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.

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.)