When we went to DelGrosso’s mommy really wanted to go on the wacky worm so we did. then we went on the crazy mouse daddy did not want to go on it because he’s such a crybaby because of the big hill. so he didn’t go on anything grandma went on the crazy mouse ;-) twice and the marry-go-round and the yoyo witch is the swings. mommy went on the super SPIRAL and the XTREAM (I put that in capital letters because it’s so XTREAM ) :cry: mommy peed her pants :lol:

ME AND MOMMY WENT ON THE Casino. I got a picture with buddy witch is a bear. Dumb dumb Daddy won me a tiger I named it Tony I won 2 things a fish & a bear. It was mothers day and my mother rules and daddy doesn’t.

I was going to win this game but this stinky lady dumbest lady in the hole wide world cheated for this 4 year old and I was so freaking madddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd the game was called water races.

I like amusement parks because there’s roller coasters and swings and some water rides.

I had plans to go roller skating this past Saturday with my friends Sandy and Elizabeth. This was monumental for several reasons:

1. I hadn’t been skating since Chooch’s birthday party a year ago, what the fuck?!
2. This was going to be my first time hanging out with Elizabeth, with whom I became blog-friends through Sandy. (Though we did technically meet very quick-like at the Big Butler Fair last year, long enough for a handshake, and then the Wacky Worm pulled me in another direction.)
3. CHOOCH AND I WERE GOING WITHOUT HENRY.

Henry, who has been pulled all over the great state of Pennsylvania nearly every weekend lately, decided that this would be the perfect chance for him to finally get some shit done around the house.

At first I was like, “OMG WE CAN’T POSSIBLY DO THIS WITHOUT YOU HOW COULD YOU ABANDON US LIKE THIS YOU MONSTER!” But then I thought, “Wait….I get to go skating and then come home to a clean house? Tell me more. No, wait — STFU and just start cleaning, motherfucker.”

I think that the fact that Sandy and Elizabeth were going to be there made Henry feel a little more confident in his decision to usher us out the door, nary a compass nor bag of breadcrumbs. Not even a helmet for our precious heads!

Before we could even think about leaving, though, Henry had to go and put gas in the car, make sure we were properly monied-up, and then remind us of our respective skate sizes. It was a pretty large undertaking, but soon Chooch and I were on our way — and I didn’t even need directions!

Sandy and her daughter Elena were already there when we got there, and I proudly told her that Chooch and I had made it there all on our own. Sandy has worked with me for three years now so she is fully aware of my crippling dependence on Henry so it was all Blame Henry up in that parking lot for about 5 seconds and then my excitement for rollerskating eclipsed my abandonment issues.

*****

Parenting

I will say that skating-up took way longer than it would have if Henry had been there. Because when Henry is there, he laces both mine and Chooch’s skates before worrying about his own. Sandy would not do this for us, so Chooch wound up with his skates on the wrong feet, forcing me to rub my Care Bear belly-stretchmarks to radiate some of my dormant maternal magic upon the situation. (At least I put my skates on the right feet.)

I won’t even get into Chooch’s lacing-skills. Anyone walking by would have thought for sure he was an inbreed based on his skate-lacing alone. Jesus Christ.

(Sandy even took a picture of me fixing Chooch’s skates for parenting proof.)

We had barely begun skating before Chooch was all, “I’m hungry, feed me.”

I panicked briefly until I remembered that there was change from our rink admission. So I balled it up into Chooch’s hand and steered him toward the snack room. Thank god he is way more self-sufficient than me and was able to procure his own food. However, he summoned me from the doorway and made me sit with him, which was really annoying because seven-year-olds should be able to eat by themselves. But instead, I sat with him, straining every few seconds to hear what AWESOME POP SONG we were missing but sure to hear 87 more times throughout the day, thanks a lot for having the audacity to be hungry, kid.

He shared his nachos with me, at least.

*****

Socks & Socializing Attempts

Sandy forgot to bring socks so it was either wait for Elizabeth to bring her a pair or pay $2.50 for a pair at the skate shop and god only knows where they get their socks. This was such an epic subplot to the day—would she wait for Elizabeth or go sock-commando and risk contracting some fatal strain of Athlete’s Foot?!— that I might create a Twitter handle* for it.

*(SandysSocks, obviously.)

But then Elizabeth and her husband Mike arrived with a spare pair of socks before Sandy had to resort to wrapping her feet in snack bar napkins. Elizabeth informed me later that it was kind of a big deal that Mike agreed to come because he had some terrible spill at a skating party in 6th grade which was caught on tape and he has never quite healed. So I scratched his name off the adult supervision list.

The problem with meeting friends at the skate rink is that skating isn’t conducive to conversation. At least not for me anyway. Because I like to skate FAST. Too fast to talk!

Sometimes I will slow down long enough to comment on the current song situation though. Like when “Call Me Maybe” was playing, I had to make sure that everyone knew Chooch and I requested it. “Didn’t they already play this?” either Sandy or Elizabeth wondered, and I can’t remember which right now because every time I close my eyes to try and re-picture the scene, all I see are blurs because I skate SO FAST REMEMBER.

(I actually wasn’t skating at Turbo Speed on this day. I didn’t want to die! And god help the poor soul that would have to help lift me off the rink, seriously.)

We mutually decided that maybe next time, we will go out for drinks, fancy food, all of the above.

*****

Roller DJ Reunion

Before I could even consider skating, I had to get my obligatory chastising by Roller DJ out of the way. I mean, he gets angry when I take a season off, so I braced myself for the scathing I was about to get for being AWOL an entire year.

I made up some on-the-spot excuse about scheduling conflicts and sicknesses, and by that I meant, like, the flu, but I guess Roller DJ took it to some terminal level and gasped, “Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that!” So I just kind of ran with that because at least he wasn’t making me feel like a skating poser for dipping out of the scene. He was probably picturing Henry cloistered in a darkened infirmary run by monks, finally succumbing to some disgusting disease he contracted when he was in the SERVICE. Fucking Panama!

Or maybe that’s just me who would picture that.

On the outside of the DJ booth is a big neon-lit sign that boasts DJ Big Will.

“That’s new!” I observed, and Roller DJ beamed.

“I just had it made!” he shouted proudly over throbbing basslines. “You have to like my page on Facebook!” Oh, you bet I will!

Sadly, Roller DJ’s ‘fro is no more. Maybe I should make a Twitter handle for that, too.

