Tom and I spent last night at the Hotel Palomar, here in Dallas, for a story. On the desk, along with a note pad, the hotel directory, and some snacks, was this poor fishy, trapped in a tiny vase--bored, restless, pleading for freedom with his little fish eyes. Sometimes he would look at the wall, sometimes he would look at the bed, sometimes he would float to the top of the water and with his little fish lips, silently beg for mercy.

We went to sleep, there he was. We woke up, there he was. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. We found it horribly depressing. We should have brought him home, bought him a decent-size tank and some friends.

Poor little fishy.

Labels: dallas, hotels, texas, travel, video

I worked very hard on a travel story for the DMN under the impression it would be a lead story in the section--lots of photos etc. I was terribly disappointed to see it relegated to a secondary story with almost no art. So, to soothe my wounded ego, I am posting the director's cut here. What the hell--it's my blog and I can do what I want.


All is Calm

Soothing getaways in Texas and neighboring states

For all the joys of the holidays, they’re stressful, too. So much running and buying and cooking and partying and chattering and singing and overeating and overdrinking and over-everything… What you need most for the holidays may be some peace and quiet.

Let us help with some suggestions for places to go where you can calm the clamor in your head and recalibrate.

Texas

Back to the womb
If you’re in charge of decking all halls and cooking all figgy puddings, relinquish control to Watsu Aquatic Massage therapist at The Crossings spa in Austin. Done in a private pool kept at body temperature, Watsu massage requires putting yourself completely into the hands of the therapist, who manipulates you through the water, gently encouraging you to make like seaweed and drift, folding and unfolding you and then keeping you perfectly still, suspended in the water, for a mind-altering interval of total peace. (50 minutes/$120; 877-944-3003)


Neither here nor there
You know those picnic areas you blast past on your way to grandmother’s house? Not just the rest areas—we all stop there when nature calls. But even those spots with nothing but picnic tables and views can help take the edge off your drive.

When the kids are whining and your hands are locking into claws around the steering wheel and the car is trashed as a frat house the morning after, try one. They’re intentionally built in pretty spots and offer a break from the road to let the kids blow off steam, stretch your legs, and appreciate the scenery without a dashboard between you and the view. Actual picnicking is optional.

Tub on the range
Slip into the outdoor hot tub at the Wildcatter Ranch Resort and try to decide which is more soothing—the hot water or the long view of rolling hills. This is among the premier hot tub sites in Texas. To enjoy it, book into the Wildcatter, a 1,500-acre property near Graham, Texas. The ranch recently added to its luxury suites, opening a hotel with 19 additional rooms. (940-549-3500 or 888-462-9277; rooms from $109)

Go gulfing
Padre Island National Seashore is sea and shore and grass and sky and birds and little else. This is the largest stretch of undeveloped barrier island in the world. Push south, past Malaquite Beach, and find a stretch of primitive shore to stroll while you let the wind (and there will be one) blow the clutter from your mind.

For nature less raw, splurge on a tank of gas and head for the Matagorda Bay RV Park, inside Matagorda Bay Nature Park. This pretty 70-site park is on the gulf, within walking distance of the beach, Colorado River, and fishing piers. ($25 a night; reservations through Texas State Parks at 512-389-8900; for information 979-863-7120)


Basic maintenance enhanced
Sure, you can get a quick mani-pedi at your favorite strip center nail salon. But better to take a much-needed pause with a mani-pedi at the San Saba Spa at Lakeway Resort in Austin. Here, the chairs all face a wall of window overlooking pool and lake. Order a cocktail if you like, and fix your gaze out past the pool, past the terrace restaurant, to the calming waters of Lake Travis. (512-261-6600 , manicures from $40, pedicures from $65)

Calm after the storm
The San Luis Resort, Spa and Conference Center on Seawall Boulevard survived Hurricane Ike relatively unscathed and did its part housing relief workers. Now it's ready to welcome you back. Splurge on a stylish ocean-view room on the newly renovated 10th floor, called Club Ten. After a hot toddy by the fire pit at H2O, the resort's snazzy new poolside bar, retreat to the hush of your spacious room and indulge in all the amenities today's luxury standards require, from king beds to continental breakfast. (409-744-1500; Club Ten doubles from $269)

Oklahoma



Where the wind comes sweeping
It’s rush hour traffic at the Tallgrass Prairie Preserve in Pawhuska when the bison cross the road. This 39,000-acre preserve is the largest protected remnant of tallgrass prairie on Earth, Most of this Nature Conservancy site is drive-through, but a couple of hiking trails lead out to the middle of the gently rustling sea of grass. In winter, look for migrating raptors such as bald eagles, rough-legged owls and short-eared owls. (Open daily dawn to dusk, free)

Lay down your head for the night high over nearby Bartlesville, in Frank Lloyd Wright’s circa 1956 cantilevered skyscraper. The Inn at Price Tower occupies floors seven to 14 of Wright’s tree-inspired building. (877-424-2424; from $145 double)

Animal house
If petting a house cat lowers stress, imagine what petting a Eurasian lynx can do. The Little River Zoo in Norman, 60 wooded acres, is a rescue operation (though they don’t like that word), adopting lab monkeys whose jobs are done, exotic pets whose owners couldn’t keep them and animals from other zoos, for sundry reasons. Pop in on Christmas Day to bless the beasts. They’ll be waiting for you.(405-366-7229; Open 10-5 every day, tours are 90 minutes, $7 adults, $4 children, $5 seniors, free for under age 3)

New Mexico

Sounds of silence
Rent a pair of snowshoes or cross-country skis from a local outfitter such Alpine Sports, near the Santa Fe Plaza (121 Sandoval St., $15/day) and drive about 13 miles into the Sangre de Cristo mountains to the Aspen Vista Trail, a wide, groomed 12-mile trail through the hushed, snowy forest.

