As far as November weather goes, we were having a pretty beautiful Sunday here in Pittsburgh. We had nothing planned for the day, and even though I was fighting an annoying cold/allergy attack, I decided it was too perfect of a day not to go out and take pictures. Nothing major, I said. Let’s just, I don’t know…go to the grocery store first and buy a birthday cake. For no reason.

Oh just a simple, cheap cake, I said, giving the false impression that this was going to be a breezy, casual, in-and-out trip to the grocery store. Except that we got there and I threw a fit because NONE OF THESE CAKES LOOK RIGHT! NONE OF THEM MATCH MY VISION! THIS IS FUCKING BULLSHIT! I HOPE GIANT EAGLE GOES OUT OF BUSINESS!

And then from there it was JUST FORGET IT LET’S GO HOME FUCK THIS DAY RIGHT IN THE EYE.

I know this game, Henry said out loud, and instead of going home, he drove down the street to a different grocery store, smartly left Chooch and me in the car, and came back with the gaudiest birthday cake, complete with plastic clown head whose icing body was splayed across the top in a hideous, prostrate fashion.

It was fucking perf.

We took the cake, and a “just-in-case” rabbit mask, to Henry’s workplace which has always treated me well as far as photo shoot locales go. Henry was happy because my attitude had adjusted slightly with the purchase of the cake. (Although there was a brief argument in the over birthday cake candles, or lack thereof.)

Thank god we happened to have a random paper mache clown figure in the trunk of the car, too. (Our trunk is like the Mary Poppin’s Tapestry Bag of Animal Masks, Hats, and Other Assorted Oddities. We are always prepared for impromptu costume parties or induction into the witness protection program.)

My only direction for Chooch was “pretend like it’s your birthday party and no one came.”

I can do that, he said with a shrug.

He was very accommodating and easy to work with because I promised that I would play 10 (ten!!) rounds of Call of Duty when we went home. (Mostly because I am really beginning to like playing even though my skill level is not improving.)

The stages of being blown off on your unbirthday.

Now pretend like you don’t give a fuck and just eat the everloving SHIT out of that cake, I said to Chooch, always ready to provide direction.

And then I got to smash cake in Henry’s face because who knows if I’ll ever have a WEDDING DAY. Henry wasn’t very pleased about this, but Chooch and I were laughing so hard that he eventually cracked the tiniest smile while muttering, “You just wait, little bitch.”

It’s been awhile since Chooch and I got along during a photo shoot. I think it was because I mostly let him do whatever he wanted. Plus, the cake. He got to eat cake.

I don’t always go into these things with some high-brow, art student intentions or subtle nuances suggesting a deeper message. But while I was editing these last night, my brother texted me something along the lines of how it makes him happy that even though we were dealt a pretty crappy hand as far as families go, we were still able to have a strong sibling relationship where we can go off on random adventures and laugh to the point of an ugly-cry.

So, I guess this photo series has a cheesy moral to it after all. Um….: When things don’t go the way you intended, try to make the best of what you’re given, eat some cake, etc etc.

Or just go and cut someone. Whatever makes you feel better.

Shit got real once the sun went down at Knoebel’s….

…REAL DARK. OH!

And that’s when some of the rides went from being normal to OMGHAUNTED. Like the antique cars. They were closed all day long in preparation of the sun setting, and I was excited to ride those boring things because they had haunted scenes set up, which Chooch and I could see every time we ascended the inaugural hill of the Phoenix. On the Hallo-Fun brochure, there was a warning that the seasonally-haunted cars might be too scary for kids under 13, but from what we could see, it was your typical VFW-caliber haunted house decorating.

Kitschy and adorable.

However, people started standing in line before the ride even opened, and the line was LONG, so we never got to ride it. Because HENRY was all, “You will never have time to ride this.”

So Chooch and I entertained ourselves by taking selfies on basically every ride that we went on, because we’re Those People.  One of our favorite rides is the Cosmotron, which is essentially just the Music Express but inside a DOME and they TURN OFF THE LIGHTS and then what happens next is an epileptic’s cautionary tale. I was amused because We the Kings was playing while Chooch and I were on it and I have never hear WTK outside of Warped Tour. I don’t particularly care for them, but they’re well-suited to soundtrack the Cosmotron.

