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

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!

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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:

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 tell 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.

I have a Roadside America app on my phone (which Henry just LOVES because it veers us so far off course) which I had been snooping around on before we left for Michigan.  I figured Chooch wouldn’t be able to be cooped up inside Warriors 3 all day and we need diversions (little did I know I could have left without him and he never would have noticed).

While sitting in the VIP room of the shop, I asked everyone if they knew how to get to the Heidelberg Project. It popped up in the app as something that was nearby, which excited me because I had read about it before, a few years back. Roadside America billed it as an urban junkscape and I am a huge fan of found art projects so I already knew I wasn’t going home until I got to see it. Plus, its creator, Tyree Guyton, has already had numerous run-ins with the city of Detroit bulldozing sections of it right out from under him, so who knows how much longer the Project will continue to thrive.

We were just going to go alone, the three of us, but Bill and Jessi offered to take us because they had never seen it either. I felt guilty pulling them away from the shop (especially after an old friend of Jessi’s showed up just to see her while we were gone) but they kept assuring me they wanted to go.

We took their car so I didn’t get to taunt anyone in the inner city with my Penguins flag. Considering the things I saw out of the window on the way there, perhaps that was a good thing.

Bill and Jessi made sure I didn’t miss the gratuitously humongous Uniroyal tire on the side of the road, which I learned from the Roadside America app that it used to be a FERRIS WHEEL. Bill and Jessi didn’t tell me that. They’re horrible tour guides. (<—THIS IS A JOKE.) I cheerfully checked off the Uniroyal tire as “Been there.” Then I posted it to Facebook to complete the full obnoxious experience.

I teared up a little when we pulled into the street that houses the Project. There’s something really special about taking random discarded items, things that are trash to most people, and using it to breathe life back into a dilapidated urban area. To me, it transcends art.

And now I will let the photos tell the rest.

Jessi and I being shocked and awed by beautiful junk.

I want to go back there today.

The plan upon leaving was to order Thai food to bring back to the shop, but my little purple and yellow painted fingers just wouldn’t quit tapping along through the Roadside America app. I soon learned that there was a giant neon kielbasa sign a mere 2 miles away. Bill was quick to agree to take us there, giving away his latent desire to deep throat mechanical meats.

Giggling deviously deep in my throat, I checked the kielbasi off my list and posted it to Facebook.

“Are you playing some sort of Bingo?” Bill asked, trying to figure out why I was so hyper about neon sausages and elephantine roadside tires.

Henry mumbled something from the seat next to me, but I was unable to decipher it. He’s probably just jealous he can’t have apps on his hick phone.

Then we ordered Thai food from a restaurant in Dearborn, which is where Sahar from the latest Real World is from, you guys! I wanted to try and find her to see if she still has that cold, or if that’s just always how she talks.

I should have added her to Roadside America.

Our friend Bill and two of his friends realized their dreams by opening their very own comic and gaming shop in Wayne, Michigan. The grand opening was set for Labor Day weekend.

“You know,” Henry postulated a week prior. “If you wanted to go to the opening, I bet we could swing it.”

Since I was brought on as a permanent employee at The Law Firm, we’ve been decidedly less stressed. In fact, one day I was sitting in the car thinking to myself, “What is that weird feeling I feel? Oh. I do believe that’s called ‘relief’.” Bill and Jessi come to Pittsburgh quite often to visit us, have been to Chooch’s last two birthday parties, and even one of my game nights, so I was like, “Hell yes, let’s do this.” I wanted to be there in person to show our support! And also to drive around the outskirts of Detroit with my Penguins flag waving proudly atop my car.

Saturday morning, I was up at 6:00am and ready to go. Henry and Chooch didn’t wake up until 7:00 and 7:30, respectively, and we didn’t hit the road until 8:30. I was angry about this, and Henry decided this would be a good time to flirt with me, which only succeeded in deepening my scowl.