Urban escape
The recently renovated La Posada de Santa Fe Resort and Spa is six intimate acres laced with paths among gardens and adobe casitas. Tuck yourself into a room or suite with a fireplace (some gas, some wood-burning) and you’ll feel a million miles from the bustle of Santa Fe Plaza, just a couple of blocks away. Put in a few hours of holiday shopping then retire to your room, open a bottle of wine, and gaze into the fire. (866-331-ROCK or 505-986-0000, fireplace doubles from $297)

Arkansas

Going to the chapel
Thorncrown Chapel is a glass chapel in the woods, tucked into the Ozark Mountains by Eureka Springs. The 48-foot tall wooden structure is all windows onto nature. Designed by E. Fay Jones, the building is fourth on the list of the American Institute of Architects’ top buildings of the 20th century. (479-253-7401; Sunday service at 11 a.m. in Nov. and Dec., call or check the Web site for visiting hours.)


Garvan Woodland Gardens, in Hot Springs, is a getaway in its own right and has a chapel of the same soaring design, built by Mr. Jones’ architectural firm. To avoid crowds, visit in daytime because the gardens have an enormous and popular holiday lights show. (800-366-4664 or 501-262-9300; adults, $8, seniors $7, children $4, age 5 and under free)

Tell it on the mountain
Nothing stands atop Arkansas’ tallest peak but the Lodge at Mount Magazine. Rooms in the lodge all have views, but we suggest renting a one-, two- or three-bedroom cabin for a hot tub on the wraparound porch. No need to leave the mountain unless you want to; cabins have kitchens or dine by the giant stone fireplace in the lodge restaurant. (1-877-665-6343; cabins from $199)

Louisiana

Into the woods
By design, you might not encounter anyone at all except the people you’re with at Little River Bluffs, a nature reserve and retreat of three cabins on the Little Tchefuncte River (great for swimming in summertime). All three cabins have fireplaces and the Meadow Cabin has central heating as well. Explore the woods of the 50-acre property in St. Tammany Parish (some consider it New Orleans north), then retire to your cabin and cuddle. (985-796-5257; rates from $195 for two weeknights.)

Dig the swamp
Laid back McGee’s Landing, in Henderson, La., has decks right on the Henderson swamp. When celebs such as Robert Plant and Paul Simon want Cajun cooking without fanfare, they come here. Pop in for some alligator or gar balls or hunker down for a few days in cabin floating on the Atchafalaya. (Is it a houseboat if it doesn’t go anywhere?) No phone, no TV, just a screened-in porch—and heat, fridge, microwave and coffee maker. (337-228-2384; cabins from $100/night with a two night minimum.)

Labels: arkansas, louisiana, new mexico, oklahoma, texas, travel

Permalink | posted by Sophie @ 2:01 PM | 5 CommentsLinks to this post

I just got back from a few days visiting New York where at every opportunity, people pointed out how inadequate I now am as a New Yorker. Evidently, I no longer walk fast enough, I suck at jaywalking, I’m woefully uniformed about restaurants on the Upper West Side and I have done a bad job keeping up with changes in the city. “What UNIVERSE do you live in?” someone snipped, when I wondered about a business that has been gone at least a decade.

I don’t live in a different universe, I live in a different state. Excuuuuuuuuuuuse me.

I was supposed to feel ashamed of my shortcomings but screw it.

I often can’t get a word in edgewise around New Yorkers, either. I’ve got that whole Southern thing going on of waiting my turn to speak and sometimes found myself waiting for turns that never came. I just smile like a nice Southern lady and let people talk.

I’m trying to decide if I feel bad about all this or not. In the big picture, being able to step into Broadway against the light when a van is hurtling towards me at 50 mph is not a terribly important skill. It’s not even a skill, it’s cojones. I got your cojones, only they’re put to different uses these days. I can drive on Texas highways, for example.

What other skills have I developed in my years in Texas? I can chitchat about the weather. I can recognize the difference between real and phony friendliness. I can eat spicy food at any time of the day or night and identify any number of different peppers. I can speak entire sentences—paragraphs, even—without saying “fuck.” I rarely choose to, but can if I must.

Oh, yeah, only marginally related, but this reminds me of an incident last week, when Jack and I had a mix-up with three loose dogs on our walk. One was a big, muscular, scary bull terrier that ran across a street at us with a little black-and-white doggie buddy and his owner, a Hispanic teen boy, in hot pursuit. The third dog was trotting up to us from a different direction and managed to back away from the fracas that ensued when the two other dogs approached, despite Jack’s growling and lunging.

Jack got hold of the little black-and-white dog and shook it up real good to show the bull terrier how badass he is. Seemed to work and good thing—if Jack and the bull terrier had gotten into it, there would have been nothing anyone could do. The bull terrier stayed back, though (I also used my ultrasound zapper on him and that helped), Jack let the little dog go and we were able to move along,. But it was one scary clusterfuck, with both me and the teenager tugging at Jack’s leash to try to get him to drop the pup. (I really didn’t need the boy’s help, he should have been dealing with his bull terrier.)

At any rate, I did have a great deal of fun of yelling, "GET THIS FUCKING DOG OUTTA HERE!" at the top of my lungs on a Dallas street. And I do believe Jack and I have clinched our reputation in this neighborhood. Don’t fuck with either of us. I may suck at jaywalking but I can still cuss like a Yankee.

