Sometime last month, I won a premium membership to the Carnegie Museums thanks to my OCD-caliber competitive walking. This was the perfect prize, because Henry, Chooch and I are constantly going out and doing shit, and now we could add four different museums to our weekend itinerary—for FREE.

My brother Corey and I had been wanting to go to the Warhol Museum for awhile now, and that’s one of the museums covered under my membership. Henry did NOT want to go, at ALL, because art is not something he learned to appreciate in the SERVICE.

(Not unless it involves Thai hookers and Vick’s VapoRub, but I’m sure there is some niche art gallery out there somewhere in Brooklyn that might offer some nuances of just that.)

But Chooch did want to go, so I decided then that we would ALL go. 

Clearly, Chooch couldn’t wait.

I should have known that this might not have been the best place to take Chooch.

No, let me rephrase that.

This was not the best place to take Chooch at the same time as COREY. Corey is like a walking IV drip of saccharine and caffeine for that kid. Probably if I had taken Chooch alone, or if Henry had taken Chooch alone, things would have been much different.

(Read: calmer.)

Five minutes after checking in (amid scowls from the museum employees), Chooch charged into a small theater room playing some film of women being interviewed in the 70s. I was actually quite interested in sticking around and watching some of it, but Chooch peaced out after 90 seconds, sending the rest of us running after him.

“Well, he got the ‘quickly’ part right,” Corey laughed, referencing the sign at the door that said: Please enter quickly and quietly.

This happened moments before I was chastised for not reading the NO PICTURES sign. The docents (all young scowling hipster art students with greasy hair and stupid fucking eyeglasses) reeeeealllly hated us there. And I promise you we weren’t even being that diabolical. Henry and I weren’t whistling and looking up at the ceiling while our child ran wild (like some parents I know, names withheld) — we weren’t going to let him charge the world-reknown Marilyn Monroe portrait with a barbed-wired fist, OK? We had him under control. He was just excited to be with his uncle.

And I’ll tell you another thing — I have seen young adults acting like complete fuckfaces in places like that, so step off. He certainly wasn’t disrupting the other museum guests. You know how I know? Because they were all SMILING at him and one guy even stopped and said to me, “He totally made this museum for me” after Chooch sat in a corner with a pouty face, reenacting a Deborah Kass “Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner.”

Believe me, I call a dick a dick when I see one, and Chooch was just being a kid.

One of the floors was nothing but videos projected on screens. Corey pointed out a sign that said “May Contain Adult Content,” so I was doing my best to shield Chooch. However, he and I entered one of the rooms and my initial reaction to the very first video loop was to grab Chooch by his invisible suspenders and yank him back out of the room.

“What?” he questioned, shrugging out of my clutch. “It’s just a lady eating a banana!”

(It was a drag queen, but I was relieved to see that yes, it was just a banana.)

We roamed around a little bit and, rounding a corner, were just in time to see a naked man getting pelted with flour. I steered him out of there after that.

We passed by that floor again on the way out, and instead of continuing down the stairwell, Chooch took off across the floor. I caught up with him just as he was coming back out of the room with the projector screens.

“I just wanted to see if she was still eating the banana,” Chooch casually explained. “She is.”

I asked him later what his favorite part was, and of course it was that. I thought for sure it would have been the piss painting (what? that’s always been my favorite!).

There was so much more I wanted to see, but Chooch blew through those floors like your average Kansas tornado. Oh well, I still have a year to go back as much as I want, with or without Chooch. (And definitely without Henry.)

Just thought the Internet could use a little levity after these terrifying last few days. <3

I was in the bathroom drying my hair when Chooch popped up in the doorway, wearing his very first Halloween costume that he just found in the attic. He never actually got to wear it (other than a quick photo-op at my grandma’s) because he was 6 months old that Halloween and it was pouring down rain.

This is totally going to be his costume next year.

EDIT: He’s wearing it in the car, too.

The Law Firm Christmas party was yesterday, from 4:30 to 6:30. I opted out this year for a multitude of reasons, the two biggest being that I still feel like shit and I swear I’ve gained 15 pounds in the last month so I wanted to stay far, far away from temptation. Maybe if it was just a departmental Christmas party, I’d have gone, but it was for the entire Firm’s staff and I really didn’t think I could handle being around so many people when I’m having a hard enough time breathing when I’m alone in my office.

