“Do you guys want to go see ‘where the magic happens’?” Jason asked Terri and Christian, and then to me and Henry he said something to the effect that he figured we wouldn’t want to go back to the Alternative Press office since we were already there once.

But I was like, “Shit are you kidding, of course I want to go back.” That place rules. (From a non-employee perspective, anyway.)

And then Henry later said something about AP being a “magic castle” because he couldn’t remember exactly what Jason jokingly calls it, and I mockingly repeated him, at which point Jason thought I said “magic asshole” and was all, “Are you calling AP a magic asshole??” and I was all, “What, OMG no!” and tried to explain what happened but it was futile. Henry was so smug about this. Fuck off, Henry.

Jason asked us all what bands we were most interested in seeing that night, because he had some posters he wanted to give us. When I said Sharks, Henry quickly said, “You’re just saying that to suck up” and I wanted to fucking kill him.

Apparently, this was all because I took credit for the Boylans root beer. Henry and I are so competitive with each other, it’s kind of unhealthy.

Nickelback is Jason’s favorite band OF ALL TIME, you guys. But no really, check out the drawing right above it. That’s a Chooch original, hanging up at AP. I’m so proud of my kid.

I just can’t even explain how much I love AP. Well, apparently I can, but then I use too many words and get disqualified from contests. (Seriously, 6 years later and I still haven’t let go!)

Before the show, we went to a boutique, where Henry misread a sales tag to say size Huge instead of Large, and then we had root beer floats at Sweet Moses. Some of us even wore our root beer floats. (I’m not naming any names but it was definitely Christian.)

New friends! Christian and Terri are such a great couple, which was helpful considering we spent the whole entire day together, so hopefully they didn’t think we were douchy Pens fans. I mean, we totally are, but Henry at least can hide it pretty well. (I think Jason was prepared to assume the role of referee in case any Sidney Crosby arguments arose.)

I’m going to write about the show next, but Andrea is flying in tonight from California and spending a whole week with us this time (!!!) so I’m not sure when I’ll get a chance to do it. I can probably just sit her down in front of some Lil Wayne videos and she won’t even notice I’m in the other room, pecking away at the keyboard with my tongue sticking out. (That’s seriously how I look when I write on here. There, I just let you in on something intimate.)

After lunch at Melt, Emily peaced out to run some errands (when I was little, I always thought people were saying they had Erins to run, and I still sometimes instinctively flinch when I hear this, like any minute now a car is going to come plowing through my torso) and the rest of us went to My Mind’s Eye. Going to record stores post-Chooch is bittersweet for me because I can never throw down like I once could. My music collection has all but flatlined since 2006.

“That’s why we only have a cat,” Terri said to me, and I was like GODDAMMIT I KNEW HAVING A CHILD WAS A MISTAKE. Just kidding.

Kind of.

Henry and I are currently aspiring to be the couple on the right. Except orange is like, my least favorite color. But I can definitely rock an antagonizing smile and smug stance.

“Can I get this?”

“No.”

“What about—”

“No.”

If it weren’t for Henry reminding me every thirty seconds that we need to worry about Chooch’s Christmas presents before “stupid music” (YES HE SAID THAT), all of our utilities would probably be shut off right now. I did buy two CDs, despite his sharp looks of disapproval.

I bought one called The Valerie Project by Jaromil Jires.

“You don’t even know what that is!” Henry criticized harshly.

“Yes I do! It’s based off the movie Valerie and Her Week of Wonders and we loved that movie!” I replied in a pitch dangerously close to tantrum levels.

“Did we?” he asked, trying to remember.

“Yeah, because it was weird.”

“That doesn’t mean we loved it!”

I also snatched up a Coffinberry album.

“Have you even heard of them?” Henry asked, in one of his staunch SERVICE stances, with arms akimbo.

“No,” I said thoughtfully. “But with a name like Coffinberry…”

This prompted Henry to ridicule me for purchasing music based on band names and cover art, but I have been doing this since high school! And the success rate is at least 20%. I never would have known that I love the Ultralounge collection had one not been swathed in faux leopard fur!

When we left the record store, Jason opted to ride with Terri and Christian this time.

“Why? Because you don’t want to listen to Coffinberry?” I chided, and that’s when Henry noticed the BIG FLYERS STICKER on the back of Terry and Christian’s car.

“OMG they’re FLYERS fans!” Henry sneered good-naturedly, and they booed the Penguins in response. I can’t believe I shared a meal with Flyers fans!

So a friendly war of the hockey fans was ignited. Henry even made a point of pulling his Penguins hat out of the trunk.

(Meanwhile, the first track on the Coffinberry CD was this slow dirge that sounded like Joan of Arc and Shudder To Think having a knife fight during a funeral.)

The next stop was Big Fun, which I always make a point to stop at when I’m in town. Emily met back up with us here and I bought Chooch some little things for Christmas, including a book about boobs. What? He needs to know about them.

Jason was sitting outside and when I went to join him, he said, “If you’re into vintage furnishings, you should check out that store,” while pointing at a place called Flower Child. Maybe he really was trying to be helpful, but I will always in my heart believe that he was just so jealous of my Coffinberry purchase that he wasn’t ready to be near me yet.

Nothing could have prepared me for the life-altering experience I was about to have within those walls. It was practically a catacomb of psychedelia. There were vintage cameras in droves making my knees weak (I quickly texted Henry: GET IN HERE NOW! after spying those slick shutters), mannequins luxuriating in posh positions, paisley percolating like sick hallucinations from walls and moth ball-scented clothing racks.

The basement level, which requires one to walk down a narrow staircase which appeared to be uneven, was replete with over-stuffed walk-in closets that made me feel like I was backstage on Laugh-In.

It was the most glorious place in the world.