We exited on other side of the building, which Henry wasn’t prepared for. When we came back around, I spotted Henry with his back toward us, waiting for us to come out of a different exit. The compulsive hider in me grabbed Chooch’s arm and tugged him behind a bush before Henry had a chance to spot us. “Let’s sneak up on daddy,” I whispered giddily and then Chooch as usual tried to hijack my well-crafted plans of sneak-uppery by attempting to creep from a different direction until I yanked him back my way, which involved walking around a building and coming at Henry from the opposite direction of the Cosmotron. I’m sure we didn’t look suspicious at all.

But then stupid Henry was waiting for us because he has a fucking sixth sense when it comes to our presence and was fully prepared for the sneak attack. I blame Chooch. Henry probably saw him when he tried to deviate from the course.

The Looper. What a piece of shit this ride is. Chooch and I struggled with it when we were there last there, so this time I flat out asked the ride operators what the secret is to get the fucking thing to flip all the way around, because I saw other unevenly-weighted pairs succeeding so I knew that there had to be a way to conquer this bitch in spite of the weight imbalance. The two guys were like “blah blah blah” and I thought that I understood what they said, it sounded simple, but then the ride started and it only worked once! Chooch was livid and kept screaming at the guys to help us and I was like, “THEY’RE NOT GOING TO HELP US WHILE THE RIDE IS MOVING, GOD!” And then Chooch was making me feel incompetent but I fucking swear I was doing it right! By the time the ride stopped, the muscles in my legs were on fire from me trying to use my body to physically flip the cage. WHAT DID YOU DO TO HELP, CHOOCH?! Nothing but run your mouth, that’s what!

Here, Chooch was mad. He wanted a caramel apple or something. Apple cider? No! A restroom. He had to pee. So Henry was like, “Erin, go take him to the bathroom while I buy stuff for myself to eat because it’s Henry Time.”

Henry’s tone implied that taking my son to the bathroom was something that A Real Mom could pull off effortlessly, therefore he was fully prepared for me to fail.

And…I did. Almost.

We headed the direction that Henry thumbed us, but I just can’t get a good grasp on the layout of Knoebel’s! This was only my second time there and it’s just confusing, OK? Chooch and I were trying to consult a map, and then we thought that we found a restroom but it was some fake-log cabin thing that was closed. So then Chooch became mad because he thought he might piss his pants, and I became panicked and started to shut down, which is what happens to me in those Rise to the Occasion moments, where Real Moms are lifting cars off of toddlers and getting out stains with nothing other than their own spit, and I’m just standing there, stock-still and comatose, while the world moves around me.

WE ARE LOST. WE ARE SO FUCKING LOST. WE ARE SO FUCKED! is what I kept muttering over and over again while Chooch flipped the map upside down and then tilted his head to a right angle in an effort to crack the code.

Tilt-a-Whirl, motherfuckers!

I’m not sure what was going on in this shooting gallery, but Chooch keeps better at it because Henry taught him how to aim but he won’t teach me, god forbid, so now I don’t even bother to ask for quarters because WHY BOTHER.

A cob-webbed Santa, my favorite kind!

This thing.

If I thought I had any friends who loved me enough to drive 5 hours in my honor, I would totally have my birthday party beneath the birthday cake pavilion at Knoebel’s next year. That thing makes me feel so festive.

Ugh, Chooch and I went on the Satellite, which we had at Kennywood way back in the day and everyone called them the salt and pepper shakers but I feel like that wasn’t the real name. Anyway, if you ever ride this son of a bitch, you’ll understand why people called it the salt and pepper shakers because it’s literally like you’re a fucking grain of salt and some fucking giant is furiously trying to shake you out onto his disgusting bowl of giant slop. This ride is terrifying and painful and I rammed my shoulder so hard against the cage that I kept waking up in the middle of the night thinking I had rolled over onto a rock but NO it was just the BRUISE on my shoulder. Chooch found this endlessly humorous, because he’s my son, and we’re both dicks.

Anyway, that picture up there is a view from when we were stuck in the air while new people were being herding into the cage below.

Creepy Henry, watching us have fun without him on the Whipper. Fuck you, Henry.

I don’t know how this started, but Chooch and I suddenly have a tradition of screaming SELFIE!!! every time we’re whipped around the corner. I’m sure we don’t sound like obnoxious pricks AT ALL.

Henry could have rode this with us but I guess $1.25 in tickets isn’t worth being smashed in a rounded car with two screaming assholes.