Labels: dogs, new york city, texas, travel

What can I say about these historic events that everyone else hasn’t said already?

The idea that we will have a president with whom I agree on the basic matters of how our society should function makes me almost giddy. Well, it would make me giddy if I didn’t feel so worn down and bruised by the endless campaign.

I will always defend Texas from Yankee scorn but at the same time, living blue among the red, atheist among the religious right, feminist among the whatever the hell anti-feminist women think they are—is wearing. I’ve spent so many years biting my tongue, trying not to argue belief systems (logic doesn’t work, that’s why they’re beliefs) and loving the sinners while hating the sins that I now suddenly find myself with the urge to call “bullshit” right and left.

The other day at lunch, a friend said she hated both candidates but that she was afraid of Obama because he’s a SOCIALIST and she didn’t want him taking her HARD EARNED MONEY and giving it to HOMELESS PEOPLE who JUST DON'T WANT TO WORK. I muttered something about the working poor and then summed it up by saying, “We have a philosophical difference,” and changed the subject. She’s a friend, after all. But my wussiness has bugged me ever since. My only consolation is that she had already voted so I didn’t actually miss an opportunity to convert an undecided.

Still, I’m starting to wonder if my decision, made long ago, to avoid making waves in my adopted home, is the right one. And I find myself increasingly unable to just keep my mouth shut at opinions that annoy me. In a way, Obama’s victory feels personally empowering, a validation of beliefs that I’ve had to keep my mouth closed on for so many years.

So, you know what I’m saying, don’t you? I’m about to be more annoying than ever.

And by the way, Yankee friends--Obama lost Texas but he won Dallas County. And that makes me happy.

Labels: politics, presidential election, texas

I bet nobody has ever used that clever headline before.

Today is the last day of the fair. I am proud to report that Tom and I returned on Friday, determined to do a better job of it than last time. And, in fact, we had lots more fun, although we did even less.

Jessica Simpson was appearing that night—part of the impetus for going, just for grins—and the fair was packed. We mashed into the crowd for a few bars of her show and what a caterwauling that was. Yikes. Every time our wandering took us past the Chevy Stage we would watch from afar briefly (a much better view than from in the thick of the crowd) but mostly she was background music for dinner.

We started with a turkey leg. Tom was skeptical, he didn’t remember last year’s turkey leg discovery (thanks MsKrit) but after a few smoky bites he was persuaded. It’s a hideous mess to eat—many tendons involved—but worth the carnivory.

The good thing about the turkey leg, I explained to Tom, is that it allows me to feel a lot less guilty about the funnel cake than a corny dog does. I feel the same about my usual annual caramel apple. (I didn’t have one this year. The chocolate strawberry dipped waffle balls were my poor substitute.) But a caramel apple is an apple, so therefore I am permitted funnel cake as well, since it’s not really like two deserts.

We also had tornado taters and broke tradition with a Reuben sandwich instead of a brat at the Hans Mueller tent. The brats are better.

Friday’s funnel cake was of the highest quality. I will only eat funnel cake from The Dock and they outdid themselves on this one. It was golden crispy on the outside, tender on the inside. Perfect. We ran into someone Tom knows there, and she said The Dock serves a grilled cheese that’s necessary to her annual fair-going experience. Maybe next year.

We ran into another colleague of Tom’s on the Midway (Tom has a lot of attractive young women colleagues) and she agreed with us that the chicken fried bacon was not all that. This appears to be the consensus on the chicken fried bacon: Meh.

The fair full of people is a lot more fun than the fair devoid of people. We arrived in time to catch the big beginning of the light show—with fireworks and bursts of open flame—but then when it got boring (classic rock and laser lights), we wandered off. We watched the rides on the Midway. Neither of us enjoy riding rides but we get a lot of vicarious enjoyment out of watching other people ride them. We sat on a bench and MFOPd. (Made Fun of People.) We somehow managed to kill three hours.

Eating and mocking. It’s our version of a good time. We have successfully done State Fair ’07.

Labels: memoir, state fair of texas, texas

Some loose thoughts that have been rattling around in my head. Maybe if I get them out I’ll have room for fully developed thoughts.

Last night, DJ MrRid came over with eight DVDs of The Midnight Special. You oldies remember those—the live rock shows on TV every week. Oddly, I didn't watch them back then but we had a blast last night. Earth Wind and Fire. Small Faces. Aerosmith. Kiss. KC and the Sunshine Band. Minnie Ripperton. Peter Frampton. Delicious and we still have hours to go.

I was struck, once again, how nice it was to see people on TV with lumpy hair, crooked teeth, pores. People who look like the people we see every day, only dressed up. Or not dressed up. Those were not dressing up days. Some guys looked pretty smelly. But still, it was nice to see people I could imagine hanging out with instead of people so perfectly toned, exquisitely groomed, and impeccably dressed, I would be struck dumb in their presence.

What are we doing to ourselves? We're beating ourselves up with relentless images of unattainable beauty. We're wasting countless hours and dollars on things that have nothing to do with our true potential value to society. We hate ourselves.

**

Has anyone every pined for you? I don’t think anyone has ever pined for me, and that kinda bums me out.

**

Our front yard swarms with busy, busy squirrels and I’m not the only one who has noticed. A red-tail hawk has been hunting here. The other morning, I saw him lift off with a squirrel. I’m haunted by the image of the squirrel’s little legs hanging down helplessly.

