Late this morning, I was walking to meet my friend Evonne for coffee at the Sugar Cafe. I called Henry because it had been an entire fifteen minutes since I bothered him at work; while I was on  the phone with him, an old man on a bench asked me for the time.

This meant I had to take the phone away from ear and re-light the screen.

Not very problematic, exhausting or too terribly inconvenient, but it was enough to spark a new goal for myself.

“I really need to get a watch,” I whined to Henry, immediately after giving the old man the time. (If I were old, time would be the last thing I wanted to know.) “I haven’t had one in years!”

Side bar: The last watch I had was a Fossil, a Valentine’s Day gift from Henry. Sweet, right? I thought so too until a few months later when I learned he purchased it with my own Journeys gift card.

After listening to me rant about how it was high time I reward myself with a fancy watch, Henry said, “Fancy?

Like what, an upscale kids watch?”

God, that man knows me so well.

****

It’s been almost a year since I last saw Evonne, but time doesn’t ever put a damper on things for us. We got our breakfast and immediately started talking about alien sightings, Quaker cemeteries and being stalked.

She’s like my goddamn life coach.

 She even brought me last year’s Christmas present!

And it was a watch.

A motherfucking WATCH.

Evonne is magic.

Quick pictorial recap:

Of all the color choices, Chooch picked “Jonny Craig ginger.” That’s my boy! Of course it’s on crooked. That’s my boy.

Some of my work friends. Work has been going better. I haven’t cried there in awhile! (Knock on wood.)

Speaking of work, I was entered in some raffle, unbeknownst to me, for participating in the Firm’s walking challenge and the Heart Walk 5k. I was really excited, even though the $100 gift card was for a grocery store that would basically go straight to Henry’s wallet. Right when I was googling to see if I could use it to buy a gift card for another store so that I could buy clothes instead of cereal, the dude who won the grand prize emailed the lady who organized the event to see if he could swap his PREMIUM CARNEGIE MUSEUM MEMBERSHIP with one of the winners of the gift card.

I’ve never replied to an email so fast.

So now I have that instead. A $250 value! Henry, Chooch and I are always going places so this made more sense to me. We will use the shit out of that membership.

I feel like it was a nice little fist pump from the Big Guy for not killing myself last week.

They’ve done a lot of construction at the Palace of Gold since I was last there.

****
At some point, I have to finish the Moundsville posts. And I scheduled a tour of the Bayernhof Music Museum for this Sunday with my brother Corey and friend Kristy!

Pretty stoked to be returning to that house of horrors.

The warden and his family used to occupy the top floor of this section, and supposedly the ghost of some broad is sometimes spotted in one of the windows. (OUR GUIDE HERSELF HAS EVEN SEEN IT, WHAAAAT.)

For only being the beginning of November, it sure was fucking nipply up in that pen. I never knew this, though it seems pretty obvious, but there was no heat or A/C for the inmates in this prison. They roasted like pigs in their tiny cells during the summer and turned into frozen predator pops in the winter. However, a new cafeteria was built shortly before the prison closed for good. It was part of a deal that the Governor struck with the inmates during the last hostage-situation riot that took place there in the 80s: the new cafeteria would be the only room in the prison with heat and air conditioning. Danny Lehman, president of the bike gang the Avengers and the inmate responsible for striking the deal, was murdered in the North Hall by the Aryan Nation before ever getting to see his cafeteria completed.

Our guide talked about Danny Lehman A LOT. I think she had a crush on him.

(I looked up his picture. He was pretty OK looking.)

The new cafeteria has some pretty sweet paintings upon its cinder blocked walls. They were all painted by the same inmate, who was color blind (shout out to my color-stupid brother!) so he had another inmate mix the paint for him and included his name on the paintings, too. Sounds kind of un-prisonly to me.

Who knew jail birds could be fair.

The guide let us explore the kitchen area without her, so that tells me either there is nothing to note in that area, or the paranormal perils are so plentiful that the guides are like, “Y’all go on ahead and poke around in there if you want while I stand out here close to the exit.”

Anyone who knows me knows that I have this condition where I need to write my name everywhere, on everything, all of the time. Restaurant place mats. Scratch paper at work. In Henry’s underwear. On sidewalks in chalk. Under the mattresses of the people I stalk. I think it’s called megalomania. Solipsism. Egocentrism.

Maybe a pretty perfume of all three, with notes of narcissism.

You best believe I dirtied my finger in that prison grit to leave behind my name.

If I was a tattoo artist, I’d sign my name to everyone’s motherfucking skin.

Bitch, try and stop me.

View of the yard through the cafeteria window. Apparently, nothing of note ever happened in the new cafeteria, but they had emergency tear gas running up through the rafters just in case shit got cray.

Tried to get Chooch to eat this.

We got to check out the yard after poking around the cafeteria.

All the way back in that corner was a tiny bullpen set up for the inmates who were in protective custody, mostly murderers and rapists of children.

Attention: Parents of Young Kids! If you’re not ready to broach such heavy topics, perhaps a tour of a penitentiary can wait a few more years.