I was supposed to share this with Henry, so what I did was eat all of the whipped cream and caramel first and then I left him two apple slices.

This picture is kind of gross. Did the chef just splooge all over that apple and now he’s watching it drip down into an ejaculatory peak? I mean, look at that self-satisfying smirk on his face! Stop jutting your ass out!

Also: Why have I never considered using an ax to cut my apples?

The Downdraft is basically the bastard son of that No-Named Yellow Piece of Shit that sometimes makes an appearance at the Westmoreland County Fair. I thought that I knew what I was getting myself into but then the fucking started before I was ready for it to start, and I don’t mean that they engine kicked on and then the ride slowly started up. No, I mean there was literally no warning, it just fucking shot out into the air and my head snapped back in the same sort of inhuman angle reserved for exorcism movies, so that felt great.

I dubbed this the Bowel Loosener.

Henry actually bought this hat for Chooch which was crazy because Henry never buys anything for us at amusement parks, except for food because he knows better than to not feed us.

All in all, it was a great time. The only time I got super angry was when we went into the arcade to have our way with the photobooth, but some ridiculous hipster couple kept hogging it because they were consistently unhappy with their photos and kept going back in for more. Seriously? Perhaps photo booths are to advanced for you then. Maybe stick with iPhone selfies? Or better yet: go to Urban Outfitters and hog THEIR photo booth. Hipster douchebags.

Ever since our dad had Amish people working on his house, Corey and I decided that it was imperative for us to have an Amish adventure, because what is the most obnoxious thing for us to do?!

Our dad was REALLY excited to find out that we decided to go to Sugarcreek, OH because it’s apparently one of his favorite places and Corey said sometimes our dad will disappear for 6 hours only to come home with bags of cheese and beef sticks after taking his motorcycle to Amish Country on a whim.

Anyway, he was excited to make us an itinerary of post-it notes, pictured above, and Corey said he mentioned the hardware store several times.

“Ya gotta finish up at the hardware store!”

Corey said he was jabbing his finger at the map and was so into it, so now we’re like WHAT IS AT THE HARDWARE STORE?!

I’m excited to find out.

The proposition of “Let’s go downstairs” seemed innocent enough. No, that’s a lie. I was actually quite taken aback and had visions of being knifed/blackmailed/tickled/forced to lick a shoe until I caught Alisha shaking her pack of cigarettes at me. We were at her friend Mark’s apartment, watching the Penguins game, eating pizza and quickly drankin’ our way through three bottles of wine.

“I’ll come too,” Mark decided, since the first period had just ended. He and Alisha grabbed their wine glasses. Not wanting to seem like some wino who can’t be without a glass in her hand for five minutes, I left mine on the table.

I had never met Mark before, but he was very affable from the get-go and had good vanilla handsoap in his bathroom. And even though I usually get annoyed with girls who watch sports for the eye-candy factor, it wasn’t annoying when Mark gushingly admitted to thinking Sidney Crosby is cute.

After Alisha and only Alisha finished her cigarette because she was the only one smoking, not me, I don’t smoke, Mark swung his keys in his hand and went to unlock the front door.

“Oh, shit,” he spat. Alisha and I stood there waiting for an explanation, but all he had to do was open his hand to expose my car keys dangling from his finger.

Mark lives with his brother, who conveniently was in Ohio for the weekend. And of course, Mark’s phone was in the apartment, watching the hockey game that had resumed by that point. His landlord’s number was in his phone, along with his brother’s, which he didn’t know off by heart.

Through a phone relay, Mark managed to acquire his landlord’s number, and it naturally went straight to voicemail.

And then a bunch of panicking happened. At one point, we found ourselves sitting in my car, where we at least learned that the score was 3-0 Penguins. I emitted a dialed-back, near-silent “yay….” accompanied by a watered-down roof-raise, because I had a feeling maybe Mark was a little bit too stressed for someone to be punching the roof of a car in jubilation.

“I can always ask one of my neighbors for a ladder,” Mark postulated. Moments before, we had scoped out the back of the house. He lives on the second floor, and there’s a small roof beneath his kitchen window, which he admitted to not locking. Standing on the sidewalk in front of his neighbor’s house, Mark turned to us and asked, “Before I go and ask for a ladder, will one of you actually climb it?”

My hand shot up to the sky. “Me! I’ll do it.” I could sense Alisha looking at me in surprise. But probably it was adoration.

