[Ed. Note: I’m recycling last year’s post, because my new Lady of Leisure status has left me trifling.]

If this looks more like something you’d want to motorboat and less like something that’s sucker-punching your gag reflex, then read on.

I love pie. For years, I’ve wanted to have a pie party but usually complacency sets in and I put it on the backburner.

But then Henry made an avocado pie for my mom’s 2010 Labor Day cookout and it was smooth as silk, tangy, rich and to be honest, I just closed my eyes and smiled while thinking about it. He even made a citrus-tinged whipped cream. I’m always looking for excuses to have him bake pies, and since last year’s pie party was such a toothy success, I decided to have another one! (Actually, it was decided by the hungry masses who have been “casually” asking since last October 10, 2010, “Say, when are you going to have another pie party?”)

It’s going to be held at a pavilion in South Park, and the invitation is open to any local person reading this who has a propensity for pies (or anyone who likes pies enough to travel to Pittsburgh!). I’ve decided that we’ll have alcohol at this fall fete because I can’t imagine spending an autumn day outside, eating pie, with NO MULLED WINE to wash it down.

(I probably will procrastinate on the mulled wine front, and end up just bringing regular wine. Besides, I don’t have a cauldron. So if you want to BYOWorB, be my guest! The alcohol permit is $50 so if anyone wants to chip in a buck or two, that would be magically fantastical. Last year, we didn’t get a permit and smuggled in 4 bottles of wine, and I couldn’t relax the whole time because I thought every single car that drove past was an unmarked park ranger ready to arrest me. This year I decided it was worth paying the extra money so now we can do kegstands if we want without hiding behind a porta potty.)

If we’re not friends on Facebook, here is the official event notice:

A Pretentiously Perplexing Pie Party

Saturday, October 8, 2011

1:00PM – 6:00PM

A Pavilion in South Park, TBD (Look out for my telegram. Bring your decoder ring.)

Please pop a squat with me beneath a pavilion on a (hopefully) pleasant autumn day, plunging plastic ware into a plethora of piquant pies.

Please present one (1) pie for passage; a paltry price to pay for a party pinioned by prestigious proclivity.

Pursuing pies of all persuasions! Palatable produce, pungent pasty, puzzling pot pies.

Leave all picky palates at the plantation and come get your piper pied!
———————
In other words: let’s eat the crap out of some pies.

Last year my mom was supposed to  make her amazing butterscotch pie. It could anally rape you and you wouldn’t even notice it, it is THAT good. But she didn’t make it, and considering that we haven’t spoken since last Christmas, I’m not banking on a special delivery of gooey butterscotch in a pan this year either. So I might be cajoled into baking the only pie I’ve ever baked in my life (not including the raw pumpkin pie that left my ex-boyfriend with a persnickety duodenum): a succulent pear pie.

If you would like to attend, please let me know! Even if we’ve never met before, what better way to say hello and swap saliva than with chunks of cherry pie falling from our mouths like the remnants of that Civil War reenactor we cannibalized last Arbor Day?

There was a rainbow at work last week. It’s hard to get work done when there is a rainbow taunting you from outside.

Not that I need anymore excuses to distract me from work.

Me: “I said to myself, ‘I’ll just watch one episode of The Lying Game and then go for a walk,’ but the next thing I knew, I was halfway into the third episode. That show is so good.”

Henry: “Wow. Your life is just so full.”

***

I know I should be spending my newly child-free days doing productive things while Chooch is in school, and perhaps one day that will happen. But right now, I’m having fun doing, well, nothing.  And to celebrate that theme, here are three pictures from my Epic Double Amusement Park OMG So Much Fun Day that I had on Saturday, because I just don’t feel like doing the whole “word” thing right now. Maybe tomorrow—I don’t think I’ll have any tween shows to catch up on tomorrow.

Speaking of free time, since I’ve got it by the DD-cups, if there’s anything you ever wanted to know, wish I wrote more about, etc etc, feel free to fire away. Even if you’re a lurking hater who’s been dying to hate. The stage is yours. And now, I’m going to take a walk around the neighborhood and pray no one recognizes me as that asshole who posted their picture on the Internet. And also? This might be one of the last days to lather up in  suntan oil.