But it only got better when I was engulfed by the pea green carpeting* of the basement: The granddaddy of all Jesus pictures, with its cheaply gilded frame, was resting sovereignly on the wall. It LIT-UP. It was 3D. I had to have it.

(*This may or may not be accurate. I also want to say that the walls down there were wood-paneling, but the truth is that my memory is clouded by all that Jesus glory. I will report back with details when I return in two weeks.)

I ran back upstairs to find Henry who, with no hesitation, said no.

“We’re coming back on the 17th. You can get it then,” he compromised after I made him come downstairs to see it for himself. Terri was down there with us too but she kind of had this nervous “I don’t want to get involved” smile on her face.

“IT MIGHT NOT BE THERE WHEN WE COME BACK!” I cried. Henry just shook his head in concession and rejoined Jason, Christian and Emily outside.

So I bought it. Took that bitch right the fuck off the wall and bought it.

“I don’t have a bag big enough to fit this in,” said the aging hippie behind the counter.

“That’s OK, I’ll carry it proudly,” I gushed, running my fingertips over Jesus’s face.

I walked outside with this lumbering slab of religious kitsch banging off my thigh. Everyone had a look of “Oh Jesus Christ” on their faces.

“And it lights up!” I proudly exclaimed.

Oh Jesus Christ, indeed.

This is what it looks like lit-up in my house at night:

When my friend Jason presented me with the option of either going to the AP Fall Tour in Cleveland or at home here in Pittsburgh, I didn’t hesitate to choose the 2.5-hour drive to Cleveland because I wanted to go back to Melt.

I mean, I wanted to hang out with Jason.

While eating the fuck out of some Melt.

Saturday morning, Jason and his wife Emily were already standing outside of the back entrance, sentinels in anticipation of an impending line of grilled cheese aficionados. We were soon joined by Jason’s friends Terri and Christian from Philly, who were quick to apologize when it came up in conversation that I once stayed in a motel in Camden. Then I asked if they have ever eaten at Cereality, because that is all I know about Philadelphia. I’m not sure how well I sold the cereal bar, considering my review featured the line: And then I almost threw up on my drive home.

I think these were actually the first words I slapped them with after the standard “how do you do”s. I am not very good at small talk.

Once we were all situated in a booth (first ones in, motherfuckers!), Jason, Terri and Christian all ordered different root beers and I could tell Henry was bursting at the seams to start masturbating their minds with all of his lame bottled beverage knowledge. (And then he orders plain old iced tea.) Meanwhile, Emily’s palate twice rejected the grape soda she ordered so she finally surrendered and just got a Coke. Jason teased her about holding up the ordering process but if it had been Henry, my foot would have swiftly kicked his nuts in lieu of good-natured teasing.

Last May was my first time at Melt and I experienced a complete meltdown behind the curtain of my menu. Absolute ordering paralysis. So many choices! And nearly all of them can be made vegetarian/vegan. So what did I get? A plain old mushroom melt. Granted, not so plain when you get it at Melt, but still – it was a far cry from fancy and exotic. Delicious, but pretty pedestrian when wedged in between a line up of artery-clogging sensations like The Dude Abides (homemade meatballs, fried mozzarella cheese sticks, rich marinara, provolone & romano); Paramageddon (2 potato & cheese pierogi, fresh napa vodka kraut, grilled onions, sharp cheddar); and The Big Popper (fresh jalapeno peppers, cheddar & herbed cream cheese, beer battered, mixed berry preserves), which I almost ordered because my aunt Susie recommended it and also because of the mixed berry preserves (Henry puts jelly on my grilled cheeses at home; it’s the best way to eat a grilled cheese) but I was afraid the jalapeno peppers would ignite bonfires in my stomach for the rest of the day.

But then I saw that the special was the New Bomb Turkey, which could be substituted with seitan turkey, and just like that, all the other options paled in comparison. Terri and Christian are both vegetarians as well, and Terri also ordered the New Bomb Turkey so I didn’t feel like an asshole forgoing the meat like I normally do when I’m eating with a bunch of carnivores and being the “difficult one.” Jason and Emily ordered the regular versions of this, Christian I believe got the Dude Abides with vegetarian meatballs because I remember exclaiming that I might have wanted to get that instead but I already ordered. Henry got something dumb.

Waiting for our food went something like this: Blah blah blah, JONNY CRAIG DISCUSSION, blah blah blah, OH HENRY IS THE BEST FOR BRINGING A CASE OF BOYLANS ROOT BEER EVEN THOUGH IT WAS ERIN’S IDEA, music industry scoop, WHERE IS OUR FOOD MY STOMACH IS REVOLTING & IT SOUNDS LIKE NICKELBACK.

Oh, you guys. It was the most glorious sandwich I have ever had the pleasure of sloppily masticating. I softly cried when I took the first bite, like a woman meeting her baby for the first time. (I did not do that when Chooch was born; I was too shell-shocked and hyper-aware of the fact that beneath the sheet, my abdomen was splayed open like a freshly-fucked corpse on a row of milk crates in the back of a serial killer’s Econoline van.)

The bread alone on this sandwich was enough to grow a food baby in a belly. They use the thickest slabs I have ever seen on a sandwich and I don’t know what sort of liquid heart attack they use to grill it, and it’s probably best that I don’t know, but it makes the most glorious goddamn grilled cheese vessel of all time. If it won an award, Kanye West would probably interrupt its speech just to agree. Greasy as fuck, crispy around the edges, moist in the middle—just the way Henry liked his hooker vaginas when he was in the SERVICE.

And there’s so much going on between the slices, I have no idea how the sandwiches don’t topple over on their way to each table from the kitchen. Even the vegetarian versions had so much seitan turkey jammed atop a soft wad of stuffing, there was no way that bitch was fitting into my mouth (and I do have a big mouth) without the aid of a fork.