“Hold my glass,” Mark said, shoving it at Alisha’s hand.

As he turned to walk to the neighbor’s house, I started jumping up and down in excitement.

“This is fantastic! I’m so excited!” I squealed.

But Alisha, turning somber, placed her hands on my shoulders. “I just want to say that, of all my friends, I am so glad that it’s you here tonight. You are the bravest person I know, and I feel safe in your presence. When this first happened, in fact, I thought to myself, ‘A-Prid, you need to calm yourself right down, girlfriend. You’re going to be fine. Erin’s here, and she’s like MacGyver. She will get us through this. And then you’ll have the rest of your life to bake her chocolate-covered rewards.’”

And then she thrust one of the empty wine glasses at me so she wouldn’t be mistaken for a drunken sidewalk-bound hobo.

Able to procure a ladder, Mark tramped around to the backyard. I followed, beginning to feel the onset of nerves manifesting as prickles in my fingertips. The ladder was sprawled out on the shadowed grass with Mark muttering, “How do you open this thing?” while I scoped out (with eyes stretched out to the size of porn-industry standardized tits) all the things I could potentially impale myself on. Like literal wooden stakes that were used to prop up flowers.

The ladder was opened to its fullest potential and propped against the back of the house. Making sure Alisha and Mark had firm grips on either side, I began my ascent. It was a wobbly ascent. The ground below seemed uneven and I can’t say I felt very secure. But I thought about some really awesome things to help me get through it and by the second rung I was already pretending I was on one of the Real World / Road Rules Challenges, about to win $10,000 for my team and a snowboard I’ll never use. And then I remembered my team was Mark and Alisha and I won’t lie – I considered throwing the challenge.

By the fourth rung, I began ruing the fact that I left my wine on the coffee table.

By the fifth rung, it occured to me that no one asked Mark why he wasn’t shimmying up to the roof to save us. I already knew why Alisha wasn’t – she’s not a team player. And also, I think she once told me she was abused by a ladder one time? Maybe I dreamt that? Oh right, I remember now what it was – she’s allergic to heroism.

I vaguely remember hearing forced and monotoned words of encouragement, in the style of “Bad Actor Reads From Cue Card.” Supportive gems such as “Oh yay. You are. Doing. A great. Job. Yay. Woo.” and “Don’t worry if the a/c unit falls on you! I don’t care about it!” and “I see that weather vane just plunged into your thigh. Can you try to not get any blood on the walls though? Thanks.”

Finally, I was at the top. The only thing left for me to do was turn to my right and swing my body onto the roof. And for the record, I’d like to point out that from the ground, the roof looked flat. But with it half a foot in front of my face, I was able to see that it had a slight peak to it. Awesome. But I had two people below counting on me, and without even swearing once (I KNOW RIGHT), I did a gentle dive over the gutter, where I then landed with the grace of a prima ballerina. And I won’t even remark on how the ladder simultaneously started sliding to the left, except that I just did.

Crab-walking to the kitchen window, it dawned on me that I never thought about what I’d do if I couldn’t get the window open. No way was I going back down that ladder. I once sat in a treehouse for hoursbecause I was too scared to come down the ladder. Granted, I was four. But I haven’t grown up much. I was able to slide up the screen with ease, but the window was more stubborn. Every time I would get a good grip on it with my palms, the top half of the window would jiggle, and I’ve watched enough Dario Argento movies to know that this is not a good sign. Finally, I held my breath and pushed up as hard as I could. The bottom window slid up high enough for me to drop my forearms under it and finally have something other than clammy palms to use as leverage.

And then something that had been hanging on the inside of the window fell and made a loud enough crash for Mark to scream from the ground, “Do NOT break my Fiestaware!” This was right as I was swinging a leg onto the ledge and kicked a bowl that had been placed decoratively on the sill. My arm shot out and grabbed it, which was probably enough of a talent-display to play for the STEELERS. Just as I set the bowl out of harm’s way, my other leg was en route though the gaping window and kicked another Fiesta piece.

I saved that one too. I may be clumsy, but ain’t no one ever said nothin’ about bad reflexes. Safely in the kitchen, I straightened up the Fiestaware collection and noticed that the first thing that fell was actually a stained glass window hanging. A quick examination learned me it was unscathed. A good thing, as I would later learn it was the first piece of stained glass Mark made.

There was two and a half minutes left to the second period. I got to see Max Talbot attempt a penalty shot as I poured another glass of wine.

