It IS all about me.

The San Antonio Rock-n-Roll half marathon was Sunday, and to my joy a friend announced that she was pregnant and dropped from the full to the half marathon. I'm absolutely happy for her and her husband and that lucky baby, but I'm pretty sure the whole thing is about me and my need for a running partner. A week before the race I realized that I didn't know anyone running anything like my pace and imagined myself jogging alone amongst the crowd, lonely tears pouring down my face as I passed the Fat Elvises rocking-and-rolling at the mile markers. I'm pretty sure there's a French silent film about that.

So I got me a buddy and what a buddy she was - when my optimistic estimated pace ended up being a big fat lie she didn't complain, and when I accidentally body checked a girl at the finish line she didn't judge me. That girl STOPPED JUST BEFORE THE FINISH LINE and totally deserved to be slammed by my shoulder - I couldn't get around her in time.

I'm still East Coast enough to laugh a little and know that she deserved it - I'll bet she cost me the :48 in my 2:10:47 time! Who stops before the finish line? Why does that random girl hate me so much? In fact, she should just be thankful I didn't get even and shove her again like a good East Coast girl - I guess Texas has been good for me. And luckily for her I'm not Texan enough to shoot her.

Like gum on my shoe

Last week I saw a bunch of friends I hadn't talked to in a while, and they asked about my cats. And I had to admit that I only have one cat, and the reason I haven't told the end of the Tragic Tale of Oops is that I'm embarrassed. I'm embarrassed that I have a biting, scratching, pain in the butt cat living in my house, and he started attacking people when he saw Oops outside. Like, all four sets of claws and a full white set of teeth, sunk into the leg of the person nearest the door when he saw Oops making friends outside. Gigolo had a bad case of alpha cat jealousy, and I started to realize that maybe when we first brought him inside, all injured and meow-y, it wasn't because he was being bullied. It was because he was being a bully and getting scratched up when other cats defended themselves.

Damn cat.

And Oops was all sweet and cuddly and never scratched or bit a single person, oh, and it gets better, OOPS WAS HURT. She had a bite mark on her tail that wasn't healing. But I couldn't bring her inside because Gigolo would eat her up. About this time my dad, with his engineering and MBA wisdom, pointed out that though I feel invested in Gigolo with all his vet visits and treats and toys, he's a sunk cost. I won't get my money back, and it may be time to cut my losses and get a Good Cat. And oh, I was tempted. At Ed's birthday party Gigolo pulled that teeth and claws move on a guest, who was fortunately wearing jeans, and Gigolo will never know how close he came to being chucked out the back door.

And the reason he wasn't? Because I CAN'T GET RID OF HIM. I'm positive that he'd just walk right back in the house, or sit on the porch and meow and meow, and fight other cats, until we let him back inside. Like he did in January. Like he does if I lock him in the other room after he does something terrible. I realized that I'm completely stuck with this black-and-white menace, and it would be cruel to Oops to bring her into Gigolo's territory.

But don't feel too bad for Oops yet, she's met the kitty equivalent of Santa Claus. I hope this is a smug look on her face:

In case you forgot...

...I live in Texas.

So last Saturday my friend and I were at the old Lone Star Brewery for the Indie Bash, superfun. And at one point the singer told a story. About making a music video. There's a line where the song says "I pulled a gun and shot a man" and the video director said, "so here you'll pull your gun."

And the singer said, "okay, where's the gun?"

"Didn't you bring yours?"

"No, I was flying."

"Oh. We assumed you'd have your gun."

"Sorry, all I have is my electric shaver."

So the singer was telling a funny story about how he "pulled a shaver and shot a man, " but I was caught on the assumption that he'd be packing. How many people were armed at that festival? How close did I come to getting "shaved" by the guy I stole the free beer coozy from?

And most importantly, does my pepper spray count as packing? I want to be Texan too!

Hot blooded

I didn't really notice it wasn't summer anymore until our anniversary came around. Ed and I purposely got married in October so we'd have cool weather and fall foliage. So Tuesday we went out to dinner to celebrate two years, and Wednesday it was 91 degrees. Hot, yes, but nothing special - this past summer San Antonio had more days above 100 degrees than any summer in recorded history. The previous record was 36 days; 2009 had 59. It seemed to me that the average temperature was about 107. I had to run before the sun came up, or literally be sick the entire rest of the day, no matter how much water I carried in my cool new water belt. Yeehaw, bitches.

