TRAVEL BUGGED

It's T-minus three weeks and counting before we blast off to Colorado, so Big Bore and I started our packing list this morning. I've vacationed through 47 states so consider myself an expert on the best and worse places to experience in the United States. Here are some I never wish to see again:

1. White Sands, New Mexico (aka: Hell Hole, New Mexico)--This is a military base/missile range. It is hot, ugly desert with some hills in the background. Don't ask me why I was there. The story is too long, just like the weekend I spent there. White Sands is even worse than Lake Havasu City, Arizona, which is also a hell hole, but at least it has a lake. Or was that just a mirage?

2. Coastal Georgia/Florida--This whole area smells like I don't-know-what...sweet insecticide? After inhaling it for hours (I was on the back of a motorcycle), I became light-headed and about fell onto the pavement.

3. Louisiana bayou country--If you've seen one alligator, you've seen them all, plus there are these big rat-looking critters called nutria scattering about. Our Cajun tour guide fed the 'gators doughnuts and taunted them with his ugly bare feet. I kept rooting for the reptiles. Also, it didn't help that we had a dear pregnant woman on our boat who repeatedly had to make barf stops. Of course, she may have just been expressing her opinion of Louisiana, in which case, my sentiments exactly.

4. Houston, Texas--Too hot, too humid, too much crime. When a TV newscaster reported a jogger had been found dead in a park, minus hands and feet, I called off my 3-mile run and decided it was time to move on down the road.

5. Los Angeles--The traffic is absolutely nuts. You couldn't drag me back. At Disneyland I saw an atrraction called, "It's a Small World After All." It should be re-named: "It's a Smoggy, Over-Populated, Maniac World in Southern California and I want to go back to Kansas!"

Trust me. If you ever have the above places on your travel itinerary, turn back immediately! My suggestion is: rip up your map and GET LOST!

SEW WHAT

About six years ago, when I first developed my gawd-awful tinnitus, I decided that perhaps I needed a relaxing hobby to keep me calmer during my spazzy attacks. I'd always admired the handiwork of others so decided upon quilting. I found a fine church quilting group that was patient with beginners, purchased the required supplies, and was ready to embark upon a new pasttime that would surely help to de-stress my brain/ear disorder.

Well, I couldn't cut it. Because I was so inept at making stitches, the ear problem just got worse. Even threading a needle became an ordeal. I kept at it for a few months, thinking I'd improve-- made some pillow tops, a pot holder, and a few small wall hangings, but I was miserably slow at it. Not owning a sewing maching was a handicap/excuse; I finally tossed in the material and raised the white flag.

About the only sewing I do now is to "re-plant" a stray button or close busted seams. Mama Bore has offered to give me her sewing machine, but I told her it would just take up space and gather dust. I fear trying to thread the damned thing would be too much of a battle.

I continue to admire the needlework experts who create masterpieces, but I've accepted the fact that I will never be among those crazy quilters. To me, sewing is about as relaxing as having a mammogram and PAP smear done on the same day. Yikes! Why did I even have to say that? I've got to go do some deep breathing and calm down. Sew long for now.

NOT-SO-EASY RIDER

I've been having trouble lately getting on and off my 33-year-old Schwinn 3-speed, Ol' Red. What's going on here? Has Big Bore raised the seat on me? Have I shrunk? Am I losing my "umph" now that I'm pushing 60? (and I'm talking miles per hour!) Every mount and dismount has been a struggle. Red and I feel like we're gonna tumble into a big pile of twisted flesh, metal, and rubber. It doesn't help matters that it's a boy's bike, with a bar that threatens to rip into my girly regions every time I decide to go for a ride.

So, today I finally asked BB, who also likes to hop on Red, "Have you raised the seat on the bike?"

"No. Why?"

"It seems too high. I'm afraid I'm gonna crash land every time I get on and off."

"You're shrinking." :)

He walked into the garage, got out a wrench, and had the seat lowered to my specifications in no time flat. He's also putting on new brake pads today, since the front one has crapped out. I think he's weary of holding my hand at the emergency room and doesn't want me taking any more thrill rides in an ambulance.

Now, if he can just repair all the %$#@! bumps in the %$#@! streets around here, Red and I will stop our %$#@! whining.

BOOK HER, DANNO!

Okay, arrest me. I am a cheater. I'm so ashamed of myself. Last week I started reading Stephen King's latest tome, Duma Key, 600+ pages long, and after I got halfway through I sneaked onto the Internet, found a super synoposis, and "innocently" read ahead. When I was teaching, I always chastised students who did this, and now I'm guilty of the same crime.

Of course, I have a legitimate reason/excuse for being a reading miscreant. The last time I participated in a King marathon (The Cell--a story about cell phone zombies) I got all ticked off because the last 200 pages or so were such a confusing letdown. I didn't want to waste my precious time on Duma Key, only to experience a repeat performance.

Well, after finding out what happens, I returned to the book, forged ahead, and finished it last night. I guess I feared retribution if I didn't consume all 607 pages. It's not safe to get on King Stephen's bad side. I'll take Duma Key back to the Library Lady later today, make my confession to her, and ask for absoultion. But you know what? After the spot on page 445 where something freaky happened in the story, and I was so absorbed in the book that I didn't know Big Bore was home, and he walked into the living room announcing he was back, and I jumped outta my seat, and screeched, and about wet my pants, well, it was a confusing letdown.