**

Tom and I went to the Fair on Friday. Funny how sometimes the Fair clicks for us and sometimes it’s just off. Last year was great, this year was off. We should know better than to try the exciting new fried foods of the year. They’re expensive and we’re almost always disappointed. The chicken fried bacon ($6, I think) was mostly salty, the chocolate dipped strawberry waffle balls ($5) were gummy. Nasty. I didn’t finish mine. Fortunately, my funnel cake was as good as I expected.

But I had the wrong shoes and my feet hurt and Tom had been working like a dog all week and he was tired. We saw a daredevil act, but heights make me so tense that I couldn’t enjoy it. We saw the dancing dogs, sat in a new car, saw a kid throw up, looked at the creative arts. But this visit, we weren’t feeling it. Mostly we felt sticky. The waffle balls were our last-ditch effort at fun and when they didn’t work out, we went home and fell asleep on the couch.



(State Fair 2007)

Although, lest I romanticize State Fair '07, I will report that the fabulous expensive pillows we bought last year suck. They are rock hard and I woke up with a stiff neck the two or three times I tried to sleep on one.

**

Last week, a friend and I went to a dance recital at SMU. Student dancers dancing student choreography. The kids were all very talented and it was a lot of fun.

I’m not big on regrets. I decided long ago not to nurse regrets and have been mostly successful. I acknowledge my regrets but don’t wallow in them. But one of my regrets is the way I ignored my body through my youth. I envy dancers for their control of, respect for, and joy in their bodies. I wish I could dance. I mean really dance—turn my body into a leaf or a stream, into anger or ecstasy. I think that would be swell.

Labels: 1970s, flotsam, memoir, pop culture, texas

The heat has broken and I actually saw rain today. These are very doggie dog days here in Dallas. Hot. My god it’s been hot.

It’s too hot for anyone to do very much. My email has been nearly silent. My telephone too, though that’s not unusual. Most people know better.

I like these dead zones. Fortunately, I have enough work so that I don’t feel panicked and I like the feeling that everyone is on vacation and nothing is pressing.

The deep summer work dead zone is different from the holiday season work dead zone. Around the holidays, the city buzzes and hurries and everyone is too busy to work. In summertime, the city slumps and everyone is too lethargic to work—or do much of anything else. Traffic on the highways is thin. I went for a pedicure Monday and the salon was practically empty. I met friends for sushi today and the restaurant was uncharacteristically quiet.

This July was one of the hottest in our history. We had 16 days of 100 degrees or higher. Monday the temperature was 107 degrees.

Texas heat even looks hot. I can see it from my window. The sun is a hard, bright light and the trees and shrubbery are pale and stressed from its brutality. If the Garden Bed of Death survives this—and it is hanging on—it will be the hardiest garden on Earth. Sorry looking, but hardy.

Right now, the temperature is a balmy 89 degrees. It’s lovely, but I’m still not working very hard. It’s summertime. Who cares?

Labels: texas, weather

Tom and I have been in Galveston the past couple of days. We loved it.

We did note how much our respective families-of-origin—-mine from Manhattan, his hardcore Chicago--would hate the tacky, ramshackle, moist and not particularly lovely island city. This is no place for sophisticates or poseurs.

The beaches on the Gulf of Mexico are not breathtaking. The water is warm and gentle but murky and brown and surf warning flags include one for “venomous organisms” in the water—mostly jellyfish.


And Galveston evidently lacks zoning laws, like Houston, so the collection of buildings lining busy Seawall Boulevard is a cockamamie hodgepodge with no attempt at beauty, unless you count the fake volcano on top of the Rainforest Café, which spews fire on an unpredictable schedule. It scared the crap out of me one night as I lounged on our hotel room balcony.

Once a wealthy port city to rival San Francisco, Galveston was all but wiped out in 1900 by a giant hurricane—a natural disaster unrivaled in our nation until Katrina blew through. Galveston rebuilt, but the Houston Ship Channel, which went through various stages of widening and deepening, siphoned off much of Galveston’s ship traffic and therefore wealth over the decades.

Galveston floundered through decades of casinos and crime and decay in the moist sea air, and then, in the 1980s, when Texas was shaking off the meltdown of the oil industry by investing in tourism, the island revived and now it’s a popular family vacation destination (it appears no one visits the island in summer with fewer than four children) and cruise port.


The last time I visited Galveston was the mid 1990s and I expected to see it changed, riding the wave of prosperity that has luxurified everything it washed over. But from the looks of it, new hotel development along Galveston’s seawall (built to protect the city from a repeat of the 1900 disaster) ended around 1989, unless you count the prefab chain hotels popping up here and there. Residential development is somewhat more robust, with high-end developments such as Beachtown, rising from the sands. (Beachtown is designed by the same folks, and along the same lines, as the planned communities Seaside and Rosemary Beach in Florida.) We’ll see what happens now that the bottom has dropped out of our crazy housing market.


Across the narrow island, on Galveston Bay, The Strand (modeled after London’s Strand) survived the storm and now the lovely iron-front buildings house souvenir stores of the most craptacular nature. Put down the elephant made of seashells and walk away. Nobody needs it, nobody wants it. Streets of surrounding neighborhoods are studded with spectacular Victorian historic homes and mansions, some open for touring.

We mostly bummed around the beach side. Our hotel, the San Luis Resort, has a crazy pool with grottos and waterfalls and a slide and a cool bar--poolside and swim-up--and enough children to populate one of the smaller nearby islands. We spent some time there, some time walking the long beaches, some time eating greasy seafood and more time than we intended in a semi-ersatz biker bar with a view of the beach and some of the most godawful loud cheezepop music we’ve ever suffered through. We stopped in for a quick drink and snack and hours later had new friends and a fuzzy view of things.

