Oh boy are you guys in for a treat (you’re not). I’m combining two old blog posts featuring Henry having a grand time at two (2!!) county fairs sometime way in the past. As some of you might know, we no longer attend county fairs on account of ME NEARLY DYING AT ONE back in 2013 or some such year.
But I guess since COVID has us quasi-housebound, even a janky-ass county fair is making me feel all wistful and wanderlusty these days. Anyway, two things to note:
- In the first recap, I got in all kinds of trouble for referencing Henry’s ex and she even texted him while we were in Tennessee after I posted it and said that she was going to knock my teeth down my throat or something and Henry was like, “Erin…what did you do?” and I mean, c’mon – it wasn’t really that bad. I can’t remember if it was worse and he made me edit it though.
- That “new friend Seri” in the second recap turned out to be a Single White Female (or “Fingle” as I originally typed because my brain hates doing anything extra once I log off work for the day) except that she was married. But yeah, wow, she exited my life like a fucking tornado and then when I didn’t care, she sent her husband to my house to talk to me, lol. OK, cook on, psycho.
OK, so now you’re all caught up! Enjoy these wonderful Henrycentric posts because everyone knows Henry is the real star of the OHE show.
HENRY GOES TO THE FAIR: 2011
Henry claims to be “too busy”* to deal with my questions regarding his day at the fair, so I guess I’ll just share my pictures of him without his thoughts and dreams.
*(This might have something to do with the fact that we leave tomorrow morning for a week in Tennessee and I have done exactly fuck-all to help prepare for this.)
Remembering what it was like to have his ex-wife at his side.
Had Henry cooperated, one of my questions was going to be if he ever took his ex-wife to the fair on a date, but then I realized that was a dumb question, considering that’s probably where he met her: in the Grandstand during the tractor pull after accidentally knocking over her empty can of Schlitz-cum-spitoon and falling into her Loony Toon-tattooed saggy tits. (Henry was really into redneck things in the days pre-Erin. Thank god he met me and now knows the wonder of Warped Tour, Jonny Craig, television programming for tweens and Christmas picnics in the cemetery.)
Why so happy?
Then I was planning on asking him what had him smiling so much all day. Was it because we were hanging out with our news friends Laura and Mike and he doesn’t want them to see that he’s really nothing more than a gruff. blue-collared killjoy? But then I realized that the origin of his happiness was probably a toss-up between going a day without a jock itch flare-up and his ex-wife getting re-married.
Looking for a rabbit to boil in a pot on his ex-wife’s stove.
So, this picture was a happy accident. It looks like he’s trying to have a Hulk Hogan beard. Now I want to play around with options for Henry’s facial hair. Suggestions welcome. Maybe something ginger-hued a la JONNY CRAIG.
No, seriously—-who taught this man how to pose? Motherfucking Gumby?
Pedo Alert! Please put your non-descript shirted self back in your non-descript white van and vacate the premises.
Henry rode one ride all day! But it was just the Fun Slide. Our son was too embarrassed to stand in line with his own creep of a father, so he tried to encroach on the family behind him.
I wonder how bad this aggravated his hemorrhoids?
If I knew I would get an answer from him, I’d ask him if the Fun Slide lived up to its name, but judging by the way he was walking like he had just got done straddling a bull (or his ex-wife), I’d say it did.
And if I asked him what his favorite ride is, he’d just say “the ride home,” so why even bother.
He’s just lucky I’m at work and don’t have time to churn out a Goofus and Gallant.
THE MELON SHIRT: SUMMER 2012
When Henry came downstairs on the day of the Big Butler Fair, his torso was modeling a brand new nondescript t-shirt in a garish hue of jack-o-lantern.
“Nice orange shirt,” I exclaimed on a rocking bed of laughter and derision.
“It’s not orange,” Henry snapped. “It’s melon.”
As if that was supposed to make me stop laughing.
There are many facets of Henry’s life that I have my thighs squeezed around in a death grip, but his fashion sense is not one. I have made futile efforts in the past to get him to break free from generic, joyless threads mostly purchased from Wal-Mart but eventually I had to concede, wave the white flag, turn my attention to dressing my kid instead. Henry’s dresser full of boring, plain and Faygo-printed t-shirts is pretty much all he has left to his identity and manhood.
(It probably doesn’t help that I was trying to groom him into a singer from a post-hardcore band, swathed in Drop Dead Clothing sweaters and neck tattoos.)
My new friend Seri met us at the fairgrounds that afternoon with her husband Pete and their two sons, Aldy and Max. Apparently, Pete had originally attempted to wear his own nondescript orange shirt to the fair that day, but Seri made him change. So after the obligatory introductions were over, Pete and Henry had a special moment of “I can relate to you.” Henry’s first impression of Pete was probably a confusing cocktail of empathy and pity garnished with a burgeoning bromance twist.
However, when Pete was talking about his own orange shirt, Henry was quick to interject, “My shirt is melon, not orange.” My blue-collared boyfriend has turned into a color-snob hipster overnight. Next he’ll be insisting I call him my “cerulean-collared boyfriend.”
My brother Corey came out to the fair later that evening and when I texted him our whereabouts, I tacked on, “Just look for Henry’s orange t-shirt. It looks like he’s single-handedly promoting Halloween.”
And Snooki’s skin tone.
And the FLYERS.
No Orange Shirts Allowed on the Wacky Worm.
It was easy to spot Henry each time the rest of us lively non-old humans would go on rides; he would lumber around the fairgrounds, toting my iCarly messenger bag and wasting money on all the nearby games that he never wins and even if he did, no one would be impressed.
DON’T DRIP ICE CREAM ON THE ORANGE SHIRT OMG!
When I was on the ferris wheel with Seri, it was fun to seek him out in the crowds below, like Waldo on fire. But then I noticed that quite a few other men were also wearing bright orange shirts, though theirs were advertising plumbing companies, Harley Davidson, strip clubs and guns.
Seri mistakenly referred to The Shirt as “cantaloupe,” which made Henry snap for the 87th time that day, “MELON!”
I always thought cantaloupe was a melon, but I guess not when applied to the Color Wheel.
It’s surprising he would even let me this close to him after 9 hours of ridiculing his orange shirt.
Some day, I’m going to snatch all of his nondescript shirts (or “blank,” as Pete prefers to call them) and screenprint Jonny Craig’s face all over them.