Texas Road Trip

Remember The Bucket List, the equal parts hilarious, uplifting, and heartbreaking ’07 film starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson? They play two old men who, while sharing a hospital room, both learn they have terminal illnesses. Freeman’s character begins writing his bucket list—a wish list of things he has dreamed of doing before he “kicks the bucket.” You probably thought about your own bucket lists for days and weeks after seeing the movie, just as I did.

Last month, Texas Monthly magazine came out with its Texas “Bucket List,” an amusing, quirky list of “63 things all Texans should do before they die.” The article didn’t suggest we visit the obvious Texas icons like the Alamo, in San Antonio, or our state Capitol, in Austin, (because we should have already done those). And it didn’t mention “Jerryland,” the colossal new Cowboys Stadium, in Arlington. It did suggest we “Play Chicken Shit Bingo, in Austin,” and “Eat Calf Fries at Riscky’s Steakhouse, in Fort Worth.” I did say “quirky.”

As it turns out, I’ve already done several of the sixty-three ideas listed in the article. I’ve been to the State Fair of Texas, in Dallas; I know how to ride a horse; and I took dance lessons to learn the two-step. Number 50 was too easy: “Attend a Classic High School Football Game.” I went to nearly every Grapevine High School football game for the entire four years that Robert was there. Number 63 is “Appear on the Cover of TEXAS MONTHLY.” Check.

Cruising around Texas to try some of the things in the Texas Monthly article really does call to me. For instance, for the past 22 years, I’ve wanted to check out the Marfa lights, number 30 on the bucket list, and believed by some to be UFO’s. Marfa also seems to consistently have the coldest temperatures in the state. “Where’s Marfa?” you say. That’s what everyone says, even people born here; and I want to find out.

Surely you’ve wondered, too, what it is about places like Abilene, Galveston, and Luckenbach, Texas that would inspire the classic country-western eponymous hits. It’s certainly not because those names are easy to rhyme.

Some things in the Texas Monthly article actually frighten me to think about—things like number 49: “Drive the Freeways at Night in Houston.” Why? That appeals to me like the idea of tubing down the Amazon while spreading chum ahead of me. Speaking of tubing, number 9 is “Float a River.” Does tubing at Six Flags Hurricane Harbor and the Schlitterbahn count? That urban legend about the water skier falling into a nest of cottonmouths in a Texas river has given me nightmares for forty years.

On the other hand, number 19: “Drink a Free Beer at the K. Spoetzl Brewery, in Shiner,” and number 31: “Have a Drink at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, in Dallas,” look real doable. So, where is this leading? I’ve decided to do a road trip—in and around Texas—incorporating the Texas Monthly “Bucket List” and the books, Haunted Texas, Weird Texas, and my personal favorite, The Wine Roads of Texas. I’m going to see as much Texas as I can, and can afford, while I’m still able to enjoy travel—that would be without a wheelchair or a walker.

Many items in the above sources are seasonal, so I plan to do several short trips—not one long one. That way, I can come home and not be out on the road for days or weeks at a time. Besides, I already have other trips and plans for this year, and I don’t like to be away from home that long.

Got any suggestions for places or things that a person must check out before they check out? Please send them to me or add them to the comments below.

Donna
PS: If you can, plan to meet me at Turtle Creek! I’ll let you know when we’re going.

Greenies or Gobs Anyone?

While I usually only dabble in political issues and honestly try not to offend those on either side of the political fence, I can’t let the events of the day pass without a comment. We have little to boast about as a nation, or as human beings, if it is true that our elected leaders are spit on, threatened and have racial, ethnic and sexual slurs hurled upon them in our nation’s Capitol—or anywhere.

For several months I’ve thought about weaving a post around the movie Idiocracy. This seems like as good a shot as I’ll get. Please, please, please rent, download, or buy the movie Idiocracy. It’s dystopian, laugh out loud comedy; it’s satire, it's farce, and it “paints an ugly future for our culture.” And while you’re laughing, you may notice that it’s not all that funny or impossible.

Since the beginning of recorded history we’ve known that politicians don’t always agree with each other, and the populace doesn’t always agree with the politicians. Political assassinations and murders have been recorded since the beginning of time. In the U.S., seven presidents since John F. Kennedy have survived more than one assassination attempt. President Obama has reportedly been the target of more than one already. Countless others have been murdered for their beliefs and politics.

We haven’t heard anything about someone being murdered today over the healthcare bill. What we have heard was that elected officials were spit on and called some very unprintable names. What the hell are people thinking when they behave this way? Doesn’t it make you wonder why anyone would run for a political office? Don't get me wrong; I don't think all politicians wear white hats. But I honestly wonder sometimes if there is hope for our species.

Isn’t exercising our right or privilege to vote intended to be our means of expressing our discontent or agreement with our politicians? Perhaps because our lives are so fast-paced now, a few greenies or gobs, skillfully-launched, are more efficient and expedient than waiting for the next election.

