A bunch of years ago, like 26 or 7, I met Octavia through Etsy. Specifically, it was my fauxtography Etsy shop, Appledale. No one ever paid attention to that shop of mine, full of lomography before iPhone apps made that shit cool (and so much easier and cheaper to achieve that vintage effect, bastards), accompanied by my signature idiotic short stories.

But Octavia noticed. And she sent me the greatest convo ever; a meaningful, deep virtual handshake from one person happy to meet another person of like-mind. I will never forget how excited I was to read it! We started writing back and forth; I was enchanted by her own art and deranged imagination. She is incredibly talented.

Thank god for the Internet! I feel like if the Internet didn’t exist, then Octavia and I probably would have met through the world of pen-palling. Somehow, someway, we’d have found a way to meet!

This meet-up has been in the pipes since we bought the Williamsburg vacation package thing at the 2013 Big Butler Fair. Because clearly, Williamsburg, VA and Savannah, GA are so close to each other! The first half our trip was fun, but this was the part that I was really looking forward to, so when I woke up the morning of my birthday, I was S-T-O-K-E-D!

We had plans to meet Octavia at the Bonaventure Cemetery at 11:00am that morning. I was so nervous on the way there! I love meeting people but I am beyond awkward about it and sometimes that awkwardness never goes away because that’s just who I am, you know? Be nice.

Luckily, Octavia was chill as FUCK, sang-froid in a green dress. She claims she is awkward too but I definitely didn’t sense that, thank god, because then I would have just fed off it and it would have unraveled into some socially depraved banquet of stutters, ticks, and twitches. Instead, I felt at ease. I mean, once we got the obligatory “now is where we hug as normal people do” act out of the way.

I didn’t take any pictures of Octavia at first because I was scared to, but those will come later!

There is one super huge difference between Octavia and me: she actually knows shit about where she lives. Out-of-towners visit me in Pittsburgh and ask me simple Yinzer 101 questions like, “What river is that?” or “How are the Steelers doing this year?” and I have to politely decline answering.

That’s accomplished by either shrugging, grunting “I dunno”, or a combination of the two. But Octavia taught us shit about the war and the Masons and Johnny Mercer, and then a ton of stuff about NATURE because she went to college for botany so immediately Henry’s ears perked. You know how he gets nature boners. Especially when she turned her nose up at the moss issue. HENRY HATES MOSS. Now he had someone to hate moss with him!

While we strolled around the cemetery grounds, we talked about Jonny Craig (I mean, duh; I’m sure Octavia couldn’t wait to have THAT conversation in person) and the nightmarish insects that live in Georgia, holy shit. We saw salamander things and skinks:

The skinks really freaked me out but Chooch was trying to figure out how to turn his t-shirt into a skink carrier. Then we walked under a tree with berries on it and I cried, “WHAT ARE THESE, OCTAVIA!?” while trying to get Henry to eat one. Now I can’t remember what she said they were. But I think the final verdict was that they were not poisonous. Don’t worry, she didn’t let me eat any of the mushrooms I saw, either.

I also learned that you can eat that ballsack thing in the middle of the palm thingie! “Like, right now!?” I asked.

“Well, I mean, you have to cook it first, probably,” Octavia patiently explained before I had the chance to whip a fork out of my bra and dig in. God, Octavia was determined to prevent the cemetery from becoming my test kitchen.

At some point during our aimless journey across Bonaventure, a butterfly popped out of a bush and Chooch groaned. I relished the chance to rat out Chooch’s wussy phobia and blurted out, “Chooch is afraid of butterflies!”

“Do you know what the German word is for butterflies?” Octavia asked Chooch. “Schmetterling!”she yelled like a witch in an uncensored fairy tale.

“SAY IT AGAIN!” I begged, and she did. It was glorious! I couldn’t wait to go back to school work and talk about my educational vacation!

There was some douchey guy there leading a walking tour and they were everywhere we wanted to be. Octavia hated him too for the same unsubstantiated reasons as me (he just looked like an asshole and I hated his blond swoop-y hair and monochromatic clothes) and that was when I knew for sure that was the real deal.

“Ow, my head.”

“Ow, my back.”

We got to see Little Gracie! This is one of the most popular graves in the joint, and Octavia said that it used to be more easily accessible but there has always gotta be those assholes who like to be destructive. So now you can’t get beyond the gate for a closer experience. I was just happy that we got to see her at all, and I wished we had brought something to leave behind for her.

I suggested leaving Chooch, but Henry said no. :(

Being in Bonaventure was surreal. Cemeteries are one of the few places on this earth that I feel at home (and also Warped Tour, duh) and Bonaventure has always been one of the cemeteries of my dreams. Finally getting to see it, on my birthday no less, was amaze. And the best part was that instead of getting sucked into some touristy walking tour, or blindly stumbling around on our own until we started fighting within 20 minutes, we got to meander about at our leisure with Octavia. Which was great because it was like 299 degrees and walking any faster than I already was probably would have set me alight.

And you know what else? Henry checked in here on Facebook, which means he was excited in his own weird, silent way and wanted his “friends” to know that he was living it up in a famous cemetery in Savannah. Sure, he probably would have chosen a nap over this in a heartbeat, but I think he at least recognized that it’s not the worst thing he could have been doing that day.

Until I forced him to pose for this, that is:

I took this with my phone that day because I needed to be able to plaster it all over social media ASAP, because: HENRY ON THE GRAVE OF HIS ROLE MODEL, NUGENT, what a great birthday! Of course this inspired Chooch to tell Octavia the story of Henry at the Ted Nugent show, which I was actually trying to tell her at the same time, but Chooch always has to steal the show…AND MY FRIENDS! He kept hijacking the conversation by bringing it back to video games and I was getting so jealous.

“Are there crocodiles in there?!” I asked Octavia as we looked down over a small hill at the water below.

“No,” she assured me. And then she added, in the most non-patronizing tone possible,”and they’re alligators, anyway.” Something about her delivery made me crack up. The people I need most in my life are the ones who will gently correct me when I’m wrong and also make sure I don’t eat poisonous berries. Octavia exceeds expectations in both departments.

I just asked Chooch what his favorite part of Bonaventure was and he said when Octavia told us that sometimes there are dolphins in the water there. He hasn’t learned Henry’s favorite response yet, which is: “When we left.”

We waited until it was time to leave to look at the map, because that’s smart.

From here, we continued on to downtown Savannah so that we could eat food that was cooked in a kitchen and not picked up off a boneyard floor, and Chooch was thrilled that Octavia got to sit in the back with him SO HE COULD CHEW HER EAR OFF SOME MORE. Ugh. I’d steal his friends to show him how it feels, but…kids and I don’t get along.

I must have said, “UGH!” in response to Chooch’s charm at least 87 times that day. Ugh!

With his peeps.

Modeling a t-shirt from Kendahl. It really makes his eyes pop. :)

Reppin’ PVRIS.

• School starts on the 31st. I’m simultaneously thrilled and depressed.
• Henry and I let him start a private FB account so that he can play games (ugh) and also have a way to contact us during the day. I let him add some of his family and some our close friends, and made sure that his settings prevented random strangers from contacting him. Everything was fine but then he figured out that he could add people to a group chat that Henry started for the three of us, so he started adding some of my friends, who in turn were like, “WHY IS MY PHONE BLOWING UP WITH FACEBOOK STICKERS? WHY DON’T YOU TRY PARENTING YOUR KID FOR A CHANGE!?” and I was frantically trying to remove people as he was adding them, WHILE I WAS AT WORK. By the time I got home, I marched over to him and yelled, “I’M DELETING YOUR ACCOUNT, YOU SUCK!” And Henry was all, “Now, now, kids. Let’s try to talk about this” but it was too late because Chooch and I had each other by the neck at this point. So I stormed off because fuck you for meddling, Henry. A little while later, Chooch came into my bedroom and sneered, “You don’t have to worry about me anymore BECAUSE I UNFRIENDED YOU.” Mother. Fucker.
  • His profile picture is Marcy. :(
• Chooch had an altercation with one of our neighbors. I’ve been trying to get him to write about it because it’s awesome. We’ll see.
• All of his neighborhood friends are annoying. I hope that they all stop playing together once school starts. OK MAYBE IT’S JUST THAT I HATE KIDS.

And that’s all I got right now. I need another vacation. Sucks to be me. Too bad, so sad.

My sole purpose on road trips is to assume the role of car DJ. Obviously. What else could I possibly be good for? I put on Loverboy to see if Henry would get that far-away look of nostalgia in his eyes.

#negative

So then I put on some good old Engelbert Humperdinck. Classic, you guys. Also, hair goals for Henry. Detached sideburns?! There’s absolutely no rhyme or reason to that. It looks like an accident. In other words: Henry could rock it.

While still in North Carolina, we began passing billboards for South of the Border, a TRUE TOURIST TRAP that I have only heard about, never visited. The first billboard I noticed said that it was 87 miles away.

“EIGHTY-SEVEN MILES AWAY? THAT’S SIDNEY CROSBY’S NUMBER. IT’S FATE. WE HAVE TO GO,” I squealed into the intercom of Wish Headquarters, also known as “Henry’s Ear.”