The ride was pretty uneventful and long as shit. It only should have taken us about 5 hours to get there, but with a four-year-old in the backseat, that’s never going to happen without a hearty dose of Nyquil. Since I forgot the Nyquil, we pretty much stopped at every fucking rest area so Chooch wouldn’t petrify in his car seat.

At the one rest stop, he got a kids meal at Burger Meal. “What?” he exclaimed dramatically, extracting a girl toy from the bag.

“Go give it back to the lady at the counter,” I advised, and then Henry piggy-backed my advice by advising I go with him.

Chooch shrugged his way through the travelers crowding the front of Burger King, slammed the girl purse thing onto the counter and spat, “I’m not a GIRL.”

He got some plush Wrestler thing that makes a noise that I would end up hearing for the rest of the trip.

At another rest stop, we were parked next to Border Control. Henry, being the wise old man that he is, explained that he was probably here checking for drugs.

“And with a dog like that,” he said, gesturing to the German Shepherd accompanying the officer, “you’d be screwed if you even just had a marijuana cigarette.”

“Marijuana cigarette?” I repeated, losing it. And then it turned into a five-minute laugh fiesta, with Henry frowning as he drove down the highway. Sometimes it’s like talking to your Grandpa Elmer. What a lamer, I mean really. Then I couldn’t stop picturing an adolescent Henry, trying to fit in with the “bad” kids at school, pushing up his glasses and asking for a hit of their “marijuana cigarette.” Now I’m laughing all over again.

It was about 2:00pm by the time we finally arrived at Warriors 3. We were warmly received by Bill and Jessi and ushered into the backroom, which quickly became the VIP room upon my arrival. Don’t let them fool you. We were just in time for pizza, which Henry ate hungrily, and I finally got to meet Bill and Jessi’s friend Josh, who I’ve gotten to know from Twitter and Facebook over the last year, so that was extremely cool and conversation with him came easily. It didn’t take him long to start busting my chops, and I like that. It makes me feel loved!

Aimee, the girlfriend of one of the Warriors 3, was also in the VIP room and I could tell Chooch was crushing on her pretty hard. He kept looking at her for approval every time he would say something. And speaking of Chooch, now I know where to take him the next time he needs stimulated. It was like he was in his own Wonderland. There were toys and games every where and grown-ups were actually playing with him.

“Will you play with me?” he’d ask any random guy, who would usually wind up saying, “Sure, dude,” provided they weren’t already involved in a game. Chooch would look at me in amazement, like, “I can’t believe they keep saying YES!”

Chooch also brought some of his own toys with him, and Josh sang the theme from the Hulk cartoon, which made Chooch look at me and laugh. He just had this expression on his face that screamed, “These guys know my toys?!” At one point, he was pawing through a box of HeroClix (I’m so proud of myself for remembering the name of those; I was completely out of my element there, but enjoyed learning about this stuff!), and no matter which one he pulled out, there was always someone near by who could tell him what he was holding. Which was better than when he kept asking me, only to get my patented ‘I dunno’ mumble.

Josh answers a HeroClix inquiry for Chooch while his critically acclaimed Cthulu supervises and Eddie stews in his AT&T hatred.

I’m convinced Chooch thinks Bill is his big brother.

Chooch got to help Joe, the honorary 4th Warrior, advertise outside the shop. He was thrilled to be involved, and I was thrilled that there was enough going on to keep him thoroughly entertained. I figured we’d have to do a lot of coming and going to ensure his attention was well-kept. Aside from getting a little too wild on occasion, I didn’t have to really go out of my way to keep him in line. It was nice being able to hang out without my nerves keeping me clenched.

At one point, Joe decided to demonstrate how fast the Flash could run around the building, which inspired Chooch to yell, “Hey, I can do that too!” and before I had the chance to snag him by the collar, he was off. So then I had to chase after him, while he was chasing after the Flash, and I’m sure to the casual observer it looked like some kind of Retard Race.