OVER AND OUT

After two exhausting weeks, the Summer Olympics is finally over!! NBC can bring back "Deal or No Deal" and sports announcer Bob Costas can get some sleep. For the most part, I enjoyed watching the Olympics, although I must admit to turning off the TV when ping pong and boxing came on the screen. Trying to follow the little white ball made me dizzy, and I'm just not a boxing buff. I was surprised how much I enjoyed watching the synchronized swim teams, but the rhythmic gymnastics didn't thrill me. Heck, I was jumping around with a hula hoop fifty years ago.

I became so inspired by those bouncy balance beamers that I decided to try out a few moves myself on the imaginary beam on our living room floor. I did a few pirouettes, half turns, jumps, and lots of artistic hand gesturing, which Big Bore said reflected my many years of training in Russia. Alas, no cartwheels. Those aren't attempted at the Flaming Bore Gymnastics School, especially when the competitors are wearing flip-flops.

My old school pal Maggie had a great description of the women's beach volleyball gold medal contest, and I quote: "Nothing like four skinny women frolicking in the sand, in the rain, ass-slapping and grabbing each other every 30 seconds. A real man's dream come true." Might I add, wet dream? The white "team uniform" of the US women's tandem was skimpier than anything I've ever worn to bed.

How do the platform divers keep their heads from exploding when they enter the water? I know their taped-up hands are breaking the entry, but it still has to hurt like hell and it sounds even worse. I kept thinking all that force on impact was going to blow their tiny trucks right off of them. At least that's what I was hoping. Real women can dream, too, you know!

I saw in the newspaper yesterday that Michael Phelps's agent has apparently been reading my blog because he ran right out and got MP a deal with Pizza Hut. Free pizza and pasta for a year for him and his teammates. That's it? Hmmm. I think he'd better re-negotiate.

See you in London in 2012!!!

CUTTING IT SHORT

Thursday I went to Mama Bore's home to do some yard work. She advised me to bring my heavy-duty, big-ass, extendable loppers, a gardening tool that looks like it could also be used to remove the teeth from great white sharks. I salivate whenever she asks me to bring the loppers because this usually means some serious work.

Well, she basically only wanted me to cut a pathway behind her front yard cedars so the gas guy could reach her meter without becoming trapped in overgrowth, but that was not enough for me. No, no. I had to tackle all the bind weed and then cut down a tree growing in the middle of her rose of Sharon. I've had my loppers ready for that eyesore since last year, just waiting for Mama Bore to give me the green light. Finally, the go ahead. Timber!! It was such a rush. I should have been a lumberjack...except I can't stand heights.

I ended the afternoon by cutting out undergrowth from some pine trees, something else that wasn't on the job list; I just felt the urge to get into a wrestling match with the weeds and vines...until clearing the way to the second pine, which was wrapped by a suspicious looking vine with three broad leaves. Hmmm. Could that be? Yes, it was....poison ivy! Back off, Jack. Time to retreat.

I woke up the next morning scratching....first, my left wrist, then the left thigh, right under-boob, right butt cheek. Chigger bites. No poison ivy rash. Hooray! Today I've been working in my own yard, no loppers needed, just scissors. After laboring in Mama Bore's dangerous yard, I'm cutting myself slack.

MOVING MOVIES

I'm going to take the mood down a few notches today and write about the most tear-jerking movie I've ever seen, Simon Birch.

Simon, probably 12 years old or so, was born with a form of dwarfism. In spite of his handicap, he's high-spirited and ornery and he has the best giggle....a very endearing, inspiring person. He's always telling his best pal that God has a plan and purpose for him in life. So, when he dies at the end of the movie, becoming a hero after saving a busload of children sinking in icy waters, well, I just totally lost it. Fortunately, I was home alone watching this on TV, not having to subject a theatre full of folks to my hysteria, but then the phone rang. It was Big Bore.

(sniffle) "Hello."

"What's the matter with you? Did someone die?"

(choke, spit) "Y-y-yes. Simon (blubber) Birch."

"Who's Simon Birch?"

(big slobber) "He's this little boy in the movie I've been watching. (breakdown cry) It's so sad."

Well, BB knew better than to make light of my emotions. After all, he was the one who had misty eyes at the end of....The Wedding Crashers. Yes, you read that right.

Other movies that have turned on my waterworks in lesser degrees:

My Dog Skip--Now I'm not a dog person, but when Skip vanishes on his master's bed at the end...."Hanky, please!"

Castaway--Tom Hanks and Helen Hunt reunite after he survives many years on a deserted island following a plane crash. He has dreamed of this moment for so long. It's what's kept him alive. Oops. She married someone else, thinking Tom was in the bottom of the sea. They embrace in a rainstorm, but it's hopeless. "Oh, just cry me a roaring river."

Splendor in the Grass--Another story of broken love, reunited too late. The faces of Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty are simply heartbreaking when they meet again. "Hey! I need another hanky!!"

The Wizard of Oz--No, I don't boo-hoo when Elvira Gulch sweeps off with Toto, but the ending always gets to me. "Oh, Auntie Em! There's no place like home!"

Terms of Endearment--Debra Winger is dying of cancer and has a final visit with her two little boys. The younger one is inconsolable, and she's trying to keep her emotions together. "Forget the hanky and just being me the whole damned box of Kleenex! A large one!"

Well, that's enough for today. My eyes are so watery that it's difficult to see the computer screen, and the lump in my throat is choking me. I think I need to go take a big dose of Animal House.