Then we passed another billboard that said South of the Border is 66 miles away! “THAT WAS MARIO LEMIEUX’S NUMBER! We’re going.”

See also:Letang’s number. Talbot’s number. Sutter’s number. And so on, and so forth.

I had a teacher in elementary school that said “and so on, and so forth” SO OFTEN. And then I never really heard it again.

Probably because it’s really stupid.

Inside Henry’s head at this moment: The letters “FML” fucking each other and giving birth to baby Nancy Kerrigan “whhhhhhhhhy” sound bytes.

The gestation period for these types of mental burdens is very short.

Of course we stopped. And that place was dead. I don’t know what I was expected exactly but I thought it was going to be some sort of fannypacked madness. Tourists bustling about, darting to and fro, scooping up collector’s spoons and flurescent-brimmed visors.

But no. It was just us and a few other carfuls of weary travelers stopping for a bathroom & cold beverage.

I wanted to buy it all inside one of the large gift shops but Henry had that tight-lipped “DONT EVEN” expression on his idiot face, so instead I settled on a magnet and an ice cream dish in the shape of an ice cream cone that says South of the Border on it, which is already the new home to a succulent, THANKS FOR ASKING.

Chooch got nothing because he’s annoying.

At first I thought we were going to have to climb to the top of the sombrero, which is fine but it was 1000 degrees out and I can’t climb steps that are so exposed like those ones. NO FUCKING WAY. Turns out, all we had to do was pay some Mexican guy in the arcade $2 each and then another Mexican guy wordlessly ushered us into an elevator and hit the button. As soon as we began our ascent, I nervously laughed, “Haha, it’s a lot higher than I thought.” Our elevator chauffeur politely smiled but I’m sure his mental FMLs we’re currently embroiled in a steamy affair with Henry’s mental FMLs.

Yeah so then we arrived at the brim of ye ol’ sombrero and I proceeded to have an internal panic attack because I just can’t play the heights game anymore. I start hearing nuts and bolts popping in my head, and that slooooow squeak of bending metal, until whatever suspended platform I’m standing on snaps and I’m plummeting to my death along with whatever other idiot tourists are with me, and next thing you know there’s a new addition on Roadside America: “Former location of giant, roadside sombrero that hadn’t been inspected since 1984, where tragic tourist disaster occurred.”

Something like that. I’m writing this is in an un-air-conditioned house and occasionally black out.

Henry enjoys waiting until the last minute to book a hotel room. And for the rest of our vacation, “hotel” will be used loosely.

Half past bustling traveler’s mecca, more toward cesspool of sadness.

“What’s that? Oh just the sound of all my time & money being punted off the brim of a giant sombrero.”

It doesn’t seem that high, but it felt like I was standing on the shoulders of Andre the Giant while he was standing on the shoulders of Lady Liberty. Oh god, I just had a flashback and my legs did the jello thing again.

Still trying to book us a “hotel.”

Before we left, we stopped in a convenience store across the street called The Pantry, where I was certain we were going to get shot by two suspicious young men who came creepin’ on ah come-up. I didn’t say anything though because Henry gets really annoyed when my “unfounded paranoia” rears its ugly head-in-the-crosshairs. I had the whole thing scripted in my head though, right down to the Erin RIP Glenn that hopefully someone would be uncouth and crass enough to create.

There’s some local ginger ale maker in the area and I wanted to tour the factory but Henry either said nein or “it’s closed” or “go to hell”, either way it was probably Henry’s fault. It’s called Blenheim and thank god, so blessed, the convenience store sold it in glass bottles which is my dad’s favorite way to drink carbonated beverage. He’s kind of an enthusiast. So I figured, golly I better knock one back in my dad’s honor.

I chose the “hot” variety, which was smirk-worthy for Henry.

“Do you even know what that means?” The words fell from his patronizing lips like crumbs from the testosterone sandwich he was eating at the Mans Rule World, Gurlz Dumm convention he’s perpetually attending in his head. “It means it’s extra ginger-y. You’re not going to like it.”

Yeah, well, guess who liked it, motherfucker? Ten kicks to man’s universal ballsack for all womankind.

Continuing on through South Carolina, I learned that Henry knows that #SPOBY means Spencer and Toby from Pretty Little Liars, which is sad and hilarious to me all at once. I was going to buy him a limited edition SPOBY shirt that Spencer (you know, the broad who plays Spencer) was selling on Instagram for charity but either my order didn’t go through or I’m about to have 6 of them delivered to my house in Henry’s name.

We stopped at Smith’s Exxon in Santee, a plain-named store that apparently boasts a wide array of local ciders, and Henry, suddenly a connoisseur of the jugged juices, was excited for maybe the second time of the whole trip. The southern gas station clerk behind the counter gave us samples of the peach cider and then taught us about muscadine, which is basically some kind of grape thing, I wasn’t listening. We sampled that too and Henry was making sex sounds so I knew he was going to buy a jug of each. (And he did. And just so you know, I never even got to drink any of it!)

How you know you’re not in Pittsburgh anymore. ^^

Chooch was so sick but I was like, “Son, I recognize that you are ill at the moment but please sit down and let me take your picture on this Cheerwine bench as proof that we are wherever we’re currently at.” Also, Cheerwine, nothing to Q-tip your dickhole over.  (But I don’t really like soda-type beverages to begin with, so.) Before we left, Henry cleaned out the car and threw out my ginger ale bottle which I was planning to save as a souvenir!

“Oh, we’ll get another,” he said.

“There will be plenty more places selling it,” he said.

GUESS WHO NEVER GOT ANOTHER BOTTLE?!

More driving.

We made it to Savannah around 9 and realized that we hadn’t eaten since The Creamery in North Carolina, so we went to the Waffle House next to our “hotel,” which is lame to go to chains, I know, but it was either that or get frustrated with Yelp and then wind up going to bed with an empty stomach and a heart full of hate.

At least the southern Waffle Houses are way better than the ones in our area. We had a super nice waitress and I got to stuff a waffle in my maw, and Henry had his cherished grits (seriously, what’s the backstory with Henry and the Grits?), and Chooch actually ordered something and ate it all.

“Father, might I take a sip of my milk now?”

Afterward, Chooch made a cat friend in the parking lot, and then we found out there were like 6 more where that one came from so we quickly left before Chooch got too attached.

And then I willed myself fall asleep, totally hyper about finally meeting Octavia the next day!

Henry declared that he wanted ice cream yesterday afternoon, and you know how it is around here: whatever Henry wants, Henry gets. Let’s all jump for Prince Henry.

Chooch came inside after playing with the neighborhood brats and Henry told him we were going to get ice cream. Chooch’s reaction was what you’d expect from a child who was just told to put on a starchy suit, it’s time to go to a three-hour mass.

Seriously. He threw his head back and wailed, “WHYYYY??! I don’t WANT ice cream!!” We just sat there in stunned silence.

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN FEED MY LUNCH AND NOW YOU’RE FORCING ME TO EAT ICE CREAM?!” Chooch wailed in anguish. I couldn’t even believe we were having this argument. Is this real life.

Henry explained to me that Chooch was hungry, and that this is exactly how I act too, when I’m hungry, which is a huge lie. So after we dragged Chooch out of the house as he screamed some more about how there’s nothing to eat because Henry doesn’t buy food and we’re so poor, I yelled, “FOR CHRIST’S SAKE JUST TAKE HIM TO MCDONALDS SO HE WILL SHUT HIS DUMB MOUTH!”

UGH.

So that happened.

And then after Chooch’s hunger was quelled, Henry started to pull out of the McDonald’s parking lot and I asked him some question that I don’t remember now but I’m sure it was really important and urgent so probably what’s happening here is that I’m having another PTSD blackout, and I didn’t like the tone Henry used when he answered me, so then that started another fight and Henry was like “YOU TWO ARE ASSHOLES AND WE’RE GOING HOME.”

But then he kept driving because going home “to teach us a lesson” was really only going to hurt Henry.

You would think that we would have a favorite ice cream shop that we frequent, but the truth is, part of the fun/battle is scouring Yelp for somewhere new to try. Henry found a place about 25-30 minutes away called Punk’s and I was just happy that someone else picked a place for once.

On the way there, I looked it up and saw that my Mortal Yelp Enemy was the FIRST REVIEWER for Punk’s and then I read this portion of his review and raged:

Henry hates him too so I read it out loud and then Henry and I put aside our current hate for each other and focused on mutually hating Yelp Enemy instead. Seriously, go fuck yourself beneath a deep indigo sky with a nut-armored ball, you asshole. Get the fuck out of here.

AHEM. By the time we arrived at Punk’s, we were all kind of on good terms again and even managed to order our ice cream without too much mishap. Chooch was still being weird about not wanting ice cream, so we told him not to order anything then, but he wound up ordering a vanilla milkshake like he was choosing his method of execution and then fled.

I don’t think he’s ever ordered a vanilla milkshake before.