But fall has officially come, and we shouldn't have any more 90 degree days. And I don't have to get up before the sun. So this morning, when I got out about 7:45am, almost two hours after my summertime deadline for setting out, I was happy. And then I was cold, shivering cold, and ran faster to warm myself up. After a few minutes it wasn't unbearably, brutally cold, but I wished I'd worn long pants. I spent most of my run trying to think where I'd stashed all my winter clothes, since I'd need to change out my wardrobe in the next couple of days. I have a Nike stocking cap somewhere, I'd better find it before the half marathon in November. And my scarf. I'm gonna need that scarf.

To be fair, I got back a couple of hours ago, but according to weather.com it's 65 degrees in San Antonio right now. It's supposed to get up to 77 and sunny. I hope I can find my mittens!

And now for something completely different

An article not about a cat? I'm going to ruin my rep as a crazy cat lady in training, but the other thing I've been training for is the Rock and Roll half marathon, November 15. And because everyone I know who's done a marathon has ended up in physical therapy, and because I have occasional knee pain myself, I decided to pay to join a training program. They meet every Sunday morning and have run coaches and water stops and I figured it'd be a great way to meet new people in San Antonio.

I should say, they meet every Saturday night. Because if you're not there by 5:55am, which to me is still the middle of the night, you get left. That first sneaker hits the curb at 6am sharp, be there or...be Katie.

Because I found that getting up at 5:15 on Sunday mornings is IMPOSSIBLE. I went for a few weeks, then something clicked in my brain that made me completely unable to participate. For example, one Sunday morning I woke up, put on my gear, got in the car, got on the interstate, turned around, came home, took off my gear, and got back in bed. I barely remember doing it. Another time I got up, sat down in the living room to tie my shoes, and went back to sleep on the couch. It's a month until the run, and I've trained with the group probably half a dozen times.

My knee hurts.

Normal names

Ed and I were in the kitchen, watching Oops chowing down on the back porch. I said, "so, we're going to adopt her?" and Ed said, "yes, but her name is not Oops. We need another name."

I shrugged, then had to adjust my sequins; I was dolled up in a cocktail dress and dark lipstick for the opera. Since we were in the kitchen and this was an important conversation, I decided to boost myself up onto the counter, where I usually sit when we're both in the kitchen. Ed watched me jump, realize I was going to wrinkle my lace, abort my jump and throw myself back onto the floor with a graceful THUD SKID "Crap! Stupid shoes!"

He continued, "We need a name that goes with Gigolo. What's the name of the prostitute in La Traviata?" Ed and I went to La Traviata at the Kennedy Center once, which was why he was still in his pajamas half an hour before Madama Butterfly. He's paid his dues to Art.

"She's a courtesan, not a prostitute. Get some culture, dude."

"Same same. What's her name?" He turned to the computer (yes, we have a computer in the kitchen, have you met Ed?) and learned that La Traviata tells the story of the courtesan Violetta Valery, and Violet the cat was christened. Though I still call her Oops.

First things last

Oops, unlike Gigolo when I first started feeding him, doesn't live in our yard. Around dusk most nights she'll show up meowing for food, but during the day, no amount of "here kitty" and shaking her food bowl will make her come. I haven't completely decided whether to bring her in the house, but there are so many unwanted cats in this neighborhood that I'm starting to feel irresponsible for feeding an un-fixed stray. I need to get her fixed before she gets pregnant and there are even more starving kittens.

So tonight when she arrived for her dusk feeding, I put her bowl down. Then I ran to the garage and put together a litter box and a water bowl. Then I took her food bowl away and carried it into the garage. And Oops, poor, trusting Oops, followed me into the garage. I pushed the garage door button. She ran towards the street until I stopped the garage door and coaxed her back. This time when I started the door, I grabbed her and held on. She squirmed and struggled, but didn't bite or claw, and when the door was almost closed I let her go. She ran at that door so hard it started opening again. I pushed her down again and finished shutting the door. I let her go when the door was closed and she took off, somewhere in the bikes and picnic gear and tools in the garage. Goodness knows where she got to, I looked for a while but didn't find her again. I let myself out through the side door.

THEN, in a bit of brilliant timing, I came inside and looked online. The San Antonio free spay and neuter program is closed Mondays. You need an appointment anyways, so I've locked her in the garage for the indefinite future. I'm a terrible person. A cat napper. And in half an hour I'm taking her food away, just in case our vet has an appointment for surgery tomorrow. I've put her in kitty Sing-Sing.