Carey tried to drag me up there, but I purposely wore my most casual clothes to work that day, after being reminded by the head of the department to remember to dress nicely, just  so I wouldn’t be tempted. (You guys, I was wearing Converse flats, even. No one was going to make me back down!)

From what I remember about the one I went to two years ago (I was off the week of last year’s party), it was the stuffiest work Christmas party I have ever attended, when you consider that the first four years of my work life, I worked for super mean Jewish brothers who refused to give us a party, and the second-longest job I had was working in a dirty, gray basement of a building doing data processing from 4pm-midnight. (I didn’t work long enough anywhere else to go to any work functions, haha.)

But at the Law Firm, their party is up on the 28th floor in the reception area, which is akin to somewhere the Dietz’s from Beetlejuice would have a cocktail party. It is pretty fancy, when you consider that this is just the staff Christmas party — the attorneys get their own rager. It’s dimly lit up in there, the booze is free-flowing, hors d’oeuvres abound, and everyone separates into their little cliques. I didn’t have as many work friends then, and only one of them was at the party; I just remember standing there awkwardly, feeling completely out of place and uncomfortable, and making up an excuse to go back to work.

I have no doubt that this year’s would have been better. But I was just exhausted and the opposite of merry. Besides, I can still barely taste anything! So talk about empty calories. Anyway, it got me thinking about the office Christmas party at the place I worked at with Tina and Eleanore (shit, I miss typing those names), so I found the post I wrote about it from 2007.

It is almost insane how different my job-life is now. Better in almost every way, but sometimes I miss the simplicity (and ignorance) of the Tina and Eleanore Company.  I think mostly I just miss wearing jeans and not actually doing work.

MSA CHRISTMAS PARTY, 2007

What has:

• pole-dancing,
• spiked egg nog,
• exotic cheeses,
• Santa with a hard-on,
• shiny door prizes like panini presses and a magic wand for can-opening ease,
• a chocolate fountain centered around an array of fresh fruit and lady fingers in scandelous poses?

Not our department holiday party.

No, we got cold cuts drowning in a mucous-like moat, cheese slices that needed the aid of Freddy Krueger’s nails to be surgically removed from each other, a bowl of frozen fruit slices, and a giant sheet cake that had nauseating pink flowers piped precariously around the perimeter. (I deduced at once that it was going to be an offensive supermarket bakery cake, so I walked past it with my nose in the air.) We got scratch off tickets and Tina’s hair collar and a platter of bland cookies that were at least moist and not stale like I had initially suspected.

The cheese lasagna was a real treat, though.

1. A dayshifter who sits next to me. I rue the days she works late because she laughs like an engorged elephant cock is lodged in her throat and she’s trying to summon her inner Vesuvius to phlegm it back up. She handles a runny nose like your typical Teamster: loud, wet and crackly, like a bowl of exploding Rice Krispies is draining down her throat. She’s nice though.

2. Hey Tina, ever since you switched to the day shift, something really confusing and alarming has arrested me: I think I like you. Not in a ‘Hey, let’s go French in a bathroom stall’ kind of way, but in a ‘You’re over here talking to me yet I have no urge to inflict any bodily damage.’ But no, I’m not sad that I wasn’t sitting at your table. And while I imagine playing games with a bullyishly dominate personality such as your own is a dream come true for some (like perhaps a tribe of indigents who have never played games before) I’m not jealous that your table was playing  Taboo, as rousing and scintillating as it sounded.

3. Big Bob. He stole Collin’s Hot Pockets and made him cry.

4. Non-Big Bob’s plate of meat goods were a little too close to me. I felt violated and kept imagining someone gagging me with that slab of ham.

I was happy to be seated at a table of socially capable people — Lindsay, Bill, Brandie, and (Non-Big) Bob. However, we were joined by Stanley. I am fortunate to not have to deal with him because he works during the day and sits over by Bill and Lindsay. He has no filter, kind of like a child, and random strings of rudeness spray from his mouth in fairly consistent intervals. When we were walking up to the Mezzanine, one of the more heavy and elderly employees was up ahead, taking each step with deliberate slowness. Stanley yelled up, “Hey, Donna, we need to get you an escalator.” Someone behind him called him on his rudeness, only making him justify himself. “What? It’s true! Donna needs an escalator!” If I had to deal with that brand of idiocy for eight hours a day, one of us would have lost our job by now.

Stanley spent a good fifteen minutes diligently rubbing off five scratch off tickets, and even after inspecting them closely above his head, he still found reasonable cause to have Lindsay double-check. I took a picture of his crotch from under the table. Sadly, no boners arose from the rub-off frenzy.