*****

Falls

I have to be honest here — I was scared when I first stepped out into the rink. I thought for sure, being out of the groove for a year, that this was going to be the day when the rink transformed into one consecutive banana peel and I was going to have all sorts of bones protruding from my limbs and poor little Elena was going to proficiently skate past this writhing mass of contusions and shrieking curse words and be utterly traumatized for at least the next three years and then will probably forget about it until one day in her twenties when she hears Justin Bieber’s “Beauty and the Beat” on some oldies station in a grocery store and wonders why she wants to puke more violently than people typically do when they hear any song by that dickstick.

Oh, that’s just the repressed images of Miss Erin’s “Grey’s Anatomy”-caliber rollerskating injury that the Biebs is helping you to re-see, Elena.

And oh god, can you imagine if I sucked in front of two people who BLOG? They would have a field day with their “ERIN FELL! READ ALL ABOUT IT!” blog posts. But I wasn’t as rusty as I anticipated! I mean, like Sandy said, I wasn’t wrapping my legs around my head or even at the very minimal doing the jumps during the Cha Cha Slide, but I could probably beat most of you turkeynoodles* in a race!

*(This was my attempt at cutting back on the swears because my vulgarity came up earlier today and now I’m feeling extremely self-conscious about it, fuck. The old Erin would have called you all cuntnoodles. I miss Old Erin already!)

The best part about this particular session is that it wasn’t crowded — it looked like one birthday party was going on and then a handful of inoffensive people. There really wasn’t anyone there that got on my nerves!

Just kidding.

There was some semi-chubby 10-year-old girl in head-to-toe spandex and blond ponytail and I don’t know what it was about her, but she rubbed me the wrong way.

Maybe it was because she reminded me a little bit of myself.

She fell during the Hokey Pokey and I had to summon every last morsel of restraint within myself to keep from publicly heckling her.

One perk of leaving Henry at home is that I was able to freely glide around the rink like the graceful swan that I am and no one could say, “You’re an OK skater, but DAMN—Henry can skate, y’all!”

Henry, Henry, Henry! — whined in the stylings of Jan Brady.

UGH! It gets pretty cold living in Henry’s shadow.

But seriously, aside from all of the skate guards and the two junior derby broads, I was totally the best skater there. Although, there was some older guy in a Clyde’s Auto Repair shirt and feet stuffed into fancy quads who was doing some moderately slick moves, but he fell A LOT and was pretty wobbly even when he wasn’t falling. I mean, I’m sure he was probably real sick in his day, but is pretty washed-up by 2013’s standards. Sorry, bro. I’m better than you.

(This is based solely on the fact that I didn’t fall, even though Chooch kept trying to tell Henry that I did.)

In fact, you can tell that I must have skated without break the whole time based on the fact that I only have one picture from that afternoon. (No phones on the rink, duh!)

There was another dad-type there who flipped over the wall, which was incredibly hysterical and I hope Elizabeth’s husband saw it because that’s gotta make him feel better about his own vintage roller skating birthday party blunders.

You know who else fell a lot? My damn kid. Jesus Christ! I don’t know how we didn’t cap off the day with a Children’s Hospital visit. This is how I learned that I would be a terrible skate guard because I struggled every time I had to help him pick himself back up.

Plus, the whole “lacking compassion” aspect.

Meanwhile, Elena was diligently skating around the rink relatively independently with a skate gate to aid her. (Sadly, she seems like she’s way more independent than me in most life situations. And she’s only 3.) “You skate better than your mom!” I yelled at her encouragingly as I skated past. “Yeah!” she yelled happily. She fell a few times, as kids do, but considering she is already so low to the ground, none of these falls produced any tears. Still, Chooch was all concerned about her every time and had to check for himself to make sure she was OK.

I don’t know where he gets that! Two years of Catholic school, maybe? Nah, those people were dicks.

Maybe if the rink had offered those skate gates two years ago, more people would have skated at my birthday party.

*****

Music

So, my music tastes are definitely pretty off the grid, varying from 80s goth to screamo, synthpop to post-rock, but I do really enjoy pop music. And really, nothing is better to skate to than some bubblegum-poppin’ Top 40. Therefore, I requested “Heart Attack” by Demi Lovato without a single ironic fuck given.

“I don’t have that,” Roller DJ said without apology.

“Seriously?!” I cried. I mean, that joint has constant radio rotation!

“Is this it?” he asked, playing Trey Songz.

“No,” I sighed with attitude.

“Are you sure?” he pressed on. Meanwhile, Chooch had fallen on his hip right outside of the DJ booth and I was struggling to pull up 70 pounds of dead weight while assuring Roller DJ that I was positive it was not the song because that was a man singing and Demi Lovato is A GIRL.

“This is the only ‘Heart Attack’ I have, so it’s gotta be it,” he argued.

OMFG! One is R&B, the other is Pop!!! I was like, “Just forget it!” and skated off.

A few minutes later, the Demi Lovato version came on and Chooch and I cheered. I gave Roller DJ a thumbs up when I whizzed past him and he gave me one of his scary, sly smiles.

Pop music is just really the best music to skate to — it’s fun and energetic and even if it’s fucking Katy Perry, I can usually tune out her shitty vocals and focus on just the beat. I have an unapologetic love for hot pop songs, you guys.

But then the opening notes of the next song trickled out onto the rink and there was a collective groan, which salvaged some of my faith in humanity.

It was Mackelmore’s “Thrift Shop.”

“THIS IS MY SONG!” Chubby Spandex Tween shouted to all of the friends that her parents bought for her. “I ASKED FOR THIS SONG!”

God, I knew I should have heckled her when she fell during the Hokey Pokey.

I don’t know what it is about “Thrift Shop” that makes me want to scream. That’s a lie. It’s the horns, it’s the beat, it’s that obnoxious child voice. I don’t dislike the other Mackelmore songs that I have heard though, just this one.  And besides my hatred for this song, it is really not a good song to skate to.

I guess everyone has that one song (or 50) that they absolutely cannot stand. Janna used to HATE that Billie Meyer’s song, “Kiss the Rain.” I purposely bought the CD (I think this was 1998 maybe?) and put that song on repeat one day when she was at my apartment because that’s how awesome of a friend I am. I even sent her a YouTube video of a live “Kiss the Rain” performance for her birthday the other day.

