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.

I never intended to have this many posts about the fair but what can you do when there is such Big Fun involved. Here’s the leftover photos that I didn’t have time to use but now I do because Henry’s work alarm went off at 4AM and I thought it was the Let’s Go To Tennessee alarm. Henry told me to go back to bed. Yeah right.

Neither peach nor dumpling.

Henry’s ex, but smilier.

Chooch does not support apostrophe misplacement.

The Cobra: the ride that made me lose it on the Jersey Shore girls. This was actually taken while it was broke down earlier in the day. Yet I was still determined to ride it.

What everything looked like to me while riding the Cobra. Quite possibly the fastest spinning ride I’ve ever ridden. No bueno.

This old man was infatuated with Laura’s Magnum Corn Dog and made a big production of asking her about it. Later, he tried to coax his wife into choosing our table, but unfortunately she sat down at the one next to ours. It was a little alarming.

Chooch was being a real fucker. I have no idea how the whole area didn’t clear out. His least favorite time at the fair is when the Old People need to sit down and eat. I sort of side with him on this, but I was actually starving that day too and was really focused on dipping my coconut shrimp in the strange marmalade that came with it. I wish I was eating that right now.

I think this is the first time we actually explored the rest of the fair, like the taxidermy tent. At the exit, there was some small stuffed animal standing erect (I actually didn’t pay attention to what it was, meer cat maybe?) but it had a sign that begged for hugs. When Chooch obliged, some old man on an oxygen tank rasped into a small microphone, “Oh, that’s nice. I like hugs.” Chooch made me do it next and the old man said, “Oh, I like your hugs, too” as my boobs smashed against the animal’s face. It was completely creepy.

Chooch got to build a toy basketball hoop (boring) which would fast become the bane of the day.

And fish. (Boring.) Henry got all Bass Master 5000 on him.

Ahhh, that guy to the left! Totally belongs in the Overlook.

Scooby Shack cost a dollar extra, and the sign says NO REFUNDS all big and boss-like. Chooch swore he would walk through it so I slapped two 1’s in the hand of a chubby old lady carny only to have Chooch peer around the first corner and say, “Nope. Too scary.”  Little bitch baby ran back over to Henry but I wasn’t trying to waste my dollar too so I walked through. Alone. I turned the first corner and then ran the rest of the way. It was fucking dark in there, you guys. And a little scary. I mean, I was in there ALONE. #excuses

So that concludes my account of the fair. I can’t believe summer is almost over. Think I’ll go cry about it.

But first I should probably pack some stuff. I’m getting really excited to resurrect my Henry and the Weeners series on this vaca!

Henry claims to be “too busy”* to deal with my questions regarding his day at the fair, so I guess I’ll just share my pictures of him without his thoughts and dreams.

*(This might have something to do with the fact that we leave tomorrow morning for a week in Tennessee and I have done exactly fuck-all to help prepare for this.)

Remembering what it was like to have his ex-wife at his side.

Had Henry cooperated, one of my questions was going to be if he ever took his ex-wife to the fair on a date, but then I realized that was a dumb question, considering that’s probably where he met her: in the Grandstand during the tractor pull after accidentally knocking over her empty can of Schlitz-cum-spitoon and falling into her Loony Toon-tattooed saggy tits. (Henry was really into redneck things in the days pre-Erin. Thank god he met me and now knows the wonder of Warped Tour, Jonny Craig, television programming for tweens and Christmas picnics in the cemetery.)

Why so happy?

Then I was planning on asking him what had him smiling so much all day. Was it because we were hanging out with our news friends Laura and Mike and he doesn’t want them to see that he’s really nothing more than a gruff. blue-collared killjoy? But then I realized that the origin of his happiness was probably a toss-up between going a day without a jock itch flare-up and his ex-wife getting re-married.

Looking for a rabbit to boil in a pot on his ex-wife’s stove.

So, this picture was a happy accident. It looks like he’s trying to have a Hulk Hogan beard. Now I want to play around with options for Henry’s facial hair. Suggestions welcome. Maybe something ginger-hued a la JONNY CRAIG.

No, seriously—-who taught this man how to pose?

Motherfucking Gumby?

Pedo Alert! Please put your non-descript shirted self back in your non-descript white van and vacate the premises.

Henry rode one ride all day! But it was just the Fun Slide. Our son was too embarrassed to stand in line with his own creep of a father, so he tried to encroach on the family behind him.

