travel | Oh Honestly, Erin

Gatlinburg, Day 6: Salt n Pepa Shaker Museum

travel

Sep 032011

If it weren’t for Roadside America, I probably wouldn’t have been tipped off to the Museum of Salt and Pepper Shakers; it wasn’t listed anywhere with the rest of Gatlinburg’s attractions. (Maybe it needs a “Ripley’s” added to the front.)

At $3 per person (Chooch was free), it was the cheapest thing we did all week.

The joint is curated by an older woman from Belgium named Allison (I believe I read also that she is an archeologist); she greeted us with a thick French accent and bright emerald green eyeliner that matched her dress. After paying, she Vanna’d her hand over to the entrance, gave us a brief explanation of why she collects them (to display the creativity of the shakers’ makers, natch) and said, “Voila!”

“I love her!” I gushed to Henry after we entered the first room of the collection, which was staggering; over 20,000 so far. She has them all displayed behind glass in sections labeled “Wooden,” “Christmas,” “Transportation,” “Fruits,” and on and on.

I was worried that Chooch was going to be bored, but he was really into it and begged us to buy a set from the gift shop. (We didn’t. Had she had any creepy religious sets to offer, though, I’d have been all the fuck over it like Snooki on a gorilla juice head.

Chooch never shut up, he was so excited to point out the ones that he liked and tried to find ones he thought I would like too. Thankfully, there was only one other couple in there with us: a girl and what appeared to be her Hasidic Jew friend, but ended up being her hipster boyfriend.

(Shout out to my SLC pal Brandy!)

The couple was mostly inoffensive until she pulled out a box of Raisinets like this was some new wave still life movie theater and began chewing in a fashion which allowed me to hear each bite being sucked off her molars by tongue-power and then she also started talking while this was playing out in her mouth and even worse, she and her hipster-bearded beau started getting all cutesy and romantical over the bridal shakers and I was starting to re-taste my morning oatmeal.

While we were in there, some bitch blew through the front door and attempted to go straight into the exhibit. Allison stopped her and said it was $3 to view. The girl was all offended by this and exclaimed rudely, “You have to PAY for this?” She wound up leaving in a huff. Bitch, go then. I love weird little roadside attractions like this and have no problem shelling out a few bucks — this lady spent the better part of her life collecting these overlooked pieces of art. $3 and a little respect is the least we can give.

I bought some postcards after the tour and as I handed them to her, she joyfully sang out, “Oui Oui!” I wish she was my grandma.

A+. Organized hoarding at its best.

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Gatlinburg Day 5: odds & ends

travel

Sep 032011

Once Chooch pulled the huge Smoky Mountain stick from his ass, the rest of Thursday ended up being really nice.

We ate lunch at the Mellow Mushroom, which had a myriad of vegetarian options (including tempeh!) alongside the standard fare. I was a huge fan and it certainly aided to the cause that our waiter was attentive and super cute.

The only way I could love that place any more is if I were a pothead. It had a very Seussian-meets-Haight Ashbury decor that you could easily get lost in with a little help.

Chooch was stalking two little girls on the other side of the room and kept making up reasons to have to go over there. “I need to see what’s on the wall over there, again,” he’d say, adjusting Perv Britches and skulking off to observe his prey. He’s so “secretly” girl crazy, it’s horrifying.

This dessert is funny because Chooch is anything but mellow. (Stick with me, I’ll spell it all out for you.)

Later on, Tammy made wonderful fajitas for everyone and Ranee and Vanessa (who arrived Tuesday night) sat around with me afterward and tried to fix my life in the most subtle, nonintrusive way that I never knew was possible. They’re my new life coaches and I like them lots.

They hung back after dinner while Bill, Jessi and Tammy went to the Odditorium, which I sort of wanted to do too but these things are difficult with a 5-year-old (hooray for being the only couple with a child a usual; it kind of sucks sometimes), so instead we went to play HillBilly Golf, which several friends and a gaggle of strangers on Yelp highly recommend.

It was basically super over-priced mini golf (good luck finding anything there that isn’t, though) on the side of a hill. The main pull is that there is an incline ride to the top and you can’t see any of the holes from the street, which really works to their advantage because the holes ain’t shit, my friends. There was an outhouse on one, which was cute, but most of the obstacles were just barrels and farm equipment taunting Chooch to play on.

The most hillbilly part of it was interacting with the proprietors, who definitely live in the mountains and it made me nervous that they were the ones operating the incline, so really, it was like going to a county fair in Tennessee and putting my life in the hands of a twangy carny.

(As I’m writing this, I’m sitting in the porch having one last cup of coffee before we check out. I’m so sad about this, but happy that I get to go home and see Marcy, and that I’m one day closer to meeting Andrea/MrsEvils for the first time!)

Fortunately, Chooch actually took it seriously, so it wasn’t a complete waste of money. He still rushed us through it pretty quickly though. However, he did get a hole-in-one so I think I need to make him a “I Got My 1st Hole-In-One At Hillbilly Golf” shirt. I’m sure I can find a good hillbilly image to use for the shirt in any one of Henry’s old photo albums. He’s probably got some good ones from the 90s, I’d imagine.

Other than that, we basically spent our evening on the hillside, getting ravaged by mosquitoes, heckling Henry and impeding any chance he had of getting his own hole-in-one. Making life difficult for Henry—-seems like a good night, if you ask me.

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Gatlinburg, Day 5: Where Chooch Snaps

chooch, Epic Fail, travel

Sep 022011

Chooch: “What does ‘selfish’ mean?”
Me: “When you only think about yourself.”
Henry, at the same time as me: “Erin Kelly.”
**********
Apparently, we’ve only been doing what I want to do, but hello—if I left our itinerary up to Henry, I’d probably be in a tent right now, unable to update my blog.