The words “rape” and “rapist” were slung around so much during this tour that it’s a fucking miracle Chooch didn’t raise his hand and ask what the fuck it means.

Hopefully this doesn’t mean he already knows.

The blue building is where some of the inmates got to make a month making license plates.

Some of them would smuggle parts of the machines out, like tiny screws and stuff, and then throw them over the fence at the maximum security inmates out in the bullpen playing basketball with each others heads. Then those guys would do ungodly things to be able to sneak their newly acquired weapon-making contraband past the guards.

Some would even cut their arms and slip this shit in there, oh my fucking god.

But I guess at that point in your life, what’s a little prick, right?

Ninety-four men were executed in Moundsville. Eighty-five of those were hanged from 1899-1949, and the other nine were electrocuted after one of the inmates constructed an electric chair for the prison. (He then had to be put in protective custody. Duh.)

Hangings were viewed by a public bleacher section until 1931, when the rope decapitated its victim. Can you imagine dressing little Susie in her Sunday’s best and sitting on bleachers eating Cracker Jacks while some fucker was lynched in front of you?

Actually, I kind of can.

And that fucker is Henry.

When all else fails, look at pictures of Jonny Craig.

Oh wait, that only works for me.

I can think of a lot of ways to blow off steam after a stressful week, but “going to a party” seemed to be the safest, most legal, option.

Thank god for Trundle Manor. Rachel and Anton are smart as shit, planning their Halloween party in November and prolonging the Best Season Ever by a few weeks. This year’s theme was “insane asylum” so I decided to go as Fatal Attraction Glenn Close. Of course, I didn’t decide this until a week prior to the party, but Henry went to one thrift store and immediately found me a flouncy white skirt for $3. I would NEVER have that kind of luck.

And it’s an awesome skirt too, basically like a wedding dress underskirt/petticoat-type frock-thingie. I put it on three hours before leaving for the party on Saturday because it’s probably the closest thing to a wedding dress I’ll ever get to wear, and it felt good OK? All swishy and connubial.

I made my hair all Alex Forest-esque with a triple barrel iron. None of the pictures I took properly conveyed the true crimped Afroness of my mane. Short of getting a perm, it was the best I could muster.

Precious Henry, who didn’t go with me because he “doesn’t do parties,” made an old pot into a functional costume accessory by drilling holes in the sides and stringing rope through it so I could wear it as a purse instead of carrying it around all night.

(Henry wouldn’t have even had to dress up if he had gone! He could’ve just been the Co-Ed Killer Ed Kemper.)

If you have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, in the movie “Fatal Attraction,” Glenn Close has an affair with Michael Douglas and then boils his daughter’s pet bunny when she’s rejected. She also plays the wrist-slitting card to garner sympathy. But (SPOILER ALERT) his wife shoots in the end.

She doesn’t ever sit in a wheelchair in the movie, but I wish she did so I could have taken one of mine. Oh well.

Saturday was Wendy’s bowling night, so she couldn’t make it there until after 12:30. Luckily, my Castle Blood brood was there so I didn’t have to be That Awkward Girl siccing people for conversation. (Not that I would have had a problem — the friends of Trundle Manor are awesome people.) But still — I don’t like showing up to a party alone, so I made Henry text Ricky and ask him twenty questions about their anticipated arrival to the Manor.

Ricky was standing right near the driveway when I got there, so I didn’t have to walk more than five feet on my own (GOD FORBID). I apologized to him for being such a spaz about things; he put his arm around me and said, “But what else is new?”

Touche.

He deposited me with Dawn, at which point I started drinking, and the night was on a steady high after that.

Chris and Kari were also there, among other familiar Castle Blood faces (including the steam punk professor guy that I have a crush on), plus my friend Patty Cake from work. I recognized a lot of people from last year too, which was nice. Not that it mattered, because once I started imbibing absinthe, everyone’s faces started looking like Dali paintings.

Dawn & Ricky, being there.

The drink slinger’s face is glowing green from the absinthe fountain.

For being the second weekend in November, the weather was mild. Last year it was a week earlier and I remember we were all fighting to rub our hands above hobo fires. I survived without a coat, even. But that could be because all the booze I had consumed had formed an invisible anorak around my Alex Forest couture.

My Castle Blood homies split around 11. Even if Wendy hadn’t been coming later, I wasn’t ready to leave yet. The bands were just about to start playing! I found my friend Angie, whom I met one year ago at the last Trundle Manor Halloween event, and she was stuck with stumbling ass for the rest of the night.

Everything else is kind of a blur. I have a vague recollection of carrying around a mysterious sleeve of Oreos in my bunny boiler pot purse (I think Dawn had something to do with that?) and offering them to random people.

Those fucking Oreos had somehow become my delicious security blanket.

I remember talking at length to a pirate riding a blow-up ostrich and feeling regret when I realized I hadn’t offered him an Oreo.

And I remember dancing to the Bloody Seamen’s shanties and giving zero fucks about work and anything else, and meeting Gina the Trundle carny, who was very upset that I had a bloody bunny in my pot.

My phone didn’t capture it, but that big glow was actually a bunch of x-rays.

