Chattanoogan Honeymoon

Ian and I journeyed to Chattanooga over the Memorial Day weekend. I called it a honeymoon in the title, but truthfully I feel like we've spent the past month honeymooning.

We walked all over downtown Chattanooga, including the Market Street bridge.

The sun blazed fiercely, so Ian performed his husbandly duty and sprayed me down with SPF fifty million.

I was on a mission to remain pasty white throughout the trip. I prefer keeping my skin a fine ivory tone because I'm terrified of skin cancer. Terrified.

I decided I needed extra protection for my face and hairline so we stopped in a shop so I could buy a hat. There were a lot to choose from, and I love a good fashion show so...

"Look, I'm Blossom!"

"I'm Gilligan!"

"I'm stoned!"

"I'm Bob Marley!"

"See!"

"I'm Bonnie and Clyde! I'm Clyde!"

"I'M MONICA LEWINSKY!"

After trying on every hat and accidentally bashing some hanging wind-chimes, I left empty-handed. I can't remember why I declined to buy a hat, except I was tired of hats at that point.

Just about every shop in the Market Street area included a dog. I was terribly impressed. Ian was not.

Laura: "We should have brought Winnie!"

Ian: "Gross."

Our hotel had a pool. And you know how much we love pools.

We smuggled rum into the pool, and the children present learned what "inebriated" means.

On Sunday morning, we visited Rock City. 

This was right before the Tyrannosaurus Rex smashed through Rock City and ate the goat.

Laura: "I bet if you drink the water, you'll live forever. Drink the water, Ian!"

Ian: "Okay."

Rock City contains a "Fairyland Caverns." 

You enter a dark cavern, listen to classical music straight out of A Clockwork Orange, and stare at Brothers Grimm characters. The attraction brags that the figurines came directly from Germany. 

It was awesome. 

No. Wait. It was horrifying.

"Don't worry, children. We're merely going to drain your blood and eat your organs."

Humpty Dumpty: classic children's poem character and harbinger of death

Gonna get a bitch.

The Ferris Wheel of Doom

Fairyland Caverns highlighted an important fact: we can't trust the Germans. 

The Germans probably slipped some mind-control devices into the caverns, so if I start blogging about my blood-lust for orphans, be a dear and send help.

After fleeing Fairyland Caverns, we made our way to the top of Rock City, finding a magnificent view.

Laura: "Look! This part of the mountain is called "Lover's Leap." That means you have to leap off to prove your undying love to me... Well. Hop to it."

Ian: "I don't think so."

Rock City features gnomes pretty heavily. Ian tried on a gnome hat.

It appears the German mind-control devices were already getting to him.

Next, we went to the Chattanooga aquarium. We met Toucan Sam and his twin.

The jellyfish were beautiful. 

When I was eight, a jellyfish attacked me while swimming in the ocean. 

My dad carried me back to the hotel, and my mom stuck me in the bathtub and shook a box of meat tenderizer all over me, as instructed by medical professionals. 

I think I finally came to terms with this trauma while photographing the jellyfish. Those sons-a-bitches take no bad photos.

We saw an octopus. I insisted on calling him an octo-pussy because I'm classy.

A snapping turtle

He resembled Spike from The Land Before Time. Same facial expressions, anyways:

In the late afternoon, we headed to Ruby Falls to see the caves and giant waterfall. 

Hey, y'all.

Howdy.

The waterfall in the cave, lit up by neon lights. How authentic!

We wrapped up our trip by traveling to the Crossville tree house, the world's largest tree house. 

I think this thing breaks at least forty-six building codes. Nonetheless, we and many others scampered through it.

I waited for one of us to crash through the tree house at any second, but everything remained intact.

The tree house included baby goats, which made me awfully excited. They stood in their food as they ate. 

Ian painstakingly set up the camera at just the right angle to take this photo. Look for the discreet photo-bomb in the corner.

We had a fantastic trip. Peace out.

The Sad Story of Jessup Hush'up

The Tuesday after we married, Ian brought home three hens and a rooster. His co-worker had a friend who needed to get rid of all four birds, and Ian had agreed to take them.

Being a responsible pet owner, I scurried to prepare for the new birds' arrival:

Laura: "We'll name the hens Maybelle, Caroline, and Polly. And the rooster shall be Jessup."

I knew we had entered troubling times when I pulled into the driveway that evening and immediately heard the ear-piercing sounds of the rooster crowing.

The rooster crowed non-stop. I'm talking every ten seconds. I walked to the backyard and stared at the monstrous chicken:

Laura: "That thing's gotta go."

Ian: "He's been crowing all day. All day. He never stops. I thought he might slow down once he settled in. But he keeps crowing."

Laura: "Jessup's full name is Jessup Hush'up."

We attempted to hush up Jessup by covering his cage and placing him in the barn. Jessup continued to send his crows blaring through the neighborhood.

Ian: "I keep waiting for the neighbors to call the cops. Should we kill him?"

Laura: "We have to. Loud roosters are prohibited. We can't let him crow all night."

Ian: "Are you sure we want to kill him?"

Laura: "We can either slaughter him now, as humanely as possible, or we can wait until two in the morning when I'll stamp outside, all sleep-deprived and pissed off, and kill him in a murderous rage. We should do it now."

