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2002-05-20 - 2:13 p.m.

I've revealed some of my bloopers and blunders, told you what I’d do for a million dollars and made lists of things I've done I probably shouldn't have done. Through the years I've done a lot of things I probably shouldn't have done, but there are some things I wouldn't do for all the tea in China.

I'm not big on air travel. In fact, I dig in my heels and go kicking and screaming onto an airplane, then suffer through hours of white-knuckled terror. The only time I’m not gripping the seat arms is when I’m chewing my nails to the quick! Whenever I have to fly, I insist on an aisle seat--this so I can relieve my nervous bladder, but mostly because I absolutely will not sit near the window. I suffer vertigo if I look out, and, absurd as it may sound, I think I might either fall or get sucked out of the tiny little window, cartwheeling thousands of feet to earth and ending up a splatter. Because of this fear, there’s no way I’d ever skydive!

Getting on the plane is nerve wracking enough, but to yank open the door and deliberately leap off the damn plane is, in my opinion, a sure sign of dementia. I can’t fathom either the fun or thrill in plummeting toward earth at a thousand miles an hour! I’m sure I would suffer a heart attack from such foolishness, and I know both bladder and sphincter muscle would let go and send undesirable matter off into the wild blue yonder.

I feel the same way about roller coaster rides or most any ride at amusement parks. My momma didn’t raise no total fool, and I am not crawling aboard those contraptions so I can ralph all over my own lap and gawd knows who else behind me. It seems a bit ridiculous to me to pay to barf.

Although I am a fan of zoos, I won’t enter the reptile houses. I don’t like snakes; I have a great big, irrational fear of snakes (probably a behavior learned from my parents as they both hate snakes), and anytime I see a snake I will my feets not to fail me. All snakes come in one size—gawdam big. As far as I’m concerned, even a small garter snake is the size of a python. At home I carry a three wood golf club anytime I have to wander off into areas I think may be the sunning spot for a snake. No snake lives if I see it while mowing, and if I can find my garden hoe I’m death to all slinky, slithery creatures daring to come near my house.

I would never keep snakes as pets, and those damn fools who kiss snakes, charm snakes and do gawd knows what else with them are definitely a brick shy of a full load. I get goosebumps just looking at a snake picture, and am completely disgusted with people who keep them in their homes.

Despite all the allure and supposed magic of The Big Apple, there’s no way I’d live in New York City. Visiting the nuttiness is enough for me. The city stinks of garbage and diesel fuel, the black noise is deafening and the buildings tower and conceal the sky, making Gotham a murky claustrophobic warren. I sometimes complain about the lack of entertainment in smaller cities, but there’s nothing that could make me want to live in the mess of New York.

Taking a life is not something I’d do for all the tea in China. Maybe I should qualify that. I’m relatively sure I would engage my I’ll-get-you revenge if someone killed a member of my family or someone I loved. But deliberately take a life? No.

The movies I prefer are suspense and mystery. I’m a voracious reader of suspense and mystery novels, getting caught up in the twists and turns and red herrings and trying to guess who dunit, but in real life I have no time for murderers or people who wantonly hurt others.

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