It was all the things I never get to have on Thanksgiving, punched inside a towering stack of Paula Deen-approved toast and served with a prescription for Lipitor.

The cranberry dipping sauce was like gilding a lily at that point, but fuck did it make for an ambrosial lily.

I had to take copious breaks, but I managed to polish off an entire half and I felt my stomach expanding sickeningly throughout it all. Henry had already engulfed his entire plate in that time.

Speaking of Henry, here is what he has to say about his lunch at Melt.

Me, watching Henry wash the dishes last night: What was on your sandwich?

Henry, in his standard indignant tone: It was gyro melt.

(I guess this means we’re supposed to figure it out on our own.)

Me: OK, no one cares anyway. How sad were you that you couldn’t sit next to Jason and dish secretly about root beer like two little 1950’s school girls?

Henry, maintaining his Man of Few Words image: I wasn’t.

Me, as Henry takes a hearty swig of Faygo Cola. Dish washing is hard work, ya’ll: What was harder to wrap your mouth around, your sandwich or the words “I do” in 1993.

Henry: Why do you have to do that.

Me: Seriously, which one?

Henry, adopting his “You’re pushing me” high-pitched squawk that I hate so much yet cause so often: I don’t know! Let it go!

(He hates being reminded of That Time in his life.)

Me, furiously scribbling in my important “I’m Interviewing Henry!” notebook (it has monsters on it): If you could have your own sandwich on the Melt menu, what would be on it?

Henry, trying to make my dinner at this point, so you would think I would back off lest a generous sprinkle of rat poison fall into the pot: I don’t know!

(This is assuming Henry has any imagination, but it would probably be some sort of flesh marinated in Faygo and served on a bed of emasculation, with a bandanna as a napkin.)

Me: Did you think our waitress was hot?

Henry: [Looks at me suspiciously and slowly says no. This means YES.]

Me: What about the guy who refilled your iced tea?

Henry, in a flat tone: No, I didn’t pay attention.

(This means he’s already downloaded busboy porn.)

Me: How disappointed were you that none of our lunch companions remarked upon your striking resemblance to serial killer Ed Kemper?

Henry, playing Bakery Story on his phone at this point: I wasn’t.

Me: If you found a finger in your sandwich, would you

• Pull it out and set it aside, then puke in a flower pot;
• Eat it. Meat is meat and they know what they’re doing at Melt;
• Use it to replace the butt plug you lost during the Great Marital Separation of 2001.

(These are the companion photos to this post, which I wrote while still in Gatlinburg. I miss Gatlinburg. Also, I have not been able to go back and check out all my horrendous typos borne from a writing-derelict like myself using a PHONE to blog.)

In the AM:

It was all downhill from here. (Except that it was uphill.)

Not very peaceful with a Damien-caliber 5-year-old shrieking about how bad he hates you. Yay, parenthood.

Literally in the clouds.

I wish I had video of this. He would have lost a ton of fans.

Henry is not very strong so this was very short-lived. And besides—THE KID IS FIVE, HE HAS LEGS THAT WORK, LET THE FUCKER WALK ON HIS OWN.

God, he is so spoiled, something I know nothing about.

There were signs everywhere warning about bears. If there were any bears around that morning though, Chooch’s fucking big mouth certainly chased them away.

The infamous (by this point) Clingman’s Dome.

 There was a group of girls up there from China and randomly, some hiker came out of the woods and was like, “Oh I speak Chinese” and started showing off his linguistic skills. Within 3 minutes, they were all Facebook friends with him.

(No seriously, I watched them all pull out their phones and have a friending spree.) I felt like we were interrupting some intimate reunion, plus Chooch was still being a candy-assed cry baby, so I snapped a few hasty pictures and we left.

By the time I was taking this picture, the Chinese girls were all giggling behind me, having their picture taken with the creepy hiker.

Seriously, what are the odds.

In the PM:

Lunch at Mellow Mushroom, after a decidedly not-so-mellow morning.

Like he almost deserves this.

Go the fuck to sleep.

I just found out that one of my co-workers is going to Gatlinburg/Pigeon Forge soon so now I hate her.

The theme of Dollywood is some strange hybrid of Colonialism, butterflies and mining. Is mining prominent in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee? I’m not sure, but this is Dolly Parton’s head we’re in now. And it kind of worked. At the very least, it made us feel quaint as our pockets were being raped by Dolly’s minions.

Still, I expected everything to be lacquered in pink and Aquanet.

We let Henry walk alone most of the day because his McNichol Hair was looking more like McHomeless Hair. Even Chooch knows to point and laugh.

But what’s not visible to the eye is Dollywood’s underlying theme of terror. These employees are trained to be alarmist sons of bitches while keeping a tight Southern smile perched on their face and making me feel like I’m the star of my own personal Final Destination. I collected three precautionary examples from my day at Dollywood:

1. The train conductor: Henry the Elder and his apprentice in geriatrics, Bill, both seemed adamant about riding the scenic train. Bill especially — those flying elephants in kiddie land really messed with his equilibrium. And I think Henry just wanted to give his ‘roids a rest. (They had a pretty exhausting day and I believe they even sent out a few postcards bitching about it.) Plus, what better way to meet other old folk? They were lining up for the train by the gaggle. As the train was preparing for departure, the conductor’s voice boomed out of the speakers, imploring us to keep our arms and legs inside the train at all time and warning us quite gravely about the prospect of getting hot cinders in our eyes. Wait, what now? “This is NOT a reason to pull on the emergency rope,” the conductor continued. “I repeat, getting cinders in your eye is not considered an emergency. Simply tell one of us when we return to the station and someone will accompany you to first aid.” I was starting to want to get off the train. Instead, I pushed my sunglasses harder up the bridge of my nose and cursed myself for once again leaving my safety goggles at home. There was also a lot of doomsday diatribe going on about getting soot on your clothes. Bill happened to be on the phone during this and barked a fortuitously timed, “Who cares?!” just loud enough to make several passengers laugh. He probably had no idea, though, since he was lucky enough to not have to listen to the conductor’s spiel.
2. The Birds of Prey show: We had just sat down under the small theater pavilion for what I thought was going to be a mild exercise in bird education, but instead we were treated to an urgent command to REMOVE ALL FOOD FROM THE AREA, HIDE IT, COVER IT, GET RID OF IT, THE BIRDS ARE TRAINED TO COME TO FOOD. Drinks were OK to have, though. “What if the birds are thirsty?” Henry lamely joked. But still, I found myself shoving my cup of water further away from myself. And then one of the trainers added, “Some of these birds will be flying low over your heads. DO NOT REACH YOUR ARMS UP AND TRY TO TOUCH THEM.” I’m glad they told me that because it’s instinctual for me to want to put my hands near something with talons. (I often have to resist the urge to jam my hands inside a paper shredder, too. There’s just something about the prospect of having my flesh julienned that makes me feel jubilant) And then there was another plea to remove all food from the area, but what I heard was THESE BIRDS WILL PECK YOUR PATHETIC MEAT SUITS TO DEATH IN WAYS THAT HITCHCOCK NEVER WOULD HAVE IMAGINED. Suddenly, the threat of being aerially pissed and shat upon seemed like a day of motorboating J-Woww’s boobs at the pool.
3. The Tram: Isn’t it enough that we’re (I’m) already sad about leaving Dollywood? And now some dumb broad on the tram has to bring up what to do in the case of finding our car broken into, busted or stolen, so now instead of thinking happy thoughts about Dolly’s wigs and creepy awesome waiters, I’m now completely panicking about the state in which we’re going to find our car. Also, on the tram into the park, we were told that if we attempted to walk back to our car from the park and then changed our mind, TOO BAD because the tram DOES NOT PICK UP WISHY-WASHY WALKERS. Crawl back to your cars, lazy motherfuckers.

I have a pretty big fear of carousels that I don’t talk about very often. It mainly revolves around the disembarking of the horses/animals. I usually say things like, “No thanks, merry-go-rounds are for lamers” or “No thanks, I lost my virginity on a merry-go-round to a rapist in Boise; bad memories;” but for some reason I willingly was on board for a circular calliope-soundtracked jaunt. Everything was grand until it stopped and I found myself stuck. More like, paralyzed. Instead of attempting to slide off with grace, I over-thought the process, wrote too many mental blueprints, and wound up frozen with one foot on the stirrup thing (I am an avid horseback rider, you didn’t know?) and my other leg slung across the horse’s ass, clammy hands gripping the gilded pole like I was about to plummet to a stripper’s death. Henry took FOREVER to come over and help me, leaving me frozen in the most awkward, bestial position the Kama Sutra never endorsed and you can’t tell me that was an accident. NO, YOU CAN’T TELL ME.

Meanwhile, Chooch spent the whole ride heckling some little girl on a cat in front of him. Apparently, the carousel is as good an arena as any for some old-school shit-talking. Bill said the girl was giving it right back to him, which I’m sure Chooch could not get behind. At one point, I heard Chooch ask Bill how old he is, only to turn back to the girl and sneer, “Oh yeah? Well HE’S THIRTY-FIVE!”

I’m not sure what that proved, but Chooch sure seemed smug about it. I’m sure Bill was happy to have his age announced to all of the other riders. (There were like, 5 of us.)

Then Bill rode on a flying elephant, which surely rebuilt his esteem.

Bill was THIS HAPPY to be on a TRAIN in DOLLYWOOD. I couldn’t see, but I have a feeling Henry could have been found in the same position on the other side of Bill, probably daydreaming about jumping off the train to his uncertain death.

“The TRAIN? Seriously?” Meanwhile, he spent the whole ride barking orders for me to take pictures of every goddamn piece of scenery.

Some friendly motherfuckers.

Aside from all the old people, the park was pretty sparsely populated. This meant we could quite literally just walk on all of the rides, so since there were no lines to stand in, there were hardly any enemies to make. There was only one family that rubbed me the wrong way—they were the epitome of picture-perfect Christian family; the mom was even wearing a Cornerstone t-shirt and the dad had Flanders-hair. Even the offspring seemed tame and on short leashes. I bet they came to see the Smokies in their RV and have a ban on secular music.

I bet they sang hymns and wrote unironically in the prayer request book in the Dollywood chapel.

Henry and I partook in some swift nuptials* and then rode a ride about hillbillies perishing in a fire; both activities left a lot to be desired.

(*Jokes.)

We capped off the day with milkshakes made by the oldest women in the entire park. It took forever for them to make it, but when I started to complain Henry snapped, “That’s because they’re making REAL MILKSHAKES and they actually give a shit about doing it RIGHT so STFU.” God, the elderly sure do stick together. Kind of makes me look forward to getting old.

(I should note that it was one of the best milkshakes I’ve ever had. Old ladies pwn that shit.)

With the exception of the nervous breakdown Bill and I may have accidentally caused him to have by tormenting him when he wouldn’t ride the rapids ride with us, Chooch was pretty good all day. I guess I was too; Henry did a good job of keeping me fed and emotionally-stimulated. He even rode some shit with me! That almost never happens. In the end, it ended up being one of my favorite things we did in Tennessee, even though it was relatively over-priced. I didn’t get cinders in my eyes, soot on my clothes, shit on, pecked to death or car-jacked. I’d say that’s “winning” but aren’t I already enough of a douchebag?

Shit. Except that I forgot to buy a new outfit from Dolly’s Closet.