Gross.

We did agree on one thing though—Clingman’s Dome. It’s an observation tower about a 45 minute drive up into the higher elevations of the Smokies. We decided to wake up early to do this in case Bill and Jessi had any plans for us in the afternoon.

This entailed waking Chooch up. When it comes to slumber, Chooch is a little divo. You let him wake up on his own, else you’ll have a snapping piranha on your hands.

Which we did yesterday morning. However, at least we made it to Thursday before our child to returned to his old ways of being a noncompliant asshole. What a great run we had.

The whole way up the mountain, he made his presence known in the backseat as he bucked and kicked at the back of my seat and allowed Satan himself to use Chooch’s mouth as a death threat portal. There were several times I had legitimate chills.

If you’ve ever seen Back to the Beach, think of Bobby in the backseat, only younger and way more sinister than sarcastic. Henry even turned around a few times a la Frankie Avalon and threatened to bust him in the mouth. IT WAS AN AWESOME JOYRIDE UP THE SIDE OF A FUCKING SCARY MOUNTAIN YOU GUYS. My nerves were not shot at all.

We saw another bear though!

“Oh shit, that’s a cub. Bye!” Henry yelled, flooring it.

It only got worse when we reached our destination and freed him from his cage. Thank god there was barely anyone there when we arrived because he was being so loud, so disrespectful, so spoiled-5-year-old that I came very close to making him a permanent fixture of the Smokies.

And this was before we realized it was a half-mile hike uphill from the parking lot to the tower. Oh, how he wept and shrieked, “MY LEGS HURT OMG IM DYING!” after taking two steps.

The elevation was 6600 feet and we quite literally had our heads in the clouds. It was so hard to breathe to begin with, and then you add in the accelerated heart rate that Chooch had given us and we both were sure we were going to go into cardiac arrest.

He finally stopped screaming near the top, only because two hikers emerged from the woods and Chooch is extremely vain just like me. But he refused to go all the way up to the tower because there were about 8 people there, opting instead to hang back on the curved ramp with his arms crossed and the surliest visage I think I have ever seen on him.

And of course we couldn’t see shit through the clouds, but despite that and the fact we have an asshole kid, it was still cool to be there, inhaling clouds.

Chooch was fine after that because we were leaving which is what he wanted.

Captain Surly-Sack.

This will probably be the only thing about this vacation that Chooch remembers when he grows up, creating a vitriolic aversion to Tennessee. I’ll be sure to blame it on Henry.

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Gatlinburg, Day 4: DOLLYWOOD!

Amusement Parks, Fairs, & Carnivals, travel

Sep 012011

Me: “Are the shows included with admission?” (As if I’d actually sit down for a blue grass show.)

Bill: “I should hope so. For $60, they better let us piss in the bushes if we want.”
***********

Dollywood was one of the few things I HAD to do while in Tennessee and there is no way can I do it justice by typing up a recap on my phone. So instead I’ll just share the photos I took with my phone and do it up proper-like from home.

Fuck yeah, country blouse things! All the Dollywood employees wore either checkered shirts or pioneer dresses. I should also note that the average age of these fine laborers was about 65. It’s good to know I’ll have a place to work when I’m old.

Get high on the Beatitudes, Dollywood’s premiere Twilight-mocking establishment. There was a shirt for sale that used the exact Twilight font, except upon closet inspection it actually said TheLight with a tiny “Jesus is” above it. Amazing.

So I really shouldn’t have been surprised that there was an actual chapel (offering Sunday mass!) nestled into the forestry of Dollywood’s simulated mining towns.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Henry said when he saw me lurking near the prayer request book. What? I was only going to write “Please God, bring Dance Gavin Dance back to Pittsburgh.” And for my forged entry for Henry, “Please provide me with the courage to find a hairstyle that suits my molester ‘stache, differentiate between ‘to’ and ‘too,’ & block the entire decade of the 90s from my mind.”

Thank God Dollywood has a random hillbilly graveyard.

Old people sitting in front of us on the Dollywood Express, poring over the daily schedule of shows.

“If we go to this one, we’ll miss that one,” the old wife sighed, dragging her finger along the schedule. “But we make the 5:00 show and leave a few minutes early to catch this other one,” she strategized, and it reminded me so much of agonizing over the Warped Tour set list.

Except this lady’s husband actually gave a shit.

Henry, Chooch, Bill and I were there from about 11:00 until the park closed at 7:00, and we were sincerely dragging by the end. Except for Chooch, who went on to be a hyper son-of-a-bitch back at the room until he finally passed out at 10:30.

Dollywood fucking ruled except that I didn’t hear “Jolene” once all day. We did, however, hear a very worthless Dolly cover of an equally worthless Collective Soul joint.

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Wordless Wednesday: Henry’s Vacation So Far

Henrying, travel, Wordless Wednesday

Aug 312011

Henry likes his weeners like he likes his women: short ‘n fat.

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Gatlinburg, Day 3: BEAR!

travel

Aug 302011

With some time to kill before dinner, Henry, Chooch, Bill and I drove a few miles into the national park where I saw a small overlook on our domestically violent nature cruise earlier in the day. I wanted to get a few pictures and then after Chooch threatened 1,000 times to perish over the side of the hill, we packed it up and headed back.

Coming around a bend, we saw a pick-up truck idling along the side of the road.

And then we noticed why.

(I got a better face-on photo with my actual camera, but this was the best I could do with my phone.)

MOTHERFUCKING BEAR! It was just chilling there near the edge of the woods; then it began to hiss, making me yearn for my Marcy.