Henry got a Scooter Sundae and acted all smug about it for some reason, but no one really gave a shit.

Nice stance.

The girl working that day was really nice, like an ice cream shop person should be. She didn’t make me feel rushed or dumb for asking questions, which sometimes happens when I go to get ice cream, OK?! And then I panic and get something plain and boring and cry about it later because it totally wasn’t what I wanted but that dumb bitch made me feel pressured to give her my final answer! I mean, that doesn’t happen often or anything.

So I got the soft serve flavors of the day in a twist: caramel and strawberry, which sounds like an odd pairing but I’m here to tell you that it worked. Just like our volatile family dynamics.

I wrote some drivel a few months ago about how I was thankful that my family took so many pictures every time we’d go to an amusement park, because not only did it help preserve some of the happiest moments of my childhood, but it also served as a time capsule since so many of those rides are no longer around. (Darkrides get no love, yo.)

My mom and grandma were chronic shutterbugs. After my grandma died in 2011, I told my aunt that all I wanted was photos. ALL OF THEM. My grandma kept tomes of photographical evidence of my youth and I want it all. Even the stuff pre-Erin. I’m obsessed with family photos, and maybe I’m grasping at straws here, but I really feel like I NEED these photos to help me hold on to a little piece of the family whom I have barely been able to identify with since 1996. I feel like an outsider in so many aspects of my life, but never as much as I have with my own family.

(Spoiler alert: I did not get a single photo from that house. Thanks, guys.)

Photos of my mom smiling are rare (you saw her wedding photos, right?), so I think this might have been an accident. FUN BEHIND-THE-SCENES FACT: Chooch was looking at this and said, “Wow,  no wonder everyone always says I look just like you. I would have thought that was me in that picture right there.”

“No one ever says that,” I snapped. “It’s always, ‘OMG HE LOOKS JUST LIKE HENRY!'”

“Really? I think I look just like you. People are dumb,” Chooch shrugged.

I love him.

KEYSTONE KOPS! I would give anything to ride this again. I haven’t been to Wildwood since 1992 and even though I want to go back so badly, it pains me to think of how different it must be now. It was hopping back in the 80s and I’m not exaggerating when I say that those summer vacations comprise the majority of my best childhood memories. It was magic. Pure magic. It makes me wonder if anything will be like that for Chooch, what memories will he turn to as an adult when he needs to think happy thoughts. I hope he has an arsenal of them to choose from.

I have absolutely no recollection of this ride, but it was definitely Wildwood, and it looks like a boat ride? Hopefully one of my dark ride enthusiast friends will see this and enlighten me.

This is one of the few photos I have of my step-dad, mom, and me all together. My mom hated having her picture taken, and I’m the same way now. Selfies are fine, but someone standing before me with a camera makes me clench.

This picture is forever one of my favorites! What you can’t see is that the Sea Serpent, Wildwood’s corkscrew coaster, BROKE DOWN with the coaster ON THE LOOP. So that’s what everyone is looking at, except for my Pappap and me, who were too scared to not look at my grandma when she commanded us to LOOK AT THE CAMERA. This is one of the memories that probably most people that day never thought about again, unless they were one of the people on the Sea Serpent, but it always stuck with me for some reason. Like I was A PART OF HISTORY. It reminds me a little bit of the time my aunt Susie and Pappap were trying to get a piece of mail out of the gutter when I was 4 or so, and it was THE BIGGEST DEAL IN THE WORLD TO ME. (That’s honestly one of my favorite childhood memories and no one in my family could ever understand why I thought it was such a big deal!)

Me and some broad on some car ride somewhere.

The Whip at Kennywood. My birth dad was there that day, too.
  

I’m not sure what ride this was at Wildwood, but OUR FACES THO. I can only imagine how much my Pappap hated going on rides but he still did it because I was his FAVORITE. And don’t you ever forget that.

I think was the first time I ever rode the Wildmouse at Wildwood!

This was definitely at Kennywood.

Back when my mom kind of loved me.

The impetus to this post was my friend Liz commenting on my recent Busch Gardens post on Facebook, saying that she still has a souvenir photo of us from Kennywood when we were in middle school, and it inspired me to dig out the above picture of us on the Music Express with my brother Ryan and the FOREIGN EXCHANGE STUDENT * who lived with us that summer. His name was Laurent and he comes up in conversation more often than you’d think for a kid who only lived with us for three weeks one summer. He is also the reason I’m wearing such stank face in this photo, because I did not like him and just knowing he was behind me made me seethe.

*(This link will take you to my old, embarrassing LiveJournal. Apologies in advance.)

So thank you Liz, for inspiring me to get up off my butt this morning and force everyone to jog with me down memory lane. AMUSEMENT PARK MEMORIES FTW.

And on the fourth day of vacation, Henry expressed a barely audible modicum of joy when he spotted F-15s in the air.

****

Wednesday morning, a/k/a The Day Before My Birthday, was our officially check-out day from King’s Creek. Chooch and I were sad, but then Henry held up our timeshare starter package as a silent reminder that we’ll be back.

Again.

And again.

And again and again.

THE LAST TRIP DOWN THE SIDEWALK. :(

Being a travel day, my plan was for us to be leisurely about it. We didn’t have plans with Octavia until the next day, so there technically wasn’t much rush to get to Savannah anytime soon on Wednesday.

Which is a good thing, considering that Savannah was twice as far away from Williamsburg as I originally thought! I was super pissed though because I thought we were going to be passing through Norfolk but Henry explained that we were taking a more dumb and Henry-esque route through the middle of all the states.

“We can’t get to Savannah by going that way,” he said as I whined about Norfolk and all of the things I found on Roadside America that now were not going to be anywhere near us.

“Yes we can!” I cried, showing him a map on my phone.

“THAT IS ALL WATER. THOSE ARE NOT ROADS,” he yelled, so by the time we arrived at a rest stop in North Carolina, we were all miserable and hating each other, which only got WORSE when Henry copped an attitude when we had the AUDACITY to ask for beverage from the vending machines! Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe give us an allowance then so we can purchase our own beverages!

“He hates us,” I hoarsely whispered to Chooch as we power-walked in anger out of the rest stop. But then I was all, “Ooh! A thing! Let me photograph you by that thing!”

Chooch leaning against a thing.

Turns out, that thing is a WHIRLIGIG and there was an entire PARK full of them somewhere “down the street” in Wilson, NC. I begged and begged Henry to take us there since he had previously ruined our day by being a tight-wad motherfucker.

I looked at my map on Roadside American and determined that the exit for Wilson, NC, home of the Whirligig Park, was straight up ahead. What I failed to mention was that the actual destination was another 20 miles or so from the exit ramp. Henry hates being lead astray and was unreasonably irritated about whirligigs. Who could be mad about these sharp metal sculptures of joy?!

Also, I failed to note that the park is not yet open. We rolled up and saw a dirt lot, a backhoe in action, and a small sprinkling of whirligigs. That was good enough for me! Henry slammed the car into park and mumbled something about “you two assholes can get out and look; I’m staying here. Fuck a whirligig.” Even Chooch was being ungrateful and uncaring about the whirligigs and I was pretty disappointed. Here we were, parked across from a national treasure (debatable, but still) and these two were trying to ruin it for me.

I pulled Chooch out of the car and into the blazing heat and made him be a good tourist with me.

The whirligigs are the creation of artist Vollis Wilson, and are currently in the process of being relocated from some museum to the park-in-process in Wilson, NC. Wilson is, how can I put this delicately, a real dump of a town, so the hope is that this park will help with the revitalization project that’s currently underway, and I can definitely get on board with that.

I might start creating whirligigs to decorate the Law Firm. The ceilings in the partnership center are tall enough to accommodate art of this stature. BYE BYE GENERIC ITALIAN ART, HELLO ERINGIGS.

Maybe it’s nuts, but I love these road trips that we take so much because I am fascinated more by small, unknown towns than actual big cities. This was why I tried in vain to get people to guest blog on here about their hometowns, because I want to know all the insider, townie scoop. (Still looking to feature people, just saying.)

This is why I decided that Wilson was where we were also going to eat lunch that day.

Just…not here though.

We stopped down the road at The Creamery, which has been serving Wilson since 1946.

That man sitting next to Chooch ordered two large jugs of sweet tea. NORTH CAROLINA FLAVOR!

I already mentioned this in my birthday post, but they had cabbage on the menu! I ended up ordering okra though because I love me some okra. It came deep-fried, and I am used to eating it steamed or boiled or whatever Henry does to it (maybe I don’t want to know), so that was different.

Another cheerful family lunch!

While we were there, Hot Naybor Chris called Henry. Henry took the call out in the parking lot, leaving me to sit at the table and panic because WHY WAS CHRIS CALLING WAS OUR HOUSE ON FIRE AT LEAST WE DON’T HAVE PETS ANYMORE TO WORRY ABOUT!? He knew we were on vacation so it must be something tragic and devastating! It reminded me of when we were on vacation in Ocracoke years ago and had some sort of gas situation at our house and my mom and Janna kept calling us about it and we thought it was OK but then it wasn’t, and we ended up leaving early because I was so freaked out that our house was going to explode and also I hated the people we were vacationing with, so win-win….?