I wonder how bad this aggrivated his hemorrhoids?

If I knew I would get an answer from him, I’d ask him if the Fun Slide lived up to its name, but judging by the way he was walking like he had just got done straddling a bull (or his ex-wife), I’d say it did.

And if I asked him what his favorite ride is, he’d just say “the ride home,” so why even bother.

He’s just lucky I’m at work and don’t have time to churn out a Goofus and Gallant.

The strangest thing happened as soon as the sun set on the fair: the grounds became overpopulated with blowouts and Affliction shirts.

“I had no idea Westmoreland County was so close to the Jersey shore,” I said to Henry loud enough for hopefully some of them to hear, provided their ear drums weren’t perforated from too many nights of “beating the beat” at the club.

I guess faux-guidos are the new scene kids.

However, scene kids don’t often roam in packs of entire scene families, like these Jersey-knock offs were doing. I mean, I saw three generations of ridiculous mushroom-cloud mocking hair do’s! It was unbelievable. I realize that MTV didn’t invent this stereotype, but I have never seen such a fine flock of them in person.

In Pennsylvania.

Besides, it’s the COUNTY FAIR. I don’t go to these things to be blinded by bedazzled Ed Hardy t-shirts and assaulted by rigatoni-breath. I want to see red necks! Red necks fighting over chicken bones! I want to see broads with Loony Toon tattoos on their saggy tits! I want to see broads with Loony Toon tattoos on their saggy tits playing tug-of-war with their co-opted baby-daddy!

Grandpa Ronnie. You’re not pulling this off very well, bro.

And the little kids all had blow-outs, too. Jerseylicious parents, this is just wrong. Your son looks less like Pauly D, more like Eddie Munster. Get a fucking stylist, my god. I wanted Chooch to start a fight with that bastard.

There were DROVES of these people. I couldn’t stand it. Yes, I watch Jersey Shore, not going to lie about that. And yes, perhaps they have grown on me (but never Sammi Sweetheart; I keep hoping she dies in a tanning bed). This does not mean I’m OK with being engulfed by a veritable drove of hair gel- and bronzer-hosts while trying to enjoy an evening at the motherfucking fair. This does not mean I’m OK with being bombarded on all sides by their nasally Jersey dialect, husky cacchination and rowdy “Yeah buddy!”s as I try to buy a fucking ice cream cone.

Here, our own Henry wonders if this Sammi-wannabe is DTF.

And this CERTAINLY does not mean I’m OK with them line-jumping in front of me for a ride I have waited all the livelong day to stuff my ass onto. Perhaps one day I’ll tell you that story….

So this one time, I was in line for the Cobra, which I really wanted to ride and it was almost time to leave. The line was pretty long to begin with, but I remained steadfast and vigilant even though I found myself right smack behind a kid trying way too hard to emulate Ronnie, thankfully sans-steroids. He was pretty quiet for the most part until he turned to his left and saw one of his hoochie friends.

“LISA! COME RIDE THIS RIDE WITH ME! LISA!” he shouted in douche-drizzled cadence. And before I knew it, Lisa and her dual-compartment backside luggage of cannoli and fettucine alfredo were planted right in front of me. I let this go, even though she reeked of the cheap hair product scrunched into her black mane, because it had no impact on me not getting on the ride since she’d be sitting with Ronnie’s juvenile doppelganger.

However, the rest of the shore house joined her moments later, spilling out of the line like Atlantic Ocean garbage, and it happened without me even realizing it. (How, I have no clue because everything about these people screams LOUD VOLUME, from their club voices to their stupid clanging bangle bracelets.)

At some point, though, I did realize that two stuck-up broads with Sammi-straight hair had planted themselves between me and Lisa’s carb-lovin’ caboose. That was when I noticed their extended shore house posse commingling nearby.

I was pretty certain these were just kids and I had Henry’s voice reverberating through my head like some paternally obnoxious surround sound reminding me of the Golden Rule: Keep your hands to yourself. HOWEVER, I wanted to ride this fucking ride and I had paid my dues by wasting unlimited minutes absorbing the banality of these strange Italian offshoots. So I opened my big mouth and used my best condescending sneer to say, “Um, excuse me, but I have been standing in this line for fucking ever and where the hell did you people come from?”