Chooch of course wanted to get out and ride it and soon lost interest when we assured him that wasn’t going to happen, so he went back to threatening to cut Bill’s throat with his MagiQuest wand.

Someday maybe he’ll understand how awesome this was.

I have been hoping to see a real life bear in the wilderness ever since we got here. I’m so happy right now!

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Gatlinburg, Day 3: Christ in the Smokies

travel

Aug 302011

Henry: [mouthing off about coves.]
Me: “Boring.”
Henry: “You know, maybe you would learn something if you actually listened to me.”
Yeah, but that won’t happen as long as Jonny Craig’s voice is coming out of the speakers.

*********
Still haven’t seen any bears. Not even after the 5,000 mile car ride through the national park which Henry forced us to take this morning. Oh my god, it was so boring. By the time we actually got to our destination, Henry turned around and started driving back, what the fuck. (First we stopped in some small information center where Chooch got chastised by some old park ranger within 5 seconds for TOUCHING A BOOK. Either old people in Tennessee are just all assholes, or they have the ability to see Chooch’s inner Satan.)

Nature never fails to make Henry and I fight, so it was a pretty miserable drive back to the resort. Mostly because I was convinced he took us out there specifically to sabotage my plans for Christ in the Smokies, which I had been yearning for since JUNE.

Bill came down around 1:30 and we finally embarked for downtown Gatlinburg. Henry was definitely not pleased about this page of the intinerary but Bill and I were super fired-up.

I immediately had an uncomfortable, slightly-tense run-in with one of the museum…curators? Does wearing a Christ in the Smokies polo qualify him with that status? I’m not sure, but he was very exasperated that I bought our tickets online but was unable to print them out. This caused us to have to interact longer than I would have liked, and he was also clearly chagrined by this.

“Southern hospitality must not apply in Tennessee,” I complained to Henry, recounting all the situations I’ve had so far which called for scrutiny.

“They’re probably just used to dealing with ignorant assholes,” Henry said, and I KNOW he wasn’t directing that at me.

We had time to scope the gift shop before our tour started and I was extremely dismayed with the lack of kitsch. I mean, yeah—-all Jesus shit is hokey, but this was all your typical hokey shit that you’d find anywhere. Very few items boasted the Christ in the Smokies insignia, so I had to make due with a tiny lamb-handled bell and a $2 souvenir program which I only bought because it came with 2 post cards, which were unavailable for separate purchase. (I’ll send them to the first two to call dibs.) Totally lame and unacceptable. I was fully prepared to spend most of my souvenir savings there, just so they know.

(I had my heart set on something scary to add to my bathroom collection. Gory bleeding hearts and weeping Marys, even a crown of thorns toilet paper holder would have sufficed.)

There was no one else there so it ended up being just the four of us touring the museum, which is great because we never know how Chooch is going to act in these things. Also because I was even more free to be inappropriate and feign respect. After the annoyed guide explained the rules (PHOTOGRAPHY IS PROHIBITED INSIDE THE EXHIBIT) we started off watching a short DVD presentation about how Jesus is the best and then the doors opened to the diorama portion of the tour, which started with the Nativity scene. Chooch was excited because this included a chicken.

“Mommy, that guy said NO PICTURES!” Chooch is such a little bitch-ass tattle-tale. But he was surprisingly—-pardon the pun—-a little angel in there. There were moments when he would mumble, “Bor-ING” but for the most part, he sat quietly in each room on the pews and asked appropriate questions.

“Get used to it kid,” I said. “This shit is your next eight years.” Oh, Catholic school. I should have told his kindergarten teacher that THIS is why he’s missing his first week of school. She probably would have said to take TWO weeks, in that case.

Henry was completely against this yet he seemed curiously enrapt by each display. (We’ll probably have to start going to church now, plan backfired.) You just can’t tell in this picture because he was too busy reprimanding me for taking pictures while simultaneously picking his hemorrhoids.

Chooch made comments here and there like, “That looks like Luke Skywalker!” and then argued that Jesus as a young boy was really a girl until we finally acquiesced and said, “Yes you’re right, it’s a girl.”

“Oh, I’m gonna pay attention to THIS one!” Chooch cried out after walking into another room. Of course, it was a scene depicting Satan tempting Jesus. Satan was standing at the entrance of a cave which had Hellish red lights emanating from within, like a biblical bordello. It was my favorite one, too.

Bill liked the one with Jesus hanging out in town, talking to children, because there was some shirtless body-builder hanging out on the periphery. “Look at the abs on that guy!” he sighed a little too lustfully.

This same scene also had mannequins commingling with the wax figures. I guess Christ in the Smokies was tight on money.

So, I started the tour as a snickering heathen, but by the time I got to the crucifixion scene, Catholic guilt had me by the tits and I was all, “OMG JESUS I LOVE YOU JESUS!” I’m a sucker for this shit.

“Heaven is made from the inside of couches?!?!” Chooch exclaimed in shock upon inspecting the ascension scene (which actually did involve Jesus rising up to the ceiling in an epic, gear-turning fashion; props to Christ in the Smokies).

Yes, Chooch. That’s exactly what heaven is made from. (Thank you, cats, for showing him what the inside of the couch looks like in the first place.)

After listening to a lilting rendition of the Hallelujah chorus, the doors burst open to the “gardens,” which was actually just a small enclosed area filled with moist air and the stench of a greenhouse. At the center was a sculpture of Jesus’s face, with creepy eyes that stared at us no matter where we stood. (Corey actually bought me a smaller version of this a few years ago for my birthday and it remains one of my prized possessions.)

Get stoked for Christ!

The last part housed a small collection of currency from Jesus-times and a random collection of Jesus movie memorabilia. Although the gardens were underwhelming at best, the rest of the place was everything I could wanted. I mean, a myriad of wax Bible scenes—how can you go wrong with that?