Turns out, a package arrived for me, air mail, and Chris just wanted to let Henry know that he took it off our porch so it wouldn’t get stolen. After Henry came back in and told me this, I cried, “WHY DOESN’T HE EVER JUST TEXT YOU THESE THINGS!?” Jesus Christ, I was worried sick.

Remember back when Amber² was about to have a baby at any given moment and we got a temp up in here to ensure that our little group didn’t quit/perish/Donner Party each other while she was out on maternity leave? Allison turned out to be a godsend. She was such a quick learner and eager to work and, most importantly, liked me the best out of everyone. (I mean, DUH.)

Our department tried so hard to keep her, but it didn’t happen. ;(

This is what I felt like the day she told me her assignment was up in two weeks, the day after my dumb birthday:

(I am obviously both Artax and Atreyu in this scenario.)

Even worse? I was on vacation for her entire last week so I didn’t get to pantomime my thoroughly awkward and uncomfortable, however appropriately-timed, farewell. Instead, I had to do it a week early and it looked like I was just being really weird. Like, “Wow. Erin is going to REALLY miss Allison this weekend.” But then it would probably get shrugged off like everything does involving me.

I was going to buy a card but then I was like, “Wait. Der. I make greeting cards for a living.”

(NOT REALLY. I don’t make enough cards to live.) 

So I made her a law firm-y card and glued Glenn versions of our little group within the department:

Obviously, there’s me (FIRST!) with my Cure shirt, crying a bucket of tears. Then we have Amber2 and her baby (WHICH GOT US ALL INTO THIS MESS OF HAVING TO SAY GOODBYE IN THE FIRST PLACE!), Amber1 and her NKOTB shirt! (I had to explain to Glenn what that stood for. What a Lame.) Todd, who does this thing here at work called LINKING (you wouldn’t understand: j/k — I don’t understand) and ALWAYS gets Qdoba for lunch, Dumb Glenn, and GAYLE with her HANKIE. Maybe she should embroider my BIRTHDATE into it so she won’t FORGET it again.

(Did you know Gayle forgot my birthday? Don’t worry—we’ve already had words. I’m almost done being gravely insulted.)

(Although, bringing me a chocolate-covered apple couldn’t hurt.)

Anyway, it was disorienting coming back from vacation and seeing all her stuff gone, BUT I’m happy to report that she is moving on to better things. She better not forget me though!

I will end this with a picture from the one day in April when Allison was still super new and we had cake to rejoice Amber2’s impending due date because I’m in the background looking happy and I’ll tell you why: it was because this was the day Allison thought I was REALLY YOUNG. God what a great day that was.

That was also the day I determined Allison was my new work BFF, much to Wendy’s chagrin.

Also, I cat-faced Amber because it’s like 1 in the morning and I’m not sure she’d appreciate a text from her weird co-worker asking if it would be OK to post her face on my blog.

Also #2: I don’t even know who took this picture.

I saved it from our department page-thing awhile back because my stance was funny.

Remember when you were younger, how exciting it was to wear matching outfits to the school picnic at the local theme park with your BFF? Well, I don’t. I mean I wasn’t a total loser back then to where I was going to amusement parks alone, but my friends and I never wore matching Lycra bike shorts and BUM Equipment tshirts, is what I’m saying. Lots of other kids played the matching game though, and more power to them, you know? As long as they weren’t line-jumping (that’s cause for rival from the park), I didn’t care who wore what.

All of that is to prepare you for when I tell you that 20 years later, I put some thought into my amusement park game and arranged for Chooch and myself to both wear Emarosa tanks.

 Henry felt left out as usual. #lifegoalsonlock
It’s been over two weeks now since we were at Busch Gardens, but sometimes when I’m sitting at my desk at work, I get flashbacks of the BEST RIDE I HAVE EVER BEEN ON.

THE VERBOLTEN.

I knew nothing about this ride when Chooch declared it was next on our route. The three of us mindlessly wound our way along the empty queues and chose our spots in the station. Chooch and I waited for the second seat, leaving Henry to ride alone behind us. A recording of a German broad speaking in cheery lilt played over and over while we waited for one of the coasters to make its way back to the station. There were four running that day, so the wait was quick and painless.

As our coaster departed, I was under the impression that this was more of a tame, “for the younger kids” ride. But then we approached the entrance to a building, and our coaster fucking shot off and went barreling into the pitch black vortex and I just screamed and screamed and screamed. I LOVE WHEN ROLLER COASTERS TURN INTO DARK RIDES! The idea was that we were careening perilously through the Black Forest and there was this one part where the coaster slowed to a halt and THEN DROPPED several feet to another track.

Fucking fantastic!

Then you shoot back out of the Black Forest, and the rest of the ride is outdoors.

“You know I’ve been to the Black Forest, right?” I asked Chooch because I love to brag to him about how much richer (literally) my childhood was than his.

“Oh, of COURSE you have!” he cried angrily. And then, “….was it just like the Verbolten?”

YES IT WAS JUST LIKE THAT, OMG. Here, look at the battle wounds on my back from that time a TROLL grabbed our Trafalgar bus right off the road when we were trying to go to a goddamn cuckoo clock store to buy really expensive souvenirs.

We rode that sonabitch three times that day, and it still wasn’t enough. The scariest was the time we were in the front seat and I had seemingly lost all memory of what to expect and proceeded to scrape the lining off my throat with my forceful screams.

“Huh. Beer is pretty cheap here.” -one of the few things Henry said all day.

Omg the Lochness Monster was a pleasant surprise! I thought it was just going to be your standard steel upside down coaster, but there was an entire part where we shot into a cave and just kept spiraling and spiraling down. I LOVE WHEN COASTERS GO INTO TUNNELS, ETC!

While I made a quick pee-stop at some point that day, Henry did this really charming thing where he buys himself and Chooch a cold beverage but conveniently forgets that I too am a human being, at risk of dehydration on a summer scorcher. So I came out of the bathroom and see those two assholes chugging their way to pale yellow pee while my kidneys felt like they were being used as bongos.

When I opened my mouth to bitch, Henry slapped a five into my hand and told me to “be a big girl” and get my own beverage.

This was one of the many times I called up my favorite image: Henry’s balls wrapped in acid-dunked barbed wire while being crushed in a vice.

That motherfucker.

So I’m standing in line to pay for my water and the man in front of me asks the cashier where she’s from, because he detects an accent.

And she says Romania.

“And I wasn’t going to  say anything, but then it was my turn to pay and the next thing I know, I’m blurting out, ‘so….I’m obsessed with Romania and I think I was born there in a past life and it’s my dream to visit, hopefully sometime in the next few years!'” I hysterically brayed when I rejoined Henry and Chooch with my independently-purchased cold beverage.

“Oh. Wow. And did you say it just like that?” Henry asked, with that idiotic smirk of his.

“Yes!” I answered triumphantly.

“You’re a creep,” he mumbled, and we set off for France.

He’s just jealous that I made a friend at Busch Gardens and that I might have a place to stay when I move to Romania, the country that gave us Bela Karolyi.

THE BEST GYMNASTIC COACH IN THE WORLD.

I have to remember to pack my homemade Bela t-shirt. 

Henry won Chooch this dumb Pokemon stuffed thing. (Bulbasaur? I can’t tell what Chooch is calling it mostly because I’m not listening.) This plush fucker became the bane of my existence for the rest of vacation. I kept hoping he would forget it at a hotel along the way but no dice.

I was adamant about taking a boat ride and the other two were very against this.

It turned out to be 15 minutes of dumbness plus the “lake” is man-made and fake bodies of water make me feel uncomfortable, like it was put there to hide something.

Several of the coasters at Busch Gardens have been on Coaster Wars, or whatever that roller coaster show is that I sometimes catch  on whatever cable channel (probably the Travel Channel, let’s not act a fool here). The Griffin is one of them, and I was honestly scared as fuuuuuck to ride this beast. It’s one of those really wide coasters that seat something like 15 people across. I could look it up but I’m writing this on my phone while laying on my bed, listening to “Dreamweaver” (IT JUST CAME ON, OK) and not actually in a smoke-filled office with a typewriter while wearing a visor and dinging a bell for no reason. So basically, I’m half-assing it again.

When it was our turn to load in, some Busch Gardens broad came over and made us all move down a seat and she totally caught me off guard and made me nervous to the point where I couldn’t remember how to sit in a seat and I ended up SLIPPING ONTO THE FLOOR OF THE COASTER in front of all the people who were in line! Chooch shot me a disgusted “Drunk much?” scowl as I did my best Pee Wee Herman & brushed myself off.

Seriously though, a stepping stool would have been helpful.

Or a toadstool.

Speaking of stools… that ride was one mother whomping shit softener. When it gets to the top of the hill, it STOPS so you’re just casually chilling a million feet in the air (again—research, what’s that) and staring straight down at the ground while your life flashes before your eyes and you wish you had known you were going to die that day so you could have told everyone to FUCK RIGHT OFF on Facebook. And somehow, over top of the screaming, you hear a quiet, metallic click. And then BUHBYE.

