So I chalked it up to someone coughing or a squeaking shoe, but later Seri backed up my original thoughts by swearing, “No, I heard it too. Everyone heard it. It totally sounded like a bark!”

Clearly, we need to go back there.

Right after that, we entered another section of the floor, where our guide told us a story about some poor man whose whorebitch wife admitted him to the hospital for alcoholism, where he met his untimely demise in the men’s room after some asshole who actually deserved to be there stabbed him 17 times. The guy was able to drag himself to the nearby nurses station before bleeding out on the floor.

Of course, Camera-Happy Couple had a field day posing candidly for each other by the latrines.

(Who am I kidding? I probably would have done the same if I wasn’t terrified of my picture being taken because I’m the fattest fatty who ever fatted.)

 Looks cozy to me.

 This was an area that was renovated in an attempt to capture the original feel.

 Adding a portrait of angry soldier-types make even the chilliest abodes seem homier.  It’s good that they tried to cheer up the patients through art.

 Supposedly, some people have taken pictures of this mirror and have spotted other faces in the reflection. I got really excited at first because it looks like there is a face with glowing eyes in the righthand of the picture below, but I think that’s probably just Seri.

Her eyes are always glowing with fire and brimstone.

And that concludes our tour of the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum.

When Seri dropped me off at home, it was past midnight. I poked my head through the passenger side door and said in a sing-song voice, “Hopefully we didn’t bring anything back with us. You know, like ghosts.” I let that sink in for a second, and then sang out, “Goodnight!” as Seri’s face filled with horror.

She loves when I do that to her late at night when she has to drive home alone. I’m a good friend!

 Warhol Glenn, Honey Glenn Glenn, Glenn Flintstone, Boy Glenn, Lepreglenn, Glenn of Hearts.

 Mozart, Zsa Zsa Gabor and Crooked Cop Glenn!!, I Love Lucy Glenn, Teletubby Glenn, Michael Jackson Glenn, Rambo Glenn.

 Dolly Parton Glenn, Jay Leno Glenn, Little Merglenn, Henry Glenn, The Glenn Formerly Known as Glenn, Monica Lewinski & Bill Clinton Glenn.

 Carrie Glenn, Lone Ranger Glenn, She Ra Glenn, The Glennfather, Jason Voorhees Glenn, Chucky Glenn.

CHOCOLATE CAKE GLENN!

(Big ups to Sandy for procuring this prime piece of Glenn real estate for me!)

Glenn is getting married on Saturday, so today we celebrated his upcoming nuptials at work with cake and champagne. Barb and I devised a way to keep the Glenn Defacement Project going past Halloween without pissing off the bosses. Pretty pleased about that.

I absolutely could not be happier with the way this Halloween season has been chugging along. I’ve gone to a ton of haunts, from hayrides to trails to church basements, and those are stories reserved for my haunted house journals. However! Seri and I went to one in a lunatic asylum in Weston, WV on Sunday, and then took an optional flashlight tour of the premises afterward, because we figured why not? I mean, our adventures are scary enough (some kind of fucked up shit always happens to us, even when we’re just hanging out at the high school track) but who doesn’t need a little paranormal immersion in their lives. The haunted house portion was a lot of fun—we came out laughing, albeit nervously—but the flashlight tour was definitely creepier. Here are some pictures. And by some I mean so many that I will need to divide them amongst  two posts so as not to break the Internet.

The Morgue Tour

There was a guy in a wheelchair taking our tickets. He wouldn’t let me keep the stub as a souvenir!

It was like this:

“But—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Sorry.”

There was an old lady behind us who made a big fuss about it too. I heard her throw down the word “scrapbooking” at one point. Yeah, she went there.

FA LA LA LA LAAAAAWHEELCHAIRS!!!!!!!!

The morgue tour was super creepy from the get-go because we had to walk outside behind the main building to get to the building the morgue was in. On the way, our guide (a tiny but no-nonsense lady who I’m sure I could have made cross in .0005 seconds flat if I wasn’t so distracted by all the broken glass and the desire to push Seri into a big mud puddle) pointed her flashlight to an area behind the building where there supposedly was once an APPLE TREE THAT SOME PATIENT HUNG HIMSELF ON! You guys, you KNOW how much I love apples and suicide! I mean…apples!

P.S. There’s totally someone looking out of that bottom window.