He must have fallen at least a dozen times while we were there that day. Sometimes I really do want to staple bubble wrap to him.

“Do I really have to remind you that you were JUST in the hospital?” I found myself yelling once every 30 minutes.

The mom of one of Bill’s friends baked a bunch of cookies and brownies, which were all tied up with ribbons and laying deliciously in baskets. Henry chose an iced sugar cookie and proceeded to obsess over it all weekend. Someone found an extra one and gave it to Henry, which made Josh jealous. He disappeared for awhile, and I’m not convinced he wasn’t trying to train his Cthulu to slaughter Henry and return with the cookie.

That was one damn fine cookie, though.

This was no less than 5 minutes after he was sprawled out on his stomach in the back parking lot, M&Ms scattering everywhere

At least now I know where to get his Christmas presents.

Bill and Jessi’s friend Nick would up playing with Chooch for a good hour. He was such a sweet and patient man! I kept mouthing “thank you!” to him and he’d just smile and wave me off, as though playing with a four-year-old was exactly what he signed up for when he walked into Warriors 3. When people take a liking to my kid, it’s the best feeling in the world. So I really did appreciate it, and I also appreciated the fact that everyone talked to him like he was just one of the guys.

When Chooch is at the playground, he gets so excited and wants to play with everyone, but I feel like more often than not, he’s not included with the other kids; as a mom, that’s one shitty scene to have to stand there and watch. Because of that, I think he really does prefer to hang out with adults, and the fact that he was able to wrangle some of them to play games with him at the shop really made him light up. I’ve never seen Chooch so non-distracted. He sat at that table playing diligently for a good portion of the time we were there (which was from 2 until about 11:30pm, minus two hours in the evening when we cut out to do some touristy shit). Of course, everyone pretty much let Chooch play the way he wanted to, which was smart because I tried to read the directions for some of those games and felt as frustrated as I did trying to translate the Iliad in high school.

Now Chooch wants to own all of these games, and I’m like, “That’s great, but can we just stick to comic books for now?” as I envision elaborate pieces strewn all over the floor of my house. Board games with  many pieces makes me nervous, you guys!

Comic books are not the worst things he could be into, so I approve.

Warriors 3 is a fantastic shop which kept up a steady crowd throughout the day, deservedly so. I’m so proud of Bill and Jessi and their friends for making it happen, and I’m glad I got to be there for the grand opening and to finally meet so many of the people I’ve heard so much about. Fine, I’m also glad I got to meet Josh, and the fact that he MADE FUN OF ME the whole time just made me feel more included. So there!

P1010028, originally uploaded by appledale.

My friend Mose came over Saturday night to drink wine and be a porch-sitter with me. Somehow the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast came up in conversation and I felt inspired to go back and look at the pictures from when Henry took me there for my birthday. I think it was in 2003. So now we know that 2003 was the last good birthday I had.

Anyway, he and I were the only guests that night in July, aside from this really goofy guy named Mike who was house-sitting for the summer. I remember being beyond scared to the point of barely sleeping, and then cracking my thigh on the underside of the super-low dining room table the next morning over a breakfast of jonny cakes. Scared and bruised, that is my summation.

This is a picture of me and my big arms, sitting on Lizzie’s parent’s bed, writing a very un-ironic postcard to my death row pen pal, Greg. “Hey Greg, I’m in a house of murder. IS THIS WHAT YOUR HOUSE FEELS LIKE!?”

I would like to go back there someday.

I know this might be hard to believe, but before Henry, there was another old man on the receiving end of my affections.

It was the summer of 1996 and I was on a Trafalgar tour of Italy with my aunt Sharon. She was the worst traveling companion because she always had to be the center of attention and would get snotty anytime someone on the tour had the gall to speak to me. Mostly, she would answer questions for me, which would make me rampant with teenage temper-flares and pout sessions. But on this trip, which would end up being our last trip together since I was soon  to become a disgrace to the family (i.e. a high school drop out), I decided to branch out on my own.