I had a crush on at least 87 revelers that night. Hey, that’s what happens when Henry sends me out into the world alone. WITHOUT A RING.

B-movies projected on the side of the house.

It was nearly 1:00am by the time Wendy arrived as Aileen Wuornos. The crowd was starting to disperse, but there were still a ton of crazy asses there (and I mean that in the best way). My favorite was this totally fucked up gay kid who I can only figure was dressed as Lady Gaga from the Love Game video. He came over and told us that he had walked an hour to get there, a bunch of stuff I couldn’t understand because he was slurring so heavily, and that he has a collection of rabbit things in his house and losing his pet rabbit Sprocket was the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He slurred out Sprocket’s name so many times, I don’t think I’ll forget him.

When I cried about my two dead cats to a drag queen named Curiosity, I knew it was probably time to call it a night.

I am forever thankful that I randomly took a tour of Trundle Manor two years ago and that Rachel and Anton continue to open up their home to me and so many other amazing individuals. Their parties are sick, totally unique and unforgettable. It’s a pretty amazing scene to be a part of.

Came home, poured one out for Sprocket, and then tried to not vomit on Henry as I rolled over him to get into bed. Best Halloween closure I’ve ever gotten!

No one ever did take any of my Oreos. More for me!

Chooch has been obsessed with prisons thanks to season 3 of The Walking Dead, so I thought it would be fun to take him to the old State Pen in Moundsville, WV last weekend for a tour. Henry acted all put-out about it, but you know he was in there flexing his fake muscles during the tour, fantasizing about being a prison guard.

This was one of the bloodiest prisons in America, and all those paranormal shows have had episodes revolving around it. The prison itself offers ghost tours, which is what I really wanted to do but figured I would start out with the historical tour so that my 6-year-old doesn’t get too fucked up.

I took a ton of pictures with my phone and camera, so this is going to have to be done in parts.

Entering the North Hall.

North Hall: where the most savage inmates were kept. Chooch is absolutely obsessed with two inmates, Red and Rusty, who were held in this hall. Red was stabbed 37 times by Rusty in 1992.

Even in broad daylight, with a group of about 15, you just couldn’t shake that foreboding sensation. I lingered a few times while taking pictures, and then did a super-frantic scramble back to the group.

I think Chooch sat in every cell.

It’s hard to imagine spending 23 hours a day in that tiny cell. I’m fairly positive I wouldn’t last a night. Especially not without my PHONE, god forbid.

I have a pen pal on death row in Florida. It makes me wonder what his cell is like. I don’t think I ever asked him in the 10 years we’ve corresponded!

If Henry was a prison guard, he’d be the first son of a bitch to get shanked in a cafeteria riot and you know it. And let’s not even think about his fate as an actual inmate. Can you imagine how fast he’d wind up as some hick biker’s Mary?

Actually, he’s probably felt like an inmate for the last eleven years now that I think about it.

Part of this door was turned into a shiv after an inmate patiently worked on it with a cigarette lighter. (Seems kind of stupid to me that they were once allowed to have lighters on them, but hey — what do I know.)  Inmates are the worst kinds of MacGyvers.

Ha-ha-ha, glory hole! (Glory triangle?) Apparently, two North Hall inmates were pretty intimate with each other. This was my favorite part!

Can you imagine all the Jonny Craig graffiti I’d have in my jail cell?

The door to this cell had to be cut to accommodate an inmate in a wheelchair. On the day he was being transferred to a new facility, he got up out of his wheelchair and walked out.

The Wheel House — a large iron-barred revolving door in the Administration Building used to transport prisoners from one area to another. This is basically what Chooch looked like during the whole tour – he never stopped moving. For a change though, he wasn’t being too annoying. He was just super stimulated and interested in everything the guide was saying.

Still, I was thankful that our guide seemed like a kid person. Chooch kept ditching us to walk with her.

Chooch’s artwork for my new office-thing. “Hulk & Zombies vs The Law Firm.”

He does commissions.

This weekend kicked my ass, in the best way possible. I’m not sure if it was a seriously stellar weekend, or if it just feels that way after having such a phenomenally shitty work week. Kind of like fucking a 5 after dating a 2.

You know?

I don’t think I’m capable of making much sense. Maybe after I feel my fat stomach with Mexican food at Verde in an hour, then we can talk.

I look like this now.

They moved me away from Barb, you guys. :( Yes, it’s kind of cool that I have an office-thing now, but I’m so far away from Barb! And I actually have to do work now! Oh, if only you could hear my whines.

When I told Chooch that I was being moved away from Barb, he said, “Oh, because you guys talk too much?”

Well, there’s that too.

Don’t worry, all of my Jonny pictures followed me here, although I did leave one for Barb. I might start sending her random Jonnies through interoffice mail.

A-ron apparently wasn’t kept abreast of the departmental moves and was shocked when he walked by my old turf and saw my empty desk. He asked Barb what was going on, so naturally she told him that I quit, which is incredibly apropos given our last conversation about me being stressed out here. He came to see me later and said, “I mean, I was shocked, but only because I thought you would at least last a month.”

Oh, ha ha.