Galveston is hot and humid and it has many smells, among them the whang of eccentricity. It is island people and beach people and Texans and historians (the Galveston Historical Foundation is strong and motivated), all iconoclasts. It’s an urban beach town, a ripe concoction of seaside and industry. It's a tourist destination but without the sheen that has polished the authenticity right off a lot of places. (Think about Antiques Roadshow--when you strip the original finish and redo a piece of furniture, it might look prettier in a superficial sense but it loses much of its soul.)


Galveston reeks of soul. I might could live there. I might be just eccentric enough.

P.S. Good luck getting the song out of your head.

Labels: galveston, texas, travel

I passed a herd of miniature asses yesterday.

No, really. I know that’s what they were because I saw miniature asses races at the State Fair of Texas one year. They’re cute little donkeys, they look like plush Eeyores, only happier. They were grazing in a big field under a blue, blue sky studded with cartoon clouds.

I was driving by on Texas highway 281, en route from Austin home. I was taking the back roads because Willy Nelson was having a big blowout at Carl’s Corner, on I-35, the main highway. So instead of coping with mind-numbing traffic, I was meandering through small towns, past "hay for sale--square or round bales" signs and roadside fireworks stands and occasionally someone selling peaches and watermelons from the back of a truck. (I should have stopped but that’s tough for me when I get moving.)

I had my mouth set on a Whataburger, but couldn’t find any on this highway so I finally opted for Dairy Queen and was enjoying a Hungr-Buster Junior and Raul Malo on the iPod when I passed those cute little miniature asses.

I don’t care what anyone says, nothing beats a road trip.

I understand that the road trip might lose favor as we become more cognizant of the damage our fuel guzzling ways have wrought, and as gas gets increasingly dear. (I was pleased to have filled up a $3.93 9/10 a gallon, the cheapest gas I saw all the way home, except for the $1.83 sign still up at a long-abandoned gas station. Funny how pennies differences matter to us in this context and no other.)

So I was bummed by this cranky op-ed Michael Paterniti. The New York Times asked several writers to reflect on the consequences, good and bad, of gas prices and a diatribe against the road trip was what Paterniti came up with.

It made me sad and annoyed because I don’t understand dichotomous thinking that says if the stay trip is good then the road trip is bad. I like them both. I have two favorite ways to vacation. One is a long road trip fueled by gummy bears, beef jerky and tunes. The other is a rental cottage or apartment, where I can settle in, learn a place in microcosm and pretend to be a local.

But the road trip is my true love. My first real trip was across the United States with two girlfriends in a baby blue Plymouth Duster. I then moved on to the Greyhound bus, an alternate form of road trip. Then, I got a car. (Yeah—I didn’t learn to drive until I was 19 years old and didn’t own a car until I was 22.)

Nothing, nothing, nothing is better than seeing the country in large scale and small (Texas plains and miniature asses) through a windshield, than singing along with the radio, than road food and road thoughts and, if you have companionship, road conversations. As the body wanders so does the mind.

My alternate route yesterday took two hours longer than the usual route (five hours instead of three) and admittedly, I was a crispy critter when I finally reached my own driveway. The drive also drank half a tank of gas, about $25 worth in my car. And it gave me a Yeti-sized carbon footprint for that one day.

So I understand that the road trip may be an American icon to be relegated to history. I understand that and I hate it and if I must give it up, will do so with deep sadness. When I am old—really old—I will sit in a rocking chair and reminisce about the days when I could just get in my car and go—looking for America and finding it.

Do you like my new business card?

Labels: air travel, news, road trip, texas

My story about the ranch where I spent my birthday. I love this place.

The Wildcatter Ranch: Hill Country without the crowds

The Texas hills range beyond the increasingly congested and action-packed triangle of Austin, San Antonio and Fredericksburg. While the popular epicenter gets all the attention, beyond that bustling region, the hills relax into broad tranquil vistas perfect for a weekend of unwinding.

The Wildcatter Ranch & Resort sits on 1,500 acres in Graham, Texas, about 100 miles northwest of Fort Worth—an area that local residents are calling the North Texas Hill County. Here the land studded with mesquite, oak and juniper begins stretching out to plains and the Brazos River is a grand golden ribbon winding through loosely laid hills.

The land on which the Wildcatter sits was first owned by Colonel E.S. Graham, founder of the namesake town, and now belongs to two of his great-grandchildren: Glenn Street and his sister Anne Street Skipper, who has a large home on the property with her husband, Broadway producer Mike Skipper--whose most recent project, In The Heights, was just nominated for 13 Tony awards.

Opened in 2005, the family-owned Wildcatter is high-end romantic getaway, with 12 suites, an infinity pool and hot tub overlooking Texas’ infinite horizon, and a lively steakhouse and bar. The Wildcatter also is a family-friendly resort, with activities such as horseback riding on miles of trails, ATV tours, canoeing on placid Connor Creek, skeet shooting, archery and a hand-operated mechanical bull named Mighty Buckey. (Because he’s hand-operated, he’s not as rambunctious as the mechanical bull famously featured in the movie Urban Cowboy.)

The swath of North Texas in which the Wildcatter sits is steeped in history. The iconic Goodnight-Loving Trail started about 20 miles from the ranch and some of Oliver Loving’s descendants still live in the area.(Representing the other side of the equation, the resort keeps a resident herd of longhorns, including Big Boy, who has the third largest spread—horn length—in Texas.) The Elm Creek Raid of 1864, in which Comanche killed 12 people, kidnapped women and children and stole 10,000 head of cattle occurred nearby. “The Searchers,” starring John Wayne, was based on this raid.