I. Open Air Nursing Home

The first thing I noticed when we walked through the gates of Dollywood was that there were a LOT of old people there. I get that it was late in the season and probably most kids were back in school, but I never would have imagined the park would have been packed by so many geriatrics. I guess they really wanted to listen to some bluegrass and eat some BBQ.

I think it was BYOB(utterscotch pudding).

Henry felt right at home.

I’ll be sure to punch this picture in Henry’s face next time he tries to sit down at a concert.

Even the people working there were older than Henry’s backed-up shit. I guess that’s how Dolly likes it. It’s nice to know that if I’m ever forced into retirement, Dolly will take me in. I’m not wearing a fucking bonnet though, I’m sorry. (Unless I can have it screen-printed with Jonny Craig’s face.)

This actually was a pretty nice change of pace, considering I’m used to gnarly carnies at the county fairs and ambivalent, lackadaisical college kids at Kennywood who act like they’re having to go beyond the call of duty just to make sure you’re buckled in. The old folks running the rides were excited about it.

Old Gramps over at the Lemon Twist was so happy to greet a new batch of riders that he acted like he was granting us entrance into the gates of heaven. I so badly wanted him to say, “Get stoked!”

I have to be honest and say that I was a little disconcerted about putting my life in the arthritic hands of someone who probably can’t even use a cell phone.

II. Sherbet

For lunch, we ate a place called the Backstage or something equally as lame, which had the distinct aroma of joint cream and barbeque. There was a man covering “Sweet Home Alabama” next to an empty table and I was ready to raise hell if we got seated there. We ended up being sat in a different room, full of old people and bus boys in checkered shirts.

Our waiter’s name was Sherbet (named changed to protect the innocent) and he spoke in a concerned whisper. I’m positive he has a collection of women’s tongues and rape poem-filled composition books under his mattress, but it didn’t stop him from being hugely endearing to me.

Or maybe that’s why he was hugely endearing to me.

“Your son’s meal came with a collector’s plate,” Sherbet whispered to me in such a way that I wondered if he thought Chooch would get mugged in an alley if word got out on the street that he was the new owner of a plastic plate loaded with butterflies. “It’s not dishwasher or microwave safe,” Sherbet continued, leaning down to assure his strangulated whisper seeped into my ear. “Otherwise, it will ruin the print on the plate and may even warp it.”

I have never before listened so intently to someone warn me about potential collector plate hazards. (This might be because I kept getting flashes of him lounging in his bed with a sex doll, smoking an e-Cig and wearing a garter belt.) In any case, I might never let Chooch eat from it. (The plate, not the sex doll). In fact, I might even buy a glass display case for it.

If I can even find it. It might still be in Tennessee.

Sherbet would kill me if he found out I might have lost it.

III. Birds of Prey

Admission for Dollywood was like, I don’t know, $60 a person or something ridiculous like that. In fact, Henry and Bill were dragging their feet when they found out the admission but I got all lip-jutty and whiny.

“Do you know how much it costs?” Bill said on Dollywood Eve.

“Yes, Henry and I had a debate about this,” I said.

“Debate? Is that what you’re calling that?” Henry said with barking laughter. I might have cried, broken up with him and slammed a door. So yes, “debate.”

But I got my way and was consequently the only happy person that Wednesday. (I don’t think Chooch cared either way; he’s such a failure in that department.)

“I was looking at the website and I don’t think they had all the rides listed,” I said when we walked through the gates.

“No,” Bill replied dourly as he studied a map of the park. “I’m pretty sure that’s all the rides that are here.”

Slim pickins, is what it was (I feel like Dolly probably says slim pickins), so we decided we better take in some shows.

The unfortunate part to that is there wasn’t much we were interested in.

But as it turns out, Dolly is a big bald eagle advocate; there is a huge enclosure on a hillside filled with bald eagles who have been rescued. Next to the enclosure is a little outdoor theater which holds several daily bird shows.

Now this I was down with, even though I knew it was something Henry would like too and that kind of pained me a little.

You guys, there were owls there. OWLS. Goddamn I love a motherfucking owl. They remind me so much of my cat Marcy! (So do hawks, eagles and vultures, as well.)

Doesn’t that look like Marcy!?

This one broad who was enjoying the bird show clearly loves beverage more than you do.
<
Who wears shirts like that? I know I don’t, because I don’t give that much of a fuck about any beverage that isn’t going to get me fucked up. Henry, however, probably saw this shirt and got a beverage boner. I mean, the man moves pallets of Faygo around a warehouse for a living.

I’m not going to lie, I got choked up through several parts of the show (birds of prey are cool, don’t hate) and even cried at the end. Although, my favorite part was when the bald eagle projectile shat on the handler.

[There is more but I don’t want to overwhelmed the Internet with all of my photos at once. Plus, I’m at work and getting INTERRUPTED. The nerve.]

Hey, did you know we went on vacation? Oh. Of course you did. Am I being that annoying about it?  SORE-Y.

Anyway, here are the companion photos to this post, from our first full day in Tennessee. Look at them or don’t look at them; they’ll never know the difference.

I miss this stupid porch.

This was moments before The Accident. It’s all fun and games until somebody gets punched in the face by an overhang.

Minutes later: friends again. Are you serious? I’d have made Bill beg for it. Chooch is way too forgiving and he so does not get that from me.

He at least got an ice cream cone out of it. I’d have asked for more. Like maybe money. Lots of it. OR MAYBE HIS WIFE.

On a weener prowl.

Every other store was Jesus n’ guns. Henry was getting some pretty big ideas.

Trying to DROWN my kid now.

The courtyard inside one of the little shopping areas in Gatlinburg.

It made me wish I was wearing a Snow White dress.  Or at the very least, a tutu.

There was even a shoe store that sold TOMS. I had to hold back from buying a houndstooth pair.

So, this was an interesting week for Chooch and telephones.