My new digs are right around the corner from Glenn. He said I was “lowering the property value” and then threw a ball of refuse at me when he walked by earlier today. I forgot to bring over my garbage can from my old desk, so I just let it sit on the floor for about two hours, thinking he would come back and pick it up.

Apparently, stress makes me naive too.

But you know, things are going alright. I haven’t cried here since Wednesday. I think mostly because I’m half-numb. And now when the support line rings, I just feel disgust instead of panic. So basically, I’m right on track.

And when I was cleaning out my old desk drawers, I found the voodoo Santas that Andrea and I made last year! So that’s a bright spot in the week, for sure.

My fucking 6-year-old handles change better than I do.

Note: Random picture found on Google. Do not know who to credit.

When Pierce the Veil announced their Collide With the Sky tour over the summer, I went to work that day and immediately requested off for November 6th. I don’t fuck around with this shit. I also bought my tickets at the exact moment they went on sale because I knew they would sell out (Pierce the Veil alone could sell out a show, but when you add Sleeping with Sirens to the lineup, you can bet it’s going to sell out even faster).

And it did sell out. Like, within a few days. That’s a pretty big deal for a band in this scene!

As luck would have it, this show happened to be the night after one of the worst days I’ve ever had at work. Perfect timing. Nothing brings me back to my zone quite like a show at Mr. Small’s. And Pierce the Veil is one of my 5 favorite bands.

My co-workers are usually pretty ambivalent about the shows I go to, but apparently “piercing the corporate veil” is some legal thing so some of them were all excited about it. God, don’t ruin my moment with your lawyerly jargon!

Henry’s favorite activity: being the token Old in a forest of Youngs.

Typically, I always stand in the same place at Mr. Small’s – right against the barrier inside the 21+ area. However, Henry found out that the balcony area was free for that show (generally they require a $30 bar tab). At first, I was like, “Fuck off, old man. I’m in my spot.”

But Henry wasn’t feeling well. And everything he’s done for me over the last week alone was psychically dangled in front of my nose by God Himself, so I put down my guns and followed him upstairs. But don’t think I didn’t make him feel like shit about it! I sat down and immediately sulked.

“I’m in Old Person Hell!” I hissed through gritted teeth. Henry just laughed and made himself comfortable amongst all the other PARENTS.

FUCK.

(The view was superior though, I can’t deny that.)

Right before the show started, I felt a hand on my back. It was my old high school buddy, Rocky! His daughter wouldn’t let him be anywhere near her, so he was banished to Parentville and ended up hanging out with us.

Fuck, that show made me feel so old!

The Australian band Hands Like Houses opened the show and they were pretty much as wonderful as I expected them to be, though I was a little disappointed when Jonny Craig never walked on stage. (He sings on one of their songs, and also one of Pierce the Veil’s, so how convenient would that have been!? It’s not like he’s doing anything other than posting disgusting pictures on Instagram of making out with his plain “fiance.”) Pretty much every member of the band could be distinguished by one hirsute accessory or another, such as a bushy moustache, hair helmet or a caveman pony tail. And the singer was everything I wanted him to be. God, what a hot fucking band.

(Pretty sure I posted this on here a long time ago, oh wells.)

Rocky, after mocking me when I told him they were from Australia by saying, “Oh, well that MUST be good then!”, agreed that they were indeed a good band. So there.

Second band was Tonight Alive, another troupe of Aussies, but this one is led by a chick singer. I am super picky with female-fronted bands. Maybe it’s because Hayley Williams (Paramore) stormed onto the scene and totally raised the bar to dizzying heights. It’s hard not to hold every up-and-coming girl singer to those standards. Is it fair? No. But I can’t help it. It takes a lot for girl voices to impress me.

Tonight Alive is a good band. I felt no aversion to their music and have nothing bad to say. Henry, however, was hyper-critical. I thought he was actually comatose up until this point because he literally wasn’t talking or moving at all.

Here is what Henry says about Tonight Alive:

• “She dances like Gwen Stefani. I don’t like it.”
• “I’m sorry, but I don’t think any band can make that Mumford & Sons song sound good.”

God Henry, start a blog, why dontcha.

This actually makes me want to buy their album now. JUST TO SPITE HENRY.

And then there was Sleeping With Sirens.

How do I explain this band to someone who doesn’t know.

Their singer is, to borrow my friend Jason’s comparison, kind of like the scene kid’s answer to Justin Timberlake. High-pitched voice. Charming good looks. Stylish. Girls fucking love this kid. When I started listening to them in 2010, after the release of their first album, no one really ever talked about them. They were never in Alternative Press. They were never on Warped Tour. But somehow, something happened. Girls began figuring out what Kellin looks like? I don’t know. He’s too girly-looking, if you ask me, but he makes bitches faint, from what I hear. Their shit has blown the fuck up over the last two years. They’re a huge part of the reason why this show sold out, I know it.

I have never met Kellin Quinn, nor do I have any desire to. He just seems like some pretentious rich kid, you can just tell. In between songs, a group of girls got his attention.