God that ride was everything. Henry didn’t go on it because he too scared.

There is a sick dark ride there, something about a DarKastle. The walk to the loading area for this one is really long so I suspect it must be popular on a busy day for it to need a queue that long, but on THIS day, the day of Erin Rachelle, Chooch and I walked all the way through to the front and then immediately boarded a car with a scene couple. IT WAS BAD ASS. I wasn’t sure what to expect and I prayed that it wasn’t going to be like all of those boring shooter dark rides that are all the rage lately, but it turned out to be more of a 3D simulation type of ride and we LOVED IT. I should also note that all of the best rides were in the German area.

The Alpengeist was awesome! It’s supposed to to be like you’re on an out-of-control ski lift and it has the distinction of being the last ride Henry rode that day because it knocked him out of commission.

It was right around then that it occurred to me that beer was cheap there because ANHEUSER-BUSCH.

BUSCH GARDENS.

I was excited to tell Henry of my revelation and he just gave me a NO SHIT sneer.

Although it appears that douchey SeaWorld owns it now.

Alpengeist, Loch Ness Monster, and the dumb boats.

“I wonder what DONNA is doing right now,” I mused while eating the messiest, wettest waffle cone of my life. “Probably being the best at whatever it is.” Henry actually kind of laughed.

“Yeah, if she was here, she’d have the Quick Queue,” Chooch piggybacked.

And we all laughed into our fast-melting ice cream. Donna, bringing our family together since one day before.

And then around 7:00, we tired of each other’s company and had exhausted all the coasters. So we left and on the way back to King’s Creek, Chooch and I verbally eviscerated Henry because we were hungry so he locked us in our cottage thing and went to get Subway.

UNTIL NEXT TIME, B.Gard!

I have so much wow to bring you guys right now. I’m sitting here with Henry J. and he is going to tell me his HIGHLIGHTS and LOWLIGHTS of our vacation, at which point I will TYPE WHAT HE IS SAYING.

We have nothing better to do. Pretty Little Liars is over for the season.

        Here I am waiting for Erin, Octavia and Chooch to figure out where Forrest Gump’s bench used to be.

HENRY’S HIGHLIGHTS

• the cottage at King’s Creek Plantation
• morning trips for breakfast and coffee for “my babies” (because they weren’t with me)
• meeting Octavia
• (I suggested when Henry got to talk about moss at the Bonaventure Cemetery but he just gave me an annoyed look, so I guess…no.)
• talking about the SERVICE with someone who was actually interested (Octavia)
• watching Erin and Chooch play tennis and realizing that those two can’t do anything together without fighting. And Erin is way too* competitive.
• getting to have grits with every meal.
• the breakfast that Octavia’s husband Dustin made us
  • these were the best grits of the whole trip

*(Henry is mad because I spelled this correctly.)

• attempting to teach Chooch to swim even though in his mind he knows how to already.
• Busch Gardens
  • I didn’t have a favorite ride. I only rode three things and liked all three.
• Watching a couple fight at the rest stop in Virginia while their kids ran amok.
• Seeing a drunk girl at breakfast in Charlotte and watching her get kicked out.
• Finding out that Jonny Craig’s band Slaves broke up.
• buying peach and muscadine cider at a convenience store in Georgia
• Mayberry
• Almost having to go to a show when Erin found out a band she likes was playing in Charlotte but thank god we were on our way home
• Watching Chooch writhe during dinner in Pulaski because of the girls at the table near us who were looking at him and giggling, and then the oldest one telling him he had nice hair.
• WHEN HOT NAYBOR CHRIS CALLED ME WHEN WE WERE IN WILSON, NC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111111111111111111111111111111111
• GETTING TO LISTEN TO ALL OF ERIN’S AWESOME MUSIC AND TALK ABOUT WARPED TOUR FOR 7 DAYS STRAIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11111111111111111111111

HENRY’S MIDLIGHTS (?)

• the African village in South Carolina
• boiled peanuts. I didn’t really get to try them because I was driving forever.
• Dale Earnhardt museum
• South of the Border – getting to take a selfie in front of a giant gorilla.

HENRY’S LOWLIGHTS (and I’m not talking about the gray in his beard, you guys)

• driving to Virginia for 7 hours with Erin and Chooch.
• then driving 10 hours to Savannah
• the 14 hour drive home because of Erin’s “detours”
• Tortuga’s Island Grill in Thunderbolt, GA —> Erin’s birthday breakdown and Chooch’s “You don’t love me” breakdown. God forbid I should say anything to anybody.
• Looking for the post office in Orangeburg, SC
• Learning that Jonny Craig’s band Slaves did not actually break up.
• Pulaski, VA (thanks, Octavia!)
  • Erin almost died. (I just said, “I didn’t almost die there…?” and Henry snapped, “Yeah, when I almost killed you.”)
• Driving back into Savannah after we had already left because Erin supposedly forgot to buy postcards and a magnet when we were there for 8 hours walking around the day before.
• Mayberry
• Not buying enough peanuts while we were down there
• the overpriced ghost tour in Williamsburg

Here I am being a land shark in Savannah!

Hi, So yesterday 8/10/15 some 15 year old girl stole my bike. Thank god Hot Naybor Chris spotted her and called the cops or if he didn’t I woulda never got it back. I wished the chain came off because it always does and you cant ride when it happens. 

She got all the way to Potomac but then she got busted by the cops. Her mom was there to teach here a lesson. Chris got to go in the Police Car to Indentify the girl. It was like 1:30 at night and Grandma just closed the door because Chris just got home from Erie. Grandma got scared because she thought it was an intruder so she slammed the door. And right after that the girl stole da bike. (Mommy made me write this but I did it secretly while she was upstairs) So yeah ROFL. I was watching youtube and all of a sudden I hear knocking at the door and grandma said “Who is it?” and they said “THE POLICE.” I was excited and sad at the same time. Excited because I would get to tell my teacher that my bike got stolen when she asks how my summer was.  I went to get Pa and he said what happened and did nothing and then went back to bed. 

The girl told the cops and probably Chris too that when she was 8 she got her bike stolen and apparently that made it ok. 

It was scary. When the cop went somewhere Me, Chris, and grandma were sitting on the porch while Chris drank beer. It was so boring cause I didn’t get to see the girl even though IT WAS MY BIKE!!! Ma was sleeping so I didn’t tell her till today. (Hopes she like it because I was listening to train while writing this and she hates Train, like nobody knows that.)

Suggested soundtrack for this post:

Is it really all that surprising that Busch Gardens is the only reason why I bought a Williamsburg vacation package two years ago at the Big Butler Fair? I have only been there once, and I was probably 4 or 5 years old. But the more I think about it, it could have been the one in Florida…Or maybe I just think I was there because there’s a photo of my mom and dad on the rapids ride and I assumed that I was there, too, standing next to the person who took the photo.

I feel so confused now.

It’s like when you hear a story so many times that you begin to delude yourself into thinking you were there. Like when Amber² was pregnant and sent a smoke signal for a larger, more comfortable chair and wound up with some enormous, old green monstrosity, and then every time someone walked by and commented on it, she would tell them the story of how she acquired it and since I sit behind her, I had to hear this story over and over until I was able to tell it on my own, whenever someone would ask about it when she wasn’t at her desk, because I had the story so many times that it was like I WAS THERE.

EXCEPT THAT I WAS THERE.

So, never mind. Bad example.

Anyway, we got free tickets to the park as a “gift” for enduring the timeshare presentation.

You know how I love Bavarian shit? THIS PLACE HAS IT. And French crap, and Italian stuff, and British bullshit, and Irish hullabaloo. IT IS A EUROPEAN WONDER. (There was some American decorations too to appease all of the freedom fighters.)

Shiny patriotic shit to make people like Henry happy.

The parks we typically go to range from small to medium-sized, but now that Chooch meets the height requirement for basically every coaster, we’ve been anxious to hit up the bigger parks. (And obviously Henry is not included in that “we.”) It just didn’t make sense to do that before. Anyway, this is the type of amusement park that has shuttles to get you from the parking lot to the park entrance, and judging by the crowds just in our section of the lot (Italy, holla), we anticipated that we would be doing a fair amount of waiting most of the day.

WRONG. It was unbelievable how uncrowded it was! Thank you, 93 degree random Tuesday in July! The first thing we did was walk right onto Apollo’s Chariot, a coaster located in the “Italy” section. I don’t get sick on coasters like I do on most spinny rides nowadays, but sometime over the last 10 years, I have developed a near-crippling fear of that initial ascent and spaghetti-legged paranoia over the security of the safety harnesses. When we were waiting for the parking lot shuttle, we watched Apollo’s Chariot going up the hill on its test run and I started to feel woozy even then.

Henry was being a bitch because he apparently wanted to go on the Tempesto first, which is right next to Apollo’s Chariot, but Chooch and I veered off in the direction of Apollo’s Chariot instead, a silent reminder that Henry does not get to make choices at amusement parks.

