Hey, guess what I did yesterday? A GOOD DEED, that’s what. The Law Firm has teamed up with the United Way and offered employees an opportunity to volunteer at several places around the city. I picked the Food Bank, not really for any great reason other than it was one of the few that offered an afternoon shift.

Here’s a fun little side note: The day that I went up to the Scary 28th Floor to sign-up for volunteering, I was strong-armed into also filling out a raffle ticket after I purposely tried to leave without entering. But then how weird would I look if I openly communicated the fact that I didn’t give a shit about the stupid raffle? I already look weird enough without doing anything, so I sighed and filled out a stupid red raffle ticket.

And of course, I was one of the winners. I was notified by email to please go up to the 11th floor to claim my $10 gift card for the in-house cafe on the 19th floor. I’ve worked here over 3.5 years now and still have not ever gone to the stupid On 19 cafe thingie, so I didn’t want the gift card. Besides, since my shift is so stupid, they’re already closed by the time I’m ready for a feeding.

So I ignored the email.

And then I ignored the next email.

And I swear to god I had intentions of replying to the third email, which by then had nothing in the actual body and just a terse “Please get your gift card” in the subject line, but I forgot. I was just going to say that I wouldn’t be able to use it and that they could just give it to someone else, but you know how it is when you’re about to do something and then you get a push notification letting you know that Apu is done feeding the octuplets and then you get sucked into your Springfield for the next 20 minutes. (Thanks again, Brandy, for getting me hooked on Simpsons: Tapped Out!)

Last Wednesday, I came to work and there was an envelope on my keyboard with the stupid gift card inside. I laughed and ran out to tell my work friends Lauren and Chris about how my passive aggressive method of living had FINALLY worked in my favor! Man, I really felt like I beat the system, you know? Until I opened up my Outlook and saw that I had received a group email from the same lady letting us know that we had to go up to her desk the next day to claim a t-shirt for our volunteering day.

MOTHER.

FUCKER.

After all that, I STILL had to go to the stupid 11th floor. Lauren was kind enough to go with me, since she needed to get her t-shirt too (we were scheduled to volunteer at the Food Bank on the same day). Little did I know that the Gift Card Lady was going to be crossing names off a list, so when I grabbed a t-shirt and tried to leave, she was all, “Wait! And you are…?”

I mumbled my name and she kind of paused, eyes flickering in recognition, and then proceeded to scratch my name off the list.

“Do you think she knows I’m the same person who rejected the gift card?” I asked Lauren.

“Well, she doesn’t forget anything,” she replied honestly. And I mean, that was just one day ago at that point.

I just don’t know, you guys. Sometimes I feel like I’m really making headway into this whole “Adulthood” thing, but then there I go taking eighteen giant steps back. Oh well.

****

Volunteering Day came and I had to come to work a little early, but I didn’t mind too much. I was really happy that Lauren was going and she promised she would be my buddy for the day, even though Amber2 wanted her to ignore me and potentially get me lost and/or killed because Amber2 is mean!

I think there were nine of us from my department, plus a bunch of other people that I don’t know. Maybe 30 of us in all? Enough that we all fit into one of those stupid little shuttle buses with absolutely zero seats to spare. Lauren and I got stuck sitting in the dork-reserved front seat, which was totally lame until we realized there were a box of flares at our feet.

“Not now, Erin,” Lauren said. “On the way back, I promise.”

The Food Bank is in Duquesne, and because of fucked up Pittsburgh traffic, it took us 45 minutes to get there and the driver, who was kind of a dick, totally passed up the entrance and seemed annoyed when literally the whole bus was like, “YOU WENT THE WRONG WAY AND NOW YOU MUST TURN AROUND.”

Once we met the volunteering coordinator and got a brief run-down of the facility, we were split into three groups to begin our two hours of labor. My group consisted of Lauren (thank god), Jeannie, Other Erin, A-ron and Rachel, and then three other girls from different floors.

We were handed over to Steve, the foreman (I guess that’s what he is?) who would be supervising us for the afternoon.  Basically, we had to sort through boxes of food and re-box them based on if they were cans, glass or plastic. Each box had to be around 40 pounds, and we had to obviously check expiration dates and the conditions of the product. (I say obviously but we all know I definitely would not have been checking that shit if I hadn’t been told.) Like, if the tops of cans were “compromised” to the point where a can opener wouldn’t be able to go around it, we had to chuck it. I mean, if I was basing this on my own can-opening skills, I’d have had to pitch every single can I pulled from the box.

And we had to also check for dents. Some dents were OK, but some were not. Steve’s explanations were pretrty vague. I wanted to see a Powerpoint, to be honest, but instead we just constantly asked him, “STEVE!! STEVE!! WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE!?” the whole time, so maybe next time, Steve will consider drawing up some slides of various dentings.

He probably went home feeling like I do after a day of Chooch chanting, “MOMMY. MOMMY. MOMMY.”

“I can’t tell if this is seriously that hard or if we’re just really overthinking things,” I said out loud.

But by the second hour, we were basically canned good-sorting pros. And I was really thankful that I chose to do something so Erin-friendly. Some of the people in my department volunteered at a place where they had to make SANDWICHES. You guys, I can barely make my own sandwich. I really don’t think I would have been able to do that.

I’m also glad that the Food Bank didn’t require us to ladle anything because I don’t know how to use a ladle. If we go to a salad bar and I want soup, Henry has to ladle it for me because my wrist is really weak or I just don’t want to do it, I can’t remember now.

I had to toss a huge container of Nutella because the seal was slightly broken. If I had brought my purse, that bitch would have gone home with me, for real. Spoonfuls of maybe-contaminated Nutella for everyone!

One of my favorite pasttimes is forcing myself to have crushes on people, and Steve was definitely my target yesterday. It made those 2 hours zip on by. It’s basically just a lateral move though, considering he works in a warehouse and drives a pallet jack. Just like Henry.

(Speaking of pallet jacks, when we first walked into the warehouse, some guy zoomed by on a pallet jack and I cried out, “Haha, that’s the thing that ran over Henry’s foot!” but no one in my group knew how hilarious that story was to me when it happened a few years ago, so it was kind of awkward when absolutely no one responded. I suck at knowing my audience.)

Everyone was running around taking pictures of each other for our department’s website, but all I gave a shit about was getting Steve’s picture. I wasn’t leaving without it. I made Lauren get in the picture with him so maybe he would think I was less weird. I don’t know why I cared about looking weird to him though after he shared with us a story about how he drank bad Pepsi when he was a kid and got explosive diarrhea.