I know I looked pathetic as a shit to these girls, too, probably more nerdy librarian than hotheaded scene mom, but I didn’t care. Here I was, some old broad, standing in line ALONE (they didn’t know that I actually did have a friend there with me at one point!), getting all Hall Monitor about line-jumping.

“Uh, I was standing here the whole time. I’m with her,” the Jersey Prom Queen replied in the most grating, punch-worthy lilt of all time, sidling up closer to her friend. She was totally not standing there the whole time, but there was really not much I could do short of putting my hands on her and getting thrown in jail. Over a CARNIVAL RIDE. (You can’t tell me I don’t have some semblance of maturity—look how I rationalized right there!) But I was definitely not allowing the other TEN FUCKERS put me back further in line.

“And these people?” I said with attitude bigger than my flesh innertube, Vanna White’ing my hand over to their posse, who were now staring at me with nervous anticipation (one of them was one of those fucking Eddie Munster-looking things and approximately 8 years old).

“Um, they’re not in line. They’re just standing there, ” she said all self-righteously, which is totally my schtick.

OMG I WANTED TO RIP OFF HER FIVE-INCH-WIDE RHINESTONE BELT & WHIP THE SHIT-EATING GRIN RIGHT OFF HER SPRAY-TANNED FACE.  It’s times like these that I should not be left alone because my hot-headedness tends to skew things. I need sane, mild-tempered people around me to describe to me what the situation really looks like. Janna used to always tell me, “You’re going to get your face shot off one day.”

Then of course I wound up with the seat in front of them so they got to snicker about the old lady who NARC’d on the line jumpers and then rode alone because she has no friends except for the alley cats she shares food with. (I didn’t actually hear them talking about me, but wouldn’t you?)

After the ride, I met back up with Henry and Chooch and told them about my mild confrontation, which I was still irrationally fired up about. Henry, his tone having an undercurrent of “Listen to how this sounds,” asked me, “You started a fight with kids?”

Oh well; at least I didn’t witness any Jersey Turnpiking.

Carnies are arguably one of the best things about the fair, especially if they will engage with you. I’m sure a lot of people will disagree with me though, like one of my co-workers who kept sayin, “NO, THE FOOD! THE FOOD IS THE BEST PART! to the point where I thought it was going to come to blows. Which is why I used the word “ARGUABLY.”

I mean, if anything, carnies make people like Henry feel more attractive, I’m sure.

One of these days, I am going to remember my pad and pencil and ask one for an interview. I’m dying to see their lair.

So without further ado, here is a collection of some of my favorite specimen from this year’s Westmoreland County Fair.

I. Cathy

A female carny is a rare sight at the fair and often easy to mistake for just another guy. But if you look past her hardened stare and voluptuous jowls, you can just barely make out the slight outline of breasts beneath her neon polo.

Her name is Cathy and she was not particularly fond of me after I had the audacity to lower the safety bar on my own after Laura and I boarded the Viking, a mini-Pirate ship knockoff.  When she saw my crime, her face became steeped with annoyance and disdain.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said in a carny-drawl remiss of any semblance of femininity. I believe I gulped a little and apologized, even though I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong. Cathy shook her head and continued past us to the rest of the riders who weren’t ballsy enough to try and do her job for her.

Luckily, the man behind us found himself to be a bit too rotund to fit comfortably in the seat; Cathy manually released everyone’s safety bar, allowing him to exit. This also afforded me a chance to have a do-over by keeping  my hands off the holy safety bar. Cathy seemed pleased about this.

Before the ride started, I heard her tell the girl behind me to keep her arms inside the ride. “You don’t want them to get chopped off, do ya?” she snarled. But then while the ship was a’rockin’, she stood below encouraging us to flail our arms and emote carnival joy.

“I don’t understand,” I yelled to Laura. “I thought she didn’t want us to have our arms chopped off?!” Meanwhile, Cathy stood down there by the gate, pantomiming being shot in the heart.

“You guys are killing me!” she screamed.

“Wooo!” I cheered, calling forth my best Ben Stein on the Thrill Ride impression in an attempt to appease her. I kept my elbows tight against my side and raised  my forearms  just enough to get my hands up near my face, in an effort to show enthusiasm without becoming That Girl Who Lost Her Arms At the Fair.

Later on, Laura and I were enjoying a casual jaunt on the Yo-Yo when she noticed that Cathy was over on the Viking, doing the same “You’re killing me!” routine. I felt extremely betrayed. I thought that was just for us.