Keeping with the area’s rich history, each suite at the Wildcatter is themed to a significant person, place or event and decorated in pretty, sturdy and comfortable Western style, with locally made furniture and historic photographs. You can stay in the unromantically named Cattle Raisers Association Room, (the organization’s accomplishments include eradicating screw worm in the Southwest and promoting cattle-raising across Texas), the Brazos Indian Reservation room, the Warren Wagon Train room or the Marlow Brothers room. (“The Sons of Katie Elder,” another John Wayne films was based on the Marlow Brothers’ story. You can borrow the film, or other classic Westerns, from the ranch library to watch in your room.)

Many of the suites sleep four people and all open out to a long back porch, properly equipped with rocking chairs and the aforementioned endless horizon.



An expansion scheduled to open in October will add more hotel rooms and 10,000 square feet of conference space. The Wildcatter already offers “Signature Series Workshops” in native plants and Texas-style home décor, and it can accommodate team building activities for small groups. (Consider it during fall branding, suggests Anne Skipper. “Just getting the calves separated from their mamas can be more challenging than a ropes course,” she says.)

Nearby, downtown Graham is an untaxing couple of hours should you decide to tear yourself away from the Wildcatter’s tranquility. The town wears its history modestly. It has the nation’s largest town square, although still lacking much of the ye olde teddy bears bustle of many Texas town squares.

Alongside the new Young County courthouse, which is a good-looking circa 1932 limestone Moderne-style limestone monolith, stands an old stone arch, the remains of the 1884 courthouse. Across from that, the Old Post Office Museum and Art Center has changing exhibits. You also can tour the restored buildings of Fort Belknap, founded 1851 and abandoned in 1857.

For nightlife, however, head back to the Wildcatter, where resort guests, weekenders with homes at nearby Possum Kingdom, and locals gather at the Blowout Saloon and Wildcatter Steakhouse. The evening begins with a daily happy hour (membership to the private club is $5 a year), then move to the dining room. Chef Bob Bratcher cuts his own steaks and makes his own rubs and sauces, and start the evening’s indulgence with “Texas Toothpicks”—fried jalapeno and onion strips. A local band plays on the porch every Thursday night, happy hour to close, and on Fridays when the resort is full, and two-stepping is encouraged. (Or whatever kind of dancing you can manage—visiting dudes have been known to improvise.)

The Wildcatter Ranch is a hill country getaway close to home (if home is the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex) and its hills are lovely too. And not as crowded.

Wildcatter Ranch, 6062 Hwy. 16 South, Graham, TX 76450; 940-549-3500; 888 GO2WCRR (888 462 9277); www.wildcatterranch.com Rates are $239 per night Sunday-Thursday, $399 Friday and $369 Saturday. Activities such as horseback riding, canoeing, archery, skeet shooting and ATV tours are available at an extra charge.

The ranch also offers “Signature Series Workshops,” including a workshop on Designing the Texas Home September 10-11. For more information or reservations for the limited-space workshops, call 940-549-3500 or e-mail travel@wildcatterranch.com.

The Steakhouse is open to the public Wednesday through Saturday for dinner and Sunday for lunch from 11-2. Other times, it is open to resort guests only, breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Labels: guest ranch, resort, texas, travel

We spent my birthday at the wonderful Wildcatter Ranch in Graham Texas. I’ve written about this place in the past and will pass along that article in a separate post because if you live in North Texas then this is a place you want to get away to. To which you want to get away. Currently it has just 12 rooms but a new hotel with more rooms is under construction, which is kind of a pity but a ranch has gotta do what a ranch has gotta do.

My friend Diana and her exceedingly smart and handsome boys, Francisco and Eamon, came down for the festivities. Helen and John from Austin dropped by for lunch on Sunday. Nancy and Sarah and Jenny and Mary and Chuck and Michelle helped me usher in the new decade. And my Tommy, of course.

Mostly what we did was hang out by the beautiful pool, which has a long view of rolling hills. Hawks make lazy circles in the sky. The scent of sage perfumes the air. And other applicable cliches.



Beer and wine and champagne were liberally imbibed. My new summer drink is the Miller Chill. I don’t care for beer but this limey brew is yum. Enormous meals were eaten. Much laughter occurred. I hardly even noticed the aging process, I was so busy having fun. On Saturday night, a huge lightning storm moved through and we sat in rockers on the porch and watched the distant light show. It was one of those forever memories.

For my birthday dinner, I ate most of this frighteningly enormous chicken fried steak.



I’m ashamed but I did it anyway. (The fabulous birthday tiara was from my friend Jenny, who made a party out of my birthday dinner, with poppers and confetti and party favors and a tiara. XOXOX, Jenny!) Then, I somehow managed to eat a slice of Nancy's homemade pecan pie, the best pecan pie EVER.

The weekend was so damn warm and fuzzy I can hardly complain about my age. I mean, if this represents my life so far, what do I have to complain about?

Thanks everyone who came to party and all my dear virtual friends who sent their greetings. It was one helluva birthday. Now, I start counting backwards.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! IT'S ALL ABOUT MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!


I'll resume regular programming tomorrow.

Labels: dude ranch, guest ranch, midlife, resort, texas, travel

You learn something new every day (if you’re lucky). I had no idea there was a Texas-shaped swimming pool in Plano. How delicious is that? If I lived closer, I’d join. Keep the pool alive, Planites. Join today.

On my one trip to Branson, MO many years ago, I stayed at the Music Country Motor Inn because it had a guitar-shaped swimming pool. Too bad the postcard doesn’t do the pool justice.