If my hour spent at Christ in the Smokies did anything at all, it confirmed what I had been contemplating for years: I should totally start dressing like Mary Magdalene.

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Gatlinburg, Day 2: Part 2 (Where My Magi Alter Ego Comes Out)

travel

Aug 292011

Chooch, coming out of the bedroom: “Here, I brought out the mystery book.”
Everyone in unison: “Uh, that’s the Bible.”

**********

When we arrived in Tennessee Saturday evening, Bill had us meet them in the parking lot of the most amazing place in the whole universe, called MagiQuest, so we could follow them to the resort without losing our way.

(Bill did that for us, though.)

It was a pretty cruel place to have us meet because Chooch and I were immediately obsessed. Hello, it’s a BIG CASTLE and you just know it holds BIG FUN.

Thank god we finally got to go there after two days of whining.

Basically, everyone gets a wand and you run around all these rooms solving shit to collect runes and complete quests. Bill helped me out in the beginning because as usual, I wasn’t paying attention to the instructions and got schooled by some preteen wizard elitist who, upon witnessing me flicking my wand at some object, yelled, “That won’t work unless you’re a master magi!” like I was the embodiment of “n00b.” (I probably did look pretty clueless though.) She said it with such loathsome condescension and even flipped her plain hair over her pointy shoulder.

I wanted to break her Potter glasses.

After awhile, I caught on to the basic premise of the game and was able to go off on my own. I passed Bill at one point and he started to ask if I knew where something was and without even pausing to look at him, I said, “Yeah, like I’m going to help you!”

EVERY ERIN FOR HERSELF.

Meanwhile, Henry was trying to play for himself AND Chooch, who was really into the castle ambiance but not really grasping the concept. And Jessi had the most intense, competitive expression on her face every time I saw her. I asked her for help at one point and half expected her to push me out of her, but she broke character and pleasantly helped me.

Probably because she knew there was no way in hell I was going to come close to beating her.

Apparently, this was a timed quest, which I would have known if I had been paying attention. As it turns out, I didn’t discover this until Tammy mentioned it and by then I only had 4 minutes left with two quests remaining. Sad times.

There was a massive mirror maze which came with our package, and that more than dried my tears. It was actually pretty challenging, to use my brother Corey’s review of the dinky funhouse mirror maze at the Butler County Fair. WE EVEN GOT TO WEAR PLASTIC GLOVES TO KEEP OUT PRINTS OFF THE “MIRRORS.” (Henry kept his. He’s really into jacking off into gloves.)

Somehow I made it onto a few top scoreboards (as Somnambulant Saffron). I wish that little geek know-it-all was still there so I could run her face in it. (I hated her geek parents too; they were consistently in my way.)

Bill, who used his and Chooch’s pet name for each other, was audibly dismayed that his name on the scoreboard had been changed from Douche Cup to Deuce. (The guy who entered his name was standing right there when Bill called him an asshole eight different ways, but we didn’t tell Bill until later.)

Furthermore, I like how Bill just assumed that he would be on the scoreboard at all, like he’s a champion or something. Someone else there could have been using the name Deuce!

It was Henry’s turn to make dinner that night and he decided to do fish tacos. I was so scared he was going to fuck it up, but it was good. He made corn on the cob too and then berated me when I asked him to scrape mine off the cob. (I had braces for 8 years; eating it this way has stuck with me.)

Everyone hung out in our room for awhile after that while Chooch used Bill as a landing pad. Inevitably, Chooch got hurt. Then Bill actually tried to be responsible at one point, which confused Chooch and sent him into a temper tantrum. He shut himself in the bathroom, told Bill he hated him and wanted him to leave. Meanwhile, Jessi had found herself sucked into the Hannah Montana movie (Disney Channel has been on since we got here Saturday night. Kill me.) while Tammy and I watched Henry clean up and then make more pico de gallo with roasted corn.

We were all pretty much zombies by the time the day was over.

Still havent seen any bears in the Smokies, but I’m about to see Christ today. More soon!

(I give Henry until the end of the week before he’s dressing like this.)

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Gatlinburg: Day 2, Part 1 (Where I Learn How To Properly Spell “Smoky”)

travel

Aug 292011

Me: “This forest looks just like forests in Pennsylvania.”
Henry: “All forests are pretty much the same—-”
Me, snottily: “Oh, so the RAIN FOREST looks ‘just like this’?”
Henry: “Well, no—-”
Me: [walking away as Henry launched into one of his infamous National Geographic spiels.]

********

I dragged Henry and Chooch to the nature trails this morning, after enjoying a solitary breakfast on the porch so I could enjoy the scenery but mostly because Henry was inside, snoring like a douchebag.

The old man driving the resort shuttle was all, “THE NATURE TRAILS? WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GO THERE? ARE YOU GOING TO BE HIKING?”

He was very concerned about this.

“Well, we just wanted to walk it,” Henry explained, causing the old man to sigh.

“I’ll drive you up there and you can see for yourself. IT’S NOT REALLY MARKED.”

By now, I’m imagining that I’m going to have to, at some point, hang glide over a gorge and I’m feeling really relieved that Henry had the foresight* to at least check in with Bill beforehand to alert him of our plans.

(*Actually this was my idea, just so you know.)

The trail turned out to not be something that required spelunking or rock-climbing expertise, but was just, well….a nature trail.

It was mostly steep inclines though and Chooch, who “hates walking” to begin with, was not pleased and actually burst into tears at several points.

I distracted him by suggesting he eat all the random unidentifiable berries we passed. (Don’t worry, Henry put out that fire.)