Fuck you, Cathy.

Though I have to say she was pretty much the only carny who even tried to engage us, with the exception of an old, grizzled mountain man carny operating the Yo-Yo who grazed my left boob when he pointed out that I forgot to buckle the second safety belt. That right there is how the fair keeps me coming back.

II. H-h-h-hot Carny

The No-Name Yellow Ride was back in full effect at the Westmoreland County Fair. You might remember that I have an extreme hate-hate relationship with this mothershitting torture device. I think I even dubbed it the Aerial Pelvic Exam last time. But Laura was willing to ride it all so I felt brave and decided I couldn’t let her leave the fair without taking a spin on this stupid ride. WHAT KIND OF RIDE DOESN’T HAVE A NAME? The kind that wants to be able to skulk away in anonymity in the event of death.

“Can we ride separately?” I asked the young, bronze, supple, handsome, hot, OMGWANTTOSEEHISWEENER carny manning the ride. He gave a slight nod, which I interpreted as “Meet me behind the porta johns at sunset. Bring Saran Wrap, chocolate whipped cream and stirrups.”

That Old Tie-Dyed Bitty is like 80, walks with a cane, and STILL rode more shit than Janna and Henry do.

“I have a crush on him,” I admittedly all breathlessly to Laura, who was sitting behind me. She just laughed but I know that she agreed that if you look past the fact that he’s like, 16, HE IS A REAL CATCH.

For a carny.

I could tell he hasn’t been in the game for very long. His fingernails were clean and his trail of illegitimate children is probably pretty short. And even though he never smiled, I’m pretty sure he had all his teeth. I’m wagering that a wad of Skoal would have rolled out of his mouth had he ever smiled though.

I tried to fixate  on him to keep myself from expiring as the Yellow Ride pendulated us wickedly through the air. I have a vague recollection of Henry and Mike standing on the ground watching smugly as we pulled all sorts of petrified faces. After the thirtieth revolution, I pretty  much lost all will to even scream and resigned to hanging limply over the side of the seat as all the color and life drained from my face. I noticed that behind me, Laura had quit laughing, too.

In some countries, this is how they get people to talk.

Anyway, after the ride ended, I couldn’t unlatch my safety bar. And by “couldn’t” I mean that I didn’t even try because I wanted H-h-h-hot carny to rescue me. But then Laura bounded out of her seat and said, “Here I can do it!” while I was, in slow motion, shouting, “Nooooooo!” He was one car away from putting his hands within inches of my crotch.

Laura was extremely apologetic after that. I COULD HAVE BEEN PREGNANT WITH HIS BABY BY NOW. I would have made her the godmother, too. Good job, Laura!

It’s OK, because later, I made her and Mike accompany me while I photostalked him. Mike seemed a bit unsure about this, probably because Henry was like, right there (as if Henry expects anything else from me), but Laura was a good wing-woman. Probably because she has been reading my blog for so long!

I took this picture after we had been standing there way past the point of “casual pausing.” He looked right at me so I yelled, “RUN!” and then fled with flailing arms. Laura and Mike calmly retreated behind me.

After catching up with Henry, I tried to show him this picture but he just pushed me away and called me a child.

III. Amish Carny

SEE LAST POST.

IV. Bingo Carny

Unfortunately, I did not get a photo of Bingo Carny. We were standing right next to the Bingo tent while Henry was making the longest lemonade purchase of all time, right when a new game was starting up. The woman barking into the mic sounded apathetic and severely lacked the enthusiasm that Powers Great American Midways drills into their game carnies. (The Westmoreland County Fair is powered by Tropical Amusements and it fails miserably in the moxie department. Henry is annoyed that I know enough about the amusement industry to even draw such comparisons, but I could make a pie chart if you want.)

Anyway, the first ball she drew was O69, which she announced as such: “Oh?….69.” Like she was kind of surprised and into it at first, and then bored and unimpressed during it.

In other words, she sounded exactly like me.

And she just kept repeating it over and over, making Mike, Laura and me laugh harder each time. Henry just frowned because he is Big Adult.

After Henry got his fancy lemonade which took so long to acquire it should have been served in a bottle with a Mike’s label wrapped around it, we continued past the Bingo tent only to find out that Bingo Carny, who was definitely as old and worn-out as her voice, was a veritable magnet for facial piercings. Totally was not expecting that.