“What? Someone passed out? Oh. I thought you were just being typical little girls and screaming like you little girls do. But apparently someone passed out.” And the way he said it was was so fucking ingenuine and cocky, like he was bored to death being on that stage. So while the person who passed out was being attended to, the rest of the band just kind of stood around on stage while Kellin used that as his opportunity to make disparaging remarks about the election and promote voting apathy to the hundreds of kids in front of him, some of whom might have actually been able to vote in this election. Totally turned me off.

And he’s not a very good live singer. But the rest of the band was awesome. And they ended with the song that Henry and I are going to pretend dance to at our imaginary never-wedding, so that was presh.

But who cares, because Pierce the Veil came on next and blew my memory of the rest of the bands right out of my head. I haven’t seen them headline a show since 2008. TWO THOUSAND AND EIGHT. It’s just been all Warped Tour sets in the meantime. They’re on their third album now, so they had plenty to play and I was happy with every last song. They even played one of my all-time favorite PTV songs, “Besitos.” I gripped Henry’s when Vic said they were going to play it, but Henry did what he always does and shrugged me off him.

Ugh, they’re my favorite Mexicans.

Kellin Quinn does guest vocals on Pierce the Veil’s “King For a Day,” so we figured it was a no-brainer that Kellin would back on stage for that one. (Yes, even Old Man Hank was speculating.) This happened at Warped Tour (the crowd almost masticated the stage when it did) and YouTube is stuffed with videos of Kellin’s cameo from this tour. But Pittsburgh wasn’t that lucky.

“Vic probably hates him,” Henry said, Scene Dad that he is. I agreed that he probably wasn’t wrong. Kellin or no Kellin, nothing was going to ruin that show.

I think I love this band so much because they encompass so many elements that pander to me. Vic is a lyrical genius. I don’t give a shit what anyone says. He could write circles around any of your little John Mayers out there on the radio. There is the perfect amount of screaming/heaviness to their sound that satisfies my aggro side, but the softness is still there too. While they sound nothing like The Cure, I’ve always felt their dark, oft-morbid themes are a nod to the goth kings. (The Cure is my favorite band of all time, so that’s really saying something.)

I always point my finger in Henry’s face during the “without you there is no me” part. I guess he thinks that’s more annoying than romantic, but whatever.

There were several times during the show that I gave up and let myself silently cry, especially during “Yeah Boy and Doll Face,” which was mostly acoustic and broke whatever was left of my heart. If you’re only going to watch video on this post, watch this one. :(

In that moment, a million memories of the Heaven and Hell that was 2008 rendered me breathless. I know, I’m the poster-mom for the emo movement. I get it.

On the way to the car, Henry asked me if I was alright. I started to say, “I just think they’re so perfect,” when the dam broke and I started sobbing. Henry just sighed. This has been his normal for the last 11 years of going to shows with me.

Pierce the Veil is like a warm blanket for my soul and I guess I didn’t realize how freezing I was until that night. Sometimes I feel like if not for nights like this, I might be a serial killer or sucking dick for crack under a bridge. Or worse: dead. Fuck drugs. Fuck money. Fuck therapy. Music is everything.

I really needed that night.

In 2006, I jokingly handmade a shit ton of serial killer-themed Christmas cards to send to my friends. It was kind of a “fuck you” to the greeting card industry. What I didn’t expect was that people really liked these cards! I mean, they were handwritten with gel pens, you guys.

What’s not to love?

I think I started out with 5 different killers.

Today, I have 13 different options in the Christmas card section alone. These cards have come a long way, and they’re still my little babies!

As a thank you for the years of interest and support in non compos cards, I’m offering a free set of 5 cards of the winner’s choice!

To enter, just complete the form below. You get one entry for each task completed! Contest ends midnight 11/16/12!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

I love that Chooch’s front teeth are all exploited every time he take a swig from an iced tea bottle. It makes me crack up every time!

Here he is posing with Iceburgh (Penguins mascot) at the Heart Walk 5k we participated in Saturday morning. (Yet another frown-factory for Henry.)

Chooch has been especially sassy lately. Henry said they were at Kmart (ew) on Monday when Chooch grabbed a flag and shouted, “Me and mommy are voting tomorrow! We’re voting for Obama! Daddy’s voting for his ass!”

Then this morning, he casually asked, “I wonder if Mitt Romney is throwing a fit right now?”

In other news: what a fucking asshole of a week this is. Highlight was the Pierce the Veil show last night, which I wanted to write about today but I wasn’t able to take a break at work, so there went that idea.

Aron and I were commiserating today on what a cluster fuck work has been since our new program was launched on Monday.

“Well, a month from now—” he started.

“You’ll all be saying how much you miss Erin Kelly,” I finished for him.

And he laughed BECAUSE IT’S TRUE.

October fucking flew by and I can’t stand it. Especially since this was hands-down the best October I’ve had since I was in high school, I swear to god. Here’s a shortlist of all the haunts I attended this year, mostly for my own record.