My son is the biggest bitch sometimes. It’s just WALKING. He’s only FIVE. He should be able to RUN that bitch.

Afterward, Henry and Chooch met everyone else at the indoor waterpark while I hung back at the outdoor pool, where I got to lay out without worrying about Chooch running into traffic, murdering neighborhood pets, or slicing off my face with hedgeclippers. It was fucking awesome.

We are currently en route to Pigeon Forge, wherein we will blow big bucks on tourist attractions. It too will be fucking awesome.

Tennessee rules, you guys. I never would had thought.

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Gatlinburg: 1st Full Day

travel

Aug 282011

Henry: “The Smokies are pretty big, you know.”
Me: “Yeah, like your asshole.”
Henry: “I don’t even know why I talk to you.”
***********

We’re here! The trip down was not very eventful, except for THE MYSTERY HOLE which deserves its own post and I will do that when I’m home since I can’t get the pictures off the camera and am relying on my good ol’ iPhone to write this.

However, we did almost wreck minutes outside of our destination when some douchebag knocked over a traffic cone in front of us on the highway and Henry swerved into a barrel trying to avoid it.

I printed out two pictures of Jonny Craig to keep at my bedside while here. Henry was perturbed & disturbed by this, and threatened to stay home.

We did some grocery shopping in Pigeon Forge this morning and you know I hate that shit but no way was I passing up the chance to snicker openly at the Tennessee drawls dripping like honey over the Food City intercom system. However, Chooch and I were being a bit rowdy, maybe running around too much, because I began to notice that we were on the receiving end of some nasty glares from other patrons. So we left and went to some souvenir shop next door where I got a wonderous Jesus pen (he’s real Big In Tennessee):

Then Chooch got yelled at by a cashier because while I was trying to pay, he found an axe and was running around the store with it. True story.

Later, we followed Bill, Jessi and Tammy to downtown Gatlinburg which apparently is owned by Ripley’s. We had JUST gotten out of the car when Chooch bit down wrong on a candy bracelet and tears instantaneously sprung from his eyes. Then he was embarrassed because his idol Bill saw him crying so he started crying even harder.

I was able to calm him down and then Bill gave him a piggy back ride, which brings us to injury #2. Bill was bouncing Chooch up and down and didn’t realize that he had stepped underneath a store front roof and bashed Chooch’s face right off it.

BIG TEARS ensued. Because I’m such a great friend, I pointed out that this was the second time Bill had injured my kid via Piggy Back.

Bill bought him ice cream to make up for it and then took him to look at a mini golf course after he spontaneously started sobbing because he misses our cat Speck.

Later on, a cashier in another store asked, “Who knocked you upside the face, boy?” and we all joyfully got to point at Bill.

I guess I shouldn’t be so smug considering I turned out and smacked him in the OTHER EYE with my big fat camera. (Injury #3, if you’re using a scorecard.)

More BIG TEARS ensued, but at least there wasn’t an audience for that one compared to the veritable Dinner Theater that Bill had.

Chooch almost fell down a flight of steps too.

(Chooch, when you’re taken away from us & dumped in foster care, please try to remember the good times.)

In between all this, we went into some optical illusion exhibit where Bill slammed a door in Henry’s face, I bought some cheap but amazing rings and AMISH PEANUT BUTTER, Bill had his palate scorched by salsa and I had to try to be sympathetic but really I thought it was pretty funny, and Henry scanned the area desperately for a barber to shear his luscious Kristy McNichol locks.

Tennessee rules.

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Erin & Henry Go To Cleveland: a Vintage Video from 2004

Henrying, nostalgia, Obsessions, really bad ideas, Shit about me, stalking, travel

Jun 142011

Also known as: HOW ARE THEY STILL TOGETHER?!

A couple of you (literally, two people) expressed interest in seeing this video of Henry and me in Cleveland back in 2004. We were there for Curiosa, but I talked Henry into going a day early so we could do touristy things. And by touristy, I clearly mean drive aimlessly through Cleveland’s ghetto in search of E.99 and St. Clair, the crossroads that Bone Thugs n Harmony commonly rapped about. Most of my high school career was spent being a hyper fan girl for Bone, calling record stores demanding to know when their new releases were going to come out, cutting pictures of them out of Rap Pages and The Source, and trying to con my best friend Christy into taking a field trip to Ohio when she got her license. (She wisely said no.)

When Art of War came out, I made my then-boyfriend, Psycho Mike, drive me an hour away to a certain record store that was promising a FREE COLLECTOR’S MEDALLION with the purchase of the new release. It was totally worth being berated and emotionally denigrated in his car the whole time.

I do not have that medallion anymore. But I loved it dearly (although briefly, I guess).

Anyway, Professional Driver Henry had difficulties finding it (blamed it on Cleveland, not his refusal to LOOK AT A MAP) and we became even more Sid and Nancy than usual. We finally made it to E.99 (aka the double glock, yo) and I should have been dying of happiness but considering douchey Henry was next to me, my joy was clearly negated.

I posted the video on LiveJournal years and years ago, but somehow THE ORIGINAL FILE DISAPPEARED, WHADDUP HENRY. So I made him re-edit it and today he finally finished. He said he would have done it much faster if I had been nicer to him about it. But I think he just wanted to put off the inevitable: that everyone will coo sarcastically over his luscious locks of yore. The quality is super bad. Probably Henry’s fault.

Annoying, right? (Me, not the video quality.) This is why I rarely post videos.

The last time I had this on YouTube, I was barraged with hateful comments from REAL BTNH fans who are neither stupid, white, nor girls. Hopefully that doesn’t happen again.