Oops I did it again

For the last week, I've been out of the house between 8:30am and 6:30pm. This doesn't exactly mean I've got a job, but it sorta does, and my brain hurts thinking about it so I'm not going to try to write down what exactly is happening. The government's fiscal year ends later this month and things will return to the status quo. Whee.

But my being out of the house has had a very annoying consequence, which is that when I get home at 6:30 and just want to sit on the couch for half an hour, it's more irritating than I can say to be sneak attacked and bit by a playful cat. After being alone all day Gigolo's got all kinds of energy, biting energy, and I'm still allergic enough to get hives when he does. I've pretty much decided to dump him back out on the streets he came from, but he's so stupidly fat at this point that the other street cats would look at him like a chew toy. So Ed suggested that we get him a playmate, another cat to keep him company. I ignored him. Gigolo alone is enough trouble without getting him a partner in crime.


Then, last Saturday we were coming home late and there was a tiny cat in the driveway. I bent down and he came running right over, weaving between my legs and jumping into my lap. When I picked him up his poor little bones were poking through his skin, so I looked at Ed. Ed just shrugged, "If you feed him, you've adopted him." The little cat meowed at that very moment, and I heard him say, "yes, adopt me! I'm so tiny and cute!" So I fed him on the back porch, out of the same containers Gigolo first used. I petted the little buddy some more and came inside to bed.

The next morning before I even got out of bed I groaned. Oops, I adopted another cat. For goodness' sake! I do not need another cat!

But Oops the cat was nowhere to be seen. That was Saturday, and he didn't come around again until yesterday. He's even skinnier, and even more meow-y, and even more desperate to be touched and held. I fed him again.

Ed says I CANNOT name any more pets, and that Oops is NOT this cat's name. And if it is his name, Oops is NOT living in the house. He wants a cat named Lucky, or Kitty, or something NORMAL.

Backhanded compliments

I am not a dumpy heifer.

I have it on good authority, the waiter at lunch told me so. Because in a moment of absolute insanity, I asked him if the restaurant was hiring. He brought me back an application and said that the bartender had asked, when handing over the application, what I looked like. The waiter told me he'd given me props because if I was a dumpy heifer they wouldn't even consider me.

I smiled about that for an hour, but didn't fill out the application.

My first semester in grad school I decided to make some tuition money by waitressing. Tons of my friends had done it and pulled down bank, so I signed on with the local pizzeria and went to their corporate headquarters for a week of training. Then I shadowed a seasoned server for two weeks. Then I got my own tables for a week. Then I quit. I am small. I am clumsy. I like to eat during dinner time and I get grumpy when I don't, so I became the girl who had to make a couple of trips from the kitchen to get a small table their pizza, who spilled drinks on the customers, and who was crabby as Yosemite Sam by 8pm. I got myself a part-time office job and tried to throw in my pizza apron. The manager wouldn't let me; he had me keep it for when I came back.

Apparently he was afraid he'd be stuck with a dumpy heifer who didn't spill on people.

A matter of time

It took eight months, but Ed's dream has come true. He got to see someone fall in the river. And that someone was me.

The End.


Kidding! Of course I have many, many explanations for what happened last night. Apparently people fall in the river fairly regularly, usually up near the bars and restaurants and after drinking a few. Ever since we learned this Ed has thought that seeing someone fall in the river might be the hilarious highlight of his year. I'm no ballerina, and he's asked me a few times if I've fallen in yet, scared he might miss the moment. I hadn't, and was offended that he'd assume I would. It's one thing to be so clumsy I break dishes, completely another to fall off a sidewalk.

So, to the point. In the beginning...we were sitting on the couch, we'd finished dinner, and even old episodes of Rome seemed bor-ING. So Ed and I stared at each other for a few minutes, then had the brilliant idea of going for a little walk. It was a (relatively) cool and breezy night, so we wandered through the neighborhood and thought we'd jump on over to La Tuna and see what was happening. And I say "jump" and I mean "jump," since La Tuna is half a mile and a full river from our house. There's a pretty path that goes behind some of the mansions to a set of concrete stepping stones that cross the river. STEPPING STONES, people.

As we approached the river I was surprised how deep it was, since South Texas has been in a huge drought and generally the river is really low in this spot anyways. There was a couple on the stones laughing at their dogs playing in the water, and the dogs jumped on and off the stones happily, getting them very wet. And slippery. So yeah, I slipped right off the middle stone into the river up to my waist. I splashed around in shock. The lady asked if I was part labrador. Ed held out a hand and boosted me back on the stones. I looked at him. He laughed and laughed and started walking towards the other side of the river. Wait! "Um, shouldn't I go home and change?"