In previous years, my grandparents used to come with us and after day two, I’d be clinging to my Pappap, scowling when I would have to sit next to Sharon on the tour bus. When Sharon and I started to take these trips without them, it was hell for me. I would spend a lot of time crying on the bus because she was just so mean to me sometimes, and would put me down in front of the other travelers. She’d go off and make new friends with the other adults while I would have to be content with being the silent tag-a-long. And the thing with Sharon is that she lived for flaunting the fact that she was a “seasoned pro” at these European vacations, and would butt into people’s conversations to tell them where to get the best pasta in Rome or the best leather deals in Florence.

And she would do this thing, whenever the tour guide would share something that Sharon was already planning on including in her own tour book, she would close her eyes and nod her head knowingly, making her stupid fucking chandelier earrings tinkle with pretentiousness.

Oh my god, this is making me hate Sharon so bad.

My grandma’s brother Eddie and sister Donna were also on this particular trip with their respective spouses, which was awesome because I never really got to spend much time with them since my grandma got all weird a few years earlier about, oh I don’t know, having familial relations.  The four of them had already booked the trip when Sharon found out and decided it would be fun to surprise them. It was great for me to have them along because it allowed me to have allies in the very certain case that Sharon would try and ostracize me as usual.

Since I was 17 this time around, I was a little more secure in myself, had less complacency when it came to Sharon running the show. So I branched out. (I had tried this, mostly without success, on the trip prior to this one. Sharon caused a few scenes, but that’s another chapter involving a guy named Udo from Austria.) While she would be taking naps in the room, I’d wander down to the lobby in hopes of stumbling into some other people from our tour.

  In Lugano, I ran into Anahit, an Armenian lady from our group who Sharon hated. Probably because she was wild, extremely well-preserved for her age, and loved to drink the vino in excess every night at dinner. Since she was a single traveler, she was paired up with another single, Jackie. Jackie was in her 50s, wore fanny packs, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Nathan Lane. Sharon didn’t think very highly of Jackie either (“She gets on my fucking nerves” is what she’d hiss every time Jackie would breeze past us to her seat on the bus),

Our evening stroll took us down to Lake Como, where vendors were in abundance and the atmosphere was pregnant with romance and drunk laughter. I know, writing those words is extremely cheesy and out-of-character for me; but the truth is that I remember it so vividly, wishing I was older and there with a man. Not my mom’s possessive older sister and busful of retirees.

While there, we ran into more people from our tour, one of whom was Stefan—a very handsome Australian with well-coiffed prematurely white hair. He was there with his two (less attractive) friends, David and Ted, who were absent from this lovely nighttime stroll. It was the first time on the trip that I had really been around him, and we wound up walking back to the hotel together, as everyone else had found themselves paired up. I was in a panic. What could I possibly say to this older man that wouldn’t make him think (nay, believe) that I was just an immature kid. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I’m sure at some point I said, “OMG I play tennis and love rap music! My bedroom has purple carpet!”

From that moment on, I had big plans for Stefan. I only wore my tightest shirts for the rest of the trip. During walking tours, I would try to weasel my way near him, find some excuse to talk to him. Stupid shit like, “Look what I bought today!” and the chance of it being something that didn’t reflect my age was about 1 in 1,000,000.

If you were to read my vacation journal, you would notice a suspicious lack of Stefan entries. This is mostly because that journal was passed around between Sharon and my aunts and uncles every day on the bus, wherein they would laugh at my exaggerations, which to me were fairly accurate depictions of my surroundings and the subsequent events of the trip. (Events like: “August 15th, Milan: Sharon pointed out a zit on my chin in front of a group of people from our tour; I found a seat in the back of the bus and cried.”) The thing with my family, any family really, is the moment they catch a whiff of some blossoming crush, you better go out and buy the biggest Lady Gaga-approved hat to die beneath. However, my journal does learn me that at dinner that night, my Uncle Eddie withdrew a stack of Steelers trading cards from his shirt pocket and tried to exchange them with the waiter for bigger portions.

