Dollywood or (you guessed it) Bust!

As soon as I had arrived in Asheville, Gecko and I were already mapping out a summer of kitsch. “We are going to have so much fun,” he said on the car ride from the airport to the farm.
“I can’t wait.”
“We can ride go-carts.”
“I love go-carts.”
“And go to the roller derby.”
“Sounds like a blast.”
“And I know there is already a group planning a trip to Dollywood.”
There was an audible scream.
“DOLLYWOOD! Really? As in Dollywood, Dollywood?”
“Yup.”
“As in Dolly Parton’s theme park in Tennessee Dollywood?”
“Yup.”
I quickly whipped out my Bucket List and scribbled, Pending, next to, #36. Visit Dollywood. This was big.

We started scripting our grand entrance into the park almost immediately. We would buy me a blond wig and dress me up in daisy duke’s and a short sleeve plaid shirt tied up above my bellybutton. I would wear big wicker heels and we would take photos in front of every ride.
I imagined the entrance to have a colorful plastic bust of Dolly waving at us. I imagined us eating popsicles and cotton candy that had been molded to look just like her. I imagined me singing along to her music as it blared from the loudspeaker’s; songs that I hadn’t heard in over two decades. I even imagined myself buying a Dolly Parton t-shirt and getting my picture taken next to the life size cardboard replica of her.

This summer has been one of the hottest on record and Gecko and I have been slugging through it with part-time air conditioning. With this heat, we have nobly tried to maintain our enthusiastic energy levels for kitsch, but on the eve of our Dollywood adventure, it was obvious it was waning. “It’s going to be too hot for a wig,” Gecko told me as I lied almost listless on my bed after Spark had rendered me into a piece of toast at acupuncture that day.
“I know.”
“And we’re going to the water world park, not the regular one. It’s just too hot.”
“Oh, yeah, that makes sense. I forgot to get a plaid shirt.”
“It will be too hot for that too. We’ll just tie your hair up in pigtails and plaster on some blue eye shadow or something.”
“Okay. That sounds good.”

The next morning almost all was lost. In a pre-coffee haze I just managed a pair of daisy dukes, a bathing suit top and a pair of flip-flops. “We’re almost there, get your hair up in pig tails,” Gecko said in the car.
“I don’t wanna.”
“And where is your makeup?
“I forgot it.”

"Well then get your shoes on."

"I don't have them."
“You better shape up. Your going in with pigtails if I have to tie them on your head myself.”

When we arrived at the entrance, it was clear that the heat hadn't stole only our enthusiasm, it stole Dolly's as well. There was no plastic bust waving at us, there was no music playing or even a sign that said where we were – Dollywood Dammit! Inside the park I scanned for anything that resembled her but there was nothing, not even a cardboard photograph. Then, to add insult to injury, as we were getting into the tube on our first ride, the lifeguard called over to me,” Hey, your not allowed to wear jean shorts on any rides. I’ll let you down just this once, but you’ll have to change.”
“What? I can’t wear jean cut off’s….in Tennessee….at Dollywood?”
That was like asking a leprechaun not to wear green.
“Nope. Sorry. Bathing suits only.”

I was crushed. Left with no other options but the sale rack at the gift shop, I was forced to walk around, defeated, in a pair of ridiculous blue waterproof disco pants intended for someone half my age. With my jean cut off's, the last remaining connection to the south and to Dolly, stowed away in a locker, the gig was up.

When we got back to the car I took out my Bucket List again. As I started to erase the pending status on, #36. Visit Dollywood, I decided to just replace the entire event instead and start again.
#36. Trip to Hooters.