From the Road #4

Saturday, March 22, 2008
5:16 p.m.
Out back of the Chalet
We went into town and I had the kind of cramps that could drive a girl to grab a steak knife and cut out her own reproductive organs. I mean, what the fuck? I’ve got no plans to use the shit. Cramps are SO the antithesis of everything bachelor party.

While the men sat in the bar watching West By God Virginia beat up on Duke, I walked down the main strip and tried not to spend money. But what’s a girl to do when she walks past a store and see’s “Designer sunglasses $9.99?” My mother’s voice shoved and elbowed its way from the back of my head past the worry about what I’m supposed to do with my life and the resentment for my reproductive system and it said, “Get yourself some good sunglasses.”

I walked into the store and recklessly tried on sunglasses that countless other folks, lice infected honeymooners and blue haired old ladies already on the lookout for Christmas discounts for their grandkids, had already slid behind their greasy ears. Nothing looked good and as soon as I heard the clerk recommending “a pair of Nike’s that are perfect for wide heads” to a man with a wide head, I took off, afraid that he’d look at me and make the same embarrassing suggestion.

Thinking I was destined to leave Gatlinburg sunglassesless, I moseyed on down the road. I walked not fifty feet and was greeted with another in a long line of Easter Weekend miracles. There to my left was an Oakley store. I went in thinking I would just look around. As far as I knew, these were expensive sunglasses. Imagine my delight when I realized that these were rip-offs too. I can’t even tell you what the sunglasses I bought look like, but I know that I’m staving off cataracts and crow’s feet and it only cost me ten bucks.

From the Road #3

Friday March 21, 2008
2:29 p.m.
Off the mountain—a retrospective
Today I drove us off the mountain, through Gatlinburg and into Pigeon Forge, thinking it would be good practice for Sunday morning when I’m fleeing at the ass crack of dawn. Now that I know I can do it without getting myself killed, I feel a lot better about things.

Tim really wanted to go go-cart racing, so we did. My wide ass barely fit in the car, and then I needed the help of the local guy running the place to expand the seat belt enough to get it over my massive triple d’s (since I know you want to know). Though, the way I had myself wedged in there, I’m not completely sure the seat belt was necessary. When we got the green light, the four of us took off in our little go-carts, and it wasn’t ten seconds before Tim passed me. He and Collins are nice enough to insist that the only reason they lapped me is because I had a slow car. Given the fact that I could feel my undercarriage scraping the concrete on every turn, I’m more inclined to believe it was because my fat ass wasn’t meant to be carted around on a lawnmower motor. I paid Tim and Collins back for their words of encouragement by accidentally calling both of their families retarded, but more on that later.

After the go-carts, we decided to go to Pigeon Forge’s classiest tourist attraction—Jurassic Jungle Boat Ride. We paid fifteen dollars for fifteen minutes. I don’t mean to imply that there was a pay by the minute option. That’s just the way it worked out. I can’t really do this ride justice with my words, but basically here’s how it went. We sat in a boat and inched forward through a dark warehouse. Every few feet, the boat would stop and a loud screeching sound would come over the blown speakers. Then a light would come on and illuminate whatever horrible animatronic dinosaur-like thing was in front of us. At the end of the ride, we sat, in our boat, in front of the door that led to the outside world. Just when we thought we were going to have to get out of the boat to push the door open, the boat was reared back to a 50 degree angle. Even though the front of the boat was pointed uphill, I’d call this the climax of the ride. If there was a falling action, it was that the door finally opened and we got out.

Last on our list of touristy shit to do was Hillbilly Golf. I’m not sure what exactly made it hillbilly, but I do know that we had to take this gondola thing halfway up a mountain and that most of the holes had farm equipment incorporated into them. This is where me calling Tim’s and Collins’ families retarded comes into play. I don’t know how you play putt-putt, but in my family and with every family I have ever played, each person in the group putts, then everyone goes and has their second put, unless, of course, you’re and all-star like me and you only get holes-in-one. Anyway, Tim and Collins always played that each person in the group kept going until they got their ball in the hole. Then the next person would go until they got his ball in the hole and so on. I was astonished by this silliness, so I said, “What the hell kind of family did you grow up in that you played like that?” Tim took that to mean that I was calling his family retarded. In hindsight, I can see how he might have interpreted it that way, though that’s not at all what I meant. For the next 16 holes, Tim made jokes about his retarded/inbred family. I laughed hysterically and felt like shit simultaneously. The ability to make me do this is a unique gift of Tim’s. I guess maybe I had the last laugh. I won at Hillbilly Golf. Maybe I can put that on my resume.

From the Road #2

Thursday, March 20, 2008
2:15 p.m.
At the Chalet:

Three stories. Three balconies. Six beds. Eight boys. Looks like snuggle time for Tim and Carrie.