Near the very end of the vacation, we were on a day trip in Siena, during which Sharon and I had one of our signature rows. I used this as an excuse to ditch her and I sought out Stefan, who was with David and Ted. In my very dramatic nature, I filled them in on the horrors that is traveling with Sharon, told them how she was always trying to keep me down when all I wanted to do was make friends with everyone on the tour. I remember, all these years later, that I was wearing a sheer white tank, under which the slightest hint of my bra could be detected. I hoped Stefan would notice.

(I hadn’t yet learned the definition of “tacky.”)

(Or “SLUTTY,” apparently. Don’t worry—Henry is a ticketing slut patrolman; he makes sure I don’t leave the house with my vagina hanging out nowaways.

)

Stefan and his friends took great delight in hearing my woes of Sharon and suggested that I fight her. We all laughed at this and I thought it was so amazing that I was just a kid, sharing an inside joke with these three men. Later, on the bus, Stefan made his way back to where Sharon and I were sitting to see if we were fighting yet. I laughed at this, probably with more gusto than it warranted, just to make Sharon question what was going on.

“Nothing,” I said, when I was able to talk again. “Just an inside joke.” My ego practically did a pole dance, it was so turned on to see Sharon feeling left out.

Later, on the bus, my Aunt Donna asked in her I’m-Going-Yell-Since-I’m-On-A-Submarine voice, “What’s that Australian’s name who had a birthday?”

“Ted,” I answered.

“Ken?”

“No, Ted.”

“Ten?!”

Sharon, unable to take anymore of this, hissed, “TED.”

“Oh!” Aunt Donna exclaimed. “Theodore! Now what about that handsome one up there with the white hair? That’s the one I like.”

Knowing the shade of my face was quickly on its way to matching the heat of a rolling boil, I mumbled, “Stefan.”

Loudly, real loud, she said, “Oh, STEFAN! I like the name, too!”

Meanwhile, Ted and David were sitting diagonally from us and were probably asking each other, “Why the fuck are these Yankee broads throwing our names around?”

This is why I never wanted anyone to know I was practically drawing up blueprints to find a way inside Stefan’s suitcase so I could go home with him and live a glorious life in Brisbane as his American concubine. Their mouths, they are loud. Every night at dinner, my Uncle Eddie would get all Heidi Fleiss and try to pawn me off on any waiter he deemed cute enough. This would send the rest of them into giddy histrionics, making them shout things like, “Oh, Erin, he’s a cute one! Look at his butt!” and drawing everyone’s attention to the young blond girl with the lobster-hued cheeks who was just trying to enjoy her caprese salad in peace.

The last day of the trip, everyone congregated in the lobby of the hotel in Rome, crying and hugging, promising to keep in touch. (No one ever does.) Some of the people had later flights, like Stefan, and didn’t make it down in time to say goodbye.

But Stefan did. He found me in the lobby, waiting for the airport shuttle, and came over to hug me goodbye. The tears were on their marks, getting ready and set to go, but I postponed the race in favor of allowing my hormones to throw a party against my pelvis because oh my GOD, I was in the arms of an older man.

I left Italy positive that I was in love with him.

***

When I found this photo, I was quick to point out to Henry that he wasn’t my first old man crush, and then proceeded to tell him all about Stefan.

“I think Sharon must have liked him too, because any time Stefan and I were together, Sharon would rush over with a reason to pull me away,” I said angrily, holding the picture of him adoringly.

“Or! Maybe she was pulling you away because you were only seventeen?” Henry hypothesized in that tone he uses when he thinks I’m stupid and that he knows everything.

“Oh, yeah. Or that.”