Ed just looked at me.

"Uh, okay?" I tentatively followed him. His shoulders were shaking and he said, "C'mon, you're drying off."

"I am NOT! I'm dripping!!"

"Well, you're not getting any wetter, so that means you're drying. Water is evaporating off you as we speak." Ed hasn't looked this happy since our wedding day. I decide to give him his moment and stop complaining, even though my toes are turning into raisins in my squelching sneakers. He takes my hand and we cross the road.

La Tuna has only outdoor seating, so I put on my best dignified face and walk past the crowd to an empty table. I sit down and people resume their conversations. A friend joins us. We stay until I'm mostly dry and jump back across the river home.

It was only when I was getting ready for bed last night that I realized my underwear was bright pink, and my pants, as you can see in this camera phone picture, were very thin.

Who says engineers can't dance?

There's a ceilidh dance called "Strip the Willow," where couples line up facing each other, women on one side of the room and men on the other. The lead couple comes together, grasps hands, spins around a couple of times, and sets off down the line, linking left elbows and spinning with the next person in line, then spinning right elbow with your partner. You spin with each person of the opposite sex, then meet your partner again at the bottom of the room for some more spinning until the end of the measure of music. Or until you fall down.

My dad was my partner.

The Chief, as we call him, is an engineer and does everything according to Best Practices. He ties his shoes efficiently, adds exactly the same amount of pepper to his eggs every Saturday morning, and he attacks traditional Scottish dances like a math problem. You could almost hear his brain turning over, "Okay, this is the part where we spin. Commence spinning!" He grabbed my hands and I was flung to every degree of the room. My shoes were two beats behind my head. "Okay, this is the part where I send Katie back to the line of men!" I was launched the five feet that most people have to dance through. By the end of the line, after 30 or more extraordinarily efficient spins down the room, I saw his hands coming towards me again and I almost ran away instead of grasping them. "The last spins! They will be the best." His grin gave his thoughts away and I'm sure my eyes showed my terror.

Back in the line of women, trying to get my inner ear back into my head, my brother came up behind me. "You know, Katie, lots of the Scottish men were also launching their partners around, but you have to give Dad credit for beating them all. I think he created the most centrifugal force in the room."

I laughed back at him, "U.S.A!!"

Loving kindness

Ed and I were in Scotland for a wedding, a Scottish wedding. The dinner choice was between chicken stuffed with haggis or beef with yorkshire pudding and all the trimmings. The after dinner choice was between death by Scotch or by beer. Fortunately, I got caught up in the ceilidh dancing and was too busy jumping around and do-si-do-ing to worry about an additional choice - to cigar or not to cigar? Ed, as a token non-dancing American, was not given an option. He was given a genuine Cuban and a glass of 12-year-old Glenfiddich.

Around 11pm he came to me, looking a little green, and said he'd be heading to the hotel room. I made fun of his cigar breath and twirled around, dancing Strip the Willow with my dad.

That night Ed was sick. It happens, especially to non-smokers who get through an entire Cuban.

The next morning, Ed was sick. I woman'd up and took my first turn driving on the left and shifting with the wrong hand.

The next lunchtime, Ed was sick. I dragged him out to look at a couple of his clan's monuments and put him back in the car.

After lunch, Ed was sick. Ed's never had a hangover like this, but I don't think he's ever smoked an entire Cuban before. I gave him some Irn-Bru (Scottish hangover cure and altogether nasty sodapop) and greasy chips. I left him to go to the Highland Games in Stirling with my sister and her husband. Jeff had also smoked at the wedding and felt queasy, but he'd only had a couple of puffs. He was fine by morning.

At dinnertime, Ed's sick. My sympathy is gone and I drag him half a mile to the restaurant, where I feed him greasy potato skins covered in chili. Anything to soak up the poison in his stomach and get him to man up and see Scotland with me. A 24 hour hangover? I ask you.

The next day, Ed's fine. We fly to Dublin. We go to dinner with my parents; I get one whiff of my food and am sick. For 24 hours. Ed brought me Gatorade and plain pretzels and other stomach-flu remedies. He didn't tell me to man up and see Ireland, and hasn't yet said "I told you so." Even when we found out that my brother and sister in law were also sick as dogs, with the stomach flu, the day after the wedding.

Another new job idea

Ed and I are just back from two weeks in Scotland and Ireland. We went for the wedding of a family friend, which was amazingly fun, and chilled around for a while after in Ed's "homeland." His clan has a castle! I want the north tower room and some ladies in waiting, please.