• Freddy’s Haunts: Sucked, though it has been so good in past years. This one is totally inconsistent.
• Castle Blood: Never disappoints, not even in a brand new location! This one is a goddamn aesthetic feast.
• TerrorTown: Awful, total disappointment considering I know what this one is capable of.
• Ghoul Mansion: Total psychological mind fuck. Maybe one of only a handful of times I was scared to the point of panic/tears in a haunted house.
• Mischief Manor: Used to be my beloved Victory Haunted School. Cost $10 (+tax, wtf) and took about 5 minutes to get through. Rip off. But it’s where Chooch learned to sass the monsters.
• Haunted Hills Hayride: This one has been so stupid in years past, but the walking trail was interactive and totally hilarious. And scary. And confusing. I got to shack up with Michael Myers (literally)!
• Allen’s Haunted Hayride: Chooch’s first hayride! Always a fun time.
• Hundred Acres Manor: Biggest bang for your buck, in my opinion. One of my favorites this season.
• Carnegie Haunted Trail: Chooch was Mr. Bravery until the chainsaw guy came and he and his cousin Ean completely left me and Danielle in the dust. I absolutely adore the people who put this one together.
• Sewickley United Methodist Haunted Church: Old school! Zero fucks were given that Chooch is only 6 — they went balls to the wall, start to finish, with this one. So good, so cheap.
• Carlynton Haunted High School: It was a haunted high school. You get what you pay for.
• Delirium: Um, it’s in an abandoned asylum you guys. That alone made it worth it. It was scary at times, but mostly insanely fun (OH DID YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE).
• Shadows: A fairytale-themed walking trail. I think they were understaffed, so I’m going to give them the benefit of the doubt and try it again next year if they’re back.
• Demon House: This one is generally inconsistent, but it was fun this time even though I got lectured by a dead miner for swearing.
• Dark Works: A local home haunt. I was so impressed by this, and it was my favoritist. A haunted house, just totally chilling in some dude’s backyard! Incredible. Thanks to Rick and Tammy for taking me there!
• Castle Blood matinee: Even though Chooch has graduated to the nighttime tour,  he  still needs to snag some candy from the denizens. (And see his girlfriend Katelyn!)
• West Deer Nightmare: This used to be one of my favorites, but then it went away and new (shitty) incarnations of it kept coming back. But the original has returned and we dragged Chooch to it. It was the only time he legitimately came close to tears and I felt like the Worst Mom Ever. Some girl actually said “Excuse me” to Henry just so she could run down the hall and scare Chooch again. He kept saying, “I hate you, Mommy!” but in the end, he said it was awesome (even after the chainsaw completely chased him to the parking lot), soooo……

Until next October…peace out, Girl Scouts.

You know what Henry wanted to do on Sunday?

Sleep, watch FOX News, nap, snooze, eat some jerky, scratch his balls while dozing off, doze off, nap some more, watch things being made on the television, go to bed.

You know what Henry did instead? Every goddamn thing Chooch and I told him to do.

First, we went to the West Virginia State Penitentiary in Moundsville, which I will get to later. (Warning: it’s gon’ be photo-heavy.) Immediately afterward, Chooch and I started whining about being hungry. I mean, we had literally just gotten in the car. We’re like a cuckoo clock for hunger.

“Oh Jesus Christ, here we go,” Henry spat, stupidly thinking he could drive 90 minutes home and just feed us whatever orphanage porridge du jour he had planned.

Seriously, almost everything Henry cooks us for dinner is gray. Sometimes olive and throw-up. Indian porridge, I guess.

“There’s nowhere to eat here anyway,” Henry smugly (and wrongfully) pointed out. So I countered with at least 6 different restaurants I saw as Henry sped past.

I don’t know what made me latch on to Young’s Cafeteria, but when we started to pass it, I screamed to Henry to turn in there.

“Why?” he cried. “You’re not going to like it!”

Look, when in Moundsville, eat like the Moundsvillagers, right? And I imagine they must flock in droves to a restaurant attached to a run-down motel with a shady accountant’s office in the back.

“This is going to be just like that Roadside Restaurant you hated,” Henry mumbled as we walked through the doors and were hit with a blast of 1960s wood paneling, coagulating gravy and geriatric disdain. But unlike the Roadside, where we were forced to order from a grease-encased menu, we instead got to push a tray through a grease-encased tableau of said menu, like taking a tour of an 85-year-old’s last meal request.

As we stood there holding our trays, every last townie looked up from their snot-gravied plates and if they weren’t all whispering “City folk!” to each other, then my knack at prejudging is really tarnished.

You better believe I tried their homemade p-nut butter pie.

And it actually was delicious, but it reminded me of when I used to give my German Shepherd a spoonful of peanut butter to disengage his barking ability before I would sneak out of the house in high school. I’m sure Henry enjoyed my pie-feasting silence.

The cafeteria offerings actually started out with fruit-suspended jello dishes. Come on, Young’s. Could you be any more cliche? I couldn’t decide if it was more hospital tray or 1967 block party. I even had the green one on my tray for a split second before coming to my senses.

I could practically see Henry’s ears smoking as his brain frantically tried to dissuade his stomach from choosing every single bowl of disgusting Old Person Side Dish. Pickled eggs, REALLY? You know there were beets floating around up in that display somewhere, too.