V. Lola’s Dad

Not a carny, but just some dad that I hated and couldn’t shake and just sleazy enough that someone should have jammed him into a neon Tropical Amusements polo.

Chooch was riding some dumb kid coaster which didn’t even come CLOSE to rivaling the Wacky Worm, and I was standing off to the side fiddling my camera like the pocket vagina it is. Suddenly, the left side of my body was jolted and paralyzed all at once with a booming cat call of “LOLA!!!!! LOLA!!!!” I visibly jumped and shirked back.

“Sorry,” the guy laughed as he noticed my alarmed expression. “That’s my daughter,” he explained, pointing at some random child on the ride. Then he launched into a new round of “LOLA!!!!!”s as if suddenly I would be OK with this.  I caught Henry laughing at this new uncomfortable situation I found myself in.

His voice speared my brain and conjured up visions of being hog-tied in the trunk of a 1988 Dodge Omni.

Of course, he happened to be everywhere I was for the rest of the day. Fuck you, and fuck Lola too.

[Up next: More random thoughts on the fair, the Jersey Shore Invasion, possibly a Henry interview (I have the pictures, I just need the cooperation!). I have a million more words to write. Hellllllp.]

Sweating at the fair.

Chooch is going through a shirtless phase (again) so all week, I’ve been getting dropped off at work by Henry and my hillbilly son. This is how I noticed today that Chooch had some red spots on his stomach.

“Are those bug bites or chicken pox?” I asked him, because all five-year-olds can properly diagnose themselves.

“Oh my god!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never been bitten by a CHICKEN before!” Finally, my kid said something age appropriate and swear-wordless—-something that normal kids would say!

***

No stranger to the joys of making Henry’s life as annoying as possible, Chooch approached me last night and said, “I have a really great idea. Find a picture of Jonny Craig on your phone and then I’ll say, ‘Daddy, come look at this picture of a cupcake!’ but really, it’ll be Jonny Craig. Daddy will be so pissed.” Of course, I responded with a resounding, “Son, that is the BEST IDEA EVER” and together we sat on the couch emitting low-octave, throaty giggles approved by 9 out of 10 deviants.

When Henry came over after being summoned and saw that it was a picture of Jonny Craig, he was indeed pissed.

God, how we laughed.

***

I got a letter today from the Catholic Diocese regarding the financial aid for Chooch’s school (yes, we decided to keep him in Catholic school, and yes, I’m aware of this irony). I was reading the letter out loud in a devil voice, and when I got to the part that said “God bless your family,” Chooch asked, “What? Did we sneeze?” But the way he said it, it could have been Joe Pesci sitting beside me, not a fucking five-year-old.

If Chooch wasn’t so entertaining, Henry would probably be a single father by now.

***

In  other news (and apologies if we’re Facebook friends and you have already read this shit multiple times), we leave Saturday morning for a week in Tennessee and I love sending post cards; there is just such a satisfying feeling of scrawling out a ridiculous account of the time you’re having  away from home and bugging your dad (Henry) for postage money. Makes me feel like a kid at Disneyworld. If you want one (a postcard, not a kid at Disneyworld), please email me your addess (butgavincantdance@gmail.com); someone might even be lucky enough to get one from Henry’s eyebrow (it’s been known to happen)!

I know, I know — how many times can I possibly go to the fair in one summer and expect anyone to give a shit about it? But you guys, it’s where dreams (and camel toes) are made. And the Westmoreland County Fair in particular brings me great joy because it is full of good memories and rides that hurt so bad, but like child birth*, I’m wired to forget the pain and ride them again and again. I was determined to make it back there, even though the usual suspects (Janna, Blake and Corey) were unavailable to accompany me (so they say). That’s OK – my new friend Laura and her fiancé Mike met Henry, Chooch and I out there because what better place for these new Pittsburgh transplants to get a feel for their new region than by hanging out with unclean carnies and having safety-debatable rides threaten to make Pittsburgh the last place they’ll ever live.

(* I don’t know why I used child birth as my analogy because even though I had a C-Section, I remember everything like it just happened 2 seconds ago, and my answer to doing it again is: FUCK THAT NOISE.)