You know what other song drives me nuts? That fucking monotonous Icona Pop “I Love It” song which of course was played during Saturday’s skate session. Chooch loves that song though, so we always argue about.

“I wish she would crash her car into a bridge,” I muttered after hearing it for the 87th time one day.

“Why?” Chooch asked. “She won’t care.”

OH SNAP, SON.

*****

“So, don’t you and Chooch ever go anywhere together without Henry?” Barb asked me at work the following Monday, when we were sneaking hot beverage and conversation together over by the kitchen.

“I mean, if we have to, but….why would we?” I said with a shrug. Barb made some sort of “Yeah, really” expression and that was the end of that conversation.

En route to Delgrosso’s for some unlimited Mothers Day rides on the Wacky Worm! Henry invited his mom and I am going to try my hardest to get her on the Wacky Worm but I can’t make any promises.

So far this Mothers Day weekend has been the bomb! Chooch and I went rollerskating, had dinner with Janna and her friend Jeremy at Mad Mex, bought myself some new TOMS, and the motherfucking Penguins advanced to the next round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. Feeling pretty happy right now except that Henry and his mom are practically shouting to each other in the car which is really upsetting my music-listening.

Should have brought my headphones, I guess.

Happy Mothers Day to all the REAL moms out there, regardless if you gave birth or not!

(OMG WTF is Henry’s mom talking about back there?!?)

Knoebels is an antiquated, beautiful park — the woodsy, old-fashioned kind that are few and far between anymore.  I’ve mentioned this before on the blog, but I really do prefer small, family-oriented parks like this one because that is where you get the weird, old rides. Don’t get me wrong, I heart roller coasters just as much as the next adrenaline junkie, but there is something to be said for entering some creepy funhouse that smells like old All In the Family episodes and moth balls.

I’m not a big fan of riding ferris wheels, but Knoebels had one of the prettiest ferris wheels I’ve ever seen. I think I must have taken a picture of it every single time I passed it—it was the mechanical embodiment of childhood summers.

But again, I did not ride the ferris wheel because I was too busy riding things that were flinging me about like a rag doll. Whiplash never felt so good.

SPOILER ALERT: My stomachache went away after Henry fed me. (And no, he didn’t feed me Rohypnol. This day, anyway.) But first I had to suffer on a bench, alone, while Chooch and Katelyn “panned for gemstones” under the guidance of an old man who really took his position outside of the Mine Museum seriously. (I’m not being sarcastic.) While I was on the bench, I had the opportunity to internally mock a family who tried to ride the Black Diamond only to be rejected because they didn’t have tickets.

Speaking of the Black Diamond — sick ride, bro! It was a dark ride, one of the reasons we were there that day, and it took us on a relatively macabre tour of a mining catastrophe. It even started off with some miner forcefully yanking on his mule’s* rope, which really upset Chooch, so good job Black Diamond! Your work here is done!

*(I knew this was a mule and not a donkey because the Mine Museum taught me so much, you guys!)

There was one especially chilling part of the ride where we passed a mural of skeletal angels lifting away dead miners. (Props to Kari for the heads up on that one!) This was Chooch’s favorite of the two dark rides because it had a couple dips, giving it a mild coaster feel.

Me? I prefered the Haunted Mansion. It was everything a dark ride should be: pretzel car bursting through the entrance door and the momentary panic when your eyes don’t adjust to the sudden darkness,  the sound of gears and chains as your car is propelled around corners, the heart-stopping sensation of having a car horn honked at death metal decibels right up in your grill, the parts that make you laugh (one of the dead props had hideously-sagging boobs, which Henry was obessed with), and the parts that make you wish you were riding with someone you could make out with, or worse. (Read: Jonny Craig. I wonder if his ginger hair glows in the dark?)

Included in our registration fee was an authentic Knoebels late lunch! The  thick slabs of glazed ham and fried chicken, which—and I’m going to Vegetarian Times Hell for saying this—actually looked so super good but I still haven’t completely rejected my anti-meat stance yet. Instead, I allowed a Knoebels worker to ladle some scalloped potatoes and cole slaw onto my bare compartmentalized picnic plate. And it was really good. This is where I learned that I really enjoy white birch beer. I mean, I REALLY ENJOY IT, Dottie.

Then we got to eat birthday cake for the Haunted Mansion’s 40th birthday!

On a sad and serious note, one of the DAFE members had recently passed away. Her name is Tanya and she was supposed to have been there with us that weekend. Being a DAFE n00b, I had never met Tanya, but during our meal, someone stood up and gave somewhat of an eulogy for her, and I can tell you that she sounded like someone I wish I had known: had a love of amusement parks and haunted houses and ran like Hell from chainsaw guys. She must have been so much fun! And it was clear that she was incredibly loved and highly regarded. I can only hope people care half as much when I die. I mean, I had never met her and I was totally welling up!

Afterward, a raffle was going to happen, but Chooch and I were like, “WE CANNOT SIT HERE ANY LONGER. WE WANT TO RIDE THINGS OMG!!” Henry is REALLY into raffles and tried his best to discourage a revolt, but we weren’t playing around. From where I sat beneath Pavilion L, I could see approximately 4.5 rides that I wanted to strap my ass into post haste, and I wasn’t waiting around to hear a bunch of numbers.

Especially since Henry refused to bid on any of the bumper cars being auctioned off. Dickbag.

Chris offered to listen for our registration numbers to be called, so I was like, “GREAT THANKS!!!” and hoped that he heard that over the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. Chris? Bless your number-listening heart. Meanwhile, Henry looked completely defeated, but followed us anyway.

Because really — Chooch and me alone in an amusement park? Not the best idea.

Knoebels has a flying carpet ride, which Chooch and I rode twice in a row. Henry shook his head when he saw that in lieu of rejoining him after the first go-around, we ran straight back into line to ride again. He obviously knows not the gaping orifice left in my heart after Kennywood shipped off their own flying carpet ride, else he’d have understood my urgent need to clean to that swooshing motion a little longer.

That ride is my jam, y’all.

Like so many other parks, Knoebels has their own variation of the log flume called Skloosh, which I actually did not know the name of until just now. I had just been calling it “that log flume thing” this whole time. Anyway, prior to our DAFE meal, Henry had already filled his quota of rides (two wooden coasters and two dark rides — I imagine his hemrrhoids must have been straight up picketing) so he skulked around with my large iCarly messenger bag, pretending to have friends to text, while Chooch and I waited in line in front of a small gaggle of super boisterous middle school boys.