The hallway where the morgue is located.

Casket! Some imbecilic dumbass had the audacity to call it a coffin, which made our guide flip her shit. I can’t remember her name, but I’m REALLY wanting to call her Sally. She constantly used the word “setting” instead of “sitting.” Who’s the imbecile now.

Morgue curtains!

Morgue-y morgueness!

Morgue cleansing corner!

There was one young guy in our tour that I am positive I made a connection with even though he was there with his girlfriend, whom he even mistook me for at one point! And she was way less fat than me, so I took that as a compliment. Sorry, non-fat Erin lookalike. You can write about how insulted you were another day, because right now it’s my time to shine.

So yeah, this guy. He was like 20. But when we were outside waiting for the tour to start, some broad came over and scolding several of us for commingling on the steps when we should have been standing inside the queue. So there were like 6 of us who had to duck under the queue, just as my new boyfriend and his group of people were entering the line from the back.

“I swear we’re not cutting!” I pleaded, and they all said they knew, but when my new boyfriend got closer, he jokingly sneered, “Line jumper!” at me. I took this to mean he wanted to have all of the sex with me against a haunted hospital urinal.

During the tour, he and I were always the last ones in the group, lingering about and taking pictures. Seri claims she didn’t notice, but I think that’s just because she doesn’t want to choke to death on GUILT  the next time she sees Henry.

Anyway, he was wearing a hoodie and a hat. It was too dark to ever really see his face.

The haunted house portion of the asylum, while scary in its own right, was a little disappointing because instead of really utilyzing the natural creepy state of the space, they had most of it covered up

I don’t know what this is.

Random carriage.

I kept turning around and taking pictures of the halls behind us. Mostly because I was too scared to keep my back turned on it.

When we were still outside in line, there was a couple standing with us. Maybe they were in their early 30s too, it was hard to tell, but they seemed extremely unoffensive. Until the tour started and the girl-part of the couple went from quiet and mature to obnoxious asshole before the guide even started pointing shit out. We weren’t even out of the lobby yet and it was already photo bomb city. These mothers were in my way in every fucking room, acting all posey-posey for each others cameras in front of the morgue sink, a broken window, an exit sign. THEY WERE GODDAMN EVERYWHERE I WANTED TO TAKE A PICTURE. I could have pointed my camera at Seri’s ass, and that girl would have had a sudden urge to have HER picture taken there, too. And she kept posing like she was at the fucking beach. And she was wearing stupid boots.

And she was just a stupid twat, OK?

I can also tell you that she is a big Heath Ledger fan, because maybe I have big eavesdropping ears and probably not because she told me herself.

There’s one room that’s haunted by a little girl named Lily. Numerous paranormal groups have witnessed her playing with toys and balls in there, but I was too busy wondering how I could steal her baby doll without my soul becoming demon dinner.

I really want to point out that those streaks are probably spirits! But I don’t feel like being a douche today.

Balls.

My boyfriend and I had another cute little encounter by this door. I did my cute little “You have no idea that I’m really a Black fucking Widow” giggle.

I feel like maybe I missed out on a lot of the historical facts of the morgue tour because I was too busy fixating on my lust for the guy in the hoodie and my hatred for the Photo Bomb Couple of the Year.

 Stalker Glenn, Gallagher Glenn (I thought the inclusion of a watermelon would be the tell-tale sign, but alas–wrong guesses across the board), Leatherface Glenn, Ziggy Stardust Glenn (for Maya!), Unicorn Glenn, Flava Flav Glenn (for Seri!)

 Elliott & ET Glenn, A Clockwork Orange Glenn* (for Sandy, and we are completely dismayed at how this one has stumped everyone), Stay Puft Glenn (for Octavia—turns out it was the Glenn Dispenser hoarding it!), Pippi Glennstocking (for Seri), John Wayne Gacy Glenn (he now resides right beneath his bro Jeffrey Dahmer), G for Glendetta (for Sean).

*Lee just came over and totally guessed that one right away and  wants everyone (a/k/a my 10 readers) to know.

 Dutch Boy Glenn, Colonel Sanders Glenn, Elvis Glenn, Snooki Glenn, Mama Glenn, Marilyn Manson Glenn.

 Spongebob Glenn, Dora Glenn (for Sandy!), Austin Powers Glenn, Reunited: Frankenstein and his Bride, Gene Simmons (for Maya), Martian Glenn (Barb didn’t know what this one was because she SUCKS!).