“Hey Mark, you know what’s funny?” I said once he returned from taking back the ladder. “I’ve never climbed a ladder before.” And oh, how we laughed. This was when Mark admitted to not wanting to climb it because he was wearing slippers. And really I have to agree that my ballet flats are way better for house-scaling.

It’s crazy to think about what might have happened had I not succeeded. We’d probably have had to fashion an igloo from leaves and Alisha’s cigarette butts, catch some rats to cook with her lighter. Maybe we could have eventually started a brand new colony down by the river. Oh, the homeless have already done that? Shit.

The “how” isn’t important, but I found Alisha’s diary entry from that night.

With all the roof-raising I do, it was only natural that I would wind up on a roof someday.

[A note from Present Day Erin: This is one of my favorite memories of Alisha. I miss that broad a lot sometimes. Also, I haven’t climbed a ladder since.]

It’s time to unload all of the deceased, Glennified celebs that I have been hoarding on my phone. You will note that there is no Robin Williams Glenn yet. I want to make a collection of Robin Williams Glenns, like a Brady Bunch-esque grid of them, but I just haven’t had the time yet.

I think I posted this one already, but I recently found out that Glenn used to be a beekeeper and now is not a beekeeper.

When I was a kid, I remember finding out that Bob Hoskins was supposedly (“supposedly”) British and I disputed this furiously. “I saw him in Who Framed Roger Rabbit and he is definitely from America because he talked American!” I MEAN, REALLY.

My god, I was so giddy when I made this one.

This one was suggested by my friend Kristy when we were at the Zombie Luau and it was apparently the nth anniversary of Elvis’s death. I know this because Kristy said to me, “Hey, it is the nth anniversary or Elvis’s death.” So, here is his RIP Glenn. You’re welcome, Mr. The King.

It makes me really happy when people who don’t work here/know Glenn suggest an RIP Glenn. I told him that this happens sometimes and he was like, “OK.”

Out of all the Glenns I have made over the years, this one probably is the closest match to his likeness.

This one hurt. Jan Hooks’ had a small role in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, but it was huge enough to make a lasting impression on me (and millions of others!). I am not big on referencing movies, but her scene is such a metaphor for my life, always looking for something that doesn’t exist, finding myself asking for something that gets me laughed at. I have written about countless “Alamo Basement” moments on this blog.

One of my fondest Alamo Basement moments was a literal one. It was the summer of 1992, when we were hosting a French foreign exchange student so suddenly my family was doing textbook family stuff, like “going on outings together.” One of those outings was to Laurel Caverns, about an hour away, where we took French Kid on a tour so he could take home a souvenir of stalagmite with stalactite confusion, like the rest of us dumbass Americans. So we’re on this tour, deep inside a fucking dripping cavern, and my dad raises his hand and asks, in a perfect deadpan, “When do we get to see the basement?” My dad and I barely got along back then, but goddamn did I laugh.

Jan Hooks will always represent something happy from my childhood. And now, she is a Glenn.

I’m pissed about this one. The gown looks like stupid Alaska water and a stupid Alaska mountain. Ugh, Alaska, you constantly mock me!!

I KNEW I should have made the dress red.

After I made the Wayne Static Glenn, Glenn shrugged. “I don’t know who that is.”

Mean Amber turned around and said, “Yeah, either do I.”

So then I felt confused. Was I astral projecting again? Was Wayne Static someone who only exists in the astral projection town I visit on my fantastic subconscious trips and now my two worlds are colliding and everyone on this side is going to think I’m nuts, bringing back memories of characters who don’t exist here on this side?

But then Nate walked by and said, “Yes I am familiar with Static X” so I was relieved until it occurred to me that Nate and I are astral projecting together somehow, to a town on the other side that never advanced past pre-millennium hard rock.
+++++++++
FUNNY STORY: Glenn’s wife came to visit with their new baby a few weeks ago and Glenn took her to the other side of his desk, where two poster boards of Glenns hang on a wall.

“So, I never told you about this before,” he started slowly. “Because it’s kind of hard to explain, but…here is this thing.” And then he Vanna White’d an arm along the poster boards and maybe it was just the angle but I could swear I caught a glimmer of PRIDE on Glenn’s face.

There was a tense moment of silence while his wife took it all in. I was prepared to throw Amber under the bus.