We’re one of the many families that have eschewed a landline for cell phones, so Chooch has never known anything but a cell phone. However, he quickly caught on that if he knew Bill and Jessi’s room number, he could call them from the phone in our room. Trust me, he memorized that shit quicker than the Situation memorized the number the STD clinic.

But then this happened one day:

Chooch, holding the receiver out: Oh shit. I dialed the wrong number.

Me: Then hang it up!

Chooch, slams it down and then picks it back up: Ew, what’s that noise?

Me: Well son, that there is what the pioneers call a DIAL TONE.

It’s just so weird to me that  landlines are becoming so archaic that my 5-year-old is as confused as you or I would be if we had to send a telegram. Also, when I was five, I was playing on a motherfucking Speak and Spell, not a computer.

Now imagine his double-excitement when he got to stand inside a payphone.

Chooch wants to be photographed everywhere now, and he can be a little bitchy divo about it. “Not on THOSE rocks, THESE rocks!”

I’ve created a monster.

Chooch and Bill inside a genie’s bottle at some Optical Illusion attraction that was good for a few laughs.

Stupid me, I almost didn’t take a picture of him hugging the fiftieth wooden bear sculpture, but he made sure to school me in front of a bunch of strangers. Everyone laughed and thought it was so adorable. I was tempted to lift my shirt and show them the welts from where he beats me with a scalding poker.

Pretending to like each other.

And no, I’m not referencing your cheating ex-wife’s vagina.

About a week before we left for Tennessee, I turned to Roadside America to help us map out a route. By the time I was done adding side-excursions all over the west side of West Virginia, our 8-hour drive had morphed into a 12-hour trek.

Henry was totally not OK with this. But I begged him, out of all the roadside attractions, to let me keep the Mystery Hole. It was on our route!

That morning of our departure, I was up by 4AM, packed, showered and rearin’ to go. Too bad Chooch and Henry didn’t wake up until 7. And then we didn’t even leave until 8. Henry argued that we could go to Mystery Hole on the way back home and I threw a substantial fit, pointing out that it was only open until 4 and how could he be sure we’d make it.

So we didn’t speak for awhile. I stared at my framed pictures of Jonny Craig to punish him. He hates when I openly lust like that.

But then Jessi texted me from the road (they had departed from Michigan but pretty much were looking at the same arrival time as us) a few hours into the trip and said they had been snagged by some traffic and weren’t expecting to make it to Gatlinburg until later than anticipated, so we should feel free to be leisurely and linger at any roadside stops we might pass on the way.

I read this text out-loud to Henry in my best “INYOURFACE” voice and then smugly said, “Mystery Hole. We’re going.”

And getting there was half the fun! And not just because Henry had to rely on my shoddy map-reading skills*, but because the town in which it’s located (Ansted, WV) is creepy as shit.

*(GPS is for losers. And couples who don’t like having incessant explosions of domestic  violence underneath the fuzzy car roof.)

I’m already planning a daytrip back to Ansted with props and costumes because it’s crying out for a photo shoot. The bus stops looked like open-air outhouses; there was a bar in an abandoned warehouse and you just know all brands of rape, animal sacrifice and baby-roasting goes on in the back next to the collection of scrapped, blood-soaked vehicles from unlucky travelers who get lost because they don’t use GPS; every other house was boarded up; tiny churches  sat flush against the woods. There was even a Civil War encampment.

In other words, there was nary a Starbucks to be found in Ansted.

But once we passed through “downtown” Ansted and started traveling up into the mountains, it got even better. Ramshackle sheds, confederate flags, cinder-blocked cars eaten by rust. Most of the houses looked unlivable and I’m sure each had a clothesline out back, pregnant with damp overalls. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to get out of the car and tempt fate, see if you can get chased away by a shotgun-toting hillbilly in faded camouflage stained with underarm sweat and Skoal-tinted slobber.

And then this appeared on the left hand side as we reached the top of a crest:

One of the tips on Roadside America warned that it was easy to miss. I hope they were being sarcastic. How the hell does someone miss something that looks like Sid and Marty Kroff spent too much time in the mountains subsisting on little else but Moonshine, mushrooms and sardines and then vomited all over the side of a Quonset hut after plowing into it with their VW? The whole compound was a fluorescent host for tetanus.

Just how I like my roadside attractions: colorful and deadly.

For Chooch and me, this was a real feast for our eyes, a nice break from all the mountains and nature bullshit we had been subjected to. But Henry, who I’m pretty sure is color- and fun-blind, didn’t seem fazed by this wondrous explosion of Flower Power.

“Now what is this supposed to be again?” he asked all curmudgeonly.

“Um, only the most awesome place in the world!” I exclaimed in my teenaged “duh” tone. He kept looking at me though, waiting for a real answer, until I mumbled, “I don’t know, it has something to do with gravity or something.”

Real Talk: I only really wanted to go because one of the Roadside America tips likened the proprietor to the Soup Nazi, saying that he denied her entrance because she kept her camera in her coat pocket instead of returning it to her car, even after his wife laid out the rules of the land for her. So the woman’s husband took the camera back to the car, leaving his wife to be continuously chided by the Mystery Hole gate keeper and he still refused to let her enter because she BROKE THE RULES.

I had to see this guy for myself.

I also wanted to see the unbelievable.

Tickets for the tour were $5 and we purchased these inside the technicolor gift shop. The woman at the register, whom I can only assume is Mrs. Mystery Hole herself, ran down the list of rules to us and never once cracked a smile.

“And no large purses,” she finished, giving me a hardened stare. I took my purse back to the car. I was totally not trying to get kicked out of the Mystery Hole like some emasculated husband in the doghouse. (All of these photos were taken post-amazement of the Mystery Hole tour.)

Not a huge fan of Mrs. Mystery Hole, I gotta say.