And Bob, poor Bob; he stared off into the distance most of the time, mourning his other half’s absence. (Collin called off.) He seemed lost in thought, and I wondered if he was thinking about all the nights he and Collin spent playing their little celebrity chain game to pass the time while braiding daisy chain crowns for each other’s heads.

One of the games everyone (and by everyone I mean the Daytime Clique) was playing consisted of taping the name of a celebrity to each player’s back, and then everyone had to take turns asking a question to find out who they were. I told Bob it would be a good game for him and Collin to play and he lit up. “You’re right! I didn’t even make that connection!” Then he smiled to himself for awhile, probably rewinding the Collin-montage in his head.

Bill spoke of foreign-sounding things for awhile before I realized he was speaking in baking-tongue, while Lindsay smiled at me like an adoring fan and laughed at all of my antics, like when I took a picture of this guy who I have never seen before in my life, but supposedly he’s part of our department and works upstairs (if you want to take Bill’s word for it) and then ten minutes later I blurted out, “Oh shit, I think I made myself have a crush on that guy!” Lindsay giggled. In my head, I dubbed her my new work BFF. I’m not sure who the old one was. Bill perhaps, even though working opposing shifts has really driven a wrench in our rapport.

He doesn’t even bring me brownies anymore. I bet he brings some for Tina, in tiny baskets lined with rich Italian linen. Well, they can have each other.

Kim approached our table and asked why we weren’t playing games. Maybe it was just me, but I thought it was pretty obvious that our table was way too cool for parlor games, at least the ones that didn’t involve heavy betting and liquor. “We’re playing our own game,” I said. “It’s where everyone tells me how cool I am.” I smirked appropriately and Kim acted like she was about to be sick.

Since I pitched in a devastating twenty dollars to this elitist shindig, I gave myself a goal of “eat more than you paid for,” but the party started at 11AM and I just really wasn’t hungry. So in the end, I probably only ate $5 worth, which jacks me right off. (However, later on that evening, I had a piece of leftover lasagna for dinner. This is how it was made possible:  ”Tina, you know how you’re always looking for a reason to leave your desk?” Tina looks at me, slightly frightened, before cautiously saying, “……yes?” I jump in for the kill. “Will you get me lasagna?” What? I didn’t want to lift that big pan-y thing out of the fridge! So Tina did. And it was decent.)

Then it was time to go back to work. Most people offered to help clean up, but I just got up and left.

Can anyone confirm or deny that this place exists? We’re going to Cincinnati the weekend after Christmas and I would love to get pelted by rock salt.

Certainly a person who goes by “Mack Daddy Soprano” is trustworthy.

After asking Henry repeatedly to buy me “No Room For Rockstars,” a Warped Tour cinéma vérité, for my birthday last summer and then not receiving it because God forbid Henry should break his streak of never buying me a gift, ever, I finally bought it for myself as an early Christmas gift.

(It’s the only way, really.)

I watched it yesterday before work and wouldn’t you know I cried through the whole thing? Ask my cat Marcy. She was there.

I cried because there was so much footage of a premortem Mitch Lucker and his little girl. And I cried because Kevin Lyman, the Godfather of Warped, has made so many dreams come true for so many little bands. And then I cried some more knowing that I’m given that one day every summer as a vacation from being a “grown-up,” from sitting in an office, from never really belonging anywhere else. I’ve been ridiculed about it so many times from people who just don’t get it, or can’t be bothered to try and understand, but that doesn’t bother me anymore.

It’s where I feel at home. In fact, I brought some of my Warped Tour photos to work so whenever I feel overwhelmed or down, I can look up and do a quick countdown in my head to next summer.

And yes, I already have my ticket for next summer.

Presale FTW!

Anyway, here’s the trailer for anyone who might be curious.

For that extra touch of Yuletide bullshit.

Hey, here’s a shocker: Jonny Craig got kicked out of Dance Gavin Dance last summer. I think that’s something like 3 bands in 5 years. But you know what? I still bought tickets to the Rock Yourself to Sleep Tour without even knowing who was going to be singing for Dance Gavin Dance, because I wanted to show my support for me, and also because A Lot Like Birds was also on the tour.