I don’t remember the room. I do remember seeing Mel Tillis and Shoji Tabuchi. Just what is the Shoji Tabuchi Show that everyone loving American music is raving about? his website asks. A Japanese fiddler. Yes indeedy.

***

According to this article, when the economy struggles, lipstick sales soar. Interesting. I wonder if then, these women promptly lose said lipsticks, as I do. Yes, the problem continues. Where do they go?

What do you give up when money gets tight? For one thing, Jack isn’t getting shmancy organic biscuits these days. When we have money, I order them online from a small company because with these biscuits, his breath stays sweet. These days, he’s eating semi-fancy Petco biscuits and his breath can knock you over from across the room. We also stop shopping at Whole Foods. Tom Thumb is good enough. We’re cutting back on our meat consumption a bit, too. Which is good for us in many various ways.

I have definitely started watching my driving. The other day I met friends for lunch in Plano, which is a haul for me. Driving home, I realized that gas added about another $12 to the cheap lunch. I watched that gauge as obsessively as I watch taxi meters in New York. (Although that’s less about the price of the ride than the performance pressure of calculating the tip. I calculate and recalculate the tip every time the meter flips.)

What else? I go the library more. I don’t buy many new books but when money is tight, I buy even fewer. I’m somewhat less likely to order wine when I eat out. (Somewhat. Depends on the day of the week.)

The one thing I still can’t bring myself to give up, though, is having someone clean my house every two weeks. It’s a luxury I can no longer live without. Life is short, my house gets really dirty.

***

Ms. Krit sent that lipstick article, and she sent me this article, about how to buy a dictionary.

Her favorite part and mine:

Look for dirty words.

All parts of English are important, even those trouble-making words that are coarse, derogatory, or sexual. A good lexicographer will include the most common words of all kinds, including ones that can be troublesome.

If a dictionary’s editors have chosen to leave out words they consider offensive, we must also wonder what other words they have left out. What are their criteria for judging words to be offensive? Are they leaving out words that concern any religion but their own? Are they leaving out words that deal with political viewpoints they don’t support? Are they leaving out words simply because they think they’re ugly? Are they including words simply because they like them? Are they deleting insulting words for their own ethnic group and leaving in insulting words for other groups?

See? Profanity does have a noble purpose? Fuckin’ A!

***

My favorite New Yorker cartoon of the week, right here.

***

Some Mother’s Day snark for the unsentimental.

Is this the scariest ad EVER? It’s the attack of the mom clones. Not to mention the scary clothes. The outfit on Mom #1 is clearly designed for the mom you hate. Stacey and Clinton, please help.

Here, from my favorite ecard site, is a collection of Mother’s Day cards you would never dare send, much as you might want to.

I’ve seen articles that say people are going to spend more on their mothers this year, and articles that say they are going to spend less. Predictably, mothers say, “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll sit in the dark.”

This just in: Mother's Day press release with infuriating unnecessary apostrophes: Wanted to pass along this last minute gift idea for those active mom's or for those mom's that always have sore, tired feet. Please let me know if you would like more information or need any images or product samples.

To add to the idiocy, the message text gives no clue as to what the product is. I would have to open an attachment for any more information. Not gonna do it, Matt. If for no other reason than because you're an idiot. What would your mother think?

Don’t know what to get mom? Perhaps this:



***

And finally, searches of the week.

My portrait of a xoloescuintle was very popular on Thursday. Maybe someone was passing it around? It was accessed a number of times. Also, from the same page, the photo of the pyramids and my arty farty flower shot.

I was disturbed by the search

i hate ps 166

How could anyone hate PS 166, my beloved alma mater? Now, if they knew Ethel O. Ebin, the principal when I was there, I could understand hating her, nasty old bat. I wish I had a photo of her. She had a grubby beehive hairdo that looked like it housed rodents.

Other searches this week:

Thank God I books for sale Castagnini
inside the brain of a narcissist
Narcissist Bully
negative reviews of elizabeth gilbert's eat, pray, love
gmail emails not reaching their destination
derivation of lithium name
cashmere bouquet plant
customer support gmail
outlook autofill subject line
mayeaux pronunciation
odd looking dogs
give me obama email adress and guest 2008@yahoo.com
jack kent cooke Conundrum
gmail to yahoo not getting sent
sophia needlepoint
jean fain
46/64 baby boomers magazine dallas morning news
CAROLINE HELDMAN self objectification
2008 guess book of jane in the usa @yahoo.com @gmail.com
"black and blue" dallas
intriguing
fun shit in dallas texas
"Advanced Backup Plug-In"
Menade du: "Advanced Backup PlugIn"
picture of someone eating a twinkie
knyledge Sutton
2008 email contact of directors in bangkok @gmail.com
smacking upside the head emoticon
rooting cashmere bouquet
+27+2008+2009 @yahoo.com OR @yahoo.com OR mail.com "director"
ooed and ahed
pronounce loehmann's
"an open mind" book markova
55L alpine pack = too big??
beautiful aunties with saris


That is all. Happy Friday.

Labels: advertising, blogging, books, branson, cosmetics, dillard's, economy, flotsam, google, mother's day, news, photography, public relations, shopping, texas, words

I went to a nifty little Earth Day fair yesterday expressly to consult with native plants experts about the Garden Bed of Death, which some of you might remember as the foundation beds around my patio that kill anything I plant in them. Cruel, cruel Garden Bed of Death.