P.S. The part where I call Henry “uneducated”? Don’t go crying rivers of pity for him just yet. That was my tip of the hat in reference to the time he and I had a political argument and he told me I was uneducated. I responded by breaking his glasses.

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The Best Day Ever, Part 1: Melt

Food, Shit about me, travel

May 112011

When I look back on it now, the most amazing part about last Friday was that Henry and I not only made it to Cleveland right on time to meet Jason at Melt, but we drove the whole way without:

tears
bloodshed
break-ups
one of us getting kicked out of the car
muffins being whaled at faces*

(*This happened once, in Virginia. And I will never let Henry forget it. In fact, I might write about that this week since I’m on a roll with illustrating to the Internet what a fucker he can be.)

We did, however, listen to copious amounts of Dance Gavin Dance, even though I had made a mix specific to our road trip. I hate my one-track mind sometimes.

Jason, when planning the itinerary for Erin’s Dying Wish Day, remembered that I’m an aficionado of melted cheese sandwiches, even had my friend Sarah draw me a grilled cheese in the stylings of the Sacred Heart, complete with crown of toothpicked-pickles, which I’d have already had tattooed on my arm if it weren’t for student loans fucking up my entire life. I’ve wanted to go to Melt for sometime now, so Jason made that happen and even got there early to act as a place-holder since Melt is a hot commodity and can get super crowded before the doors even open.

Now, the whole two and a half hours it took us to get there, I tried to reason with myself that I should focus on one thing at a time instead of the entire day ahead of me, which would undoubtedly cause me to ping around the car like a cat with Scotch taped-paws. So that’s what I did, I focused all of my nervous energy on Melt.

What was I going to order?

How was I going to decide?

What if I got sick?

Why didn’t I buy Rolaid Soft Chews*?

What if I puked?

What if it was super crowded there and I had a panic attack and died before even tasting my grilled cheese?

(*When I was friends with Christina, she knew to always keep Rolaid Soft Chews on her person at all times when I was visiting her. My excitement and nervous energy, combined with even the slightest speck of grease on a plate, never fails to manifest itself into a brick of anxiety in my stomach.)

There were a lot of things to consider. Maybe if Henry was more fun in the car and would play obscene travel games with me, my neuroses wouldn’t have time to activate. Or if he’d be less of a square about picking up the occasional hitch-hiker. (I haven’t helped out a hitcher in ten years because of Henry. This is, right now, being added to the CON column of my Henry List.)

We arrived shortly before 11 and I was relieved to see that Jason was the only one standing outside the doors—no crowds! There was one “what if” to scratch off the list, but I still had to worry about what to order and going into cardiac arrest, possibly finding a way to lethally impale my eyeball on the straw in my water glass. Maybe I shouldn’t use a straw…Or maybe skipping a beverage altogether was key.

But then what if I found myself choking? Henry knows the Heimlich (he learned it in THE SERVICE; I just found this out recently because he was bragging about it), but would he actually use it on me, or would he find himself paralyzed in a state of extreme pleasure, watching my face morph from Erin to Smurf in 0.5 seconds?

While my internal dialogue was percolating my synapses, Henry and Jason stood around talking like normal people. I wonder what that’s like.

By the time the back door was unlocked, a substantial line had started to form behind us. Suddenly, waking up early to get there didn’t seem like such a drag after all. (Not that I could even sleep the night before, anyway! God, I was so giddy.)

We were seated at a corner table, and Henry filled Jason in on my need to sit in whichever seat allows for the most panoramic view of the restaurant, like I’m a CIA agent. (I just prefer having as few people behind my back as the seating arrangement permits.) Jason offered to switch seats with me and I almost took him up on it until I realized how ridiculous I was being. Lately, I have become hyper-aware of my neurotic preferences.

“And then I’m usually stuck staring at the wall,” Henry complained. Bitch, shut your mouth and be thankful that I even allow you to go out in public with me.

Confession: I had already looked at the menu the night before at work, in hopes of narrowing it down. I was pretty sure that I wanted the Mushroom Melt, but then I made the mistake of picking up the menu in front of me which immediately placed my brain at the center of a maelstrom of grilled cheese choices. I felt confused and panicked, especially when I noticed that there were vegetarian options for nearly every item which I hadn’t known, and this opened up a brand new ordering quandary by practically doubling the choices available to me.

And then! I noticed the Grilled Peanut Butter and Banana, which sounded rebelliously unorthodox amidst the cheesy variety. I kind of wanted to be That Person who goes to an establishment built around grilled cheese and not order a grilled cheese. Plus, the latticed nerves in my stomach were kind of craving something sweet.

But how much of a faux pas would it be to not order a grilled cheese on my virginal visit to Melt? Everyone at home would be so disappointed in me. Chooch would probably get harassed at school. My grandfather would roll over in his grave and haunt me for the rest of my life: All those years of practice you had, ordering grilled cheese at Denny’s and Blue Flame, and for WHAT? It would be right up there with dropping out of high school. I’d eventually get that tattoo only to be reminded of the fraud I am; the banner on it would have to be changed from “4 lyfe” to “fair-weathered fan.”

(Technically, the peanut butter and banana has cream cheese on it.)

After all of this inner hemming and hawing, I went with my first instinct and ordered the Mushroom Melt, which the waiter, after suggesting 87 vegetarian options, admitted was his favorite. This ended up being a wise choice because it was simple enough to not sink through my stomach like a cannonball, but it still had enough going for it to make it better than any restaurant grilled cheese I ever had. Carmelized onions* were draped luxuriously around clumps of portobello mushrooms and stuffed generously into the middle of a viscous expanse of hot provolone, providing the sweetness I was looking for without making my teeth ache.

(*One of the few onion variations I can tolerate on a sandwich; I’m notoriously fussy when it comes to onions, enough that Henry had to make himself a guidebook to prevent instances prompting me to chuck meals back in his face.)