He was so entertaining! And he told us that we were way better than the other group who had volunteered from The Law Firm and I really like winning, so that made me feel fantastic. He said they couldn’t figure out how to stack the empty boxes. What assholes.

The three ladies who aren’t from my department are clearly my new best friends after two hours of squinting at cans of tuna together—that’s how friendship works, right?

On the shuttle ride back to work, we found out that our co-worker Rachel insisted that all of her boxes weigh in at EXACTLY 40 pounds, which actually isn’t that surprising if you know her, but damn was I glad that she wasn’t at my end of the table, where the motto was, “Eh, that’s close enough.”

Meanwhile, the three ladies who sorted canned shit with me, Jeannie and Lauren went back to their own People on the shuttle, like we hadn’t just shared a special afternoon together even though I had to remind the one lady of my name at least 5 times,  and now I just feel dirty.

****

“How was it?” Mean Amber2 asked when we returned to the office.

“It was fun!” I said. “And I even got a new boyfriend.”

“Oh, I didn’t catch that one!” giggled a Different Barb Than The One I Always Blog About.

“Either did he,” I said, and then she laughed. Because you know, that’s what people here do when they talk to me, OK?

Colorful clutter. Cluttered color?

I promised Henry that I wouldn’t have us on the go at all on Sunday in an effort to get the house clean. But that didn’t mean that CHOOCH and I couldn’t be on the go. As much as we hate doing things without Henry, sometimes leaving Henry alone in the house is the only way he can get anything done. And I wanted the house cleaned, you guys.

Plus, did I mention that Henry bought me flowers for no reason!? I should be scared, I know. But at the same time, he knows I haven’t been feeling like myself lately and I know that’s why he came home with flower-things, and not actually because he’s pounding some trannie housewife behind a Wal-Mart. I’m not a big flower person, but once in awhile it’s kind of nice. <3

Late morning, Chooch tagged along with me to the cemetery. I try to go most weekends because it’s the only place where I really enjoy jogging. OK, maybe “enjoy” is too strong of a word. “Tolerate.” It’s the only place where I can “tolerate” jogging. Sometimes I use that Couch to 5K app, and of course my trainer is the zombie. Chooch happened to see this the night before and became obsessed with going with me the next day.

He was sorely disappointed when we got there and a zombie wasn’t actually chasing us. I kept telling him not to get too excited! It’s not that great. So of course, he was all, “OMGGGG HOW MUCH LONGER!?” and this was just after the brisk walk warm-up. He kind of half-jogged (sort of) for a little while and then got pee on himself when he went behind a tree (wouldn’t be the same if Chooch didn’t piss somewhere in the cemetery) so of course he was all, “OMG I GOT PEE ON MY PANTS SO NOW CAN WE GO!?”

Fuck no, lazy-ass! Finally I told him to just go stand by the car and wait until I was done because I knew the next whine out of his mouth was going to be the dreaded “carry me!!”

Then we came home and Henry made us lunch because we’re not THAT independent. But then afterward we went to Target by ourselves! It was pretty amazing. We never go to Target without Henry. I bought new boots to treat myself for blossoming into such a fine young adult, but I only tried on the right boot and of course when I came home, I found out that the left one was all fucked up and didn’t fit right. So now Henry, who was so happy he didn’t have to go to Target with us, has to return them. Haha.

We let Henry take a break for a few minutes. And then he did some touch-ups on the Liberace desk which hopefully will be finished someday so we can stow away some of the clutter.

After dinner, we walked to Eat n Park for dessert. Henry drowned us out by methodically coloring the kids menu. There was a really annoying and loud old lady behind him and Chooch who literally yelled about how she hates yellow and orange-colored Jello. And then about how she doesn’t care if the boys drink at her house BECAUSE AT LEAST SHE CAN CONTROL THEM. She sent her granddaughter (I presume) to fetch her non-retchedly colored Jello from the salad bar and as she walked away, she commented on the girl’s maturing ass. “It must be because her jeans are so tight. Look how cute her butt cheeks are, sticking out like that!” she cooed to her two even older dinner companions. Oh my god, it was incredibly uncomfortable.

Eddie likes to hurt people.

Then we came home and watched The Walking Dead while Henry worked on more paper mache. (I helped during commercials, so cut the poor Henry crap!)

It was such a nice weekend. Fuck, do I love the weekends.

(P.S. The house does not look clean at all.)

We roped into Blake into hanging out with us on Saturday so I could get some updated pictures of him and Chooch. We got a late start though and were racing the sunlight, so we decided to get the pictures out of the way first before eating, which wasn’t the greatest plan because we were all fucking hungry and on edge. And the location I picked was muddy and overgrown with jagger bushes, so that was a shit ton of fun, especially when right off the bat I sank down into a mud bog while wearing white TOMS. If Blake hadn’t been there, I probably would have murdered Henry over it. But I was trying to be a good girl!

We wrapped it up within fifteen minutes, which might be a new record as far as me and photo shoots go. I didn’t get a chance to force a sweater on Chooch, so he rejoiced about that.

“Take a picture of me so I’m like blurry,” Chooch demanded.

We made Blake wear Chooch’s second Christofer Drew-inspired hat.

On the way back to the car, Chooch stepped in a huge mud puddle (that place is like a goddamn swamp, and it STINKS too) and wound up with his leg coated in gooey mud all the way up to his knee. Henry was so pissed, so Chooch made sure to say it was Blake’s fault. So then Blake and Henry got to work, trying to scrub Chooch off enough for him to be able to walk in a restaurant afterward because WE WERE FUCKING HUNGRY. Chooch saw this as an opportunity to go buy new shoes, but Henry barked, “I WILL WASH YOUR SHOE.”

We ate a late lunch at Wagner’s in Elizabeth, where Henry shot daggers at Chooch from across the table for being inappropriate and I just laughed as usual.

Chooch declared this “the best day ever” until Blake threatened to throw Bunny out the car window, which resulted in Chooch sobbing to the point where he almost puked. Wouldn’t be the same if a hangout with Blake didn’t end in tears! Brotherly love. <3

Henry was trying to take a nap on the couch when Chooch found a flashlight. You should know that Henry is a member of that secret society of men who are really overprotective and weird about their flashlights, so the fact that he even left it out in plain sight for Chooch to find is a huge deal. So Henry is sleeping, and Chooch turns off all of the lights and starts shining the flashlight in Henry’s slumber-sagged face, which was funny enough but then I pointed out that the bristles of Henry’s beard were putting on a riveting shadow play upon the wall and then Chooch and I totally fucking lost it.