I’m going to miss that smell.

I’m going to miss summer.

(But Henry is definitely not going to miss suntan grease smeared all over the steering wheel.)

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

In the AM:

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

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

Literally in the clouds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously, what are the odds.

In the PM:

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

Like he almost deserves this.

Go the fuck to sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some friendly motherfuckers.

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

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

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

(*Jokes.)

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

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

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

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

I. Open Air Nursing Home

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

I think it was BYOB(utterscotch pudding).

Henry felt right at home.

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

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

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

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

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

II. Sherbet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III. Birds of Prey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doesn’t that look like Marcy!?

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

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

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

I’m really not cut out to be the mother of an elementary school-aged child (just as I wasn’t cut out to be the mother of an infant, toddler or preschooler). Chooch has been bringing home such staggering amounts of fundraising bullshit, financial forms (I cover my face with my hair every time I walk past the office) and parent questionnaires (and HOMEWORK OUT THE ASS) that I’m feeling so overwhelmed. I cringe each time I open his backpack now.

On top of the fundraising shit (anyone in the market for a curling iron cozy or Jesus dish towels?

), there are unlimited papers begging for volunteers. Market Day volunteers, holiday party volunteers (never again), other volunteering options that I can’t remember because I never finished reading the forms. But my favorite was a sign -up sheet for parents who are willing to come to class and speak about their occupations or talents.

Even if I weren’t petrified of interacting with waist-high children, what the fuck would I have to offer? Seriously. Talking about my occupation would take approximately 30 seconds.

“Hi, small children. I scan papers at a law firm. Sometimes I scowl at a spreadsheet. Then I blog on company time. I’d probably have really awesome things to tell you right now but instead I CHOSE TO HAVE A KID.”

Seriously, the end.

And talents? What talents do I have?

“Hi, small children. I write Christmas poems about serial killers and photoshop weeners all over pictures of my boyfriend.

YES THAT’S RIGHT, YOUR FRIEND RILEY [see also: Chooch] IS A BASTARD. I also excel at character defamation.

”

Maybe Henry can just go and talk about driving a fork lift.

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

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

I miss this stupid porch.

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

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

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

On a weener prowl.

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

Trying to DROWN my kid now.

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

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

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

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

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

But then this happened one day:

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

Me: Then hang it up!

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve created a monster.

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

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

Pretending to like each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had to see this guy for myself.

I also wanted to see the unbelievable.

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

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

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

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

Mountains: still a novelty on Day 1

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone laughed at me because they’re assholes.

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

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

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

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

I kind of liked Bill after that.

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

And there were mannequins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

Well, there is a disclaimer for that.

I can’t believe Chooch is in Kindergarten. But then he retorts with things like “touché” and I think, “How is he only in Kindergarten?”

Now that he’s in school for a full day as opposed to half, I have no idea what to do with all this free time, all this glorious, scandalous, COMPLETELY DANGEROUS IN MY HANDS free time. Today, while sad (I promise I was sad! I even called Lisa and made her talk to me because it was ominously quiet in the house), I sat around with steepled fingers and a mischievous grin, wondering what to get myself into first.

Turns out, Tuesdays are not very adventurous days for me, so all I did was watch the RW/RR Challenge reunion show on MTV.com, exercise and then make a salad. Insert also lots of staring at the walls in between those titillating activities.

I’m thinking though that with all this extra time, I just might start painting again. I would have done that today, but I spent countless minutes last night applying those stupid Sally peel-on nail art things and by the time I was done, I had heart palpitations. So until I score myself some latex gloves from the serial killer depot, I guess I will just stick to tormenting the cats and watching Dance Gavin Dance videos on YouTube. (Which I actually haven’t done in awhile. Vacation broke me!)

(Speaking of vacation, I have so much more to tell you! And by “you,” I mean the Ukranian girl with the back brace who I like to imagine reads this in between milking goats and pulling her father off all the malnourished neighborhood girls.)

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.