One of them said “shit,” resulting in their Eddie Haskell-esque ring leader to lean toward me and apologize on his friend’s behalf.  I was like, “Oh bitch please, if you only knew the cussing dregs that pour out of this kid’s mouth,” jutting an elbow toward Chooch.

Seriously, that kid’s first word was “asshole.” He calls Bill a “douche cup.” Hearing the word “shit” isn’t going to drastically alter his already-snide demeanor.

Knoebels has one of the last remaining Fascination parlors left in the US. I learned this today by accident when I was Wiki’ing something else. (It’s really none of your business.) Anyway, I wanted to check it out because my friend Kate was telling me about her local amusement park in New York called Sylvan Beach and how she likes to play Fascination and I knew immediately that I needed to see this for myself because one of my favorite Cure songs is “Fascination Street” and what kind of poser fan would I be if I didn’t at least stick one foot inside a Fascination parlor.

So, it’s like a Skee Ball and Bingo amalgamation, right? Totally old fashioned and wood-paneled. Among the strange flea market assortment of prizes were crock pots and LAMPS, you guys. LAMPS. It was a nice change of pace from Bieber posters and stuffed Rastafarian bananas.

And you just put a quarter down and some chick comes around and collects it and then that’s it — you’re playing Fascination.

Henry and Chooch really sucked at it, though. I was really hoping one of them would win me that bantam green chair (pictured above) for my imaginary friend that just happens to double as a dwarf lifeguard.

Man, I bet Henry’s mom was the shit at Fascination back in the day. I’m going to ask her. Anytime I ask her things, she gets paranoid that I’m asking her things.

Chooch made me take this.

After the park closed, the rest of us laminate-wearing DAFE members got to stay for an addition 90 minutes of exclusive ride time on the two dark rides, free of charge. Yay, my favorite part! Flaunting my laminate!

Our group met in front of the Haunted Mansion, where a moment of silence for Tanya was held as the first car was sent in alone, carrying a bouquet of flowers. This beautifully bittersweet moment of silence as we all watched the floral representation of Tanya take the inaugural trip through the Haunted Mansion’s doors…

…when Chooch the Mouth asked in an inappropriately-decibeled voice: “What, did she like, die in the Haunted Mansion?”

Several people near us bristled uncomfortably.

“I don’t know,” I hissed, making throat-slashing motions which is Mom Sign Language for You Best STFU, Boy!

“Then how did she die!?” he pressed on.

It was everything I could do not to stuff the nearest caramel apple pork chop into his yammering maw.

Thankfully, I think the people around us understood that he is just a small kid with legitimate questions and meant no disrespect.

Still, it was pretty embarrassing. Meet your newest members, DAFE!

Before getting into line, we all hunkered down for a group photo which was cool because group photos make me feel like I’m part of something (paying for membership cards accomplishes that, too) and also because there were enough people huddled together that I have hopes the photo will be far enough away that the casual observer won’t notice my cake-rolls.

Afterward, I thought for sure we would all be in full-blown Sweep the Leg, Jonny-mode, clotheslining each other on our wild sprint to get into line. But everyone just walked calmly to the entrance and lined up without acting like the wolves I was raised by.

I was one of the first people in line because I am naturally in a hurry for everything. If I tripped you on my way there, sorry I’m not sorry.

You know what the worst is, when you’re with a bunch of people and they are walking so goddamn slow toward a ride at an amusement park and you see this huge group of d-bags coming from another direction and they swoop into line right before you because SOME PEOPLE don’t know the proper times to be in a fucking hurry!

Don’t be one of those people.

I think the reason I feel such a strong pull to darkrides is because most of them embody that flamboyant Hee Haw-esque psychedelic kitsch of the 1960s & 1970s and you never know what day-glo monster is going to laugh mockingly at you when your Pretzel-car bursts through those black doors. Kennywood had a ride called Le Cachot (lovingly known as Lick a Shit) which burnt down in 1998 and I promise you that part of my heart was singed along with it. Kennywood has never been the same since – the remaining old darkrides have been given modern makeovers, which basically means they’ve been raped of their magic.

Their beloved skeleton-haunted Old Mill was given a Garfield makeover, for Christ’s sake.

However, I’m sure 25 years from now, when the current darkrides have been replaced with CGI zombies and To Catch a Predator vignettes, my pruned-self will be pining for the days when we got to shoot at mechanical ghosts for points.

90 minutes of back-and-forth running between the Haunted Mansion and Black Diamond — it was this girl’s dream come true. And we were treated on a lights-on excursion through the Haunted Mansion, where Henry got to see his favorite pair of floppy monster boobs in better lighting.

(We almost got to ride through the Black Diamond with the lights on but then some ride engineer person caught wind of it and came over to tell the ride operator to turn the lights back off. Henry was super bothered by this which worried absolutely no one because what’s Henry going to do? Bristle his moustache, that’s all.)

This is the censored version. We all know what was really happening.

Knoebels is a super charming park, the kind you’d want to lose your virginity in (they even let you bring dogs! Not that I’m suggesting anything by mentioning that in the sentence as losing your virginity), and I can’t wait to go back!

Taking a little break from “writing” to post some pictures that have been hibernating on my phone. You know the drill.

My awesome friend Kendahl made me this mixtape blanket and it is AMAZING. It’s soft and warm and perfect for my freezing cold office-thing at work. I love it!!

I can’t remember if this was already posted.

But this was after HENRY HUNG UP ON ME a few weeks ago. REALLY, HENRY?! In full disclosure, he actually had to “take the other call,” which I immediately translated as “go fuck my big-bosomed mistress.” He later told me it was the “garage door guy” calling, which I have been running with ever since. For instance, on the way to Chooch’s party, Henry took some crazy back roads and made some remark about “always forgetting that there’s a stop sign there.”

“What, do you drive on this road a lot?” I asked, teenage-snark oozing off my tongue.

“Actually, yes,” he said.

“Oh, is this where the ‘garage door guy’ lives?!” I snapped.

He might as well get that “E” on his ring finger turned into “GDG.

”

OMG IT’S ALMOST LIKE DGD (Dance Gavin Dance)!

This was Chooch’s reaction after he pulled his Ju-On doll out of the box. Then he proceeded to make the Ju-On throat crackle all night.

Slugs.