I mean, I was screaming, that’s how hard I was laughing. So Henry of course woke up, mumbled about us being fucking idiots and god knows what else, and then suggested we leave.

“Go walk and get shoes or ice cream or something,” he muttered. Luckily, he let us put on our shoes first. But you guys, Chooch and me on the loose in Brookline—AT NIGHT?

Wandering shadows!!

Because a girl on a diet will choose ice cream over shoes in a heartbeat, we decided to walk to Scoops on Brookline Boulevard. (I wanted to have a red velvet milkshake for dinner, and since I “ran” almost three miles this morning in the cemetery, I think that’s acceptable). On the way, we passed the American Legion while Bingo was going on, and since Henry wasn’t there to stop us, we screamed BINGO!!!!!! and then ran. Henry NEVER lets us do that. A minute later, Chooch wasn’t paying attention and walked into a street sign.

He’s OK, though. It was right outside of the fire station, so one of them probably could have helped if we needed it. And if not, the Las Palmas Mexicans were right across the street serving up tacos so probably they could have helped, too. Basically, one of any adults in the area that’s not Erin R. Kelly would have been dependable, I’m sure.

We got our ice cream without incident. Chooch ordered mint chocolate chip and told the ice cream ladler that one scoop was fine, but to me he muttered that he actually wanted two scoops but DADDY never lets him.

“That’s because he’s unreasonable. Get two scoops,” I said with a shrug. So he did and we walked away enjoying our ice cream and newfound independence.

But then we stopped at CVS on the way back because Henry told us to get newspaper for the paper mache project we’re doing this weekend. That seemed like not too hard of a task until I couldn’t find the newspaper! We walked up and down every aisle! And no newspaper!

Chooch was all, “No seriously, I know where it is” and that fucker took me to the TOY AISLE. They didn’t even have TOY newspapers!

So I had to call dumb Henry and he was all, “I don’t know! It should be by the door!”

IT WASN’T.

“Then check on the counter!” he yelled.

IT WASN’T THERE EITHER. Except that it actually was so then I hung up on him and bought the stupid paper. I was all stressed out over this but then I realized that “Just the Two Of Us” (the real Grover Washington, Jr. one, not the shitty Will Smith rip-off) was playing overhead and wow, how relevant to the situation. WE CAN MAKE IT IF WE TRY, CHOOCH. JUST THE TWO OF US, BUILDING THEM CASTLES IN BROOKLINE.

I walked and Chooch parkoured the whole way home and Henry was all, “WHERE IS THE ICE CREAM” when we walked in the house, like we were supposed to save that asshole any after he made us leave? Fuck that.

I had lunch plans with my blog friends Alex and Elizabeth last Saturday. It feels weird to call them my “blog friends,” but that is technically how I met them, which is unusual only because they don’t live 5,000 miles away like my blog friends typically do. (Probably Janna wishes she lived 5,000 miles away from me, too. And Henry.) Shamefully, I am really not a part of the Pittsburgh “blog scene,” like, at all. I’ve been toiling away at this shit for 12 years but am pretty much the blogging equivalent to a recluse. I don’t go to those podcast things (I don’t even know what the hell they are! It sounds too sci-fi for my liking) or tweet-ups so it’s really no wonder that I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

(Although, a few weeks ago, I did agree to be interviewed for an article in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review about anti-soccer moms who blog, which was really stepping outside of my padlocked box. I didn’t even mention it to my friends and family on Facebook! Literally, I think only 5 of my friends knew that it was going to happen. I hate attention, says the girl with a public blog, Twitter, Instagram and quotation mark tattoos on her fingers. But honestly, I mostly just want attention from HENRY and he does not give me enough.)

Anyway, the point to this is that yay! I have a few friends in Pittsburgh who blog! I can sit down with people and talk about comments and feeds and stats while taking pictures of my food to post on my blog later, and not have my company nod off or fashion nooses out of their own hair because oh great, Erin’s talking about her blog again. I mean, not that I talk about my blog constantly…anymore.

Originally, we were supposed to go to Casa Rasta and I was all excited because Casa Rasta does not hate vegetarians and also because it would be a nice walk for me. Except that Henry had some stupid training thing (read: sexcapade) that morning at work (read: seedy motel) and didn’t tell me until the last minute so then it was starting to look like I wouldn’t be able to leave in enough time to walk there, so I did what any normal walkaholic would do and started to walk there with Chooch and then Henry swung by on his way home from infidelity and picked him up so that I wouldn’t have to be all, “SURPRISE! I brought my child! Please watch your swearing*, thanks.”

*(Yeah right.)

Anyway, I got to Casa Rasta and those taco-makin’ motherfuckers didn’t have the decency to text us personally to let us know they were closed for the day because of some dumb party they were preparing for. So then I had to be all, “Hay Elizabeth and Alex, this place is closed. Btw I walked here so someone pick me up, please.” Alex suggested we just go to Arby’s and I was about to whine about how there is nothing for me to eat there, but then he was just kidding. I was all on the spot because we were technically on my turf and I should probably know about all kinds of underground hot spots and not just meth-related ones, but everything I suggested was closed until dinner time for some ludicrous reason. This is just a lot of words to say: We ate lunch at It’s Greek To Me. I was just there over the summer and was pretty disappointed to see that they had majorly pared down their menu. No more flaming cheese. :(

This was the third or fourth time I hung out with Elizabeth. We started reading each other’s blogs through our mutual friend Sandy and then eventually took the plunge and met IRL. The first several times were not conducive to conversation: roller-skating; chasing our spawns at a Hipster Gathering with Food Trucks; and, god forbid, the pie party. The pie party is also where I met Alex for the first time IRL, and some things you should know about me when I’m hosting a party: I AM STRESSED OUT AND FRAZZLED AND SUCK AT MAKING WORDS WITH MY MOUTH. A do-over was in order and a lunch date was definitely the perfect setting for having relaxed conversation with pita stuffed in my mouth.

Elizabeth recently decided that she wants to start meeting up with Pittsburgh bloggers for a new interview feature on her blog. And Alex and I got to be her guinea pigs! I was kind of stressed out at first because who knows the things that I might say, but it was good. I think she should have interviewed the waitress though. That lady was nuts and totally off her game. One of the questions Elizabeth asked us was if we hate-read any blogs. The official answer on her blog was that we don’t, but I actually used to and had to stop because it was giving me an ulcer. Now I just hate-read Facebook.

All of Alex’s answers started with, “Hey, humble-brag alert! I went to Greece on my honeymoon.” And all of mine started with, “Um.” I speak good.

