Who keeps dreaming up these chaotic, long-haul road trips?! Oh, lol. But listen, Linda – it was my dream to ride ArieForce One in its opening year. I mean, sure, it’s all the way out by Atlanta, we live in Pittsburgh, etc etc. But I had it all planned out! We would leave as soon as I logged off from work on Friday, so around 6pm because we never leave exactly when scheduled, drive as far as Henry could manage that night, get a hotel, wake up early, continue driving, arrive in ATL, eat lunch at Slutty Vegan, go to Fun Spot, imprint on a new rollercoaster, sleep somewhere, wake up and drive home.
There. Planned! The Oh Honestly Erin Travel Agency gets another job done.
Man, these evening road trips always make me so goddamn slap happy and CHATTY. For instance, I think most anyone who has ever even casually glanced at this waste of space word-dump can testify that I have been planning my imaginary never-wedding for approx. 20 years. But now that I am a bona fide ENGAGED BROAD, I have barely given a thought to this alleged wedding that presumably will happen at some point (dot dot dot question mark, print out the page, punch it into a ball, set it aflame, blow its ashes off a cliff in Siberia?). It’s like all of my ideas have been zapped from my brain and implanted into the womb of an Alaskan virgin so look out, the next coming of Oh Honestly Erin in person-form might be spotted walking some disgusting polar tundra one day, being wildly ignored and a general waste just like this blog.
What was I saying?
OK, so since we were en route to Georgia, I started thinking about our last trip there, Thanksgiving weekend of 2021. (Actually, I think we drove through on our way to Florida last year? Maybe?)
(I think I have heat stroke.)
It doesn’t matter, just that I was remembering on one of our previous drives to Georgia, a song came on some local Tennessee radio station called THE HORSE and I became, you guessed it Steve, obsessed. I had to immediately put it on Spotify and engage in convulsive interpretive dancing to it.
Henry was like, “OK” and Chooch was like, “But did I ask.”
While it was playing for the second time (maybe it was even a remix at that point, who can be sure), I couldn’t stop picturing Henry and I, freshly wed, totally stinking of matrimony, walking back down the aisle to this song while riding those stick-horse things.
You know, those stick-horse things.
HOBBY HORSES.
I excitedly shared this idea with Henry.
“But people wouldn’t get it unless they knew the name of the song,” Henry joy-killed.
“Yeah, but we’ll have programs,” I said in that incredulous key of almost-hysteric woman that Henry fucking adores so much, he put a ring on it.
“I knew it,” Henry sighed. “I knew that was coming.
And the programs will have pictures of us doing very anti-Erin/Henry shit together, activities that we’d never do, like here I am in an apron cooking his breakfast, here we are riding vintage bicycles down a dirt lane.
Flying kites.
Country line-dancing?
“And then I can wear a veil [because up until this point I had never considered wearing a veil] for sure so then when you (or whoever the groom is) lift it, I’m actually Howie.
Henry gave BIG FROWN ENERGY in response.
Another day, another Days of Our Lives reference unappreciated (until I tweeted it and Monica gave it love!).
Don’t worry, I’m still stirring this thought-stew in my brain. I’ll come up with something.
Who would have thought that THE HORSE would have been the answer to unblocking my constipated wedding planning bowels. Anyway, I guess this means I will probably have at least something small as opposed to the “nothing” I had previously been settling on.
Janna, if you’re reading this: congratulations, you have an official role in our wedding – handing me my Hobby Horse on which I will gallop away, either with Henry or away from him depending on how I’m feeling that day.
I guess Chooch can hand Henry his? In my mind, I see Chooch chucking it out of Henry’s reach and saying, “Go fetch, Father.”
Here we are driving Henry crazy at the second Sheetz of leg one. This one was a small Sheetz somewhere in West Virginia. West Virginia takes forever to drive through!! I feel like I had an incident in the bathroom where there were no paper towels and I was forced to have a conversation with my sink partner about it. Talking to people in pubic restrooms makes me uncomfy.
We didn’t get to the Ramada in WYTHESVILLE, VA until around 11pm along with everyone else, it seemed. We had to stand in line for like 15 minutes which seems petty to complain about after the fact but when you have been driving for hours and just want to crash into a bed, it feels like time is running backward.
When it was our turn to check-in, Henry’s DAD JOKE mode was activated totally out of the blue and it was SO EMBARRASSING. When the young broad asked, “Is the second floor OK?” Henry asked for the THIRD FLOOR BECAUSE THERE WASN’T A THIRD FLOOR. I wanted to fucking melt into a puddle of I’m Not With Him. Seriously so lame, god help me.
Anyway, we got our key and Chooch and I immediately ditched Henry, leaving him to carry all of our bags to the room alone, haha.
BONUS CONTENT:
Me, the next morning, before checking out and Henry setting the ball of suck into motion by choosing to go to some local cafe called THE GRIND which had like no breakfast options that were satisfactory to me, so I threw a mini-tantrum and then ended up only getting hot coffee which I then RUINED by asking for a shot of brown sugar cinnamon syrup which made it entirely too sweet and I legit was so surly about this for the next, oh, 4 hours.
Thank you. This has been “Friday In the Car.”