 Bill Paxton Glenn, Don’t Drop the Soap Glenn, Yoda Glenn, Charlie Chapglenn, Glenny, Here Comes the Glenn.

III. The Pies

As an added twist for 2012, and because I thought I suddenly had free time, I had this great idea to have a contest and have crap awarded to what I deemed as the BEST PIE, and possibly other categories like “Most Creative,” “I Thought This Would Taste Like Shit, But It Was Delicious” and “Most Likely To Please Jonny Craig” (see also: “Best Use of Ginger &/or hypodermic needles). But then guess what? October happened and before I knew it, I forgot to enroll in a metal-working class so I had no awards to present. Not only that, but I barely had a chance to try many of the pies and leaving the awarding up to the people wasn’t a good idea either, considering some of the pies were already devoured by the time the bulk of the pie eaters got there. John and Jennifer bring a chocolate cream every year, and every year I blink and it’s gone. I honestly thought it perished in a table-tipping accident, because I couldn’t comprehend the fact that it was polished off THAT QUICKLY.

There was basically every kind of fruit pie you could dream of. Various pumpkin pies (Amber¹ made a lovely pumpkin spice variety!), cream pies, bakery pies (everyone raved over Brad’s red raspberry from the Pie Place), a cheese and tomato pie that Pete and Seri made in honor of some FANTASTIC girl who loves grilled cheese with tomato, and even two cakes that were purchased in error but happily eaten.

Kaitlin pretty much blew anyone’s chances of winning my imaginary award out of the park when she arrived with her Crack Pie. The entire pie table was a diabetic’s deathbed, but Kaitlin’s pie alone was molten Kevorkian in a tin pan. HOLY FUCKING SHIT that was a bomb pie, and you know it must be true when I use the word “bomb” because I normally wouldn’t say something so dated unless my mind was under the influence of Kaitlin’s magical baking prowess.

GOOD PIE MAKES ME SAY EMBARRASSING THINGS, OK? This is a legit psychological condition. Look it up. That’s what the Internet is for.

The crack pie was just this:  an oozing puddle of silken sugar in an oatmeal-crusted vessel of weight gain, preparing to launch straight to the nearest pair of thighs. But why stop there?! Let’s add a perfectly uniform coating of powdered sugar on the top of all the other sugar. It was a fucking sugar totem pole!

That sounds BOMB right?!

It was my favorite pie of the day. Obviously.

(Shameless Friend Promotion: if you live in the Western PA area, you can order Kaitlin’s amazing desserts! And even if you don’t live around here, you should like her Facebook page anyway because she’s amazing and needs to make this her full-time job.)

Barb trying to absorb some of Kaitlin’s baking brilliance.

And God forbid I should let Henry choose his own pies to bake. Instead, I decided to make up my own pies. The one was in honor of the season premiere of the Walking Dead. It was a pistachio cream (which he made last year) with the addition of cherry coulis in the middle and poured over the top for a disgustingly beautiful blood effect. It was appropriately named Zombie Pie and it was a flop, because as usual it was unseasonably warm, and anything above 60 degrees is apparently the equivalent to Hell’s oven for a cream pie.

Who knew?

So within minutes of arrival, it was reduced to a pie tin full of coagulated slop.

I thought it tasted good, and that’s all that matters anyway, right? Right!?

ZOMBIE PIE YOU GUYS. Zombie Pie.

:(

The other pie I concocted in my head was a Crunchberry Pie. In 2008, we had a cereal-themed game night (back when I used to entertain, big cry-baby sigh) which required all of my guests to bring some sort of cereal-infused snack. I made up a Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch cookie, which Henry kept saying would never work, but I made that son-of-bitch try and try again until we had the perfect batch of ridiculously amazing peanut butter cookies topped with a Cap’n Crunch crumble. Holy shit those were some good fucking cookies.

Reminded of those cookies, I was adamant that he formulate a recipe for Cap’n Crunch crust. And for the filling, I was dead set on the use of lingonberries, even though I don’t know what that is. Then I saw somewhere that they’re similar to cranberries, so lucky for Henry, I canceled his flight to Scandinavia and allowed him to go with raspberries instead.  Prices of ingredients is not something that I think about when making this shit up. And when Henry tries to fight me on it, I’m like, “Can’t you just go pick some raspberries somewhere then?” which opens the door for a Boring Henry Lecture™about fruit seasons. Why stop with an out-of-season fruit?! Let’s increase the cost by adding Chambord to it!