Then we went to Ireland and were driving through the gorgeous western Ireland country - rocky mountains covered in sheep. And suddenly I asked Ed, "what kind of person would tag a sheep?"

"Huh?"

"That sheep! It's been spray painted!"

Ed looks up from driving on the crazy skinny roads, shifts with his left hand, and agrees, "Yep, spray painted."

"Do you think Irish teenagers are so bored that they spray paint sheep? Is that like cow tipping? Those poor little sheep!"

"They seem happy enough."

"Happy? They've got blue butts! Would YOU be happy with a blue butt?"

"Am I a sheep?"

"BAA! BAA!" I laugh and laugh at my own hilarity. Have I mentioned that we were together for two whole weeks, morning, noon, and night? It's a wonder Ed didn't chuck me off the Cliffs of Moher.

The next field we passed had green sheep, and the one after that had bright pink ones. And not just a little dot on the butt, these last sheep looked like Barbie's dream sheep. Bright pink from their noses to their hind legs. In the pub that night I asked the waitress about the spray painted sheep, and she said the farmers do it on purpose, to identify their own sheep and also to make them easier to find on the rocky hills. I wonder what the ASPCA would think.

Then I have a genius idea. I can be a sheep farmer! I've been looking for a new career; I'd get myself a bunch of sheep and spray paint giant Lone Stars on their sides! Texas sheep! My sheep would clearly be the best sheep, and everyone would know it just by looking at them. I'd be the best lil' sheep farmer in Ireland, because my sheep would have Texas pride.

Yep, I've only lived in Texas six months and already know Texas is Best. Giddyup, sheep!

Ed's fault

Last night I was climbing into Ed's truck in the garage when a shooting hot pain grabbed the back of my leg. I'd managed to lean back onto the tailpipe of his motorcycle - the motorcycle he'd just ridden home from work five minutes before. I danced around yelling most of last night, grabbing anything cool and smooshing it to the back of my leg. I'm sure I was very popular with the waiters who had to clean up the pool of melted ice cubes under my dinner chair, and Ed's friend who found partially defrosted green beans in his sink.

This morning I read up on burns, and apparently the best thing I can do is leave the blister in place for as long as possible, since my body has created a sterile environment behind the blister for my skin to heal. Which makes sense, but it's so, so gross. I just want to pop it. It'll be such a gratifying ooze, I know it.

As I pointed out to Ed, this is all his fault. Ed feels about leg stubble the way most people feel about boogers; it grosses him out, so I make the wifely sacrifice of shaving every week or two. I know, I know, he doesn't deserve me. Yesterday was a shaving day only because he whined that braiding leg hair is grounds for divorce. Without him I would have had a nice coat of leg fur to insulate me from rogue tailpipes.

And because it's his fault I got burned, I get complaining privileges. I'm taking full advantage.

Rednecks

My scooter turned 500 miles earlier this week, and I was giving it a pat on the seat for being such a good boy when a motorcycle pulled up next to me at the stoplight. It was a big bike with a big bald guy and his skinny blonde girlfriend on the back, and I looked over with surprise. This guy broke one of the rules of etiquette of riding; unless we were riding "together," he should have stayed well back from me, giving me as much space as he'd give a car. Coming up in my lane next to me is something I reserve for my husband's bike. The nerve.

Nervy guy says with a grin, "Wanna race?"

Haha, buddy. We all know what your bike is compensating for. I smile gently and say "no," though secretly I know that for the first few seconds, at least, my Scoot would smoke him. I don't have to lay off the gas to shift, and Scoot is peppy. I'd be halfway down the block before Nervy and Blondie got their weight out from under them. I grin at the thought.

Nervy sees my grin and thinks we're friends. He leans in to tell me, "You know you don't have to wear a helmet in Texas, right?" He says this with the air of someone telling me an amazing secret that I'll be glad to hear, like "You know they're giving away free margaritas at Boudro's, right?"

I just look at him. Yeah, neither of them are wearing helmets, which isn't unusual in Texas, but are they really assuming I don't know I could use my head as a watermelon if I chose? That I'll stop wearing one since I don't have to wear it? Nervy keeps talking, "We've asked a bunch of people, it's true!" He's excited as a kid.

The light turns green and I wave my gloved and padded hand towards the road. "Go ahead." And as they pull in front of me I see the license tags. West Virginia.

Some stereotypes have followed me.