I was whimpering the whole time we slowly climbed that hill, and Henry was not sensitive to my fears AT ALL. “It’s not that high!” he kept saying in his native douche-tongue. And then I was fine once we crested, but it’s in my nature to shriek things like, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING I HATE THIS OMG THIS IS THE WORST NEVER AGAIN FUUUUUCK YOUUUU!” because I strive to set a good example for my son.

Once the coaster returned to the station and the safety harnesses deactivated, Chooch frantically lunged down and snatched something off the floor of the coaster. It was a black twist tie, and he seemed very relieved to have found it. He tucked it away in his pocket and I forgot about it….

…until Tempesto. Henry was being a whiny bitch and decided that BOO HOO he didn’t want to ride it now because the moment had passed. For fuck’s sake, go call mommy then, you little bitchbaby. Get over yourself. Anyway, Tempesto I guess is the new attraction for 2015, but even still, we only waited for about 15 minutes. And you guys, they give you a FANNY PACK at the entrance so that you can keep your possessions safely strapped to your person. What a fucking novel idea! I didn’t need one though, because I had already packed Henry’s fanny with my cell phone.

I mean…not to be confused with that techporn you watched last week with your downstairs neighbor.

Tempesto is a sick son of a bitch. Basically, I thought I was going to fall out the entire time, either my entire person or just my bowels. Maybe my boobs from my bra. It just really felt like something was going to fall out. And so I made sure that the cries erupting from my lungs accurately reflected my concerns.

Chooch LOVES that his mom is a beautiful banshee at the amusement park. He proudly Vannas his hands toward me and declares, “Ladies and gentlemen: my mother!”

Lol. No.

He gets so pissed. It’s all, “Mommy, stahhhhhhp!” and “Oh my god, you’re so annoying!”

Mommy’s little motherfucking 4th grader.

  
The above picture illustrates the exact point in the ride during which I died of Fear and then was resuscitated by the Even More Fear that occurred 2 seconds later.

So all in all, I would give this ride a 5 out of 5. You really missed out, Henry. You fucking pussy.

After we exited the ride, Chooch triumphantly pulled that black twist tie from his pocket. “Frederick survived!” he cried joyfully.

“Is that the thing you found on Apollo’s Chariot?” I asked.

“Oh no, I’ve had this since yesterday,” he casually responded. “It’s from that rifle gun I bought before the ghost tour.”

“Wait, did you bring that with you?” I pressed for details.

“Uh, yeah…?” he replied in a “so what?” tone.

I was just about to tell him he’s a fucking weirdo, but….my god he is so much like me.

There was only one moment during the whole day where Henry ALMOST ruined my life and that was when he tried to thwart my dreams of lunching at the Festhaus. “There isn’t going to be anything for you to eat there!” he grumped, to which I slowly leaned back and gave him the “Since when do YOU care?” hairy eyeball. I’d be happy with a lone slice of bayern-y bread as long as I’m surrounded by beer steins, lederhosen, and upbeat volksmusik.

Leave it to Henry to be a douche about the deutsche.

I ended up having a perfectly fine meatless German lunch of salad and strudel, so go choke on some schnitzel, Henry. YOU RACIST.

Chooch and I claimed a spot at one of the long wooden tables. Henry strode over with all the confidence of a Professional Driver and said, “I don’t want to sit here” and so he kept walking further to the back of the haus of fest, plumping his rump down at the end of an empty table. I suppose he expected Chooch and me to waddle after him like lost, frightened ducklings, but we were just like, “L-O-L motherfucker” and kept right on eating.

Henry, realizing that he either stay there and eat alone like when he was a Eunuch in Indiana, or admit defeat and join us at the cool table, angrily stood up with his tray and squeezed his way past all of the people sitting at our table. Apparently, that was why he didn’t want to sit there to begin with, because the seat across from Chooch and me wasn’t easily accessible. That didn’t affect us, so….

If you wish to see pictures of Henry looking unhappy at the Festhaus, please click here.

After my ears slowly tuned back into the white noise that is the Incessant Bitch Fest of Henry J. Robbins, I calmly explained that I chose to sit there because I wanted to be close to the stage.

“For the show,” I added, strudel falling from my mouth.

HILARIOUSLY, we were finished eating before the show started and I didn’t feel like wasting any more ride-time, so we left. But not before Henry had to use the bathroom, which is when Chooch’s trained eye spotted this gem:

More later this week. The Pretty Little Liars season finale is on tonight and I’m not gonna lie (not pretty or little enough to be a liar): I AM TOO DISTRACTED.

But first, here’s a picture of the Kinder Karussell. KINDER MEANS “KID” IN GERMAN, you guys.  My German game is on point.

Alternately titled: I need a hobby. 

Wow. Another dumb photo series birthed from my perpetual boredom. I have so much Cure memorabilia laying around the house that I sometimes joke it’s like Robert is my guardian angel—HE IS ALWAYS WATCHING ME. 

I c u, Robert. 
    
This painting was seriously some kid’s art project and then she sold it on eBay afterward. I was at King’s Island on the last day of the auction and wrote a reminder ON MY WRIST to make sure that I checked eBay that night, because this was in 2005 and I didn’t have a cellphone, and even if I did, it probably would have been some  prehistoric flip phone. AND YOU CANT CHECK EBAY ON THOSE. 

By now, you’ve probably guessed the ending: I WON THE PAINTING.  

 Here’s a Robert Smith doll that I begged my mom to buy me back in 1999 or 2000 even though it barely resembles him, but the eBay listing said RARE, you guys. (I was way too into eBay back then.)   

I can’t remember where I got this Cure print. Lol, j/k. eBay. 

 My friend Anastacia just sent me this Cure comic book, which I have always wanted but never got around to adding to the collection, so THANK YOU Anastacia for contributing to my shrine!

I have so many posters and prints rolled up in tubes because I never got around to framing them. Someday….

Hello, let’s briefly pause the vacation recaps so I can post proof that occasionally, people outside of the Cult of Erin (otherwise known as Henry and Chooch) hang out with me. Friends, I have them.  

Thursday evening, Wendy and Barb took me to dinner for my birthday! Wendy and I left straight from work and met Barb (THE QUITTER!!) at Cafe Io in Mt. Lebanon. I didn’t meet Wendy’s navigational standards so by the time we arrived, she said exasperatedly to Barb, “YOU can take her home. I’m done with her!”

Wendy has made a seamless transition into the Mean Pregnant Lady spot that Amber2 has vacated!

I mean, I was already stoked that I was getting a free meal, but they both had presents for me too! I LOVE PRESENTS! I think it stems from my past of being a very spoiled child. Wendy got me an awesome bracelet that has a ribcage cameo on it. Totally screams “Erin Rachelle.”

Barb has entered the Adult Coloring stage of her life and I’m the first recipient of the fruit of her labor! I LOVE BEING FIRST! Not only did she put it in a frame for me, but she signed it too! 

So sweet and thoughtful and abundantly clear that she idolizes me so much that now she’s trying to be a fake artist like me now, too.

I miss seeing these two everyday at work. I mean, I still see Wendy, but it’s only half as good without Barb being there too. LE SIGH.

As Barb crossed the street to her car, I shouted that I was going to hang the picture up when I got home. “In my BASEMENT!” I added, and oh how we laughed. Just like old times. :(

And then on Sunday, I got to see Barb again, at Wendy’s baby shower! Did I tell you, Internet Memoir, that Wendy is PREGNANT?! I mean, aside from the second paragraph of this chapter.  Well, ICYMI*, Wendy is WITH CHILD.

*(Barb, that means “in case you missed it.”)

Normally, the idea of these types of functions makes ash slough off from charcoal heart, but I was excited about this one because Wendy is one of my dearest friends (ugh, it pains me to be sweet) and I was doubly stoked about this event because Nina and Angie were going to be there and I never get to see them anymore since they left The Law Firm and moved to different states!

Angie and Nina, and Debbie who also left The Law Firm last January! It was a nice reunion.

Nina harassed me because I get so stiff when someone tries to take my picture. Deer in headlights might not be as accurate as, say, girl in a dentists chair with a drill approaching.

Bridget got roped into being the gift-writer-downer and the poor girl probably needs physical therapy for her hand now. She made a comment about how it should be me in that chair with the pen and paper, and I was like “LOWER YOUR VOICE!” Seriously, if I had been nominated for that duty, I’d have knocked Barb the fuck out the way and dove through the closed window behind her. I hate being in front of crowds!

Wendy got a SHITLOAD of awesome gifts, and because she’s Wendy, she had an anecdote for pretty much every gift she received. She could find a way to drag out the opening of a bottle drying rack into a 7 minute Rose Nylund-esque trip down memory lane. Another one of my work friends, Regina, was one of the shower planners and she was trying so hard to get the present-opening portion of the afternoon moving less like a Sunday Driver and more like Justin Bieber driving through a Florida suburb.

I got the baby “The Adventures Of Beekled: An Unimaginary Friend” because the illustrations were cool as fuck and that’s the most important thing to consider when buying a book for a baby. Also maybe stop and think and if there will be any literate people around who can possibly read this book when the baby is born. I also made Wendy a painting for the nursery, because she has me on lock for three pieces. So, one down!
  