He topped it with homemade whipped cream (he’s such a snob about whipped cream and I’m like, “Seriously dude, you really need to start going to the strip club or something, STAT”), and it was the sleeper hit of the Third Coming of Crust. If Kaitlin’s Crack Pie was Jesus on the Cross, then the Crunchberry was definitely one of those other suckers crucified with him, preferably the one who had the bigger speaking part.

(The Penitent Thief. I looked it up.)

(What? I’m just keeping with the theme, you guys!)

Probably mouthing off about his goddamn whipped cream. Look, he doesn’t have much else going for him.

The unofficial vote had it tied with Kaitlin’s Crack Pie, so Henry feels like he’s finally arrived on the scene. Too bad I invented the pie, motherfucker. I spent the next several days correcting everyone at work who mistakenly referred to it as “Henry’s raspberry pie.”

It’s OK. People are allowed to make mistakes. No one knows I’m writing a cookbook, so I’ll let it slide for now.

IV. The Pains

There were so many kids there! As Henry pointed out later, “I’ve never seen a group of kids so unable to get along.” It was actually just the boys – the few girls that were there were like little dreams.

If I heard Chooch scream, “MOMMY!” one more time, or ANY kid scream, “MOMMY!” one more time, I was about to fill my arms with pies and take it into the woods to eat alone. How hard is it to STFU and go down a fucking slide? Jesus Christ! Chooch was so freaking whiny, I couldn’t stand it. Can’t you see the grown-ups are trying to drink wine and eat some pie, son?!

My tactic was ignoring it and pretending nothing Lord of the Flies-ish was happening over yonder. Thank god other parents were more willing to except their roles in life and stepped in to supervise. I remember going over to the water pump at one point to fill up a bottle so the wind would stop knocking it over. Seri’s kids were over there, making a muddy mess of the ground, and I said in a very disinterested tone, “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” and then walked away before they could answer.

What? Kara was nearby, so I knew she had shit handled.

 No child bled at all that day, and to me, that spells success.

[Ed.Note: The children were actually fine. But…you know me and children.]

V. AAA

One of the pie patrons whose presence I was most excited about was my co-worker Catherine. She’s only been with the Firm for less than a year, but she has quickly become one of my favorite people there because she’s so goddamn amusing. One time I was on the phone and she stood in front of my desk and then slowly traced her finger along the front braid I had in my hair in that day.

Catherine can get away with that kind of quirky personal bubble penetration.

She’s not on Facebook, so I gave her a verbal invitation, thinking  for sure she wouldn’t show up. But she did! I mentioned to her at one point that I didn’t think she would come, which she thought was funny.

She was one of the last to leave, and that’s when she realized that she locked her keys in the car. This was around 6:00, which was the scheduled ending time of the party, but Seri and I were planning to walk down to a nearby haunted house which didn’t open until 7 (it was an open invitation to the pie party guests, but no one else wanted to be a part of the cool club, I guess), so lucky for Catherine we were still going to be there for awhile. Plus Henry’s family was still there too, so it was only slightly scary when the sun went down and we were left sitting under a darkened pavilion.

Catherine kept saying we didn’t have to wait with her, and I kept insisting it was fine until 7:00 came and went, and the melodious tones of the chainsaws and screaming victims wafted across a field and into my face. Then my patience started to waffle and I  almost suggested that we could just leave Pete and Henry there to wait for AAA, but my couth got the best of me and I sat there quietly, waiting it out.

“You thought I was going to come, and now I might never leave!” Catherine laughed.

Eventually, I shut down socially. Not because of my company, but because I was so one-track-minded about this stupid haunted house that it was literally all I could fixate on. That last half hour, if I really was forced to describe it, was like a series of clock-tickings, amplified heart-beatings, deafening blood-pumping through veins, because (who knew haunted house anticipation was the same as vampire transitioning?) while I quietly willed the tow truck driver to fucking find us already so I could go and get my scare on.

Henry had to give the tow truck guy directions, but he still passed up the entrance to the pavilion, so our Hero, Professional Driver Henry, boarded his trusty Ford Focus and kicked up gravel as he sped away from the pavilion in an effort to lead the tow truck back to the Catherine’s car, so now Henry has another fan, THANK GOD!