Fun Fact (for probably no one but kids like me, and if you’re a kid like me, you already know this anyway): The singer for A Lot Like Birds is Kurt Travis, who was Jonny’s first replacement in Dance Gavin Dance, and also the guy who got the boot when everyone decided to invite Jonny back in during the summer of 2010. But it would seem everyone is on good terms. Kurt even played guitar during some of Jonny’s post-rehab solo shows last year.

A few weeks ago, Jonny had a petulant little tweet about how he hoped everyone enjoyed the Dance Gavin Dance shows, because they were supposedly refusing to perform any of the stuff Jonny did with them. (Admittedly, the two albums they wrote with Kurt aren’t my favorites, but considering Jonny refused to sing any of Kurt’s songs when he came back to DGD, it would be nice to finally hear some stuff from that era again. Plus, one of my favorite Dance Gavin Dance songs is a Kurt Travis/Nic Newsham joint, so I thought maybe, oh just maybe, we might get treated to a Kurt cameo that night.)

Guys, you should know by now that I have a textbook love/hate relationship inside my heart with Jonny Craig. I think he’s a total prat as a person (spend 30 seconds reading his tweets) but when he sings? It’s like aural honey.

Like feeling the breath of hot, naked angels on your neck.

Like a naked group hug with Bradley Cooper and Ryan Lochte.

…………

OK, OK. His voice makes me feel super awesome, let’s just leave it at that.

I knew that I would be all whiny and wistful about this, so I decided that I was going to drink, because sometimes that actually has a reverse effect on me at shows and it curtails my crazy emotions. (Seriously, I cry a lot at shows.)

Other bands in the night’s lineup:

• [Never did catch the opening band’s name. I’m pretty sure they played the same song for their entire set.]
• The Orphan The Poet
• Hail the Sun – I really, really liked them. Prog-rock-esque, and the drummer is the singer so I gotta give some hearty props to that, or I’m not a Phil Collins lover. I think Henry secretly liked them because they had the same style as his — as in, nondescript.
• I The Mighty – Pretty much a paint-by-numbers example of Music Erin Will Like. Being on Equal Vision Records was the first indication. [Watch a video here.] I was thoroughly entertained by their set, but admittedly growing restless because I really, really wanted to see A Lot Like Birds.
• A Lot Like Birds – Woooo! They stole my heart! Henry was not impressed, but I think that’s probably because he didn’t understand it. Kurt Travis can SANG, y’all. Good lord. I wanted Henry to buy me all of their hoodies but then he reminded me that I had drunk my merch fund through a red-and-white swizzle.

Henry’s Faux-Frown. Seriously, the man was not hating his life as much as he wants the Internet to believe. I think he was just mostly amused by how quickly I get drunk now in my old, boring age.

I was pretty stupid. Even crashed into the singer from the Orphan the Poet after shadow-dancing with him at the bottom of the steps during my stumbling journey to the restroom.

Somehow, I manage to crash into singers a lot at shows, just never the right ones.

Quietly judging.

Singing orgy.

I fell in love so hard with A Lot Like Birds that night. Henry’s opinion did not change.

Um. Great turn out, guys.

The last time we saw Dance Gavin Dance at the Altar Bar was March 2011, and the floor was packed almost as soon as the doors opened, all because of a little someone named Jonny Craig.

After ousting Jonny for the second time, DGD enlisted the aid of official Jonny Craig fill-in Tilian Pearson (ex-Tides of Man) to take the helm. The last time Henry and I went to see Emarosa, Jonny had left the tour THAT DAY to fly to California for detox, so Tilian was a last minute stand-in then too. I like the guy, and I think he did a better job with DGD than he did with Emarosa (though to be fair, the night we saw him with Emarosa was his first time singing with them, and it literally was a game time decision-type thing so he didn’t have much time to prepare), but there is something about his voice that gets to me after awhile. Maybe it’s just too Geddy Lee, I don’t know, but there were times where I found myself cringing.

He kind of reminds me of Craig Owens, too.

Anyway, a major upside to a Jonny-less DGD meant that the band could actually play from their entire catalogue (turns out was Jonny was wrong!), something that they took full advantage of. It was really fun to hear Self Titled and Happiness-era tracks again, especially NASA and my favorite non-Jonny DGD song of all time: “Uneasy Hearts Weigh the Most.”

Have you ever HEARD that song?!

Nic Newsham (ex-Gatsby’s American Dream) is on it, too, and it was my fucking jam during the summer of 2008.

I really, really, really thought for sure that Kurt would come out and sing it with Tilian, but they pulled up Donovan from Hail the Sun instead. Still, it was pretty cool to hear that song live again. The last time for me was 2009.