Neither of us have a natural inclination to kill chickens. We picked up Jessup and stared at him and tried to work up the nerve to turn him into dinner.

I was too squeamish to watch, so Ian carried out the task. Through the flurry of feathers and chicken blood, I contributed by making encouraging comments:

Laura: "The honeymoon ends so quickly. One minute you're marrying the man of your dreams and the next you're watching him execute a chicken."

After Jessup breathed his last breathe, we stuck the him in boiling water for ten seconds and then plucked the feathers.

I read instructions aloud from Google on how to gut a chicken, but by the time I reached the section entitled, "How to Disembowel Your Chicken: Ten Easy Steps to Removing the Anus," we decided we only wanted the legs.

Ian chopped off the legs and some of the breast and disposed the rest of the carcass in the trash.

Ian: "Keep your voice down. The neighbors will wonder what the hell we're doing."

Laura: "WHAT'S THAT, IAN? YOU WANT TO HIDE THE BODY IN THE BARN?"

Ian seasoned the meat with chili powder and sea salt and stuck it in the oven. After it cooked, he ate the chicken breasts.

Laura: "Is it good? What's it taste like?"

Ian: "It tastes like chicken."

Laura: "Wow!"

Ian: "Aren't you going to eat some?"

Laura: "Gross. No."

The legs were overcooked and dry, so Ian and the dog split up the rest of the chicken meat.

Ian: "Winnie loves this stuff. She's begging for more... She's gonna fart blood tomorrow."

Laura: "There's a chicken demon in your stomach. But you made that entire meal, from start to finish."

Ian: "I don't know whether to feel ashamed or proud. I guess Jessup's in a better place now."

And he was.

Recaps and Rites of Passage: Winiferd the Blog Turns One and Winiferd the Dog Turns Two

I published our marriage post in a hurry last Friday because I was trying to get the post out to friends and family as quickly as possible.

There's a little bit more to the story.

Ian and I bought our marriage license the day before my birthday, on April 25th.

I forgot to brush my hair and donned my mutant and super-hero shirt. It was a special occasion, you see.

We had zero plans, and in our area, marriage licenses expire after thirty days. I called the courthouse that same day and and politely asked that someone marry us. I received no feedback.

I began calling the courthouse on a daily basis. The weeks passed. With eight days left until the license expired, I began to panic. I called every judge and reverend I could think of, desperate. And they all ignored me.

You guys, we spent 100 bucks on that marriage license. That's, like, ten pizzas from Pizza Hut. Or ten bags of dog food.   

And so, still desperate, I handed the phone to my co-worker who called the courthouse, pretended to be me, and copped an enormous attitude. Within three minutes, I had an appointment with a judge.

I sent Ian a text: "Call me. We're getting married tomorrow at 11:15am."

The morning of the wedding was a blur.

In the car, on the way downtown:

Laura: "I phoned ahead and talked to the judge. Our ceremony might run slightly longer than usual. I added a couple things."

Ian: "Oh yeah?"

Laura: "Yeah. You have to promise to honor and obey me. And I have to promise to make you honor and obey me."   

The cops at the courthouse were straight out of a Reno 911 episode. One rather, err, rugged woman put my purse through a scanner and puffed up like a female Hulk.

Rugged female cop: "Ma'am, do you have a camera in there?"

Laura: Yes. It's my wedding day."

Rugged female cop: <Rolls eyes> <Glares at bride>

Laura: "Eeep."

Rugged female cop: "Cameras aren't allowed."

Luckily another nicer female cop rescued us.

Nicer female cop: "Cameras are always allowed at marriage ceremonies. Congratulations, ma'am!"

Once inside the courthouse, we had a blast. And it was perfect.

The day after we married, Ian and I drove to Jackson for a quick get-away.

We visited the Casey Jones museum and home. You know, the Casey Jones famous for smashing into a stalled freight train and killing himself.

Posing in front of the Casey Jones steam engine. Presumably pre-smash. 

The Casey Jones historic home was terrifying. It had all the charms and graces of the hotel in The Shining. Particularly that scene when the the cascade of blood gushes down the hallway. 

All work and no play makes Laura a dull girl.

Then we went to the Big Cypress Tree state park. We were underwhelmed.

Who drives an extra thirty miles to see poison ivy? We do!

A magnificent specimen of poison ivy

We walked under entire canopies of poison ivy for most of the trail. It was horrifically romantic.

We also visited the Cypress Grove Nature park, which was fifty times cooler than the state park.

We saw ghost-owls. I think.

Yep. Definitely ghost-owls.

Winiferd the dog turns two tomorrow, on May 24th. She has outgrown the incessant hyperactivity of her first year and mellowed into a calmer dog who needs multiple naps everyday.

She adores Spottswood, the yard, the walks around the neighborhood, and the chickens. She even adores New Daddy.

Laura: "Winnie, Daddy loves you."

Ian: "Because I'm forced to."

Laura: "Legally, you have to now. It's in our marriage certificate. I made the judge add a clause."

These days, you'll find Winnie doing this the majority of the time:

Happy birthday, Winnie!

Finally, Winiferd the blog turns one today. The blog has chronicled the best year of my life, and I've had way too much fun writing it.

Thank you for reading, thank you for the feedback, and I hope you stick around.