Blogging wasn’t exclusively what we talked about in between frantic interruptions by our well-meaning waitress, but you know, it was kind of nice to dip my falafel in whatever-the-fuck sauce while listening to Alex tell me how fantastic I am. I mean, my blog. How fantastic my blog is. He also marveled over how SOFT-SPOKEN I am, which is a little known fact. I am quite soft-spoken. And refined! This is because I’m so busy being calculating and weaving prejudices in my head. But I have my other side(s), too, like most people do, so if he hangs out with me a few more times, he’ll probably meet Other Erin. I also liked the time when Alex started to tell us about some electrical thingie that happened to his car that morning, and he paused to ask me if I drive. Yes, I drive! I’m just obsessed with walking.

Elizabeth and Alex both brought fun blogging ideas with them and I’m very excited to participate in both! I on the other hand brought nothing with me but an umbrella which I managed to lose.

And I only mentioned Jonny Craig once. You guys, I think I’m finally starting to kick the addiction!

Then Alex ordered baklava to go because he doesn’t want people to know he eats dessert and there was this befuddling mixup with the checks and I’m still not sure how it was resolved. I was going to say that it was Greek to me, but that’s just dumb.

Last April, Henry, Chooch, and I went to Knoebels Park with the Darkride and Funhouse Enthusiasts group. It was such a fun weekend trip, but I never got around to editing the photos until today. So shameful, but I was in a rut you guys. Anytime I opened Photoshop, I cringed and then felt drowsy. But I’m trying to power through it. And this also serves as my reminder that I need to renew our DAFE membership. (Are you nuts about funhouses and darkrides and getting cool amusement park perks? Then you should join DAFE too!)

I rememeber this vividly because panning for gems takes a REALLY LONG TIME at Knoebels and I wasn’t feeling well. So I sat alone and ate a stale granola bar that had been in my iCarly messenger bag since the 2012 Warped Tour. :(

I can’t remember this man’s name but he’s a fellow DAFE member and totally awesome. He reminded me of a cross between our friend Bill from Michigan and my favorite Uncle Eddie. That means nothing to you, I know.

Food was included and even though my meat-free mouth prevented me from eating 85% of it, I really enjoyed my buttered bun, cole slaw and potatoes au gratin. (I’m not being sarcastic, either. Those are three foods I like, OK? Dating Henry for 12 years has turned me into a  blue collar gourmand.)

Oh hay, Henry.

The other side of this cake pavilion said “Congratulations” which made me think of Pierce the Veil because Vic says “congratulations” in one of their songs. The scene kid in me relates every thing back to music. It’s a gift that no one gives a shit about.

Audtioning to be one of the Price Is Right broads.

This wasn’t even a full year ago and Chooch already looks so different! I can’t stand it. Change, boooooo.

Hopefully DAFE has some more events soon that we can make it to. We had to miss the last one they did over the summer at my beloved Morey’s Piers in Wildwood, NJ. :(

(If you want to read more about our day at Knoebels, those posts can be found here and here. Excerpts were also included in the DAFE newsletter, Barrel of Laughs! God, I love belonging to a group.)

I honestly can’t pinpoint what launched Chooch and me into such a giddy tirade this last Sunday evening, but it started around the time I randomly decided to play around with the Hipstamatic flashes that I never, ever use.

And then Henry sat down on the couch with his dinner and was totally irritated because I kept flashing my phone in his face, and guess what? Go eat at the dining room table, then!

That’s what it’s there for!!

I mean, seriously. How can you be THAT ANNOYED when you live in a house with two sweethearts (me and Chooch, in case that wasn’t obvious).

Somehow, it went from innocent picture-taking to hyper video-recording, some of which made it onto Instagram, much to Henry’s chagrin. At one point, he actually locked himself in the bathroom in an effort to get away from us, so Chooch started recording his sock-feet from beneath the door. Oh my god you guys, we were laughing so hard that Chooch straight puked on the floor at one point. THAT IS A SIGN OF A GOOD FUCKING NIGHT.

Of course, it ended in tears though when we were jumping on Henry, who was laying on our bed in defeat by that point, and Chooch hurt himself on Henry and then started SCREAMING about how Henry hurt him on purpose—-hopefully the neighbors heard that one and logged it. So then I got mad at Henry for ruining our night by making Chooch cry and Henry was all, “JESUS CHRIST” and Chooch was all, “I HATE YOU!!” and then I was all, “OMG IT’S ALMOST TIME FOR WALKING DEAD” so Chooch and I went downstairs and got cozy under a blanket and made Henry go to McDonald’s to get us sundaes because we’re fucking fantastic that way.

I guess if you’re a proponent of Henry, now would be as good a time as any to bust out the Poor Henry pin.

My abdominals actually ached a little bit on Monday morning, that’s how I know my laughter is hardcore.

Chooch didn’t have school yesterday so I paid him $10 to write in my blog and then a half hour later, I said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you that $10 includes a photo shoot, too.” He WISHED he had school yesterday. We were only out there for about 20 minutes and the compromise was that he got to wear his Never Shout Never shirt, so everyone was happy in the end. It’s pretty shameful how infrequently I have been using my real camera. I guess it’s mostly because it’s kind of a senior citizen now as far as cameras go and DSLRs just don’t become “hip & vintage,” I’m sorry. Every time I get close to getting a new one, I decide I want something else instead. Or the car needs fixed. Or we need to pay rent and but groceries. You know, all those pesky problems. Oh, and we upgraded to a newer version of Photoshop which most people would stoked about me, but not me. I HATE CHANGE. IT IS DIFFERENT! HARDER TO FIND THINGS! I HATE IT. (I also have barely given it a chance. Chooch’s birthday party pictures from last spring are still sitting in a folder waiting to be edited because that was when The Photoshop Upgrade happened and I almost tossed the computer out the window.

Anyway, who cares about my first world camera drama. Here are some current non-iPhone snaps of Chooch as a seven-year-old Never Shout Never addict.

Mouth open, mid-bitch.

“Do you think Christofer Drew knows how much I love him?” Chooch asked me yesterday. Never Shout Never is doing a small tour next month to support their upcoming Christmas EP, so we’re planning on taking Chooch to the Cleveland show. It’s not a surprise this time, god forbid. But maybe Chooch will get to meet him this time and tell him all about how he wishes he was his dad.

On Sunday, we were driving to the mall and passed a furniture store that had a very dramatic CLOSING FOREVER! sign out front. Chooch got really sad about this. I asked him why and he said he was sad for the people who bought all their furniture there. He definitely inherited my whacked-out emotions. And then of course I became sad for the people too. Henry was just like, “Jesus Christ,” and kept driving with a frown on his mug.