At one point, Henry pointed to (screamer) Jon Mess and yelled over the music, “What’s his name again?” OMG why do you care, Henry? Unless you really do like them? WHICH HE ADMITTED TO AFTERWARD IN THE CAR! (He still hates Jonny though, and clarified that he liked Dance Gavin Dance the best that night when Tilian left the stage and they played a song from their side project:

I mostly did OK with the changes, except when they closed down the show with “Lemon Meringue Tie.” Without Jonny, that song is kind of…just a song. So I did cry a little bit then. That was the first Dance Gavin Dance song I ever heard in 2007, planting the seed for this intervention-worthy Jonny Craig love affair.

I better get used to the changes, because they announced that Tilian, once a vagabond singer without a band, is now a perma-member of Dance Gavin Dance, and they’re writing a new album together. Whatever it takes to keep some life in that band, I’m down.

Henry’s review:

I don’t care.

If there’s one thing I can’t do while I’m sick, it’s rest.

So, what better time to make a stupid picture frame with the bag of plastic babies I bought last September? I really didn’t have any premeditated design in my head, other than I knew I wanted the baby to be gold.

Gold baby! Sparkles! Woo!

We bought the most majestic wooden coffee table at Goodwill yesterday for .

One of the perks to this is that Chooch will finally stop telling everyone that comes into our house the story of how Mommy broke the glass coffee table.

Another perk is that it has drawers to hide our drugs* store the remotes and circulars**.

*(I shouldn’t joke about this. Especially not after our next door neighbors—as in, the people on the other side of our duplex—were just arrested last week by no less than 10 undercover cops. Our other neighbor swears it was the US Marshalls. Of course I was at work so I can’t confirm.)

**(Yeah, like I’d actually ever stop throwing the circulars out as soon as we get them just to piss off Henry.)

Anyway, I have big plans for Henry to paint that bitch up.

In other half-assed DIY-news, I put Chooch to work on our Xmas cards, so if you want one, holla! (And when you’re done holla’ing, email me your address: butgavincantdance@gmail.com)

K, bye.

I have a sinus infection from hell. I don’t get sick often, but when I do? Hooooo boy. I went to work yesterday and totally should have just stayed home. I don’t think people there are used to seeing me sick, so I was kind of like a zoo exhibit. I even kept my door closed to keep people away from my quickly unraveling nasal monstrosity.

Though, I did really appreciate all the offers to get me hot chocolate, meds, a shotgun for my misery.

At a certain point last night, I surrendered and laid down on the floor of my office with a blanket over my head.

It wasn’t pretty.

Today, I had to reverse-RSVP to two holiday parties that I was really looking forward to attending because I still feel shitty and no one should have to be subjected to my alter who, Ms. Ra’bull.

Except for Henry and Chooch.

But by 5:00pm, I sincerely needed to get out of the house. Plus, I was really, really hungry. And for something other than horseradish. (Home remedy fail.) First we dropped Chooch off at his grandma’s and did some light Christmas shopping where I used my inherent feminine chicanery to dupe Henry into buying me two new winter coats.

(Admittedly, I watched a LOT of MTV’s True Life when I was home sick on Thursday, and “I’m a Sugar Baby” was one of the episodes.)

Then we picked up Chooch and grabbed some dinner at Frank & Shirley’s because I really needed some of their greasy sex fries.

Henry saw a Marc Jacobs scarf at Target and was appalled at the price. We came from two different backgrounds, so things of a designer nature confuse him.

90 minutes later and he was still frowning about it. “I don’t care WHOSE name is on it! How hard is it to cut a piece of black fabric??”

This is what happens when Target tries to go upscale – Henry’s blue collar explodes.

OMG those fries. Too bad 90% of my taste buds are still infirm.

When I was in high school, Frank & Shirley’s was one of three greasy spoons I’d hit up for cigarettes. This isn’t actually anything to brag about, but I was known for having no less than 6 different kinds of cigarettes on my person at all times, thanks to my penchant for feeding couch-change into those cancer dispensers.

Every time I see one (pretty rare these days), it’s like one hearty yank on my nostalgia dick.

How are you spending your weekend? Hopefully “breathing thru the nose” is on the list!

Still sick, but at least my shirt has space donuts on it.

[I stayed home sick from work for only the second time since I started working there in 2010. That’s how you know I am pretty fucking sick. So here, instead of the Dance Gavin Dance show review I had planned to write today, have an old story I wrote instead.]