Do watch Idiocracy.
Donna

The Tale of Mr. Snock

When I was but a wisp of a girl in my twenties—single, silly, and skinny—I was a stewardess. That was back when being a stewardess was actually a glamorous job. We were “sky goddesses” and everyone loved us. Well. . . men loved us, and young women wanted to be us. In the late 1960’s and early 70’s, in order to attract customers, the majority of whom were men, the airlines exploited us to the max with ads like: “We move our tails for you!” and “Fly Me.” My all-time favorite was American’s “Think of her as your mother,” with a smoldering-eyed brunette curled up in an office chair. In the 80’s, Joan Rivers honed her career relentlessly bashing and trashing us. Our Florence Nightingale image was gone forever and replaced by one that more closely resembled Xaviera Hollander, “The Happy Hooker.”

The majority of us were just regular girls; many growing up in big families from small town America, and generally fitting the psychological profile of “nurturer.” It really was an exciting time for us girls and we had a lot of fun. While catching a play in Manhattan or sitting by the pool in Los Angeles, we could often be heard to say, “Can you believe we get paid for this?” Of course, we often found ourselves sitting by the pool at a second rate hotel in Tulsa, Oklahoma, or swiping at a cockroach at a deli in Newark, New Jersey.

Like that long ago television series, Naked City, I’ve got a bunch of stories. The majority are filed away at the back of my brain somewhere, and I no longer think about most of them. Now and then one creeps into the front of my brain, and I think you might enjoy it. This is one of those tales.

Sometime back in the 70's.

Long before computer-generated passenger lists, we were required to ask every passenger their name and call them by it. I was first stewardess on a 727 trip, working alone in the first-class cabin. A white-haired gentleman in the second row aisle seat whispered his name to me. I asked him to repeat it, which he did, but I still couldn’t understand him. He was visibly frustrated when I asked him to spell it for me. I wrote on my seating chart what I thought he had spelled—S N O C K—and politely called him Mr. Snock throughout the meal service.

When the meal service was over, another passenger entered the galley where I was hiding, probably sneaking a cigarette and a cup of coffee.

“Young woman, do you know who that man in the second row is?”

Proudly pointing to the little square on my seating chart where I had printed his name, I announced, “Sure! That’s Mr. Snock.”

“Young woman, that’s Dr. Spock,” he groaned. “He just got out of jail and he’s trying to avoid attention.”

“Well, I thought Snock was an unusual name,” I admitted, embarrassed.

“I'm not a pacifist. I was very much for the war against Hitler. . .” Benjamin Spock

Benjamin Spock died March 15, 1998, twelve years ago this past Monday. He was 94 years old. He was both celebrated and castigated during his long and remarkable life. In 1924, as a member of the Yale rowing team, he was an Olympic gold medalist. He achieved the rank of Lieutenant Commander in the US Navy Reserve Medical Corps during World War II, and he ran for President of the United States in 1972. Dr. Benjamin Spock was considered the ultimate authority on childcare and upbringing, and later blamed “for all the lack of patriotism, lack of responsibility, and lack of discipline of the young people who opposed the war.”

His left-wing politics constantly brought him into conflict with more conservative politicians. He campaigned for Medicare and against nuclear bomb tests in the Earth’s atmosphere. As a determined crusader against the war in Vietnam, he was tried and convicted as a conspirator against the United States for encouraging young men to avoid the draft. That conviction was set aside on appeal; however he was arrested more than once for his participation in anti-war protests. He was the author of numerous books, and at the height of Dr. Spock’s popularity, his Baby and Child Care manual outsold every book but The Bible.

Love him or hate him, agree or disagree with his politics, he was a powerful influence in our lives and the lives of our children and their children. And I, Twit, called him Mr. Snock for the two hours of my life that I was in his company. It makes me shudder.

Donna

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall; Who's the Fairest?

Early yesterday I met two friends for breakfast at our local IHOP. I won’t mention their names because I wouldn’t embarrass them for the world. However, one of them looked especially pretty; her hair was washed and styled and her make-up was perfect. And she’d just had a colonoscopy minutes before. I’m not kidding. She’d been up all night, flushing her insides down the toilet, thanks to the bottles of laxative she’d been made to drink. She had probably wiped her bottom raw, but she looked fabulous! Why do we women do that?

We wouldn’t dream of heading to the gynecologist without first shaving our legs and armpits, getting a pedicure, and slathering a moisturizer from head to toe for an all-over radiant glow. Is that glow supposed to create a more pleasant working environment for the doctor? Then, of course, we do our best to present an attractive outer appearance with perfect make-up, hair and wardrobe. I’ve probably spent more time getting ready for the OB-GYN doc than I did for some dates when I was young and single.

When you consider what it takes to prep for a colonoscopy, shouldn’t we make the gastroenterologist suffer some also? We’ve had nothing to eat except clear broth, plain Jell-O, and water for twenty-four hours. Our bottoms have a permanent toilet-ring-shaped crease from the hours we spent sitting “on the throne” the night before. If we’re lucky and smart, we scheduled the appointment for first thing in the morning. Regardless of the time, we’re exhausted because we really didn’t sleep a wink all night. So why go to the trouble of making ourselves beautiful?

It’s my theory that we don’t want the gastroenterologist or the gynecologist to remember us just from the waist down. There’s nothing attractive, feminine or ladylike about the exam at the doctor for feminine and ladylike issues. And we certainly don’t want to be remembered as the polyp or hemorrhoid from last Tuesday. So we, just like women do, try to pretty things up.

My friend had threatened to draw a smiley face or the word “hi” on her bottom right before her exam, to put the doctor in a good mood. In the end. . .she decided to leave well enough alone.

Donna