Laura and I have only had the chance to hang out three times since she’s lived in town (and one of those three times was at my birthday party so that doesn’t count because I was too busy skating to the dulcet sex-tones of Jonny Craig to talk to anyone). But she’s basically my new best friend because she will RIDE things, you guys. I can think of no better way to get over the awkward “you’re new to me” feeling than by throwing caution to the wind and making some fucker-bitch ride named the Superman your christening stroll down Friendship Alley.

Because nothing says “Let’s be close and intimate friends” than being locked in a cage with an almost-stranger and having your bodies meld together as you’re hurled through the air by some shaky steel beam while having your flesh ribboned by the door of the cage, which could have made perfect confetti at our funerals if we had actually perished on that ride. (And there were times when the odds of that happening seemed pretty good.)

Every time we’d reach the ground, I’d scream out in vain, “OVER IT! Let us off now!” but the two carnies operating it never looked up from the pig carcass they were skinning.

It was a good ice-breaker though. I feel closer to Laura than ever, because we SURVIVED something together. We should probably think about getting a tattoo next. After awhile, I just stopped screaming altogether because the physical pain of being smashed against metal made it hard to even breathe.

At least now I know I’ll probably just pass out before a serial killer is finished slashing me.

Dear Tropical Amusements,

How about padding the inside of that motherfucker? Or at least advertise that it’s a BYOP (Bring Your Own Pillow) joint. I’m in less pain listening to Miley Cyrus cover Katy Perry songs while being masticated by Snooki’s vagina.

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As Sincere as a Gerbil-Stuffed Richard Gere,

The Girl With the Permanent Waffle-Marks Along Her Right Side

Chooch found his own Wacky Worm at the Westmoreland County Fair: some stupid spinning-cup kids ride. The carny operating it had the closest thing to Amish hair this side of Lancaster, PA.

This kid was definitely teaching Chooch double negatives and words like “ain’t.” Oh wait, Henry has already been doing that for the last five years.

Whaddup, Jebediah? Read any good scripture by the light of the oil lamp lately?

[How about I’ll write  more when I’m not at work, being BOTHERED by people who think I’m here to do shit for them. I’m feeling overwhelmed because I have a million pictures and words to slap down all haphazardly like I do, but I’m leaving for Tennessee on Saturday and I’M RUNNING OUT OF TIME OMG. Blogging is so serious, you guys.]

If there was a way for me to put this song into my veins, I think I would find a way to get over my fear of needles something quick-like.

I have to see them again before the end of the year or my heart will shrivel up into a prune. (And then Henry the Elder will try to eat it.)

Oh, Jonny.

Back in April, Kaitlin surprised me at work by baking me a lamb cake because I was so obsessed with this nagging vision I had for a photo shoot that absolutely could not happen without a goddamn lamb cake. What happened after that, though, was a series of mishaps and it was clear that this cake and I were just not meant for each other.

• It fell on the way home from work that night, the moment I was left unsupervised with it
• Three days later, the head fell off en route to my mom’s house for the shoot
• It was raining
• The head fell off five thousand more times while I tried to set up the table outside in the rain
• My mom is an asshole so I couldn’t use her kitchen for the shoot like I had envisioned in my head
• It was raining and Henry was there
• Corey and I weren’t on the same page and it was raining
• Henry was there

I gave up after about 45 minutes, threw a huge fit with Ketchup and frosting all over my hands; it was a pretty bleak scene. It all boils down to me being a black cloud for baked goods. The last time Kaitlin gave me macarons to photograph, my cat Don sat on them within 2 minutes of me setting them down.

Anyway, the whole lamb cake ordeal had become such a sore subject for me, that I never even posted the (few) photos I was able to salvage. Then my friend DJ Shortpants unexpectedly caught some inspiration from the lamb cake blog post and produced a song that perfectly complements the creep-factor of the frosted Easter deight. I’ve listened to it unlimited times already, and even played it in the car on the way home from the fair Saturday, the dark country roads providing an apropros atmosphere.

DJ Shortpants himself gave me permission to post this here for everyone to enjoy (and you should!). Thank you, DJ Shortpants!

GET IT IN YR HEAD, YA’LL:

And while the spirit of the lamb cake is being summoned, here are some pictures from the photo shoot from Hell. (Literally from Hell—it was in my mom’s yard.

)

Maybe someday I’ll try again, now that I have the perfect music to accompany it.

This pretty much sums everything up in my life right now.

What’s doing it for you right now?