We went to the mall to buy Chooch some more school clothes because I acted all shocked that he has grown out of his long-sleeved clothes from last year, which prompted Henry to explain to me that growing is a common occurrence with children. But since we were there, Chooch and I dragged Henry to Hot Topic where I got the new Dance Gavin Dance album and then to FYE where Chooch found the “Year One” Never Shout Never compilation and also, sadly, a Backstreet Boys CD for $3. I wont ever deny the kid music, but I asked him to just please only listen to it when I’m not in the car. (I was an N*Sync fan, OK?)

FYE sucks.

This morning when were walking to school, two people stopped to tell him that they liked his hat. He was SO FUCKING SMUG about it and said with a shit-eating smirk, “Ha! Just like your PURSE, Mommy!” He hates it when people stop to compliment me on my holographic eyeball purse.

We might not have the conventional mom/kid relationship, but it works. I had the best October now that he goes to haunted houses with me and I look forward to Sundays so we can watch The Walking Dead together and then we have discussions about it the next morning while walking to school. He might piss me off 870000 times a day (like this morning when we had a mild argument over what shoes I thought looked best with his outfit #OhHonestlyErinProblems) but I’m so glad he’s mine. AND NOT HENRY’S.

J/K. But he totally likes me better.

Now there are two people in the house whining about how they can’t wait for the next Warped Tour. And Henry is thrilled.

We drove for like, how long? Two hours I guess. idiot Janna was with us and god for bid Henry put like 40 jackets on me.

when we got in line this BUNNY-DEAD KILL ME it was chasing everyone else BUT then a gas mask dude  I wanted the BUNNY-KILL ME and the gas mask dude to chase me but then some dead jester thing came out of nowhere with a stick with a skeleton thing on top and got in my face, slammed his stick with the skeleton into the ground but henry told us to go in line with him because it was shorter and there was this glass window thing in the register and I looked right through it and saw the bunny dude’s face.

so now we’re inside and first came Clown Town. the best of all is The Fog, number 10. Each one was in a different part of the park and we had to walk to each one. and henry and janna were talking about having to pee all the time, that’s all they did.

Me and my 40 jackets.

mommy was scared but nothing was even in there!!! All I saw was when we went into the merry go round I looked to the right and saw these two clowns looking on their phones. iphones, I guess.

haunted hotel Conneaut scared me the most. Mommy told me “ghosts are real” because they are. to prove that ghosts are real, I slammed my right leg on the step! wonder who pushed me mommy or a ghost?? then this ju-on lady just came out of nowhere in this dark room. I saw it first, no one else saw it. it was like gonna slam her hand on my leg but then I did this—hop!

when we were in line after the hotel Conneaut for apocalypse zombie we had to walk on this boardwalk when it ended these two dudes came running at us. I wasn’t even scared. mommy is the one who came running behind janna and henry. then the chainsaw guy came. back to the mommy was running scared part, those guys were like touching mommy and janna and henry but not me at all.

last house on the left. I did not think it was scary, when we went in, we had to go upstairs. this dude had a metal stick and slammed it on the wall and then we went THE WRONG WAY BECAUSE OF MOMMY so then we had to go through a black curtain or something. when we went through the curtains we had to walk through a living room and this girl came popping out of nowhere and said “do you know what the fox says?!” and I was like “a ring ding ding ding ding” and she was like “good job!” and then we came to another guy who said “do you want to know what the fox says?

it says nothing!” This guy in a pig mask was like on the right of mommy and mommy didn’t even notice it. he was a bloody pig guy, just with a pig mask on.

this was after we walked through Demon House with all the bubbles at the end. After we came out of the Devils Den we passed this kitten named Boots.

It was cute. The end. Hope you enjoyed! write a comment!

I must have got all of my anger out on Halloween because Sunday was really peaceful (well, until Chooch and I totally shit the bed with giddiness Sunday night, which is always Extreme Fun for the first hour but always ends in tears because we’re bi-polar motherfuckers the Mania Coaster has to come down at some point; perhaps this could be a Henry Guest Post?). We went to the mall and I bought the newest Dance Gavin Dance CD at Hot Topic. I pre-ordered the limited edition 6 vinyl box set which Henry was really irritated about but I’m sorry, music is something I don’t consider a splurge—it’s a fucking necessity. Anyway, this isn’t due to ship until December, and I wanted to have the CD too so STFU Henry. Go listen to Ted Nugent in the warehouse at work.

****

That afternoon, I went to my favorite cemetery for a jog (I don’t do “running”) and listened to the new Dance Gavin Dance. The cemetery is my favorite place to listen to music because I can be 100% invested in it—Chooch isn’t interrupting me, work isn’t interrupting me, road rage isn’t interrupting me. There might be a zombie here and there, but otherwise, it feels like I own that fucking cemetery and I love it.

<3

I was 26 or 27 when I started listening to Dance Gavin Dance. They have gone through probably as many lineup changes as I have gone through best friends. But no matter how much they change (Jonny Craig got the boot again and now Tilian Pearson is the singer), and how much I change, there is something about their sound that weaves its way into my brain and massages my snapping synapses while blanketing my heart. It’s kind of the perfect music for a loner like me. And I love taking them with me to the cemetery.

Not to get all existential and sentimental, but I have literally grown into an adult in a place reserved for death. I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent in cemeteries in general, but also this one in particular: laughing, crying, pregnant, alone, with friends, with Henry, with Chooch. I’ve puked in this cemetery, had Christmas picnics here, contemplated suicide, considered leaving Henry…(YES, HENRY, IT’S TRUE! But don’t worry, that was a long time ago.) There’s just something about this place that makes me feel everything on another level. The end result is always peace. I ALWAYS leave in peace.

(Unless Henry and Chooch are with me and we were trying to do a photo shoot. Then it might not be so peaceful…)

*****

I was playing this song this morning while Chooch was upstairs getting dressed for school. “Is that The Robot With Human Hair Part 4?” he called down the steps. “I LOVE that song!” See?! I think it takes a certain kind of fucked up brain to appreciate Dance Gavin Dance. Chooch, you’ve got it, buddy. I’m sorry.

So, I’m not going to do that November Thankful thingie that everyone else is doing, but if someone asked me yesterday what I was thankful for, aside from the obvious, I would have said “Cemeteries and Dance Gavin Dance.” Hope your Sunday was peaceful, too!

One of the Caribou Coffee joints was recently turned into a Peet’s Coffee. This wasn’t anything that neither concerned nor enticed me, but I had the misfortune of finding out one day when I went to get coffee at Caribou and instead arrived at a gutted storefront.