Born in 1870, Grandpa Josiah lived his life defined by the gentle way he brushed hair.

It began with his own dog, Polly. When his mother wasn’t looking (which meant she was passed out in her clawfoot gin bath), Josiah would swipe her silver hair brush and go to town. Other dogs, noticing Polly’s shiny coat, which was no small feat considering they lived in an area carpeted with perpetual moist and soggy sod, found themselves lining up on Josiah’s porch, panting for a good pamper.

Soon, little girls-in-waiting serpentined down the dirt drive, awaiting their turn for their locks to be loved. Josiah was glad to accommodate human follicles too, provided he could have a moment to clean the brush of fleas and dander. He’d even brush the pilous heads of newborn babies with a hand so gentle and methodical it quickly lulled them to sleep.

It was no surprise when Josiah dropped out of school to open his own barber shop. He had a morning tradition of slurping down his hot Ovaltine and running his hand over his array of brushes and combs, which he accumulated through years of attending horse shows.

But eventually, brushing hair wasn’t enough for Josiah. He began to ache to see the pate that lie beneath the mounds of curls, the straight shocks, the combed-over cilium. It started with an accidental jerk of his hand while he trimmed Farmer Johan’s frizzed fringe, enough to drag the razor flush against the scalp and leave an oval of exposed pink flesh. He leaned down close and admired the minute follicles.

The follicles, where it all began.

After that, he yearned to see more, where the hair growth began, where the base of each strand incubated in the bloody, gooey underside of the scalp.

He throbbed for this harder than he had for Betsy Blowhard when she reached a C-cup in the seventh grade.

Josiah was smart about it after he tried to scalp Mrs. Meatcurtain in broad daylight and she screamed to high heaven, he began stealing patients from a nearby hospital who were in the throes of tuberculosis. In the back of his barber shop, he’d sever their scalps clean off their skull, finger the follicles, and then shoot a gratifying load in the basin he used for shampooing.

When he died, he left his entire fortune to the makers of Rogaine.

My friend Evonne and I went out to the Quaker Cemetery in Perryopolis Sunday evening. One of the many cool things about Evonne is that she is sensitive to things like spirits, but she doesn’t exploit it like some cheap fortune teller. She has an arsenal of stories to tell about this subject too.

Anyway, I had been wanting to revisit this place for awhile, and Evonne had never been, so we braved the cold rain and the 45 minute drive. I was a complete chicken shit the whole time — would you LOOK at that building!? — but Evonne was all, “No, I’m not feeling anything here.”

Although she did admit that her head hurt every time we went inside the stone building. THAT MUST MEAN SOMETHING!

We went back to her car and did a quick session with the Psychic Circle, which informed that there were in fact spirits in that location, they were evil (but not demons), but that we were safe. Evonne asked the Circle if we would get to experience there that night, and it said no.

She asked me if I wanted to go back in one last time before we left, but the Circle pretty much answered that for me. Evil spirits? No thanks!

Oh my god, it was so gloomy there that night. And of course, now I’m sick.

 Chooch and I were kind of under the weather on Saturday, but by that afternoon, we were practically clawing our faces off in boredom. Henry, however, was “so busy” and not doing a good job of entertaining us AT ALL, so we decided to ditch him and go to the cemetery.

Really, Henry was begging us to leave because we were “getting in the way” of his “cleaning.”

(Seriously, the house did not look that clean when we came home. Hope you had fun watching albino porn, Henry you sexual deviant.)

Anyway, I brought my Jonny doll and Chooch brought his favorite stuffed animal — a fox puppet appropriately named Fox. We’re on the same level.

We totally don’t need Henry!

(Until we get hungry.)

I really believe that cemeteries helped Chooch learn to read. So there.

(That and Asian horror movies.)

“What’s that green stuff? Chooch asked, toeing the ground. I almost peed my pants. It was moss! Eight years ago in that same cemetery, Henry and I had the most pointless discussion about moss, which culminated with him losing his patience and yelling, “Moss is bad! It can lead to problems! Leave it at that and end it!”

“Ask your dad,” I told Chooch, doubling over with laughter. I promptly texted my friend Alyson that Chooch had asked me about moss, and her response was “Moss is bad! Leave it at that!”

Henry, leaving lasting impressions across the Internet.

Of course, when I told him about this later, he looked all confused and said he didn’t remember what I was talking about. Nice to know he’s so cloudy when it comes to Erin & Henry: The Early Years.