Ugh. Henry, Henry, Henry! 

The tow truck guy wasn’t even out of the truck yet and I was already rushing through my goodbyes, thanking Catherine for coming, giving my child the obligatory “Ha-ha, Mommy’s going to a haunted house without you” hug, only to have to stand there doing the pee jig while it took Seri a million minutes to say goodbye to everyone before finally joining me for our walk to the haunted house.

And that’s how I closed down this year’s pie party: by nearly projectile-puking pie guts on the chainsaw guys at Hundred Acres Manor.

After last year’s poor turn out, I swore I wasn’t going to have another pie party. But by August, people were beginning to ask when I was having the next pie party, and I felt bullied into it, you guys. BULLIED!

Not really. But I did feel really happy that some of my friends were demanding that the tradition live on. So I looked at the stupid Steelers schedule like a good little girl and picked a Sunday that those assholes weren’t hoarding. The Steelers take over everything, you know? God forbid I should have to share a day with them.

Then I asked my friends on Facebook if any of them would be interested in a third annual pie feast, and the response was not only positive, but even kind of fervent! Who knew that the pie party would ever have become such a big thing?

Even though I still wasn’t feeling it, I sent out the official Facebook invitation right away, two months in advance, and was delighted that people began RSVPing right away. That was enough to make me finally get excited. But I think it was mostly because I like naming things, and I was kind of proud of “Third Coming of Crust.”

I vowed that this year’s piesta was going to be better than the rest. I was going to decorate! I was going to give awards! I was finally going to make that goddamn mulled wine that has been talked about since Pie Party: Origins!

But then I got caught up in decorating for Halloween, going to haunted houses, and the Walking Challenge. (Which I have all but abandoned, along with pretty much everyone else in our department, it seems. There’s no competition this time! No one talks about it! Everyone is so ambivalent about it.) Before I knew it, it was the week of the party and Henry was in a state of total panic about baking pies and collecting all of the pie-eating accoutrements, like plates, napkins, beverage—he stresses about beverage every year and I’m like, “Hello, you work in a Faygo factory?”

All of this is me trying to say I woke up the morning of the pie party woefully unprepared as usual.

I. The Set-Up

So, Henry does this thing EVER YEAR where we all go to the pavilion an hour before Go Time and then he LEAVES. One year it was to “get more tablecloths.” Last year, it was to ‘pick up his mom.” This year it was to “go home and get the pies.”

It took three pie parties to figure out but I’m pretty sure this is all code for “go to a strip club and regain some of the masculinity I lose every year by co-hosting a pie party.”

I wonder if Porky + Pearl are still together, or if Jason Voorhees has shish kebabbed them on his machete by now.

My brother was supposed to come early to help me decorate, but he had a headache and didn’t even come to the party (probably his way of skirting all the “this is my colorblind brother!” introductions). This left me and a 6-year-old alone to assemble and hang paper lanterns.

Wait, that doesn’t sound so harmful, right?

Let me rephrase.

This left an Erin Kelly and a 6-year-old alone with a STAPLE GUN.

I finally said FUCK THIS NOISE and abandoned the decorating for the swing set, at which point the annual false starts began, and by that I mean the motorcade of people who cruise down to the pie party pavilion for things other than showing up at a party they were invited to, such as: parking to walk their dog, using the Porta Potty, turning around, doing recon for their own pie party. Each time, I fell for it and went running toward the car, ready to accost a guest.

“It’s amazing how everything happens after I leave,” Henry said when Chooch and I were telling him about this later. At first I thought he didn’t believe us and I went to reach for the melon baller, but he was being serious.

It’s true though. One of these days, Henry is going to ditch us at a pavilion and we’re going to get abducted.

Actually, I hope that does happen. I pity the fool that attempts to steal Chooch.

Finally, Pete and Seri arrived and I glommed on to Pete immediately. Before he could feel too flattered, I explained that I was only coveting his tallness, and put him to work hanging the lanterns. He seemed OK with that.

In the end, I had some crappy lanterns hanging from rafters, tea light-filled mason jars and fake flowers in old bottles on all of the tables. The bottles were part of my old collection, the majority of which I’ve pitched in the last year in an effort to declutter. My favorite was the bottle of tequila that still had the worm in it (I dumped it out before anyone got there).

