You Know You Want To

Last year, Hubby and I went to Italy (See September's Blogs). I swore if I never went anywhere else I would still die a happy woman.

I lied.

There are still several really hoppin' places I'm DYING to see. 

When I recite my proposed locations to hubby he pretends he's catatonic. 

They're on my bucket list I say. 

They're on his too…post mortem.

What about this doesn't look fantastic?

Okay, so it looks a little like a giant petrified dinosaur turd. But, it isn't!

It's the Biggest Ball of Twine. Who is this dork leaning up against it? And why isn't it me? Is that a biggest ball of twine stalker or his wife crawling over it on the left there? 

One guy, Francis Johnson, rolled this all by himself. It took 29 years and it weighs 17,000 pounds. 

Minnesota is one lucky state.

Of course there're your copycats. Another guy in Kansas started his own biggest ball of twine (who wouldn't?) but croaked before getting very far. So, the town took up his cause. I'm not sure if it's bigger now or not. As far as I'm concerned its an impostor and probably not worthy of my time.

However, we could roll through (that's funny and you know it) both states to see for ourselves. 

Then we could say we've seen the biggest balls in the United States. 

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The Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz Museum in Jamestown NY.

This is a replica of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo's living room in their NY apartment at 623 East 68th Street. Yes, I'm that big of a freak that I know the address and that it's really in the middle of the East River.

I'm an even bigger freak who can spot right away that this isn't an exact replica. The curtains are wrong. No telling what other gross errors I'd find were I to examine it in person. 

I plan to take a large purse so I can steal stuff. Lucy'd want me to have it.

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Savannah, Georgia.

Home of Lady Chablis, one of the greatest drag queens, the city where the great novel Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil is set, and the place where a weird guy with a vial full of stuff says he carries enough poison in it to kill everyone in Georgia. He likes to carry it around, keep it next to his plate at the diner just in case his eggs get overcooked. You know you'd do the same.

And this cemetery, The Bonnaventure. Sounds like a swank hotel. Only it isn't. Unless you're dead and possibly fat, like these guys.

Plus, I just like to say Savaannah…with a bad southern accent. And loud. Like all southerners are deaf.

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Cadillac Graveyard.

If you're gonna commit to a tacky tour, you might as well go whole hog. 

I used to know why this graveyard exists, but now I forget. I don't care anymore. 

I just want to see it. 

I want to stand in that field with my fists at my sides and say, "What idiot buries Cadillacs?" and pretend I don't hear hubby say "What idiot drives across the country and pays to see them?"

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Graceland. Where the biggest mama's boy of all time resided…with his mama.

The mother ship of all tacky vacation spots. 

The Jungle Room? Are you kidding? Who could go peacefully into the afterlife without sitting on the same couch where a near comatose Elvis sat slumped over while the Colonel fed him peanut butter, banana and bacon sandwiches? 

Not me, my friend, not me. 

Will I get even a glimpse of the white bedazzled polyester jumpsuits he sported in Vegas where he looked so hot with drool down his chins, his gut obscuring the view of his Karate belt buckle, tossing sweat soaked cheap scarves to the fanny pack wearing masses?

If only.

And to be so lucky as to see at least one of the faithful, prone on the grave, wailing in her puff painted sweatshirt, "He was so misunderstood!" I might die of happiness right then and there.

And let me tell you, If the Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love really died on the porcelain throne, I want to see it, touch it, and take its picture. At all angles.

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Jesus Theme Park.

I shit you not.

This place really exists. It's not called Jesus Theme Park, but it should be. It's called The Holy Land Experience, in Orlando, Florida (of course).

I shit you not.

I would've loved to have heard the conversation the family standing in the background of this photo had while discussing their upcoming vacation plans.

Mom:  We're in Florida…how about Disney World?

Dad:  Roller coasters? Mickey Mouse? The happiest place on earth? 

I've got an even better idea. 

Let's pack up the kids, load up the RV and head on over to that place where they can see a flogging and a crucifixion!

A good time was had by all.

The next time you see those kids they'll be face down in a trailer park wearing handcuffs.

Hubby REALLY doesn't want to go here. 

I shoulda kept my big mouth shut about the photo I wanted to take while there to use as our Christmas Card. One similar to the pic above, but with us in the front holding signs reading "Just hanging around, wish you where here."

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Amish Land.

Okay, this place doesn't really exist. As I was dismayed to discover.

Hubby and I went to Pennsylvania to see our kids and new granddaughter. What better way to top off the trip than a stop over at Amish Land.

What? No such thing? Is that a joke?

The airport in Harrisburg has rocking chairs in it - you guessed it - made by the Amish. They don't rock in them though because they won't let them bring their horse and buggy in and they don't fly. Plus, we saw a herd lined up at the Dairy Queen. 

So, Amish Land wasn't much of a stretch in my mind.

I thought we'd take a nice drive to the country, pull up some place where they all gathered to make quilts, darn socks, bake homemade pies, can fruit and make motor home interiors. 

My son in law, Paul said, "You mean, like you thought there'd be a place you could observe them in their natural habitat?"

Duh. Yes.

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