The book and the painting both inspired two separate wendylogues and Regina gave me a seething look. A thing you should know about Wendy is that her ability to get sidetracked and take you down an oral rabbit hole is one of her most endearing qualities!

It was a really beautiful baby shower and so great to see some of my work friends outside of The Law Firm, and to some quality time with those who aren’t there anymore. But if I’m being honest, my favorite part was the fact that the favors were TEA CUPS. You guys might not know this, but I have a thing for these little plants called succulents?! And tea cups are my preferred potting object for them! In fact, I had two at home that were homeless, so I was really excited to bring home something for it to rest its roots!

But then I noticed that all of the tea cups were different, and I promise I was trying to be subdued about it, but I started examining the other cups at my table. Nina and Angie’s mom were like, “Uh, you can have ours” and Barb tried like 87 times to give me hers even though I kept telling her IT WAS TOO PLAIN!

Debbie pointed out that hers was still at the table she was technically supposed to be sitting at (she dragged her chair over to our table and we made room for her). I noticed that Missy was walking toward it, so I got up and lunged at it, swiping it off the table before she had a chance to. She was just like, “Um, OK.” And then I kind of felt bad because she was just trying to get an extra one so that her daughter could have a tea party; I offered Barb’s bastard tea cup to her but she didn’t want it either.

Catherine found out what was happening, so she gave me hers, which she didn’t want because she found a better one unclaimed at another table. When she showed me that one, I said I preferred that one over the first one she offered me, and she was like, “Tough shit, I’m not giving this one up.” IT WAS SO PERFECT. It had TWO HANDLES and a beautiful gold, Greek-like design embossed around the lip.

Then Regina caught wind of my tea cup hoarding and gave me a tea pot that no one chose as a prize. As soon as I got home, I ran straight to my bedroom, changed out of my dress and into my gardening garb, and potted the shit out of my two homeless succulents.

I texted a picture to Barb who replied, “You don’t waste any time!” Maybe if Barb understood what it was like to be passionate* about plants, she wouldn’t respond in such a surprised manner.

*(See also: obsessed and lacking an actual life.)

Later, I went to dinner at Grant Bar in Millvale with Henry and Chooch because god forbid a day goes by that I don’t allow them to hang out with me.

Henry made a silverware sculpture, I had the best coconut cream pie I’ve ever had in my whole life, and Chooch NEVER STOPPED TALKING. (He also was on the verge of verbally attacking the waitress when she came back from the kitchen to inform him that they were out of the pumpkin pie he ordered “with a la mode” but managed to catch himself just in time and instead expressed his disappointment in a long, drawn-out groan.)

The food at Grant’s Bar is fine, but it’s those faux-stone walls and small-town, outdated ambiance that keeps me coming back. These are the types of restaurants I’m always trying to eat at when we’re on vacation too! Speaking of, I will continue that saga tomorrow. Busch Gardens or the Whirligig Park?!  I KNOW YOU CAN’T WAIT TO FIND OUT.

One of the things I really wanted to do while in Williamsburg was go on a ghost tour. I mean, you can only watch Colonial actors perform Colonial acts so many times, if at all. You know? (Actually, aside from walking down the main street in the sweltering heat, looking for ginger cakes, we opted out of the Colonial exhibits. As I mentioned previously, we were given tickets for that shit from our resort, but we exchanged them for Busch Gardens tickets instead, because we ain’t be needin’ no history on this vacashun.)

When I told Henry about the ghost tour, he was like, “……”

And then when I was like, “Well, we’re doing it,” he was like, “………………………………”

And then when I was like, “I paid $4 extra a person for the EXTREME version,” he was like, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Erin.”

We left a little bit early so that we could go to this peanut shop we saw the day before, because Henry and I are what you might call “peanut connoisseurs,” in that we often like to partake in the mastication of groundnuts. For example, right now I’m at work, eating a small cupful of peanuts that I cribbed from another part of the department. (Yes, I’m still a snack stealer.)

Chooch wasn’t feeling it.

Then we visited some some large tourist trap of a shop full of moccasins, souvenirs, and bacon-flavored everything. Basically, an “outpost” stuffed with shit no one really needs. They put a fluorescent vintage VW minivan thing out from and a giant bear to sit on in order to lure people in. It works.

Chooch desperately wanted a pen that looked like a rifle, and of course it was basically glowing in neon letters WILLIAMSBURG! CIVIL WAR! HISTORY! MORE THAN JUST A PEN! It was only $5 or something but Tight Wad Hank was like, “NO” which made Chooch sad, and I have to hand it that kid: he wasn’t being too spoiled so far. Sure, he was asking for everything, but 99% of the time, once we said, he moved on.

Except with this pen. He like, needed this pen. His heart was aching for it. So I gave him money to buy it and then told Henry to go fuck himself, basically. Henry just batted at the air with his blue-collared hand and walked away, leaving me to stand in line at the checkout with Chooch, who was getting really tired of thanking every old woman who stopped to tell him they liked his hair. THEN DYE IT BACK ALREADY!

We came outside just in time to catch the tail end of Henry taking a picture for two broads who were also drawn off the road by the prospect of sitting on some fake bear’s crotch.

“Hyuk, hyuk, you’re welcome!” Henry was saying after he handed the phone back to them. Of course, Chooch saw right through this ruse and knew immediately that Henry probably had programmed his number into the phone and is by now deep in the throes of an affair. And that’s fine, because Henry’s not my type, anyway.

(Please see: must wear fitted flannels and beanies, be known to attend a Thrice or Circa Survive show BY CHOICE, neck/hand tattoos, preferably in a band.)

I bought our idiot tickets online rather than going to the “general store,” wherever the fuck that is, so once we got back down to Colonial Williamsburg, we walked straight to Bruton Parish, which is where the website said we should all plan on meeting. Since we were already there once that day, I felt less like a tourist since I knew right where to go. (It also helped that it was on the main drag.) Gradually, more and more people started popping up and I was getting angry. How were we going to get the full experience with so many motherfuckers who had the same idiotic idea as us (me)?!

A family of four plopped their asses down near us and naturally, the mom started moving her lips in the shape of small talk; why. Why why why why. Go talk  to your own family!  Henry of course was standing further away with his face firmly planted in his phone, so no one bothered him. This broad was even talking to people who were just passing by. Like, lay off lady!

“What makes this ‘extreme’?” Henry eventually broke down and asked.

“I don’t know, it just says it starts at 9:00* and there’s equipment involved,” I verbally shrugged.

*(Good old 9:00PM. SOME SAY it was the runner-up for the Witching Hour.)

Sometime after 9, some broad from the ghost tour office arrived and started collecting tickets and, thank god, dividing the now-sizeable crowd between several guides. Each group ended up having about 15 or so people in it, and we were separated from the Talker, so I was pleased. Except that in exchange, we got a family of 5 that included A BABY IN A STROLLER.

WHO BRINGS OUT THEIR BABY DURING THE (RUNNER-UP FOR THE) WITCHING HOUR?

We got paired with some hyperactive older woman who Chooch pointed out later reminded him of Ellen, and when Henry had the audacity to ask, “Ellen who?” Chooch shouted in disgust, “SERIOUSLY?! Oh my god” because there is only one Ellen in the world and that is the Degeneres one.

I actually don’t think I ever caught the guide’s name, so we’ll just call her Ellen. Thanks, Chooch.

Ellen was mildly humorous (some of the less intelligent people in our group thought she was a fucking riot, though) and asked us to keep an eye out for horse shit on her behalf since she was backpeddling while telling us historical ghost stories. She encouraged us to take pictures with the flash on. Have you ever taken a picture at night with a cell phone? Well, if you haven’t, get stoked, because you’re about to put your eyes on a shit ton of iPhone night photos, and they are real lookers.

Henry, annoyed before it even started because GHOSTS AREN’T REAL, spent nearly the whole tour trailing behind the group, reading the same status updates over and over on his phone (he only has like, 70 Facebook friends) and probably reading things about the Republican Party and pinning mason jar DIYs on Pinterest. This is what he looked like:

I’m going to go ahead and tell you that this is some kind of paranormal activity that my advanced phone camera picked up.

Turns out that the “equipment” included on the EXTREME tour was one (1) EMF meter. (I had to google that.) Ellen gave it to the vocal non-believer of the group, this broad named Donna, who was there with her husband and two bitch-daughters who were wearing t-shirts that said “Got Ghosts? Williamsburg does.” Chooch hated them right off the bat, and I quickly realized that it was because the one was a huge dickhead whiner just like him.

“I NEED SOMETHING TO DRINK,” she spat at her father through gritted teeth pretty early on into the tour. “I AM LIKE DYING OF THIRST.” God, that sounded familiar. I could almost hear that coming out of her mouth in Chooch’s bitch-voice.

And mine.

Quickly, Father! Run to the nearest haunted Williamsburg well and quench your dumb daughters thirst!