And then something terrible happened.

Chooch and I were strolling along when we came to a crest in the road. That was when I saw her: a random, older woman wandering around amongst the tombstones.

I clotheslined my arm, bringing Chooch to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and I hissed for him to STFU.

“Look at that lady,” I whispered. “I don’t trust her. She might be a ghost.”

“She doesn’t look like a ghost,” was Chooch’s Normal Person response, and he kept walking toward her. She was probably fifty yards away (hahahaha like I even know what yards are).

I had heart palpitations like Lady Gaga must get every time she dry humps a haute couture crucifix. “We have to get back to to the main road,” I said urgently. We were too secluded where we were. Probably no one would hear us scream when the stranger decided to mug us for our stuffed toys.

Please excuse my shitty diagram, but I am at work. This is the basic set up of the area of the cemetery we were hostages in, except that it’s kind of hilly, so you can’t actually see a lot of what’s ahead depending on where you are. For instance: Chooch and I didn’t know there was another person there until I yanked him to the right, onto another cemetery road that curves and drops down. Idling there was a man in a Blazer with Florida plates. The driver and I locked eyes in his rearview mirror and as he emitted a puff of smoke from his molestor-mouth, I had a Super Bad Feeling, also known as  Irrational Paranoia.

Just then, he put the Blazer in reverse and I dragged Chooch off the road and into the grass.

“What the hell?” Chooch yelled at me.

“OK, Chooch. Listen to me. We can either keep going straight until we reach the main road [where we could, what? Throw our bodies across the hood of a moving car so that they can drive us to safety?] or make a run for our car. Do you think we can make it to our car?”

I was afraid that the Blazer was going to loop around and beat us there AND THEN WE WOULD BE TRAPPED. But if we kept running toward the road, we could run through the grass, dodging all the graves which would make it impossible for him to run us down.

But then what if Chooch tripped or I dropped Jonny – would I be able to leave either of them behind?

(Yes, I thought a lot about this.)

Apparently I can leave my son behind because I decided we were going to make a run for the car and then started sprinting before Chooch had a chance to realize what was going on.

Don’t worry. He runs fast.

Oh fuck, did we run like Haitians.

Unfortunately, the handle on the driver’s door of our car has been broken for months now, and can only be opened from the inside. So I’m screaming, “GET IN THE CAR AND OPEN THE DOOR FOR ME! OPEN THE DOOR FOR ME OH MY GOD HURRY!!!” to Chooch, who’s flopping all over the console in an attempt to climb to the front, leaving me standing out there jumping up and down, and pee-jigging. I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for the Blazer to appear, engine and libido revving,which would be one of the last sounds I heard before being vehicularly mudered.

Good news! We survived.

Not ready to go home yet, we went to another cemetery across the street. This one felt safer.

On the way home, I asked Chooch what his favorite part of the day was and he said, “When you got all weird about that lady.”

——————————

When we got home, I told Chooch to tell Henry about the harrowing events. He rolled his eyes and started out with, “There was this lady there that Mommy was afraid of for no reason—”

“I thought she could have been a ghost!” I interjected hysterically.

When Chooch got to the part about me making him run back to the car, Henry got all worked up and said, “Would you stop doing shit like that to him!?”

I can’t help it! I’m a very paranoid person, which I think stems from my mom. I still have vivid memories of her making me hide in the attic with her because some PTA lady was knocking on our door with a stack of papers she needed my mom to type.

There are times I scream, “PIZZA GUY!” and trip over myself as I run to the steps to hide. It’s an involuntary tick. I did this one time when Tommy and Jessy were here and Tommy mocked me for months. One time we were out at the flea market and out of the blue, he screamed, “PIZZA GUY!!” and started to run away.

(OK. Now that I just typed all that out, I guess I can see Henry’s point.)

After Chooch told the whole story, Henry sighed and said, “Did it ever occur to you that she was just looking for someone’s grave?”

Yeah, a grave to dig up and stash our remains in!

There were many highlights to our night at the wintry Kennywood, like when the young-20s guy at the petting zoo fist-pumped me for wearing a Chiodos hoodie (of course this made Henry frown), and Katelyn asking me, “Which one is your wedding ring?” after admiring my rococo collection of finger ornaments.

“Why golly, that’s a good question. You should ask HENRY that as soon as we get off the ride,” I exclaimed in my most seraphic drawl.