“It’s going to be a Peet’s Coffee,” the cashier at the nearby TCBY told me when I went inside and started asking her semi-hostile questions about where in the fuck Caribou went. “It’s supposed to be really good.”

I didn’t give a fuck. I needed an iced latte super fucking bad that day and had to stay in the area so I wound up drinking WENDY’S COFFEE OH THE HORROR.

(“Wendy’s” as in the fast food chain, not my friend Wendy, although I’ve never had that Wendy’s coffee so maybe it sucks, too.)

Then a month passed and I forgot about it because there are tons of other coffee options near my house so what do I care about this Peet’s/Caribou drama. Until one day KAITLIN texted me and was all, “FYI there’s a new coffee place called Peet’s and they have MAPLE LATTES.”

You guys. Maple lattes. Motherfucking maple lattes you guys! The first time I had maple coffee was last June when we were visiting our friend Alyson in New Hampshire and it was fucking splendid. Just so goddamn wonderful! (If you hate coffee or maple or both then skip the rest of this post I guess? I know Henry probably will.) And then in Salem, MA I had an iced maple latte and strongly considered becoming a Masshole just so I could drink that shit everyday because it was like autumn’s elixir, I can’t even describe it. It’s like when you imprint with a werewolf and your mom wants to know what that’s like, and how do you explain it? It’s fucking fantastic, like some real life Adam & Eve bullshit. Totally a personal thing so people should just mind their own goddamn business.

What happens between a girl and her iced maple latte is not my story to tell.

The grand opening for Peet’s was last Monday, but they were actually already open. So I decided mid-morning last Sunday that I needed to go and get myself mapled before I exploded.

First I checked Peet’s website just to make sure this elusive beast really was available. It was, and it said “NEW!!” beneath it, so I took that as a Good Sign. And then the store itself was dripping in Maple Latte advertisements. But when I ordered it, I was told that they were DONE FOR THE SEASON. Is this a joke? Does the Alamo paper their walls with pictures of a basement? NO. (They don’t, right? I’ve never actually been to the Alamo.) Anyway, instead of blowing my top, I went with my second choice: pumpkin spice. BUT I WAS TOLD THEY WERE ALL OUT OF PUMPKIN SPICE.

Sorry guys, I lied to you. I didn’t actually go to Peet’s at all. I sent Henry on my behalf.  I just wanted to see what it would feel like to write about actually doing something for myself.

I’ll tell you what I DID do though, I bitched about it on the Peet’s Facebook page and some Peet’s rep named DON apologized to me. He feels confident that I will enjoy their new holiday flavors, but that’s assuming I (Henry) will ever go back!

And then on Halloween morning, my brother Corey and I went to Waffles, INCaffeinated for some spooky breakfast haps. It was the first time eating there for both of us and we were really excited to go apeshit on some morning desserts. I spent all this time stressing over the menu until Corey pointed out the smaller menu of waffle add-ons, so then my head seriously was about to pop-off because I don’t handle multiple options very well.
It also had the Waffle of the Month at the bottom.

October’s waffle was the Waffle-copia. It was a sweet potato waffle (SWEET POTATO WAFFLE) with a fresh apple and fig compote (FIGS!!!!!! FUCKING FIGS!!!!!!!) and then I briefly also saw something about pumpkin, too but I didn’t need to read anymore. This was what I was going to smash  my face into that morning, pie eating contest-style. Ask my brother how stoked I was. Seriously, ask him!!

Does this look like the Waffle-copia? No? BECAUSE IT’S NOT. It’s the Mega Berry, which is what I had to disgustedly order after ELI THE WORST WAITER began to write down my order, only to pause and laugh, “Oh wait, we’re all out of the monthly special.”

I waited for him to walk away before assassinating his character in ways that could probably land me with a lawsuit, but I WAS MAD. Corey was like, “Who gives a fuck, they had my Funky Monkey, and that’s all I care about.” But I couldn’t stop mouthing off about Eli every time he walked away from our table after refilling our coffee. We’d both say thanks but then I would tack on a “FOR NOTHING!!!” after he retreated. I have impeccable aim when it comes to shooting the messenger.

Yeah, my Mega Berry waffle was good, blah blah blah. And, as Corey kept marveling over, the prices were pretty good too. BUT THE FIGS! THE FIIIIIGS!!!!!

ELI THE LIFE RUINER kept coming over to ask us how our waffles were and I just kept mumbling, “It’s good” but then when he’d retreat, I’d growl “No thanks to you.”

Before we left, some Waffle Man approached our table to ask us about our experience. He had a slight accent, so I think he might have been the proprietor (I like to read about restaurants before I go, and I remembered that the Man Responsible for the Waffles had some weird name, so that must have been him because I’m a really good profiler). Corey and I both said it was great (and it really was, EXCEPT FOR ELI THE WORST WAITER EVER). I’m not a big complainer–no really, I’m not!–so I started to think of ways I could word my Waffle-Copia complaint without sounding like some entitled Yelp reviewer.

“So….was today the last day for the waffle of the month?” I carefully prefaced my cloaked complaint.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was actually just drawing up some ideas for next month’s special,” he said, flashing his Waffle Blueprint Notebook at me. And then: “Oh my god, your face, it looks so sad!” he exclaimed with genuine concern.

Apparently, my face had fallen into an automatic Dog-Eyed Pout without me even realizing, THAT IS HOW SAD I WAS. “It’s OK,” I lied. “I just REALLY WANTED THE WAFFLE-COPIA.”

And so the Waffle Foreigner explained to me that due to certain logistics (like having to order 50-pound bags of figs), they try to run out the waffle of the month during the last week so that they’re not stuck with a bunch of product that can’t be used for the next month. And I pretended to be understanding of that, and assured him that the Mega Berry was a fine replacement (I mean, it was good, but it was no Waffle-Copia).

He mentioned my sad face again and even said it was the saddest face ever, but look — I can’t get my facial muscles to lie for me, OK? ELI RUINED MY LIFE!!!!! So, to make him feel better, I blurted out, “And the prices here are really good!” like I’m suddenly a senior citizen out for breakfast with the Pittsburgh chapter of the Regis Philbin Fan Club.

“We try to stay competitive,” Waffle Man responded to my awkward sentence.

On that note, Corey and I decided it was time to leave. ELI THE WORST WAITER IN THE WORLD was standing near the door.

“Have a great day, guys!” he cheerfully called out.

“You too!” Corey and I replied, but then as the door shut behind me, I added, “ASSHOLE.”