There was enough cheese packed between those slices of bread to fashion a fromage robe, and believe me, I thought about it. Fuck Lady Gaga.

I’m adding cheese to the list of porn I need to direct.

Henry and Jason ordered things that had meat on it so I didn’t ask them how it was. And really, wasn’t it all about me anyway? I can’t even remember what we talked about while we ate, I was so tuned in to my sandwich and the fact that once it was demolished, we were going to the Alternative Press office which would make my stomach lurch but I’d wash it down with water all while managing to not impale my eyeball on the straw after all. But I do know that I lasted forty-five minutes before practically vomiting the subject of Jonny Craig, causing Henry to wince from across the table. I tried to promise that I wouldn’t reveal my true, obnoxious 16-year-old fan girl self by eagerly mentioning him (and it’s always eagerly, believe me), but keeping promises was never my strong point.

The Mushroom Melt was glorious, like taking the best grilled cheese in the world and infusing each bite with seasoning ground from comfort, magic and the best childhood memories. But, truth be told, I’m going to have to make at least a dozen more pilgrimages to Melt before I can write an accurate review. (In other words, I REALLY want that peanut butter thing.)

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From the Road

music, travel

May 062011

Yo! Henry and I peaced out of Pittsburgh this morning in favor of Cleveland. My friend Jason [see this post] invited us out to be his guests for the last night of the Alternative Press Spring Tour. Craig Owens’ new band D.R.U.G.S. is among the five bands on the line up, and if you know me or have maybe skimmed this lame blog, you know that Craig is in my Top 5 of all time favorite singers. His word are inked into my flesh, even.

So that alone has me beside myself.

But then Jason threw in lunch at Melt (more for your trivia card collection: grilled cheese is my most favorite food ever) and the chance to see “where the magic happens” at the AP office and now I know what Charlie felt like when he got the motherfucking golden ticket.

Last night, it was like trying to sleep through Christmas Eve. This morning, I was in such a spastic state that I could barely dress myself. I wound up putting on the same shirt I wore to work last night just to save myself from throwing clothes all over the floor like a girl dressing for her first date.

You have to understand that Alternative Press shaped who I am today: a music-obsessed scene mom. 80% of what I listen to was discovered in the pages of that magazine. The rest was mostly from west coast pen pals in the early ’90s and sheer serendipity.

Henry and I were in Cleveland in the mid-00s for the Curiosa Festival. I tried to get him to find the AP office for me then, because I just “wanted to admire it from afar.” He refused, thought it was weird I guess, although I did finagle him to find the intersection of E99 & St. Clair, an homage to Bone Thugs n Harmony. We almost broke up because of that, in the heart of Cleveland’s ghetto, and I have it all on tape.

This is way longer than I intended and now I’ve added motion sickness to my already nervous stomach. But now you’ll know what I’ll be doing today: having dreams come true and probably puking.

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Lancaster: Stream of Consciousness

travel

Dec 022010

The last thing I did in Lancaster was buy this “7 on the Creep-o-Meter” papier mâché clown at Dutch Haven, while Pretty Poison’s “Catch Me I’m Falling” played on the store’s soundsystem.

Henry bought soft pretzels and homemade root beer. Pretty much everything Henry bought that weekend could be consumed. He’s not one for souvenirs.

After Dutch Haven, we parted ways with Tommy & Jessy and stopped for a little while in Hershey, because no way was I passing up a jaunt through Chocolate World.

The ride-through tour of the simulated chocolate factory doesn’t cost a dime, but it spits you out right into a chocolate-covered palace of consumerism; $20 later we were walking back to the car, Chooch with two plush Hershey characters stowed under his arms.

Fucking Chocolate World. I did think it was nice though that Hersheys employed a retarded kid to hand out miniature bars of defected candy after the tour, even if he was a bit slow at it.

Then we saw hot air balloons while on our way to eat at the Capitol Diner, where we eavesdropped on a booth of family members lecturing an 18-year-old girl about statutory rape (her boyfriend is 15; she haughtily wailed, “I don’t want to go into the world being afraid of everything!”); meanwhile, the middle-aged retarded man at their table ordered something he didn’t like, causing his mom to scold, “That’s what you get for not asking me first!”

He probably just got done with his shift at Chocolate World; lay off, Ma!

The manager of Capitol Grill thought my fingerless gloves were casts and openly pitied me while I paid at the register. When he realized they were Pacman gloves, he announced this wildly to everyone sitting in that section of the restaurant and I left there with strangers staring at me.

We got home around 8:30 that night to a gnarly spider luxuriating on a giant web on our front porch, but you already know about Sir.

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Labor Day Weekend Part 3: Tubas, Lunas, & Cuckoos

Epic Fail, really bad ideas, small towns, travel

Sep 142010

We didn’t have much time after eating breakfast at the Traveler’s Club International Restaurant (it doubles as a TUBA MUSEUM and was a great pick by our tour guides, Bill & Jessi) because I had this dire urge to see the world’s largest cuckoo clock in Sugarcreek, Ohio. Every time I brought it up to Henry, he tugged on his collar and looked around for diversions, chainsaw guys, ditches in which to push me.

I wouldn’t drop it, though, and continued down the list of merits I had made for the cuckoo clock.

By 2:00pm, we were on the road. We made a quick stop in Luna Pier, because seeing Lake Erie was another very pressing thing on my list. Sure, I’ve seen Lake Erie from Pennsylvania and Ohio, even took a boat tour in Cleveland (if you were me, you too could live such a thrilling life). But I really needed to see it from MICHIGAN.

That fruity red dot of menstruation up there is Henry.