We had around 10  minutes to kill before the next tour (“We’ll ring the cow bell,” Mrs. Mystery Hole monotoned, not even a smidge of personality slipping through. Broad made me shudder.), so we enjoyed the scenic overlook, and by that I mean Henry enjoyed the scenic overlook while I screamed, “OMG CHOOCH DON’T FALL OVER THE EDGE JESUS CHRIST HENRY HOLD HIM!”

Mountains: still a novelty on Day 1

Still waiting for the elusive cow bell, I gave Henry a spontaneous hug.

He looked at me all wide-eyed. I never hug him in front of people, and there were definitely a few people milling about. “What was that for?” he asked skeptically.

“I’m just so happy to finally be here! I’ve wanted to come here since….” I quickly thought about how long it had been since I found it on Roadside America. “….last week.” Henry just sighed and walked away.

And then the cowbell happened! I grabbed Chooch’s hand and together we ran to the entrance like the uncoordinated idiots we are while Henry and an older couple walked like regular people behind us. I wanted to be in the front of the pack, up close to Mr. Mystery Hole (whose name is Bill, by the way) and his crazy “I collect soiled underwear” eyes. Bill, a slender man with an eccentric energy and slight mountain drawl (he and his wife are actually Michigan natives, if we are to believe my Internet research), reiterated the rules to us and then asked if any of us have heart problems. We all said no (Henry lied) and Bill asked me if I wanted to see a rattlesnake egg.

“Sure, why not,” I answered and cupped my palms for him to place a small manilla envelope, which immediately vibrated wildly in my hands and emitted a loud rattling noise, causing me to shriek and hurl it to the ground.

Everyone laughed at me because they’re assholes.

Bill retrieved the envelope and opened it up to show me that it was just some stupid rubberband-rigged gag, which I have totally seen before yet STILL fell for.

“Does anyone here know why there weren’t actually rattlesnake eggs in here?” Bill asked. The old lady in our group answered, “Because rattlesnakes don’t lay eggs.”

Smug bitch. I choose to fill my brain with important facts, like shit about music and serial killers, thank you.

“And by the way,” Bill said teasingly to me. “Your heart’s just fine.”

I kind of liked Bill after that.

He opened a gate and led us down a relatively steep ramp into the basement of the souvenir shop. Even moreso than outside, the interior was steeped in the stench of the ’70s. It smelled of moth balls, musk and the sweat on a paisley-print A-line dress after a long night of dancing to ABBA. It was also quite damp and there were probably impressive arrays of fungi growing in the darkened corners. Random memorabilia from the ’70s lined the walls and one small room even glowed with the power of a black light in case we weren’t comprehending that we had traveled back to the Me Decade. I’m sure it brought on a flood of memories for Henry the Elder.

And there were mannequins.

I wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with the Mystery Hole, which was actually the largest room down there. We had to enter it by walking up a ramp and then down a ramp, at which point we found ourselves unable to stand upright and needing to grip the wall to keep from falling. Bill instructed Henry, Chooch and me to sit on a couch, while the other two leaned against the wall.

Bill then walked with an extreme lean to the front of the room and began showing us a variety of gravitationally-impossible tricks, like balls rolling up a hill (which I’ve seen before in Laurel Caverns and sorry, Bill, but I do understand how that happens), water flowing uphill, and Bill being able to sit on a chair perched on nothing more but a small nail in the wall. He then had Henry, Chooch and me hold out our arms in front of us and try to stand up. We couldn’t, because while it appeared that we were sitting normally, the way the room was set up we were actually almost laying on our backs. (Henry would never have been able to do this even if he was sitting on a couch in a room with normal gravity. Because he’s old, remember?)

The old couple politely declined Bill’s offer for them to sit on the couch after we unsuccessfully struggled to get up.

According to the Mystery Hole website, those who don’t ask questions are the unintelligent ones. But when asked, none of the people in our group asked any questions (though Chooch had repeatedly whispered to me, “When are we leaving? This place is scary.”), so I guess Henry shouldn’t have been the only one I was calling “Dum Dum” all day.

Besides, I would have only inquired, “When do we get to see the basement?”

They had a guest book in the gift shop, which I happily scrawled “Stoked to be here!” after my name. Henry frowned. But in his own words: “It was pretty cool.” That’s a big deal for Henry to admit.

Bill was high energy, full of jokes and showed us some cool parlor tricks. Totally worth the slight detour and $5, and I would tell any one of you to go there and be amazed. But probably more by the tacky decor and crazy blue eyes than the actual “gravity defiance” show.

I was still riding a Mystery Hole high hours later in the car. “I didn’t think the tour guide was an asshole at all. In fact, he seemed to really like me. He paid a lot of attention to me.”

“I wonder why,” Henry smirked, lowering his eyes to my cleavage.

***

The next day, we were tromping around downtown Gatlinburg when I noticed Henry was acting weird and off-balance.

“What’s your problem?” I asked with my usual lack of compassion.

“I think Mystery Hole really fucked me up,” Henry moaned. “I haven’t felt right since we left there yesterday.”

Well, there is a disclaimer for that.

Judging by these pictures, Henry had a really great vacation! Maybe he’ll tell us all about it this week.

Funny how weeners are so DRAWN to him.

Me, giddy at the prospect of being < 90 minutes from home: “I can’t wait to hug Marcy!”

Chooch, snidely exasperated: “Like that’s a surprise.” My love for my cat is universally mocked.

******

One final look at our cabin at the Westgate Resort.

After begrudgingly checking out, we all had one final meal at a Hardee’s in Pigeon Forge. Henry purposely neglected Chooch and me in the beverage department and then tried to deny it in front of everyone else. That’s OK; my own warm saliva is enough to wash down my breakfast biscuits.