So, I guess the point to this story is that I don’t get over disappointment very easily. And if you’re a waiter, I WILL PROJECT MY DISAPPOINTMENT ONTO YOU. Fuck you, Eli.

[ED.NOTE: Waffles INC really was great and though it pains me to admit it, Eli was a good waiter. But if they don’t bring the Waffle-Copia back next October, they can all rot. APPLES! FIGS! SWEET POTATO! PUMPKIN! You might as well just call it the Erin’s Orgasm. I’m not so sure Peet’s will get a second chance, though. That asshole Don could have at least offered me a coupon!]

This may have been the most stressful Halloween yet. I almost said it was the worst Halloween, but that’s not true, because Chooch had fun and even though I AM THE MOST SELFISH MOM EVER, even I am able to acknowledge that that’s all that really matters. Right? Right.

You know how I always said I would never put my child in a box, after spending most of my childhood Halloweens being chafed by cardboard thanks to my overambitious mother? (Just nod.) Well, it took seven years, but it happened. We put Chooch in a box.

But first let me say that I repeatedly asked him, “Are you SURE? Do you REALLY want to be this for Halloween?” and he kept saying yes, so I’m not really the bad guy, right? I don’t ever want him to look back on these years and say, “My mom MADE me be this and I hated it.” Not that I know anything about that.

Anyway, I know the Claw Machine thing isn’t exactly original, but I thought it would be fun to make it a little more post-apocalyptic. Have all of the stuffed animals be ripped open and bloody, etc etc.

Oh and also? This didn’t happen until last Friday night. Just the birth of the idea itself, I mean. And we were barely home at all during the weekend, which meant that Henry had three work nights to try and get this done. I’d nervously text him for updates while I was at work and he would give me vague responses, like, “It’s coming along” and “This is Henry’s girlfriend…who’s this?” and “I want a divor—-oh, wait. Haha!”

By Wednesday night though, he swore he was “like, 95% finished.” So then I was feeling kind of OK until I read the Halloween rules that Chooch’s school sent home which included the most restrictive costume guidelines ever, so why even bother celebrating Halloween!? No fake weapons (OK, I can understand that one!), no makeup, no masks, it has to fit into a bag, and no parents permitted in the classroom to help with the costumes.

Well, fuck. There was no way we were fitting a huge box into a bag and also no way he was getting this on by himself. In fact, I couldn’t even do it. Only Henry could, because only he could understand his own stupid design. Oh and also? Everything else we have laying around the house involves makeup and masks–animal masks, clown masks, gas masks. I couldn’t even resort to the old vintage ghost-sheet standby because god forbid, HIS FACE WOULD BE COVERED IN COTTON. And there was no way I was going to the stupid Halloween store….

….so it was decided that for the school party and parade, he’d wear his old ice cream cone costume.

Oh! And did I mention that no baked goods can be sent along for the class party? Everything has to be storebought and individually-packaged. No creepy cupcakes or cookies, no rice krispie treats or cakepop eyeballs. (I’m pretty sure Henry was actually relieved about this rule, though. One less thing for him to labor over!)

I know it’s not the school’s fault, and I know that these stringent rules have been implemented in schools all over the country, not just Chooch’s. But it just makes me so sad that this generation will never know Halloween like we knew Halloween. All those “Creepy Vintage Halloween” articles have been circulating on Facebook, but you know what? I would even take 1980s Halloween over what it’s become now, thanks to religious zealots and all of those motherfuckers who just can’t help themselves from shooting up schools. You assholes with nut allergies probably fucked this up somehow, too. (Kidding. Save the hate mail for next week’s blog post about Satanic abortions.)

It’s goddamn depressing. So I ranted and cried about this for a long while Wednesday night. I think Chooch genuinely felt bad for me (I do play a pretty fantastic sadsack), and he agreed to take his ice cream cone costume to school the next day.

And then I conveniently got a call from the school nurse that afternoon, telling me that Chooch puked and wanted to come home. I was 100% convinced that he puked his way out of the parade, but he insisted that he got sick off of a taco at lunch. By the time we got home, he swore that he was feeling better and wanted to go back to school for the parade and party. I asked him if he was sure at least 87 times before signing him back into school. (He’s lucky we live close enough that it’s less than a 10 minute walk.) When I was standing in the hallway talking to his teacher, some other mom was there picking up her kid and she overheard the teacher say that Chooch threw up after eating a taco for lunch.

“My son pukes EVERY TIME IT’S TACO DAY!” the mom bystander shared, so maybe he wasn’t actually Tracy Gold’ing it to get out of the parade after all.

45 minutes later, I was walking to school for the 4th time that day to watch the parade, which was scary because Henry couldn’t leave work in time so I had to GO BY MYSELF. Obviously I didn’t know anyone there because I’m so parentally antisocial, and pretty much everyone else was buddied up with other parents. So I stood next to the only other person there who appeared to have gone stag—some mom with a septum piercing.

Luckily, the parade was short…..and very anti-climatic. Tons of kids didn’t even dress up at all! And then there was Chooch, who was doing his best to smile in spite of the fact that he was probably daydreaming of killing me in my sleep.

“Everyone was laughing at me!” he told me afterward (and no, he wasn’t CRYING ABOUT IT).

“Because it’s funny! It’s SUPPOSED to be funny!” I cried. Yeah, I’m definitely going to bite it in my sleep one of these nights. You guys were all right.

Meanwhile, the school’s stupid costume policies allowed Henry more time to finish the real costume that was supposed to be 95% done but somehow took another three hours to complete. So while Henry did things that required the use of a ruler and math, I figured I could use that time to maim and mangle the stuffed animals. I asked Henry for the fake blood, which he SWORE WE HAD IN THE GARAGE, and it turns out we definitely did NOT have any fake blood. (I know, it’s hard to believe that people like us actually forget to restock our fake blood.)

So I threw a huge fit and Henry was all, “OH YES LET ME JUST STOP WORKING ON THIS AND GIVE A SHIT ABOUT FAKE BLOOD!” He suggested I walk to CVS and just buy some, but hey, FYI: CVS replaces all of the Halloween stuff with Christmas stuff on HALLOWEEN. I even asked one of the cashiers, thinking maybe they could just snag a tube for me out of the back, but she crinkled her nose and repeated, “Fake BLOOD?” like I was asking for a Englebert Humperdinck 8-track.

Actually, that’s a horrible reference because that cashier was like 70 so she would have been happy about that.

I ran back home after that. Me! Running! In the rain! In the rain I ran!

Did I mention it was raining? Of course it was raining—it’s Halloween in Pittsburgh. All fucking day, it was drier than a nun’s kooka* until an hour before trick-or-treating was set to start.