This is the closest thing to a beach we’ve come to since that shitty fucktastic trip to Okracoke we took in 2006 with those asshole Civil War reenactors. Chooch and I kicked off our shoes and took off.

Henry’s feet never even touched the sand. “It’s just Lake Erie,” he kept saying, while Chooch and I squealed and frolicked like Hansel and Gretel dining on the witch’s carcass. Spectators probably thought we had just been let out of our cage in the basement. Henry does resemble a grizzled captor. In fact, on our way to Michigan, I mouthed “help” to the girl in the toll booth. Thanks for all the help, whore.

After Luna Pier, A LOT of driving happened. I found religious programming on the radio and pretended to be holy for a good hour while Henry scowled and periodically asked, “Can we turn this now?” while Chooch read his comic books quietly in the backseat. Jesus music is calming. Or maybe it’s hypnotic. In either case, it zipped my child’s lips, so praise be to Jesus and his Lambs of Christ.

At some point in Ohio, we turned off the highway and found ourselves up to our ears in Amish. (Henry says they were Mennonites, so we argued about that for awhile.) We rounded a bend and an old Amish man was standing on the side of the road.

I screamed.

“What? He’s probably just waiting for a buggy,” Henry reasoned.

“He looked to me like he was cursing us bastard civilians,” I argued. And then, “What happens if you run over an Amish person?”

Henry averted his eyes from the road long enough to look at me in disgust. “Um, you go to JAIL. They are people,” he reminded me. “Not animals.” A minute passed and I heard him repeat my question under his breath, shaking his head in exhaustion.

I didn’t know if they utilized the same legal system as us, OK? Jesus Christ, Henry. I thought maybe they left it up to the Lord; chased you around the farm with pitchforks, Benny Hill-style.

Aside from Amish culture, other things that jack off my fascination are all things Bavarian and Swiss, hence my determination to see this fucking cuckoo clock. Some of my fondest memories are from childhood trips to Europe, helping my grandparents pick out cuckoo clocks in the Black Forest and traversing covered bridges in Lucerne. Eating fondue and watching lederhosened men blow into those Ricola horns. That’s always been my favorite region of Europe. And since returning there is nowhere in my near future, making pilgrimages to chintzy, kitschy Swiss-American tourist traps is the best I can do to keep my heart full of Toblerone and army knives.

I regaled Henry with stories from these past vacations while he prayed the GPS on his phone wasn’t leading us to our fate of becoming shoo-fly pie filling.

“You weren’t even listening to me,” I whined as he consulted his phone.

“Yes I was, and I’ve heard all of those stories before.”

Bastard. What a fucking bastard.

Here are some of my tweets from the Great Cuckoo Clock Pursuance, to give you a real-time feel for the awesomeness of being in our car:

Chooch is too engrossed in his new comics to realize something other than screamo is coming out the speakers. http://moby.to/nhcrn6

If I don’t see a motherfucking cuckoo clock today….I’ll likely survive, but STILL. I better see a motherfucking cuckoo clock.

In span of 2 min: angered when a flock of Menonites snubbed me, horrified at sound of church bells, hungered by sight of cheese factory.

Motherfucking train just cuckoo clock-blocked me. http://twitpic.com/2lnc9d

What a dick my son is, hollering LOOK MOMMY AMISH PEOPLE! When there ARENT ANY AMISH PEOPLE. Now he’s laughing maliciously.

Me: Just ask those sluts where the cuckoo clock is. Henry: Um, that’s a guy & his kid. (YEAH SO?)

About the same time my phone lost service, we crossed the threshold for the town of Sugarcreek, Ohio’s Swiss Wonderland.

The bad vibes were immediate. Something made me feel uncomfortable; maybe it was the lack of people and how it caused the town to be quiet as a graveyard. I don’t even really remember many cars passing by, although we did see a cop idling in a parking lot with a book.

The downtown portion of Sugarcreek was quaint, charming. But also mostly deserted. There seemed to be some people in one of the restaurants, which has swiss steak on special. I wanted to go. Not to eat the swiss steak, but to see what the townies were like. Henry said no, of course. Why eat at a real restaurant when we can stop at a gas station and get hot dogs?! (Because that’s seriously what he did. And I got a Special K bar. Now there’s a real meal to say grace for.)

Henry’s GPS alerted him to make a left off the main road. A few feet later, I saw it.

And it was in pieces.

I didn’t etll Henry this, but a Roadside America user posted a tip saying that as of March, the cuckoo clock was out of commission for repairs. If I told him that, he definitely wouldn’t have taken the chance. But I thought maybe it might have been all bandaged up by then and ready to cuckoo. I needed to see for myself.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Henry muttered. But we got out of the car anyway. Chooch and I went over for a closer inspection while Henry leaned against the car, texting his work boyfriend about what an awful lay his shitty girlfriend is.

Further research (which would have been helpful prior to making this ridiculous detour) informed me that pieces of the clock have been auctioned off, including the evergreens and little Swiss people.

Shit, I thought driving through the town was creepy? Poking around this over-sized clock at dusk was even more spine-tingling. I had a distinct sensation that townies were watching us from their windows, sizing us up for future cuckoo clock adornments. Can you picture a taxidermied-Chooch twirling out from the clock’s bowels every hour? Because I kind of can. I ushered him back into the car, ducking around Henry’s choleric glare.

“We should come back for the Swiss Festival in October,” I suggested, reading from the town’s official website on my phone. I looked up just in time to see Henry vivisecting me with his mind.

Somewhere between more Amish arguments (which found Henry yelling, “Shoo fly pie is regional!”) and crossing the Pennsylvania border, two vultures nearly careened into (MY SIDE OF) the windshield.

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