My favorite cemetery. It’s like my outdoors gym. The upside of doing sit-ups there is that the prospect of zombies shambling behind me makes me do them a lot faster.

UGH I JUST LOVE MARCY SO MUCH.

OK. You’re free to go now.

Party Chick, officially.

Since we took Chooch to Knoebels on the other side of the state for his birthday, we toned down the actual party this time around and just had it at Games n’At, a retro alternative to Chuck E. Cheese with tons of Pittsburgh-flavor. It was a big hit with the kids, and awesome for Henry and me because literally all we had to do was drop off party hats, plates, etc the day before and they had everything set up for us. NO DECORATING! And each kid got to choose from a list of snack bar options, so NO PROVIDING OUR OWN FOOD!

Holy shit, it was a parental dream come true. With everything we’ve been doing lately, planning a party just wasn’t something that either of us had the energy for. And Chooch still had fun,which is all that matters.

“You’re only picking Ugli Doll stuff because you like it,” Henry accused me the day before at Party City. Well…I didn’t see any Minecraft stuff there! And Chooch likes Ugli Dolls too, God!

I secretly had Kaitlin make Chooch a “creeper” cake. It is my reluctant understanding that creepers are some sort of Minecraft villain and Chooch really likes them. When I met Kaitlin in an empty strip mall parking lot 9AM that morning, like some creepy—but delicious—drug deal, I was floored when she removed the top of the cake box to reveal this edible work of pixelated art. I mean, if it had been left up to me, I’d have just slathered green frosting on a rectangle and then finger-painted the face with black stuff.

Maybe the black stuff would be non-toxic. Maybe not.

But when you’re the presiding Queen of Zia’s Desserts, you go above and beyond and make that fondant pixels because THAT is what a true Minecraft player wants to eat.  When Chooch saw it, he gasped, “Kaitlin knows what creepers are!?!?”

When we first got to the arcade, I plopped my ass down on a couch across from some dad and watched the Penguins game for as long as I could until guests started to arrive. Fuck! I’m sorry, I know I’m the birthday boy’s mom, but theses are some important times in the NHL, OK? Step off

So then I tried to be actively involved for awhile. I even spoke with a parent! And heckled Janna mercilessly!

We all wanted something magical to be inside that armoire. But it was just a folded-up table. No Narnia.

But then something glorious happened: While I was in the party room talking to one of the parents (I did OK at that, you guys!), one of the arcade workers who looked uncannily like the dude from Ridiculousness approached me with a concerned expression and asked, “Do you want me to put the game on this TV here?” and then pointed to a TV in the corner that I hadn’t even noticed.

UM FUCK YES.

But then he couldn’t get it to turn on and kept leaving and returning with tools and various wires until finally he figured out that it wasn’t plugged in.

“Oh you have to pay for this,” Janna said, pulling her finger out of the Kiss-O-Meter and walking away.

You know who is really smart? Laura. She brought a present for me because she KNOWS. I was so excited and wanted to wear it right away but for some stupid reason, no one brought a switchblade to the Kid’s Birthday Party, so I couldn’t unleash it from the backing.

Ridiculousness serving up the food.

Chooch was so goddamn sweaty. No one else was. Just Chooch. God only knows.

Of course the kids were relatively uninterested in eating and decided to have an impromptu dance party instead. That might be because I said, “Hey you guys should have a dance party” and the Chooch’s cousin Zac started doing some frantic Gangnam Style seizure thing on the floor, which was a cattle call for the rest of the kids to get up and LOSE THEIR SHIT.

But hey. It’s not my house. Spaz it up, small people.

Blurry or not, you get the idea.

After the raucous cacophony of birthday serenading, Chooch started opening his presents. He was halfway through when he turned around and stopped mid-sentence.

“Where the heck did everyone go?” he cried when he realized he had been performing his gift-unwrapping in front of a roomful of adults.

“Dude, the kids went back out to the arcade a looooong time ago,” I said. Everyone cracked up but he just shrugged and went back to collecting his loot.

Meanwhile, I had made friends with the mom of one of the girls. But one thing to know about me is that I shit the bed when it comes to introductions. (Unless you’re in a band. Then I miraculously will remember your name right away.) So my memory proceeded to fuck her name into oblivion and I spent the rest of the party paralyzed every time someone came over that I wanted to introduce her to because I didn’t want to say, “Hey Laura, this is Astaria’s mom” because fuck if someone refers to ME as “Chooch’s mom.”

(Actually, this happens a lot and I’m OK with it. I think it happened 3x at Crafts from the Crypt in March. “Oh, you’re Chooch’s mom!” Castle Blood denizens would exclaim. Because everyone knows Chooch.)

So at one point, we were all sitting around a large table watching Game 3 of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, which had  gone into over time, and I was struggling to replay the scene when we introduced ourselves, but all I could hear was pinball machines and this one Pierce the Veil song that has been in my head for 5 years. So, I covertly texted Janna and ordered her to ask the mom what her name is.

Janna did my dirty work, and I saved the text so I will never forget, you guys.

I win at friend-making.

Chooch’s girlfriend of the week made him a card that stressed in no uncertain terms how awesome and cool he is.

Laura, arcade seductress.

I would probably look like that too if I had to work kids parties every weekend.

This is not true. You’re only a winner if you win. I hope all the kids there knew that.

Blake showed up right before the party ended and asked Henry for an envelope. Henry didn’t have an envelope, so I suggested that he just MAKE one, because isn’t that the kind of bullshit nonsense they learn to do in THE SERVICE?

(Or at the very least by watching “She’s Crafty.”)

I took pictures with my real camera but we have a new computer and the version of Photoshop I’m used to doesn’t work on it anymore and I’m too bull-headed to let Henry show me how to use something new so all of my pictures are just festering in a folder, unedited.

I know there comes a time when the big extravaganzas need to come to an end, and Chooch still had a blast even though this party was waaaaay scaled down, but I can’t help but feel the itch to have one more big party next year. Maybe in the park again, and CREEPY CARNIVAL-THEMED. I could use my papier mache clown head again! Chooch seems down with this idea.

Which is good, because I already started planning it.

This post is going to be about me hating Jonny Craig. This is my worst nightmare. I hate doing this. I hate writing. In March, we went to see Jonny Craig at Smiling Moose due to the fact that I had a lapse in judgment and bought Erin tickets for Valentines Day.