I can’t begin to describe the train wreck that is Pigeon Forge. It’s like a hillbilly extravaganza. Giant arcades. Go-carts. An enormous upside down theater that just does Laser-light-Christian extravaganzas. Easter’s a big weekend for the Bible Belt. Luckily, we’re not staying in Pigeon Forge. It’s just the first stop off the highway. The little redneck strip of land set aside for the lesser-thans. No, we’re in Gatlinburg, the Swiss Alps of North America. You drive down the main strip and right after you drive past Cooters (the Dukes of Hazzard themed attraction) the scenery changes. All the airbrushed tee shirt shops have an outside façade that suggests, we’re part of a luxury ski resort. There’s faux timber everywhere. Everything is the color of evergreens. There are restaurants and bars and wax museums and a Ripley’s Believe it or Not haunted house. It’s everything a southerner with a bit more cheddar in their bank account would want to do in Pigeon Forge’s snobby older cousin.

We got here earlier than we were able to get into our chalet. What are seven thirsty men and one uptight lesbian to do when they can’t get into their vacation paradise? Well, for us the answer was clear. We paid ten dollars to park downtown and spent an hour at the local hangout, Puckers. Inside this wannabe Hooters establishment, there were big bosomed bartenders with dirty blond hair eager to take our drink orders, and more eager still to ascertain which of the men were single. “I’m thirty-two, have been married for fifteen years and have four kids,” said the woman behind the bar. “Can I get you fellas a shot?”

With the help of sweet baby Jesus, the man responsible for all that is good in this part of the country, we were called and notified that our chalet was ready early. We settled our tab with Chesty McGee and made our way to the top of the mountain.

Before I came down here, I was adamant that mama was going to have to periodically come down the mountain. After the harrowing experience of making it up here, I now realize just how foolish this idea had been. To get up here, we crisscrossed the 3500 ft mountain for ten of the most terrifying minutes of my life. We made 270 degree blind turns shitting our pants and praying that no one was headed around the corner in the other direction, because there was no way to do it without wandering five feet over the yellow line. When we made it I announced, “I’m not doing that again until I leave Sunday morning.” Everyone agreed and we came inside. Like an atypically boring reality show, we all picked our rooms. I’ll be sharing the master suite with Tim. To answer your next question, yes, there will be cuddling. There are plenty of nooks and crannies where I can see myself stealing away for all the alone time I could ever want. Like now for example.

I have to say, the view here is one of the most breathtaking I have ever seen. As I sit typing this, I’m sitting on one of the three balconies. To be specific, I’m I on the balcony that is perched right outside Tim’s and my bedroom. I’m listening to the boys on the balcony above me, and not one of them has asked where the fuck I’ve run off to. This is as I like it. I’m sitting across from a frost covered mountain. These ain’t your mama’s foothills, it should but does not say on the brochure.

I’ve had three beers and a shot of Jaeggermeister. I am not even tipsy. I will be drinking plenty of water.

One last thing—there’s an eleven pound brisket sitting in front of our fireplace. I think it’s marinating. I hope it’s marinating. Otherwise I’m confused. Maybe it’s a boy thing.

One more thing. I’m eavesdropping on the boys on the balcony above, and at this bachelor party, the men are talking about childrearing. Their women would be so proud.

From the Road #1

Thursday, March 20, 2008
7:20 a.m.

From a hotel that I’m told both Ted Bundy and Charles Manson stayed at—not at the same time:

Cold. It’s the only word I can really think of to describe my first night on the road with the boys. We initially reserved 3 rooms for 8 people, but once we got to Jellico, TN, most everyone decided that it would be best to just pay the extra fifteen bucks for the extra room so everyone could have a bed. This was fine by me. Collins and I roomed together. I guess this was because we drove together, though that wasn’t my idea. It all worked out though, and it’s probably best he was with me, because it snowed/rained the whole way down, and the visibility was shitty, and I’ve always found that when it’s like that, it’s nice to have a friendly voice chirping alongside me.

I’m pretty sure Collins is radioactive. This might be the real reason he finagled his way into my man-hating lesbian heart. His temperature is always 99.8 degrees. I never really believed him or cared until we were driving and I noticed that all the windows on his side of the car and his half of the windshield were fogged up for the entire five hour trip. It didn’t matter how high I cranked the defrost. In fact, turning it up only made matters worse, because the poor bastard was sweating to the point where steam was rising off him.

Now the unfortunate thing about a girl who’s always cold rooming with radioactive boy is, someone’s going to be miserable. Being the kind and generous person that I am, I told Collins that we could sleep in this icebox of a room (the very room that I’m sitting and typing in now) without turning the heat on. Now, I don’t know if you’re aware, but they don’t wash the comforters in these hotel rooms with any regularity. So, the first thing I do anytime I check into one of these swanky establishments is tear that fucker right off the bed. I don’t even sit on top of the thing. Well, last night it’s Collins sleeping happy as a pig in shit on top of what I’m sure is a very warm sleeping bag and me wrapped up like Nanuk of the North under a measly top sheet and thin-ass blanket. By about 4:00 a.m. my muscles were all tensed up from shivering and trying to conserve what little body heat the Good Lord gave me. The attempt failed and now I feel like I got run over by a truck. In case you’re wondering if I ever actually fell asleep last night, the short answer is no. The long answer is nnnnnoooooooooooo.

I’m told that the last part of our journey entails winding around a mountain for an hour or so, white-knuckelling it the whole way. If radioactive boy and I go over the edge of the mountain, could whoever finds this give it to my mother, and mom, could you make sure Jen T. gets a copy of this?

More later, hopefully.