Like I’m one to talk for thinking that this BEAN SALAD would be a good idea. Oh my god, one bite and I thought it was going to spring forth in all its vinegar’d glory and kill me. I swapped it out with Henry’s cole slaw when he wasn’t looking, but that was just as dried-up as all the octogenarians dining around us.

Healthy stuff.

Their entree offerings were exactly as I had guessed, short of salisbury steak. Just a bunch of mystery meats lost beneath gravy pits of varying colors. However, they actually had a vegetable lasagna! Chooch was ahead of us and doing everything on his own because he’s apparently his own person, when the fuck did that happen? Oh wait, it’s always been like that. Apparently, the close proximity of so many vats of vomit models had him suffering the same recoiling gag reflex as his mother, so he opted for the vegetable lasagna too. I heard the old hair-netted broad ask him if he wanted sauce on it, and he had the good sense to shoot down that idea.

I, on the other hand, did not engage my smarts and said yes to the same question.

In return, I was handed a plate of vegetable lasagna smothered under a blanket of MEAT SAUCE, MOTHERFUCKERS.

Seriously, MEAT SAUCE?! On VEGETABLE LASAGNA? Look, I’m not one to send back food, but I had to make an exception with this. So after whispering tersely with Henry about how “I can’t eat this now! WHAT SHOULD I DO? YOU DO IT!!!!” I handed it back to the old lady and said I didn’t want any sauce at all.

“The marinara sauce is next to the meat sauce,” her youthful co-slopper pointed out, and, not having heard me tell the old broad I didn’t want any sauce after all, was just about to begin ladling a blood pool of tomato sauce onto my pure, virginal slab of vegetable lasagna when I yelled, “NO SAUCE!” I mean, when I was originally asked if I wanted sauce, I assumed it was a creamy sauce to match what was already on the lasagna, and I only said yes because that shit looked desiccated, I’m sorry.

God only knows how long it had been sitting in that vat, forced to commingle with the likes of chicken a la king and pepper steak. I’d be all withered, too.

But why would you want to put marinara sauce on a vegetable lasagna?!

I had to remind myself that we were in West Virginia, after all, and they probably don’t know any better.

This picture is too good not to use again. Why was Henry so angry? Oh god, the possibilities are endless. The fact that Chooch and I were acting like obnoxious tourists could have had a lot to do with it. Or the fact that we weren’t paying attention to the crap with which Chooch was filling his tray (like chocolate cake and a chocolate chip cookie and chocolate milk and chocolate chocolate). Or the fact that our lunch cost over $40, hahaha.

“I thought cafeterias were supposed to be for poor people?” I asked Henry, who is an authority on Poor People Things.

“Not when you’re charged for everything separately!” he growled. I don’t know why he was taking it out on us when his tray was the one filled with an individual hospital patient smorgasbord. I seriously think he took one of everything in the disgusting wet salad section, where everything was either pickled or buried under a relish helmet.

You’d think he would have been content—-this was a Babylon for blue collared gourmands!

I wonder if cafeterias remind Henry of THE SERVICE. I wonder if he ever had kitchen duty. I sense a potential Henry interview.

While my lasagna wasn’t anything to blog about, I enjoyed my time at Young’s. It reminded me of when I was little and would beg my mom to take me to Woolworth’s at the mall just so I could eat in the cafeteria. There’s something special about cafeteria pudding when you’re 4 years old. And pinching your mom’s fingers between her tray and yours.

THAT’S what I forgot to do to Henry.

It seemed so perfect and so simple: Chooch being Daryl Dixon, his favorite character from The Walking Dead.

For once, I wouldn’t have to piss around with zombie makeup or clown makeup. And he would be comfortable! No itchy wigs! No coagulating fake blood on his face! No masks! (We did the Jason Voorhees thing when he was three, and that was stupid. A three-year-old in a mask? What were we thinking.)

I figured, “Oh, I’ll just peruse eBay for some toy crossbows, it’s all good.” And there were tons of toy crossbows on there! Some were REALLY CHEAP, too. But of course, I waited until the last minute because I kept getting distracted and missing the auctions. Finally, a week before Halloween, I snagged one with literally three seconds left. I’m not lying. Three seconds. And I got it for like $5, free shipping!

Too bad the estimated delivery date was November 1.

Henry went to one of the thrift stores one night shortly after that and found a toy crossbow in a bin. He sent me a picture of it and walked around while waiting for my response. Of course, some douchebag snatched it up right before I was able to respond to Henry’s text. Henry, learn to be more assertive! You don’t always need my permission! (I can’t believe I just admitted that.)

Meanwhile, the plastic ears I also purchased from eBay had arrived. Never mind that they were over-sized and meant to impersonate an elf. I painted them zombie-green and felt relieved that at least one component of the costume was ready.

You can kind of see his zombie ear trophy necklace here. I wish I had more time — I’d have made the ears myself. And by that I mean I would have sliced them off the missionaries we keep chained up in the basement next to the litter box and then let them decompose a little on their own before giving them a nice, preserving shellac.

The last part (aside from the clothing, which was easy to pull together – I just sent Henry out with his redneck fashion sensibilities and he sniffed out an outfit right quick, y’all) was the squirrel catch that Daryl has hanging from a rope on his side.