It’s a good thing that it was an all ages show so that all of the little kids had to stand outside and wait for doors to open while we went inside and sat at the bar so that I could be drunk and power through a two hour concert. Unfortunately, someone else also had an idea to sit at the bar, that being JC. And Erin turned into her normal 13-year-old self as usual. Erin was like, “Oh my god should I talk to him? Oh my god, it looks like he’s looking at me. Do you think he hates me?”

At some point in time, Jonny had sauntered by me [ed.note: Henry used that word himself!!] and the words “Hey how you doing” somehow spewed from my mouth.  Erin had wanted me to follow him into the bathroom to check out his package but then she remembered she had already seen it, all the while making fun of me for actually saying hi to him. I don’t know why I said hi to him. I guess because he just happened to be there.

Erin said I had a crush on the waitress but I don’t remember.

Then I decided we should go upstairs which was really stupid because I hated all of the other bands and didn’t realize that the first band wasn’t even over yet and I could have stayed downstairs and drank more. Erin left me with a 13-year-old in body instead of a 13-year-old in mind [ed.note: I guess that’s me?]  and I felt uncomfortable standing next to her.

Then Jonny came upstairs and stood within a foot of Erin. Erin wanted a shirt but his shirts looked like they had been drawn on  the way to the show in the back of a van and I believe she wanted was priced at $40. [ed.note: This is total bullshit — it was like $18 or $20. He’s such a fucking liar.]

Then I heard an interesting conversation between the sound man and tour manager. The tour manager was telling the sound guy that Jonny was difficult to work with. And then a little while later, the sound guy was talking to Jonny and Jonny mentioned that the tour manager was difficult to work with. I believe they’re both hard to work with.

When Jonny had taken the stage, as per Erin, I had ditched her and taken a spot up in the back near the bigscreen TV as to watch the hockey game. Internet, Erin wants you to know that she was upset because that was supposed to be our Valentine’s date but it turned out to be Erin up near the stage, crying, and Henry in the back watching the hockey game and not crying.

I don’t know why I hate him and his music so much, probably because of Erin. Even if he sang covers of Ted Nugent and Judas Priest. No.

Oh and I believe I had heard somewhere that it was Jonny’s birthday. I don’t have anything funny to say about that, but isn’t it funny enough that he aged another a year? He’s still a dick.

Janna took Chooch to Kennywood on Saturday, leaving Henry and me with the ENTIRE DAY TO OURSELVES. This is rare. Sure, we sometimes get a few hours here and there but never an entire day. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kid, but I was SO EXCITED all last week thinking about this day. I had tons of things lined up for us to do! Like going to eight cemeteries and making Henry finally write about the Jonny Craig show from march! It was going to be such a great day!

Except that we did none of those things. Well, that’s not true: I went to my favorite cemetery really early that morning. And that was just as well, because Henry walks too slow.

We dropped Chooch off at Janna’s around 11am and went to Best Buy because I wanted the new Bring Me the Horizon album. “We’re just going in there for that, and nothing else. SO DON’T WANDER OFF!” I barked to Henry as we crossed the parking lot.

“Oh, so this is really Erin’s Day,” he mumbled. After I bought my CD, he started complaining about how all he wanted to do that day was clean out the car so we could go and buy a new one. You know, “grown-up” activities. So then I started pouting and conveniently purse-dialed poor Kaitlin at the exact moment I started arguing with him about how he never wants to do anything and does he ever have fun? Does he even know what fun is?

I can’t tell if he became more accommodating after my bitchy rant because he knew I was right or because he wanted me to STFU.

Don’t answer that.

Then we were going to go to Zenith for lunch but they were closed for a private party. What motherfuckers!! I was transforming into Hunger Hulk by this point, and we continued to drive around aimlessly, listening to BMTH, and finding nowhere to eat even though there are approximately 87 million restaurants in Pittsburgh. And I was having a fight with Yelp on my phone and kept saying, “LET’S JUST FORGET IT!” It was really looking like it was going to be a shitty day. The first hour of it was, anyway.

But then we settled on Pusadee’s Garden, and had a wonderful Thai lunch outside while quietly mocking the pompous asshole at the table next to us who was with a party of 8 but he was the only one talking, like it was Douchebag Monologue Hour, and at one point even stood up and started singing scales. He kind of looked like John Krasinski, which is unfortunate because I like John Krasinski. But his arrogance brought Henry and I together!

Until the d-bag declared loudly his love for his girlfriend for all to hear. Then I quickly went back to hating Henry.

And posted on Facebook that I was hoping Henry choked on curry.

In an effort to get him to participate in talking about my favorite topic—Warped Tour—I let him look at the list of bands that will be there this summer.

“Are you stoked for any of those?” I asked hungrily.

“Nope,” he said, pushing his glasses up and handing me back my phone.

“Not even Chiodos?!” I cried.

“I’ve already seen them,” he explained. I forgot — for Henry, seeing a band once was enough. Unless it’s Judas Priest or Ted Nugent.

Frown it up, Henry.

During lunch, I half-jokingly suggested that we get tattoos next. We’ve been talking for the last couple of years about getting each other’s initials on our ring fingers, but of course something comes up every time we have some extra money. I thought for sure Henry would have started mouthing off a King’s scroll of reasons why we shouldn’t do it that day, but you know what he said?

FINE.

HE SAID FINE.

That’s practically an 8 on Henry’s Enthusiasm Scale!

So we went home and I let him play Candy Crush for a little bit and then I said, “Seriously, are we going to do this?” and then we walked down to the street to a local tattoo shop and on the way there I said, “You know we’re going to get there and they’re going to say no walk-ins” because that is just the sort of luck Henry and I have with pretty much everything in life.

But we got there and told them what we wanted and at first we were going to have come back later but then one of their artists got there early and had time before his next appointment to take us so THERE WAS NO TURNING BACK, HENRY.

“So are you guys getting married or something?” Chris, the tattoo artist, asked as he placed the stencil on my finger.

“Oh please!” I scoffed. “We’ve been together for 12 years and we’re still not married. I even gave him a child!”

Chris was probably thinking, “This is weird because they didn’t even seem like they’re in love” and then Henry made some horrible joke about punching me and I was like, “Don’t worry, this is normal.”