“IT WAS ALL AMBER’S IDEA! AMBER STARTED IT! AMBER IS A SICK PERSON WHO NEEDS HELP!”

But then Glenn’s wife started cracking up and pointing out her favorites. YES!

Later that day, Amber and I were reminiscing about all the Glenns we’ve defaced over the years.

“You know, when you first started this, I thought, ‘Yeah, this is going to get old.’ But no. No, it’s still funny!”

And then we laughed for awhile until Amber realized she had gone more than 5 minutes without being mean.

The end.

Yesterday was my Pappap’s birthday. Or, would have been. I did really well until right before bed and then I cried myself to sleep because sometimes you just need to let it all out. Just let it all out, it’s ok!

I woke up with a terrible headache.

I would say it’s gotten easier since he died in 1996, but that’s not entirely true. In a lot of ways, it’s gotten so much worse. But I can at least make it through entire days at a time without falling down the rabbit hole of ugly mourning.

Having a child makes it kind of harder to ignore that slow-burn, sinking sensation inside my chest. Because now when I watch Chooch attempt to hit targets at amusement park shooting galleries, it makes me think of how he will never know how much my Pappap loved those things. Or how my Pappap would always let me blow out the candles on his birthday cakes and would 100% let Chooch do the same.

Or how he was just the best guy I have ever known. I never thought I would meet a guy even half as great as he was, until I met Henry. I hate that my Pappap never got to meet Henry.

I have been in a really weird place lately, family-wise.

I just really miss him a lot, still. I miss my whole family.

Standing in line for Flying Turns at Knoebel’s two weeks ago, Chooch spotted a kid at the front of the line, wearing a bacon costume.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if his name was Kevin?” Chooch asked, laughing. “And he’s wearing a BACON costume?” He was beside himself with laughter at this point. “GET IT, MOMMY? KEVIN…BACON!?”

YES I GET IT! GOD.

He watched Footloose once last year so obviously Mr. Bacon has been on Chooch’s radar ever since. I mean, it’s Kevin-fucking-Bacon.

In fact, earlier that same day, as Henry was driving around the town of Danville, PA in circles, Chooch piped up from the backseat, “Don’t Kevin Bacon your way around.” It makes less and less sense the more you think about it, but goddamn did we laugh at the time!

And then, after seeing the bacon kid at Knoebel’s, Chooch said that’s what he wanted to be for Halloween: a bacon suit with a Hello My Name Is: Kevin name tag. You guys. Finally. A simple goddamn Halloween costume. With two weeks to go! No makeup needed! No DIY crossbows or cardboard boxes to turn to mush in the rain! No ONELASTTHING that has one of us running to CVS 15 minutes before trick-or-treating begins.

Last weekend, we went to the Halloween store and bought the bacon costume. I had no problem spending $30 on it because even though it seems like we’re being so economical with all of our DIY costumes of Halloween-past, all the bits and pieces that we have to collect from Goodwill and eBay add up, not to mention the stress of putting it all together. But the best part was the Chooch was so excited and proud of this costume! I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s not the first person to do this. But he might be the first 8-year-old to come up with the idea on his own!

**********

Halloween was a wet mess. It started raining late-morning and basically never let up, so the parade at Chooch’s school was moved to the gym. At first I was really pissed off about the parade in general because Henry kept saying he would probably be able to make it but of course at the last minute, his mistress showed up a truck driver showed up at work, so he couldn’t leave in time to make the parade. But then when I got to the school, I quickly forgot about being mad because THE GYM TEACHER WAS THERE AND I AM SO HOT FOR THAT GUY! So instead of sending Henry death-threats via text, I occupied myself with taking stealth-shots of my gym teacher crush while Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical” played on a loop in my slutty head.

Don’t worry! There was still room for me to judge 3/4 of the parents in the room.

The parade only lasted about 15 minutes. Once the adults realized Chooch’s entire costume, there was a ton of snickering and he seemed pleased. I figured most people assumed this was a costume that his bossy parents forced on him.

“None of your friends are going to get it,” I told him the other day.

“No…but the teachers will,” he shrugged. Because that’s all he cares about: impressing grown-ups.

***********

It was still raining by the time trick-or-treating started and I was completely upset about it. Chooch didn’t give a fuck, but I was all, “HALLOWEEN IS RUINED! AGAIN! WAHHHH!” But really it was because I was mad that I had half-assed a baby doll costume (I was wearing a donuts-in-space baby doll dress, even) and then had to cover everything up with a rainjacket, ugh. I hate everything!