Anyway, DONNA got to hold the EMF meter first and surprise, surprise, she was picking all of the activity! Ellen was delighted. The non-believer was attracting all of the ghosts! Oh ho ho, isn’t that always the way it works? All hail, Donna! She encouraged everyone to bombard Donna with photos because this would be a great time to capture orbs. Of course, Donna’s husband took a photo that basically made it look like Donna was a magnet for paranormal activity. Ghosts were coming down from Salem, for Christ’s sake! DONNA THE NON-BELIEVER’S HERE, GUYS! LET’S APPARATE!

Everyone crowded around to see the poster for Paranormal Activity 6: Douchebag in Williamsburg on her husband’s phone. It was early into the tour so I was kind of interested in what was going on, I wasn’t full-on pouting yet, but I couldn’t get close enough to see what had everyone so excited.

I don’t know what this was supposed to be. Tree. Fence.

Ellen told us a handful of, truthfully, very interesting stories, which had us all gathered around like this:

There was this one broad there with her friends, they were probably in their early 20s, and she was fucking scared out of her mind. I mean, nothing was happening. There were no chainsaws. No scare tactics being employed. And with all the taverns in Colonial Williamsburg, we were far from being the only idiots out there that night.

Henry, closing his eyes to better enjoy Ellen’s stories.

Chooch and I agreed that the best story was about the Ludwell-Paradise House. Lucy Ludwell was the daughter of a prominent family, but her ginger cake was missing some very important ingredients, if you know what I mean.

Let me rephrase that for my non-Colonial friends: she was batshit, guys. I was reading about her on some historical Williamsburg website after the fact, and she is adorably referred to as an “eccentric.” This made me laugh, because I have been called that a lot in my life.

She would get all up in ladies’ grills and tell them that she liked their dresses. And then when they would nervously say thanks, she would ask for the dress! Of course, they’d be like, “The fuck?” and quickly retreat. So she would follow them back to their houses and stand out front, watching through the windows, until she saw that the dress in question was now hanging up outside on the clothesline, and she would promptly go into their yard and take it! Oh, Lucy. Nothing is more charming than a rich person stealing from her neighbors.

Of course, her parents would pay people off to save face. And in order to make people like her, Lucy would invite people to her house and promise them carriage rides, because she had this beautiful carriage that she brought from England. But Lucy’s definition of a carriage ride was to have the help pull the carriage back and forth on her back porch.

Eventually, once her parents were dead and no one was left to protect her, she was thrown in the mental institution, which is now the art museum.

Lucy sounds like she fucking fabulous and the whole time Ellen was regaling us with her story, I felt an electric kinship, like she was watching me through a window of her old house, psychically implanting  me with her lunatic chip. #lifegoals

A tree. Fence.

This was the prison, where Donna was attracting so many motherfucking ghosts it was about time to call in an exorcist, for Christ’s sake. Chooch and I exchanged annoyed eyerolls and silently agreed that Donna was a fuckerbitch.

Chooch’s review: “It wasn’t scary at all and eff Donna.”

The highlight of the tour for me was when DONNA LOST HER PHONE OMG! HER PHONE THAT WAS CAPTURING ALL OF THE GHOSTS IN THE HISTORY OF GHOSTS BEING A THING!

“How the hell did she ‘lose her phone’ when it’s never not in her hand?” Henry grumbled. So we had to linger in front of some house that apparently wasn’t haunted at all but it sure as fuck was scary, while Donna and her husband walked back toward the prison to look for it. Mu theory is that she just needed some extra time to orb-ify more photos with whatever ghost hoax app she was using. Get fucked, Donna.

OMG don’t worry though! Donna found her fucking phone.

FINALLY! MY RUDIMENTARY IPHONE LENS FAKED AN ORB! I was so stoked because I did just as Ellen said and took a series of photos in a row and just like that, one of them produced an orb.

“SHOW HER!” Chooch cried, trying to pry my phone from my hands.

“No!” I hissed. “I don’t want these a-holes passing my phone around!” I mean, what if I got a sext during that time? Talk about a ghost hunt foul.

I just asked Henry for a review and he laughed without mirth, shook his head, and said, “No.” I think he’s still trying to not think about all of the peanuts he could have bought with the money I flushed into this ghost event. My favorite thing to do during the tour was whip my head around and make “OMG!!!!” faces of disbelief at Henry as Ellen told us story after story. He was so mad.

Hilariously, the three of us pretty much walked separately from each other the whole time. God, what a team we are.

I wonder if ghosts and Amish people ever get together and talk about how fucking annoying tourists are.

Ellen showed me some photo of a window on her phone and I have no idea what I was supposed to be seeing, so I just said, “Wow. OK.”

Toward the end of the tour, someone else finally got a chance to use the EMF meter and promptly mistook it as her chance to try out new modeling poses she saw on A Beautiful Mess.  Still not as annoying as Donna though.

I wonder, if no one is paying attention to Donna, does she cease to exist? If Donna falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear her, does she take an Instavid of herself to prove that she made a noise?

Finally, the tour was wrapping up and we all headed back to Bruton Parish, where Donna told us some story about lightning striking and leaving ghoul faces on this grave marker:

And then Donna came flying over to show Ellen more of her doctored photos and I didn’t even try to be subtle about the barfing noises I was making. We left without saying thanks or goodbye to Ellen, but that’s OK because only had eyes for DONNA anyway.

DONNA DONNA DONNA DONNA.

And here I was worried that a baby was going to be the douche of the tour, but no. It was a grown-ass woman. Douchey Donna. I hope she took some evil entity home with her to her Douche Headquarters. She must be so proud of herself, being the star of some dumb ghost tour that no one will ever remember. EXCEPT FOR ME BECAUSE I HAVE A STORAGE UNIT FULL OF GRUDGES.

In summation, I enjoyed the historical and ghost stories Ellen told us (I didn’t write about all of them because they’re all taken from books written by some dude name L.B. Taylor so they can be easily accessed if anyone was interested in learning more) and to be honest, once we ventured off the main drag, it did get kind of creepy. But I would not recommend paying extra for the “Extreme” version because that EMF meter was a fucking afterthought. I don’t even think Ellen even really explained to everyone what it was doing, and she honestly seemed to forget that it was in use most of the time.

As soon as we were out of earshot, I was like, “Fuck Donna.” And Chooch and Henry wholeheartedly agreed, so really you could say that this was family bonding experience. It’s not often we’re all in agreement on something.

In addition to the Cheese Shop, my friend Jeannie also recommended that I visit Bruton Parish while in Williamsburg. Jeannie went to college in Williamsburg and she knows what is and isn’t relevant to my interests, which is why she didn’t send me to a golf course or butcher shop.

Bruton Parish was established in 1674. I know this not because I read a placard or went on an historical walking tour, but because I just now Googled “Bruton Parish” and skimmed the first three lines.

It’s basically against the law for me to be that close to a cemetery without stopping by. Actually, Jeannie’s official travel tip to me was to get sandwiches (with House Dressing!!) at the Cheese Shop and then take it to the cemetery to eat, but Henry was being an impatient douchebag, probably a lasting side effect from his Toby smoking habit. and made us eat at a table outside of the Cheese Shop.

“WHERE ELSE WOULD YOU LIKE TO EAT!?” he snarled, which might seem like it would be scary and threatening, but it just really annoys and pisses off me and Chooch. I hate when he uses That Tone on us!

“In the cemetery!” I cried, and then he went on to postulate that there was “probably nowhere to sit there.”

Gosh, Henry. What’s this here wooden butt-crate thing? Is this one of them there benches that I heard about? In a cemetery? TO SIT ON?! WHILE EATING A SANDWICH IF ONE SO DESIRED?

Way to ruin a perfectly good hypothetical picnic, Henry. Go choke on a Toby.

The fact that skulls were so prevalent on headstones back then fills me with joy.

The guts of the cemetery was cordoned off, so we were only able to admire the graves from afar. It was still worth it though. There was so much beauty there, even if the constant chute of sweat sluicing into my eyeballs made it sometimes difficult to see.

Seriously, we’ve been having such an unusually mild summer here in Pittsburgh, that we were left woefully unprepared for the blistering heat and sweltering humidity that left my face moist and oily like a glazed donut, like where’s that spare slice of bread when I need it to soak up my sebaceous facial splooges, like my cheeks are a fucking fount of extra virgin olive oil (that’s EVOO to you Food Network sluts) I’m a real goddang babe in the south, y’all.

Wishing he was six feet under.

“OMG A CEMETERY. I’VE NEVER SEEN A CEMETERY BEFORE.”

I think this was after I told him we were going to come back here later that night for the ghost tour that I keep mentioning but haven’t had a chance to write about, and by now it probably seems like it’s going to be the greatest story ever told (on this blog) because I keep foreshadowing. Goddamn are you going to be sorely disappointed.

P.S. We hated basically everyone in town that day because HELLO LEARN HOW TO NOT TAKE UP THE ENTIRE GIRTH OF A SIDEWALK.

And don’t try to tell me you’re just really engrossed in the sights and sounds of Williamsburg. Because no, you’re just an asshole.