Marriage or not, I can’t imagine not being “Erin & Henry.” Even when I suffer my bipolar lows and tell all of my friends that OMG I’M DUMPING THAT MOTHERFUCKER, everyone just kind of goes along with it because they know I’m full of shit. So I didn’t even hesitate to get his stupid letter permanently etched onto my finger. Even though he’s already thinking of other letters to add to his knuckles in case we break up.

I like that if you put them together, they spell “eh,” which is the definition of our relationship. I opted to get mine shaded in pink, but Henry just went with your basic Caucasian mid-tone skin color.

“Is that Henry’s first tattoo?” Andrea texted me while we were still in the shop.

“No,” I replied. “He has a couple stupid ones from when he was in THE SERVICE” and then we text-laughed together.

I asked Henry if his mom was going to be pissed and he gave me that WTF Are You Talking About smirk. I felt it was a legit question because he’s such a mama’s boy! And then I couldn’t stop picture her yelling at him about it and it was making me laugh so hard. Unfortunately, she saw us the next day and approved. Foiled!

“You know this means we’re engaged now,” I said as we walked home with froyo. (A froyo shop opened up within walking distance of our house! AND THEY HAD LYCHEE FLAVORED YOGURT! I’m so fucked.)

“That’s fine,” Henry said, and then I scrambled to take it back because, hello, I’m not screwing myself out of all the fanfare of a real life proposal! I still want a fucking ring!

What a great day it turned out to be though, for real. It was fun acting like a couple of teenagers. Wait, let me rephrase that: It was fun acting like I always act while Henry actually seemed to maybe have a little bit of the f-word.

(FUN, you guys!)

My favorite part was when Chris told me I have skinny fingers. I was like, “THANK YOU!” because nothing about me has been skinny since I was 22, so even if it’s just a finger, I’ll take it.

Man, I can’t wait for our first fight where I get to shake my finger in his face and scream, “I CAN’T BELIEVE I PAID FOR THIS, YOU ASSHOLE!” and then cut my finger off. That’ll show him!

Per my friend Sandy’s request, I am going to live-blog Game 2 of the Penguins/Islanders 1st round playoff matchup thing and pretend like I can string together professional sports-people words and not just HOLY FUCKING SHIT I LOVE YOU SIDNEY CROSBY!!!! and my usual brand of X-rated hockey heckles.

This should be really interesting, because I’m at work and listening to the game on my phone while, you know, working. So keep checking back for updates, OK?!

7:00PM: Mike Lange just reminded us that it is indeed a hockey night in Pittsburgh, so suck it, non-Pittsburghers.

7:01PM: I am going to make a quick cup of coffee. Hopefully I don’t fall into some stupid work conversation while I’m in the kitchen. Or worse — break the Keurig again.

7:04PM: Orange is my least favorite color.

7:11PM: I went to the kitchen and realized I forgot a K-cup so I had to come back to my office and then go back to the kitchen and LONG STORY SHORT I MISSED THE FIRST GOAL OF THE GAME. AND IT WAS A MALKIN GOAL.

7:12pm: This is significant because I am wearing a Malkin t-shirt right now at work.

7:13PM: Islander douchebag got called for slashing, and not the good Jason Voorhees kind either. What a fuck up!

7:16PM: HOLY FUCKING SHIT I LOVE YOU SIDNEY CROSBY!!!! 2-0 you guys!!

7:20PM: My prom date James Neal is not in the line up tonight but I’d still give him the Prom Night Special.

7:36PM: When they say the goalie stopped the hard slapper in his pads, it makes me think of menstruating girls stopping advancing penises.

7:37PM: I just lost about 25 updates. What you missed: The Islanders scored and all their fans probably listened to Nickelback in celebration and then Crosby scored 18 seconds later because he is the greatest hockey player in the world and that is just what he does. Oh, and I hate Fran Drescher. Unrelated.

7:42PM: Letang hammered it down the ice and every girl in Pittsburgh is left wishing that it was his penis he was hammering into their kookas.

7:46PM: Periods. PPs. Hammering. Squirting [pucks]. 2 minutes for receiving. My future hockey porn is going to be so successful.

7:53PM: Thank god, end of first period. Now I can eat my dinner. (Is that OK, Sandy?)

SECOND PERIOD

8:08PM: I’m trying to eat my Lean Cuisine, but how sad is Tavares that he’s stuck on such a shitty hockey team I mean really.

8:10Pm: Remember when our goalie punched their goalie in the face?

8:11PM: Mike Lange just said something about someone having a dozen something and all I can think about is a dozen cupcakes because I’m on a diet.

8:14PM: YESSS Niskanen is fighting Okposo who is essentially a sewer-dwelling black albino.

8:17PM: Guys really, WTF is this?

8:18PM: Of course the Islanders scored while I was busy finding a picture of this strange albino-hybrid for you, but at least it wasn’t him who scored. Albinos make me sick.

8:22PM: Penguins are on the power play for some unknown reason, woooooo!!! I’m sure it’s because one of the Islanders tried to slit someone’s throat with a hockey stick.

8:27PM: Fuck the Islanders. 3-3

8:29PM: I guess I’m not surprised that the Islanders are playing well. They probably don’t want to get deported to their coach’s secret puppy mill for washed up NHL players.

8:32PM: Don’t albinos have poor eyesight? Or am I confusing them with moles? But albinos are just like human versions of moles, right?

8:34PM: Forgot that my hockey porn will have a “back door” vignette, too. That will probably be Henry’s favorite scene.

8:40PM: Someone got hurt while I was washing my coffee mug. It wasn’t a Penguin though. Thank god.

8:42PM: Double minor what’s up bitches.

8:44PM: There should be an amusement park darkride that takes you on a psychedelic cruise through the last 3 decades of the Islanders’ Stanley Cup-less history. A true Laff In the Dark!

8:47PM: The three Islanders’ goals have mob ties.

End of second period. I’m going home and watching the rest of the game on a real life television. You guys are on your own. Check ESPN or something, I don’t give a fuck.

Thanks to the Timehop app, I am reminded of the time 5 years ago that I tried to spearhead a new fashion revolution. (I am also reminded that my tweets were way better than they are these days.) Here are the tweets to back it up.

• 2:44PM: Wrapped a polka-dotted scarf around my ankle. Henry said it looks real dumb. Hope it catches on.
• 3:19PM: I hope people will think I tried to slit my ankle.
• 6:36PM: Kim (my supervisor) just pointed at my anklace (HAHA) and said, “What r u trying to be, Sha-Na-Na?” and I died. Except that I still live.
• 6+:36PM: Or ankerchief?!!?
• 6:49PM: Henry, who was 1/2 asleep when I left for work, just emailed me and asked “Were u dressed weird when u left?” IT’S NOT WEIRD ITS AWESOME.