I mean, I tied ribbons to each bottle—that’s effort, right?

II. Pie Eaters!

By 2:00, my pie peeps started rolling in steadily.

Guest List!

• Trish & PJ
• John, Jennifer and their kids
• Henry’s sister Kelly and Zac
• Henry’s oldest son, Robbie
• Gina and Elissa
• 

You can tell I gave them so much time to prepare for this

• Henry’s mom Judy
• Henry’s niece Sam and her friends Heidi and a girl whose name I didn’t catch but she had colorful hair
• Kara and Harland

• Henry’s niece Stephanie and her boyfriend Kian
• Kian’s mom
• Rick and Tammy

• Pete, Seri and their kids
• Jamie and Crosby
• Brad and Casey
• Barb
• Wendy

• Kaitlin
• Bridget
• Catherine
• Regina
• Lisa and Matt

• Amber¹ and her twin sister Ashley
• Amber², her husband Steve, and her mom
• Rocky
• Laura
• Missy and Jemma

The pie party is great for not only gormandizing the fuck out of a seemingly endless buffet of pies, but for reuniting with old friends! My friend Rocky showed up unexpectedly – I haven’t seen him since HIGH SCHOOL. Every pie party brings another old friend back and it is probably my favorite part – maybe second only to criticizing Henry’s pie contributions. The first pie party was also the first time I saw my old friends John, Shannon and Ron since high school as well, and last year it was Nancy’s turn to be the blast from the past.

The lesson here is that pie brings people together, y’all. Learn it.

Another surprise appearance was Rick and Tammy, who had told me they weren’t going to be able to make it. I talk about them a lot (in the good ways, not the Henry ways), so I was excited for my friends to meet them, specifically Barb so she could finally stop picturing Simon Baker every time I would talk about my friend Rick the mentalist. Keeping with the theme of this year’s pie orgy, they brought a stack of pie pans stuffed full of mini bags of chips and pretzels (or what we pie aficionados refer to as palate cleansers) and called it the Anti-Crust because they are BRILLIANT. They, along with their salty bestowal, were big hits!

Most of the people were from my work, so I joked that it was Law Firm sponsored. I love that my work friends actually like to hang out outside of work! Every other job I’ve had, it was like pulling teeth trying to get my co-workers to hang out. Of course, that could always be because they just didn’t like me.

Now that I think about it, that’s probably definitely why.

Coming up: The Pies, The Kids, Surprise AAA Appearance, and possibly a short Henry interview if I can seduce any words out of him.

 Iron Lung Glenn (Barb’s fault), Glenn or Glenda Glenn, Humpty Dumpty Glenn, Chicken Pox Glenn, Jesus Glenn, Hannibal Lecter Glenn (Chooch guessed this one right away, which was my indication that I didn’t need to write who he is on the front)

 Chiquita Banana Glenn, Brony Glenn, Jonny Craig Glenn, Mary Poppins Glenn, Britney Spears Glenn, Richard Simmons Glenn.

 Nurse Glenn*, Mork Glenn, Howard Stern Glenn, Sherlock Holmes Glenn, Rudolph Glenn, Blurry Phantom of the Opera Glenn.

 Judge Judy Glenn*, Tight End Glenn*, Ex-boyfriend Glenn, Tinman Glenn, Santa Glenn, Popeye Glenn.

(*Barb’s Glenns)

Seriously, we sit here at work and laugh like lunatics over the tiniest Glenn. The Glennspiration never ends!! For instance, today I made a Zsa Zsa Gabor Glenn and as soon as someone picks him, he’s going right up next to Crooked Cop Glenn. I saved him a spot.

If there’s a Glenn you’d like to see, please leave your suggestions! I’ll be making these until Halloween! (Octavia, if you’re reading this, I made you a Stay Puft Glenn, but either no has gotten it yet, or it’s being HOARDED.)

***

Last night, Henry and I were sitting on the couch, watching “Vampire Diaries.” I was also diligently making new Glenns and suggested that Henry make one too.

“Bitch, please! I’m too busy waiting to see if Damon takes off his shirt!” Henry hissed at me.

Seriously, Henry has admitted that Damon is The Hottest Vampire of All Time. I posted that on Facebook and all these broads started yelling at Henry for being wrong. It was pretty funny. For me, at least.

Way to end on a non-Glenn-related note.