Anyway. We wound up going around the neighborhood with our neighbor Sam and her son, Markie. Markie is kind of like the little brother that Chooch always says he wants until he spends too much time with Markie and then he turns into a little jerk-bully and it is so infuriating. I hate kids with superiority complexes and Chooch definitely has one that rears its head every now and then. I spent most of the time saying things like, “CAN’T YOU JUST BE NICE?! WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT TO MARKIE? STOP BEING A JERK.”

Ugh.

Stop making me be a MOM on HALLOWEEN.

Henry was absolutely no help whatsoever.

Markie’s mom has trick-or-treating on LOCK. She would quickly point out if they missed a house or if they only took one when the sign said TAKE TWO and she was on top of things when it came to crossing the street. Have you seen me cross the street? Thank god for Markie’s mom.

A few Halloweens ago, Chooch completely bit it down a set of stairs not unlike these ones. And this year, he was practically making the trek in a DRESS. He did fall once, not down any steps at least, and Markie’s mom was on top of it. That’s just one of the reasons why everyone assumed she was my kid’s mom that night.

Sigh.

AFTER THIS HOUSE GO TO THAT HOUSE. DON’T WALK THROUGH THEIR YARD! YOU MISSED THAT HOUSE! THE LIGHT IS OFF BUT THERE IS A BOWL ON THE PORCH!!!!

Ah, the sounds of hyper-bossy trick-or-treating parents. They should have their own show on TLC.

And I thought Henry was a candy-fetching militant.

Seriously, Chooch’s costume. It’s like a breakfast gown. I had the ingenious foresight to pin it up, but that brilliant mom-idea came the day before, so by Halloween, I had forgotten to do it. But still, people freaked out over his costume. One lady even asked to take his picture. I was happy to stand in the background and not take any credit. This was all Chooch and I let him have it all. (There were times when people would laugh and say to each other, “Oh, he’s bacon, how cute” and, after fisting their candy bowl, he would snap, “I’m KEVIN Bacon” and then sauntered away while they let that sink in.

Toward the end of the night, we parted ways with the neighbors, and if there was a house Chooch felt like skipping, we let him skip the everloving FUCK out of it. It was cold and wet and we wanted to go home and eat candy, you know? Leave us alone.

********

All in all, it was a pretty “meh” Halloween, and I hate the word “meh” so now you know how “meh”-ish Halloween must have been for me to say it was “meh.” Chooch was kind of like, “I have a headache, can we be done now?” with about 30 minutes left to go and I wanted to go to a haunted house afterward but Henry was all, “YOU HAVE BEEN TO ENOUGH GODDAMN HAUNTED HOUSES, DAUGHTER” and it just didn’t feel like Halloween, you guys. The weather was so dreary and I was tired and something just felt…off. It felt off the whole entire month, if we’re being honest with each other here. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it: Did I not watch enough horror movies? Didn’t go to enough haunted houses? Was it because we didn’t carve pumpkins (or even BUY any for that matter)? Not enough pointless trips to the Halloween store?

It hit me over the weekend. I miss my mom. My stupid fucking mommy. Wait. Let me rephrase that: I miss the person my mom used to be. You guys, she had a lot of really great moments, and Halloween was always one of them. She was so into it: our yard decorations were on point. My homemade costumes were award-winning. She’d host costume parties for her friends and she would make sure the cheese trays never ran out of perfectly-cubed bites of colby and cheddar. And when I was older, we would have Halloween bonfires at her house, all of my friends and my brother Ryan’s friends, with beer and Woodchuck and autumnal revelry…and it hasn’t been the same since then. I try to distract myself with all of the haunted houses and the crazy-detailed Halloween desk themes at work, and it mostly works. It does! But that slippery depression is there in the shadows, waiting for me to forget to busy myself for a few minutes so that it can slip in and remind me of everything that I try so hard to forget.

Next year, I’ll just have to try harder.

I call this one “Praying For Patience”

Chooch, Henry and I were all sitting on the couch together tonight, watching The Walking Dead. And by “sitting on the couch together,” I mean that Chooch and I were taking turns roughly using Henry as an ottoman and a jungle gym until we eventually drove him away.

“We were just trying to have Family Time!” I cried as Henry stood up.

“No,” he shot back. “You were having Get On Henry’s Nerves Time!

”

Rude.