I think that fashion statement needs reinstated.

Other brilliant things that I invented which failed to catch on:

Saying whatevelyn instead of whatev. (I still say this though.)

Referring to the year 2008 as “two thousand double quad, y’all.”

Revolutionary War porn.

The best game ever: Thingieball.

(Apparently, that same day, I was also trying to get kidnapped, but couldn’t decide between an alley at midnight or smeared with the scent of trust fund at a truck stop. God, my life could have been so different right now if I had stopped dreaming and started DOING.)

When I was 13, I loved amusement parks and listening to the same songs over and over. (My top 2 burnt-out songs of that age were “End of the Road” by Boyz II Men and “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie B. Hawkins—the b-side of that song was dope, ya’ll. Just ask my friends Kim and Liz, who were subjected to it the whole weekend we spent at Lake Chautauqua that summer.)

Twenty years later, the only real difference is that I don’t have braces anymore. And if I really felt so inclined as to dildo my ego, I might even say that my hair is way more fabulous now. (Hi, I had a perm then.) But other than that, there I was in the car last Saturday morning, listening to the same 5 albums, rinse and repeat, for 4 hours on the way to Knoebel’s Amusement Park in Elysburg, PA.

“Uh….this CD is back to the beginning. Can we change it now?” Henry would ask futilely as the instrumental intro to Dance Gavin Dance’s Downtown Battle Mountain replayed. (Yes, I still buy CDs.) I’d answer that question by looking out the passenger window and smirking. God, it’s good to be childish.

I mean, child-like.

 We arrived at the park 30 minutes before registration time, but luckily Knoebels is a free admission park, so we parked and did a preliminary walk-around. I needed to get a lay of the land and to scope out all of the rides, as if I hadn’t creeped on their website 87 times in the weeks prior.

I take amusement parks very seriously. If a park is particularly crowded and Chooch wants to stand in line with 60 screaming assholes to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl, I will calmly* count off on my fingers all of the other parks and fairs where he will be able to ride the ubiquitous Tilt-a-Whirl, at which point I will drag him over to a ride that we wouldn’t normally have access to at home in Pittsburgh, like the Looper or the Cosmotron (like an indoors Music Express — Metallica was playing when we rode it). Someday, Chooch will understand this and his future children will be better because of it.

*(I mean…..)

The concept of an amusement park with free admission is just so precious to me. I remember when I was a kid, our local Kennywood Park was like that — you could just strap on your fanny pack and walk around if you were an old person or perhaps someone allergic to standing in lines, and not worry about it costing you $35+.  And maybe later on if you wanted to just ride the bumper cars because  maybe you’re 9 months pregnant and trying to put yourself into labor, then you could just buy tickets for that ride and call it an abortion day.

Knoebels is still like that! You can either get the ride-all-day wristband, buy individual ride tickets, or not do either of those things and just eat yourself to death on caramel apple pork chops. KNOEBELS ISN’T GOING TO JUDGE YOU.

PETA probably will, though. Right after they make stickers with your caramel apple pork chop-stuffed face on it. I’m sure I’ll be signing some petition about it at Warped Tour this year, too.

Finally, it was 11am and we got to meet up with our peeps at the pavilion. The Handas were already there, so Chooch and their daughter Katelyn did their weird elementary school flirting routine (which is obviously still the same flirt set I belong to). Those two never stopped bickering like an old married couple for the rest of the day: Insult! Assault! Compete! Repeat! 

A little 411 about DAFE (appropriately pronounced “daffy”): Back in November, I enrolled the three of us in the Darkride and Funhouse Enthusiast club because I was always checking out their website for trip ideas anyway, and then once I became friends with the Castle Blood family, I learned that they have an affiliation with that group as well. That was all the arm-twisting I needed.  One of the coolest perks of being a card-carrying DAFE member (aside from bragging about it, of course), is that there are kinds of fun group events to attend at various amusement parks and we get exclusive ride time on the dark rides. In November, we got preferential treatment during Kennywood’s Holiday Lights event — a lights-on walk through of their dark ride Ghostwood Estate while the everyday commoners were still waiting to get into the park.

Shit, you know I rode that high horse the whole way home.

However, my work friends think that this is one of the most ridiculous things ever as far as my ridiculous life goes and have been making fun of me mercilessly. To that I say: u mad, work-bros?

I was so excited to get my own laminate that I didn’t even question the fact that “fourty” is spelled wrong. I LOVE LAMINATES. All day long, I was thinking, “Yeah, I see you looking at my laminate” to all of the non-laminated people in line. Somehow, Henry became part of the registration crew and sat at a picnic table, stringing together laminates. He is always identified as “blue collar volunteer” no matter where we go and always ends up helping people.

We are so fucking different.

I’m going to get him a bunch of “CREW” t-shirts for his birthday.  I’m sure they’d be applicable every time he wears them.

After we were registered, we still had to get our hands stamped and wrists braceleted, which required us to stand in line with COMMONFOLK for an extended period of time because the park was just about to open for real and everyone decided to get there at the same time. That gave me time to scope out the non-DAFE crowd.

“I’m looking for my kind,” I explained to Henry, who knew immediately that I was looking for scene kids.

“Good luck,” he said dryly.

I thought I saw a guy later on in the day that I could possibly have an ill-conceived crush on, but the closer I got to him, the more I realized he was half past Bring Me the Horizon, more toward Blood on the Dance Floor.

That and also the fact that he was probably only 15.

And had pretty bad skin.

And wasn’t Jonny Craig.

With our special DAFE vouchers, we each got a ticket for the two dark rides—Black Diamond and the Haunted Mansion—which are an additional fee on top of the ride all day price for all the peasants.

Meanwhile, my stomach had REALLY STARTED TO HURT. I’m not sure what the fuck was wrong, probably Henry’s terrible driving and the shitty Sheetz breakfast sandwich that was revolting inside my new Weight Watchers-shrunk stomach. But it was so bad that I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to ride anything. CAN YOU FUCKING IMAGINE!?

I’m going to end Part 1 with this awesome photo that I took inside the free Knoebels Museum:

Henry’s review of the weekend, written entirely in facial expression.