You may have heard the faintest echo of Jonny Craig’s melodious pipes at that precise moment. That was just the sound of another addition to Team Erin, my friends.

Best mascot ever. I’d totally take him to the prom.

Lowlights:

The News Crews

We get it! Christmas lights in an amusement park is a novel idea! How much footage of shivering park guests do you really need, WTAE? I was doing an excelsior job at ducking from the camera, until Chris, Katelyn, Chooch and I were on the Paratrooper and the cameraman was aiming right for us. There was pretty much nowhere to hide at that point. I hoped that maybe that footage would be cut, but Chris told me we made the news after all. I didn’t get any heckling texts from my asshole friends, so maybe they were all too busy watching a Teen Mom marathon.

The Cold

Holy shit, it was cold! And you know what makes winter feel even colder? Riding spinny rides.

S’mores

Kari mentioned that last year they had a s’mores making station and I pretty much fixated on that all night. Kari promised we could look for it after the kids got their pictures taken with Santa, who was set up on the platform of the Racer. (Chooch totally had a panic attack because he was afraid he wouldn’t remember what to tell him — oh, to have such trivial things to stress about. You know, like: WHAT SHOULD I WEAR TO THE DANCE GAVIN DANCE SHOW OMG?!)

That Dutch Wonderland place had s’mores stations when we were there in 2010, but Grumpy Henry wouldn’t let us indulge. This time, he didn’t want to say no in front of our friends, I guess (even though he initially tried to convince me that there was no such s’mores station and that it was just a regular snack bar where he could buy warm soft pretzels for HIMSELF — until I frantically pointed to the sign that said S’MORES MOTHERFUCKERS.

So Chooch and I each got the fixins for some s’mores action. The goddamn newscrew was over at the hobo fire, filming no one making s’mores (seriously, no one had started making any s’mores yet). I hung back, determined to boycott mainstream news. (Besides, if it’s not on MTV or twitter, it’s not real news anyway.)

Finally, they retreated, and thank god because I don’t think Western Pennsylvania was  ready to see me completely ass-fuck the art of s’mores-making. Henry was helping Chooch roast his marshmallow, which would be normal in most familial structure, but one must realize that I am not actually in any position to responsibly twirl anything flammable above a roaring fire without the supervision of several experienced adults and probably a firefighter would be a smart addition, too.

“Blow it out!” Henry screamed after my marshmallow burst into flames for the first of eight times.

“I can’t! I’m afraid!” I screamed back, whipping the kindled marshmallow around in the air.

“You can tell you’ve never been camping,” Henry muttered, grabbing the stick off of me and snuffing out the flame. There was a young couple standing near us, watching this all play out and openly laughing.

I was not happy about that.

Henry returned the marshmallow to me said, “Don’t stick it all the way into the fire,” right when I stuck it all the way into the fire.

And then it burst into flames again.

I gave it a hard whack off the side of the fire pit thing, and there went my marshmallow, already engulfed in flames, into s’mores hell.

The couple laughed harder and then said, “Aw!

” in mock-sympathy.

“Just go get another one,” Henry sighed.

Chooch volunteered to get one for me. When he told the ladies behind the counter that he needed a new marshmallow, he shook his head with disappointment and added, “It’s for my mom.”

Oh whatever! Maybe if Henry had made mine for me too, I’d be enjoying a delicious camp fire staple that I don’t even really particularly like that much, but that’s besides the point.

There was brand new principle surrounding this activity now.

My second marshmallow did not treat me much better. And that couple was still standing there, being backseat roasters. “Hurry, blow it out!” the man hollered after I lost focus and let the fire lick my marshmallow again. And when I got the flames to subside, his lady cheered. This went on and on, with them pausing every few seconds to make out, until my patience ran out and I retreated to a picnic table with one half-kindled marshmallow. The other side was completely cold and firm, so assembling the s’mores only resulted in crumbling graham crackers and 100% unmelted chocolate.

It tasted like crap but I forced myself to eat it with a scowl. Chris had to turn away. I’m not sure if it was because he didn’t want me to him laughing, or if just couldn’t bear to see a boy scout tradition debased.

Fuck a s’mores.

Freezing our faces off on the Paratrooper.

Merry-Go-Round wreaths.

Henry, probably still criticizing my s’mores skills.

Afterward, we all went to Eat n Park, where I washed away my s’mores shame with a grilled cheese and we played 20 Questions and basically just repeatedly guessed everyone’s butts.