I am happy to report encouraging signs of life in the GBoD this year. The native grasses are putting forth some tentative green shoots. The purple coneflowers are robust. The American Beautyberry seems to have taken root as has another other shrub whose name escapes me. It’s cute, though, with little round leaves and hot pink berries in winter.

The GBoD isn’t looking lush, but I remain hopeful. I tossed some zinnia seeds in there last week and those are sprouting, too.

But just in case it all goes into a death spiral when the summer sun hits, I decided to consult some experts at the fair. The challenge: Full shade in morning, brutal western sun all afternoon.

The first guy I spoke to—a former colleague, coincidentally—couldn’t help me, though he tried. We talked about all the plants he had for sale and nothing looked promising. He wished me luck and I moved on.

Then I talked to a guy at the Friends of Oak Cliff Parks who suggested I try Cashmere Bouquet. (Remember the soap, Cashmere Bouquet? It’s not that.) He said it’s robust, it has an attractive leaf, a late-summer bloom and it attracts butterflies. It’s also invasive, he cautioned but, I bought a couple of one-gallon pots anyway—for a $1 each, it seemed low risk.

Back home I researched the plant further and found lots of people who are happy with it but also lots of discussion about how invasive it is. It sends out runners that evidently can penetrate kryptonite and one person said it smells kind of like vitamin pills.

Now I’m scared to death of it. The two pots with their puny little stalks lurk on my patio table, threatening to overgrow my garden, my house, my life. If I let it run rampant, will it kill me?

I am paralyzed. Do I plant them in the GBoD and take the risk that they will choke out the other plants making such valiant efforts to survive? Do I find another spot in the yard to plant them? Will they fill the yard with purple blooms that smell of vitamins? Will I have to spend my days fighting back the Cashmere Bouquet?
Last night, I dreamed someone (I can’t recall who) decided to be helpful and plant them in my GBoD. I was horrified, terrified, appalled.

Can anything save me from my new plants? What do I do?

Labels: dead plants, dreams, garden, live plants, texas

For many of us in Dallas, the stretch of highway between Dallas and Austin is as familiar and well-worn as the path between the couch and the refrigerator.

I-35 is a blessing and a bane—a zippy jaunt to a beloved town that has grown slower, rougher, more torn up and less lovely every year. This is a major artery through the nation. Trucks and heavy traffic, heat and cold, have rutted the asphalt, construction areas seem to settle in for decades, with occasional adjustments to the orange cones and lane closures. While landmarks still include the dome caterpillar at the Monolithic Dome Institute and the shop of guy who does chainsaw sculpture, much of the view is malls and industrial sites of various uninteresting sorts. Except, of course, Waco, which is a nifty little town to visit and I don’t care what you think.

On a good day, the drive takes three hours. Today was a great day, I made it in 2:45, with no stops. The longest it has ever taken me was five hours, due to blinding rain and construction. What a white-knuckle misery that was.

(Digression: I left here on Sunday morning. I’d planned an early start and dragged myself out of bed at about 6:30. I was in the kitchen, staring into space and drinking coffee, when I heard Tom calling weakly from the bedroom, where he was trying to remain asleep, “Sophie … daylight savings time.” Shit. I was barely awake and I was late already. This explains my packing job. I forgot shampoo, deodorant, earrings, eye makeup remover, and a belt.)

Anyhoo, we all have our rituals for the drive. I usually am compelled to stop in West for kolaches, which are Czech baked goods. (Not this time, though. I was in too much of a hurry.) I like the cottage cheese kolaches, the very thought of which gives Tom the dry heaves. He likes sausage rolls and cherry kolaches, if I’m not mistaken. And we like to stop at a little butcher off the highway that makes the world’s best beef jerky. Beef jerky and gummi bears are the road’s two essential food groups, to my mind.

A random observance: I noticed that while the billboards for Up In Smoke Bar-B-Q still feature a worried-looking cartoon cow, the cow is no longer being consumed by flames, which was always a little disturbing to me.

I was starting to think about filling up the tank when I spotted a Chevron with the ungodly low price of $2.76 a gallon. Score! I pulled off, pulled into the station, opened my gas cap—and then realized the station was long closed. Boarded up. Moths and cobwebs. Der. I pulled into a Shell station across the street and paid $3.16 a gallon. I later realized that this was about the highest priced gas on the road. What do you bet they leave that crusty old Chevron sign up on purpose, to catch hapless knuckleheads like me? A mile down the road I could have paid nearly .10 a gallon less.

Also, because I have promised Kristen a bathroom reference whenever possible…I see they are building some kind of bathroom spectacular fun house happy play area rest stop,to replace the old rest stop near Salado, at which I have rested many, many times. These new “Safety Rest Areas” are part of a statewide initiative to improve the rest areas and now, says to TxDot (Texas Department of Transportation) “motorists can’t thank us enough.”

Though not open yet, the new rest complexes look splendid indeed, all made of stone with playgrounds and walking trails (and according to the website, wifi as well as heated and air-conditioned bathrooms). However, I find myself already feeling a little nostalgic for the open air bathrooms with the stainless steel toilets to which I’ve grown accustomed. They weren’t fancy but I have to say, they were always immaculate. As I waited for a stall on Sunday, I gazed up at the blue sky above and reminisced.

So, how’s this for a rambling and inconsequential blog? As soon as I have more time, I’ll tell you about the rockin’ exhibit about the Beats I saw at the Harry Ransom Center on Sunday.

In conclusion, on the drive home today I listened to Christina Aguilera’s Beautiful three times in a row. I’m such a sappy girl but that song moves me.

Labels: road trip, texas, travel

Comments are spiraling out of control at my WorldHum essay, too.

Labels: texas, writing