Plush squirrels are really fucking hard to find. And instead of focusing on that, I was too busy checking the tracking info for the crossbow, which was steady holding at November 1.

Then Hurricane Sandy happened and most of Western PA’s trick-or-treating was pushed to Saturday, November 3, buying us more time.

Not that it mattered — when the crossbow arrived the day after Halloween, it was THE SIZE OF MY HAND. That’s what I get for never reading descriptions. I was actually at work when this happened, and Henry informed me via text. I was already having a horrible day, so this turn of events had me heading for the bathroom for a quick cry.

My immediate response to adversity is to cry uncle. “Just take him to the Halloween store and let him pick out some stupid store-bought costume, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE!” I texted Henry while trying to maintain a pleasant face for my unaware co-workers. Keeping it together is probably the hardest exercise in my regimen.

The shit that goes on behind the scenes in my head, you guys. The shit that goes on.

While I spent the rest of the night with sparking synapses at work, Henry and Chooch went out and found a plush dog toy (that was my idea! To check dog toys!) that is actually a fox, but resembles a squirrel enough. So that was a relief. And then when I went home that night, Henry showed me some wooden pop gun he found and a thin, flexible piece of wood and explained that he was going to turn those two things into a crossbow.

And by George, that’s exactly what he did! THANK GOD FOR HENRY. A goddamn Halloween hero.

Ha-ha-ha, those fucking ears. I mean, at least they stood out. I guess.

It was way too cold for him to go sleeveless, obviously.

And just like last year’s Zombie Bieber fail, pretty much  no one knew who he was supposed to be.

We opted out of Brookline and instead went to Henry’s sister Kelly’s neighborhood in Bethel Park to trick-or-treat with Chooch’s cousin Zac, because going in groups is way more fun. Steph and her boyfriend Kian made sure to keep a two-house distance from the rest of us, though. Trust me, I know – adults are lame! I always get stuck with them!

This picture if blurry as shit but I don’t care — it was difficult enough to get one; I wasn’t about to make them stand there any longer.

We were joined by Kelly’s neighbors and their 7-year-old twins, Maya and Luke. At first I was skeptical, because you know me and kids. But they were super cool and Maya had biting wit to match Chooch’s. I think he fell in love with her.

And the parents were fun, too! It was a good time.

Henry had morphed into that weird, obnoxious Trick or Treating Coach again (“THAT HOUSE DOESN’T HAVE ANY LIGHTS ON! DON’T CROSS THE STREET YET OR ELSE YOU WON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO ON THE WAY BACK! STOP CUTTING THROUGH THE YARDS! DON’T RUN — PACE YOURSELVES!”) so I hung back with Kelly and the other two parents most of the time.

In Brookline, we barely see any trick-or-treaters when we’re out. I know that there were definitely less kids out this year because it was moved to a different night, but it just seems like trick-or-treating is a dying tradition and it makes me so fucking sad. When I was a kid (I hate that I’m old enough to start stories with that bullshit line now), I remember there being swarms of kids out on Halloween, and you fucking stayed out until the last minute, when all of the houses started turning off their porch lights and your pillow case was so full, you had to drag it behind you like a dead body. It’s so different now. Kids start whining after one street! ONE STREET! This isn’t slave labor — you’re getting FREE CANDY just for looking adorable in your stupid costume, so STFU about it! My god.

Maybe if there was an app for it, more kids would have interest.

Here’s where coach Henry would holler, “USE THE STEPS!!!”

One house had their gazebo transformed into a haunted house. Kelly was too scared to approach it so she stayed on the street. I made sure to tell her kids later that their mom is a wuss.

At the house across the street from that one, I heard the guy handing out candy say, “Oh look! He’s Daryl from The Walking Dead!” and that was all the validation I needed. Thank you, That Guy.

There was a group of teenaged girls dressed in regular clothes and select Hot Topic head accoutrements who were trick-or-treating. We kept passing them and literally everything down to their very essence was irritating me. I mean, if you’re going to be taking candy from peoples’ houses, at least put some effort into your costume. Maybe go as a pregnancy test.  At one point, they were passing our little group of kids and overheard one of them saying, “Happy Halloween!”

“It’s not Halloween,” a tall one beneath a stupid fuzzy monster hat said in a shitty teenaged sneer. “It’s November 3rd.”

WELL, IT’S HALLOWEEN TO THEM, OK? OMG I wanted to slap that fucking snarled lip right off her pizza face.

I was totally never like that when I was that age.

OK, I was. But still! Maybe if more grown-ups had called me out, I would still be the same asshole I am today, so never mind.

Chooch’s crossbow broke at the very last house. Surprising it lasted that long.

<3 <3 <3 <3

Seriously, if Daryl dies, I’m done watching The Walking Dead.

The “I Told You That You & Chooch Wouldn’t Like Anything at a Cafeteria, You Picky Sons of Bitches” frown.

Upside: Henry, surrounded by his elderly brethren, is polishing off all of the uneaten refuse Chooch & I have slid from our trays to his.