*(Unless it was one of the nun’s in the Italian porn we may have recently watched. And by we I mean Henry by himself because I am too classy for that, obviously.)

With no fake blood to transform the bag of stuffed animals, I focused on doing Chooch’s makeup. This part was pretty stress-free because Chooch suddenly enjoys being made-up and even dug around my makeup box for the shade he wanted around his eyes. (All makeup used was My Pretty Zombie, of course.)

The final step for Chooch’s makeup was to adhere some stuffing to his cheek, to give it that “ripped open stuffed animal” feel. Unfortunately, in order to get the stuffing, I had to cut open one of the stuffed animals, which was the whole point in buying them from Goodwill anyway. We were going to decapitate some, amputate some, etc etc. Chooch beat me to the bag and furiously dug through it, desperately yelling, “Wait! Not the dog! Not the kitty! No, not the dragon, either!!” and before I knew it, he had almost the entire bag of stuffed animals in his arms, frantically hugging them into his body.

Finally, I found a frog and tried to be all dismissive about it. “Eh, it’s just a frog,” I said with a wave. “It’s not even all that cute.” But son-of-a-bitch, when I raised those scissors up to its chest, I was overcome with a wave of anthropomorphic guilt.

“Mommy, don’t!” Chooch whimpered.

But…I had to do it, you guys. I had to slice open this poor fucking frog that already had the misfortune of being orphaned at a thrift shop. What dumb luck. As the sound of those dull blades slashing through fabric rang through the air, Chooch burst into tears. Like, REALLY BIG TEARS rolling down his poor wolf-cheeks, taking strips of makeup along for the ride.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Henry muttered as Chooch sobbed and I apologized profusely, more to the frog than Chooch, if we’re being honest.

Then when Chooch wasn’t looking, I smeared the frog with red paint.

Chooch, post-cry. I had to reapply his makeup afterward. At least he got to wear his Never Shout Never-inspired wolf hat!

So, that pretty much killed the stuffed animal idea. Luckily, we had enough pre-bloodied plush options, like the Batman that our friend Bonecrusher zombified for Chooch’s 5th birthday, one of Andrea’s zombie Barbies, Ju-On, a Jason Voorhees plush, the stuffed rabbit I bloodied for my Fatal Attraction costume last year and Chooch has still not forgiven me. All the while, I kept mouthing off to Henry about every last thing, all the way down to his audacity for even having been born. I have medals in this sport, you guys. My endurance for berating Henry is porn star-caliber.

Janna arrived right around this time, and she should really write a guest post about how comfortable and mellow it is to sit on the couch and listen to my mouth flap like your basic Roseanne Barr and Henry quietly simmers in a broth of domestic abuse and emasculation. I think my salutation as she walked through the front door was, “THIS IS THE WORST FUCKING DAY EV-HER-HER-HER-HER-ERRRRRR.”

He insisted on putting a non-maimed dog in the front with him, but he was telling everyone its name was Murder Victim.

I know, Chooch looks miserable in the video. But he was trying to look like a sad wolf, OK?! I’M NOT REALLY THAT BAD OF A MOM.

Finally, Chooch was situated in his box and we set off in the rain. We tagged along with our neighbor and two of her kids. Her son Josh is in Chooch’s class and they’ve known each other basically since they were born, since they’re only 2 weeks apart in age. Sometimes they don’t play very well together, but they made a good trick-or-treating duo. I was really glad for that, because this day did not need any more stress! Plus, Josh was really enthused about Chooch’s costume, which made him get even more into it.

Too bad the rain forced him to take it off after the first block. Totally broke my heart, which I communicated by being a complete asshole and stamping my feet and threatening that I was JUST GOING TO GO HOME. Because you know, it’s all about me and my feelings. Meanwhile, Chooch was like, “Erin, Imma let you finish, but not having to wear a box in the rain is one of the best Halloween costumes of all time.” And frankly, he looked adorable as that stuffed wolf, so I got over it pretty quickly. (Not without verbally raping Henry a few more times though. Because the rain was ALL HIS FAULT! Why didn’t he smear himself with his own feces and crump to What Does the Fox Say beneath the Harvest Moon like a REAL FATHER?!)

I really don’t handle this shit well. I act like every little tiny event is my wedding/funeral. And it always ends up being fine! And we have fun! And we laugh! But there is always that hour where I am such a raging control freak bitchnugget asshole that I have no idea why I still have any friends. Or, you know, a Henry and a Chooch.

So I will summarize the rest (thank god, right) by saying that:

• it rained like it motherfucker
• Henry tried to go home
• some lady in a Blazer almost ran us over and then put her window down to tell Chooch he had the cutest costume, and I said, “Thanks…FOR ALMOST RUNNING US OVER”
• Henry and I broke up over an umbrella
• I pointed out all of the things Henry forgot to put on the claw machine and he growled, “THERE ARE A LOT OF THINGS I WOULD HAVE DONE IF I HAD MORE TIME.” God, quit your job then, asshole.
• Henry tried to go home
• Chooch had to take off the box before we made it off the first block and went the rest of the night as a “sad stuffed wolf”
• Henry tried to go home
• Janna had a cold
• I called Henry a motherfucker (x 87)
• Henry got to go home

Fuck you and your purple umbrella, asshole.

Sopping wet chaperones.

I don’t even think they noticed it was raining. (Josh had a really cute pirate costume, and it sucked that he had to wear a windbreaker over it. I hate Pittsburgh weather.)

We probably only saw 15-20 other trick-or-treaters in the 60+ minutes we were out there. And most houses just left out a bowl on the honest

Tourette’s was trick-or-treating, too!!

Cast of Claw Characters

“What did you use for the blood?” Henry frowned, rubbing his wet, red fingers together.

“Paint. It was either that or Ketchup,” I said with a shrug, and then when he gave me The Disappointed Father look, I screamed, “OH DON’T EVEN START WITH ME ABOUT THE FAKE BLOOD, YOU SON OF A BITCH.” I mean, good fucking god. Sorry that paint takes so long to dry!

****

Afterward, Henry, Chooch, Janna and I went to Eat n Park for dinner, and miraculously Henry and I quit hating each other long enough to (BRIEFLY) hold hands at the booth. And now Chooch is apparently really into eyeliner. I came home from work last night and he had it on one eye. Henry gave me the “thanks for THAT, Erin” smirk.

All in all, it ended up being fine and we had fun in spite of the rain. I mean, if I had nothing to bitch about, how would I ever remember this night?!

Did your Halloween go off without a hitch? If so, fuck you.