The people-watching there was top-notch. We saw a true redneck Jonny Craig! An endless parade of hair shellacked with Aqua Net! A man wearing big heeled shoes comparable to Pee Wee’s! A middle-aged woman with 80s hair unironically sporting pajama jeans outside of the house!

Oh, Tennessee, I fucking miss you already.

Our final parking lot goodbyes were horrible. I wanted to not cry but I’m a big sensitive softie when it comes to people I give a crap about. I will never be able to fully articulate how much I appreciate that Bill and Jessi invited us down with them, and I am so glad that I made new friends in the process. Tammy, Vanessa and Ranee are such good people.

Chooch wanted Bill to spin him in the grass next to the lot before we left.

“Yeah Bill, this is your last chance to hurt him!” Henry teased.

And just like that, we left the land of “ya’ll” for the region of “yinz.”

I think this was in Virginia. Everything looks the same after awhile.

“Seriously? More mountains? Are you kidding  me?” Somewhere in West Virginia—the Bluestone Lake or some shit.

In the middle of our trek through the hills of West Virginia, it started raining. I kept anticipating some Sling Blade motherfucker to blow out our tires and our brains, and what better way to tempt fate than by scouring Roadside America for reasons to take us off-route.

Which is how we ended up in Thurman, West Virginia looking for a coal mine ghost town.

At least every five houses we drove past  looked as if they had been stomped to death.

“I could never live out here,” I admitted with a shiver.

“I could,” Henry said thoughtfully. Then go for it, motherfucker!

My phone inexplicably died in the middle of a one-lane road buffeted by a creek and thick green foliage camouflaging Cletus and his mongoloid mountaineer brethren. Getting frustrated that we hadn’t reached our destination yet, Henry pulled a u-turn in a huff.

My phone turned back on in the same spot it turned off.

Reaching a semi-civilized area, Henry pulled onto the shoulder and consulted GPS again. I kept swearing we had been headed in the right direction, so he finally floored it and kicked up gravel.

I think he was not thrilled about this detour, which was only supposed to take us a few miles off-route.

By the time we found it (after Henry ignored my pleas of going straight and opted to take an incorrect right turn), we had gone an hour off-schedule.

And it had started to thunderstorm. Hard.

First we had to cross over a one-car bridge. Henry parked along the side of the train tracks, praying that our puny Focus wouldn’t get sucked into the mud, while I got out and grabbed some photos. I wanted to go further into the town, but Henry kept yelling at me from the car to get off the tracks.

I spent the next hour shivering in the car.

By the time we got back to Pittsburgh, it was nearly 10:30pm. Henry conveniently waited until we were in the driveway to tell me that he wasn’t sure where he put the housekeys, so Chooch and I sat on the front steps and swore a whole lot while Henry searched the bags (it was in the one bag he SWORE it wasn’t in) and then it took Marcy a whole 45 minutes to even show her face once we got inside the house.

Chooch openly wept when he saw Speck, which broke my heart.

It’s been two days and I am still so not ready to be back.

(Also, apologies for all the posts from my phone last week, which I can only guess were peppered with even more typos than usual.)

Me, confused yet amazed: “Jessi was so supportive of Bill at Pirate mini golf. She even cheered when he got a hole-in-one. I would NEVER do that for you.”
Henry, all miserable: “That’s because she actually LOVES Bill.”
************
The rest of our last day was spent trying to cram in some souvenir shopping. Henry, Chooch and I went to the Ole Smoky Moonshine Distillery where “free tours!” turned out to mean, “Y’all can stand in front of this display and watch as fake Moonshine is being made and read some shit on these here placards while we plant some old man dressed as a hillbilly next to this vat to make it look more authentic, ya hear?” Utterly disappointing.

However, there were free tastings and even though the broads running the shop were absolute bitter cunt-whores, I still walked away with a mason jar of Apple Pie.

(To be fair, the lady who rang me up cracked a smile when she saw my finger tattooed and said, “That’s funny.”)

Later on, we all went to Pigeon Forge as a group for some cheesy souvenir persuing. Roadside America had been pressuring me to stop at Three Bears all week, promising that there was an actual bear pit in the back of the store. This seems pretty cruel to me, but the proprietors swear that these are bears that wandered out of the woods and had to be captured when found ravaging dumpsters in commercial areas. I really didn’t want to patronize this establishment without more information, but curiosity got the best of me.

The store also has a year-round Xmas section. Because that makes it all better.

Anyway, it cost us something like $3.50 to see the bears, and a bit extra for a Dixie cup full of apples and miniature Milk bones to feed them. The enclosure was comparable to something a zoo would have, complete with waterfall and pool, so that made me feel better. The bears didn’t appear to be broken, and they would actually stand up on their hind legs to catch the treats, like they were performing. Or working for their food.

While I admittedly squealed in delight with everyone else and clapped my hands as if at a circus, I still had that niggling guilt in my heart.

There are apparently animal rights activists who protest in the Three Bears parking lot, but it was empty of sandwich board signs and PETA pamphlets on this day.

We then shared one last meal with Ranee and Vanessa before they had to head back to the airport, and then we capped off the week with a round of Pirate black light mini golf at MagiQuest, where my bra glowed through my shirt in trashy black light chic.

Chooch got another hole-in-one, what the fuck.

“Is this Henry’s favorite hole?

” Jessi asked me, pointing to the decidedly phallic outline of it.

Henry ended up beating me by one but let it be known that I would have won had I not been so focused on heckling Henry and Bill.

It was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

“Did you notice that it was all of the BOYS who got holes-in-one?” Bill chided on hole 18. Considering us girls are better at everything else, throwing the game was the least we could do.

I don’t think anyone of us wanted to leave the parking lot afterward, knowing it was our last group activity of the week. Henry went back to the room and cried about it for hours.

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.

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.

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.

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.