Business Plan

Since we arrived in San Antonio I've been talking about opening a cupcake shop, like CakeLove in DC. Something trendy and funky with seating and probably one of those old-fashioned copper espresso machines. I could see the shop in my head, all yellow stripes and ruffly apron-wearing workers. But since I know nothing about baking and even less about running a shop, I mostly talked about it in the "shouldn't I do this?" sort of way, knowing that people would always say, "yes, that's a great idea! I love cupcakes!" Of course they say, "I love cupcakes," because the only people who don't love cupcakes are losers. So what are you? Cupcake lover? I thought so.

Ends up that Cupcake Couture just opened a new location yesterday, just about where I would have opened mine. "Cupcake Couture" isn't quite as good a name as "HappyCakes," but it does look like the owners know how to frost. That picture above is from their website, that that blue frosting bow is perfect. Sigh.

So what to do next? What could make people happier than cupcakes?

Drinking.

Ed and I have essentially started a B&B for unemployed friends and relatives in the last couple of months. People fly in on a Thursday or Friday, I pick them up at the airport and take them to the Riverwalk. We order a bottle of wine or a couple of jumbo margaritas. We spend the whole weekend drinking and making fun of fat tourists. We commiserate about how finding a job is a terrible process. We laugh a lot and share stories about failure. It's a service I'm learning to offer, and if I charged like a B&B for my time, we'd be rolling in the dough. We could call it something lame but memorable, like Katie's Fat and Happy House. Bum's Rest. Dunner's Digs. Only, how to ding unemployed people to pay for my own living expenses? The first person to tell me how can have 20% ownership in Katie's Krashpad.

Full ownership once I die of liver failure - if you'll give me some start-up cash now.

My weekend

Ed bought champagne that my brother in law Jeff saber'd open off the back porch so my unemployed ass could drink it. Yeehaw!

Alien assimilation

This morning I was running on the Riverwalk and two ladies were walking towards me. One dropped behind the other to let me by, and I smiled and gasped "thanks" as I went past.

The one with blonde, Texas hair turned to the other and said, "You see? All Texans are super friendly. Unlike the tourists."

WHOA THERE LADY. I'm a super-friendly Texan???? Next time I won't try so hard not to fling sweat at them, and that'll show her.

Biological weapon

Yesterday morning I went to Target. At the checkout, like any good consumer, I impulse-bought a pack of gum. Orbit Mist: Watermelon Spring flavor. A Hydrating Sensation with micro-bursts (TM). I chewed a piece on the way home and was happy with its retro-funk wrapper and bursty sensation. I left the gum in the center console of the car when I got home.

Then this morning, at 11:32am, temperature 88 degrees with moderate humidity, I got in my car again. I died.

When they find my body in the car they're going to break open the window to get me out, and all the EMTs in the vicinity will also die. Warn them.

The "hydrating sensation" of this gum turns to toxic Watermelon Spring fumes at temperatures above 72 degrees Fahrenheit. The entire car, including the inside of the trunk, stinks like an amusement park on Kindergarten Barf Day. If I wasn't already dead I'd roll the car off a cliff. There's no hope for it, or for me. We've been micro-bursted.

Update

67. That's how many "happy birthday" text messages I received by noon yesterday - including one from Joanna saying, "didn't want your phone to be lonely today" sent after the mayhem. Good thing I have unlimited texting in my cell phone plan! Some day I'll tell a funny story about the texts, but right now it just gets me all verklempt and I have to be serious.

So I know people feel bad for me that Ed's out of town and I'm all alone. Sure, the sun don't shine without him and I know my truck's sad too (I've decided that I will write the new, improved, Perfect Country Song), but he's a guy who knows about champagne and will watch the occasional romantic comedy, so I'll keep him in spite of his habit of leaving me for blocks of time while he goes to earn money.

Besides, there's TWO boxes in this picture.

June 8

I actually wrote my birthday blog entry the day before my birthday. It was a little sad but hopeful, talking about what it's like to hit a milestone like a birthday when I have so many things still in flux. The article ended with me drinking champagne with some new friends at happy hour tonight - Ed's out of town but wanted to buy the girls a bottle. I love champagne and made these plans a week ago, so I knew that's how the day would go. Run, breakfast, ice cream, nap, champagne. Pretty much the best birthday I could hope for, with few friends here and a husband on a business trip.

About 10am I started getting birthday emails and texts from friends in DC. By noon I was getting texts every five minutes. Around 2pm the texts started being from numbers I didn't recognize, messages that just said "happy birthday!" I thought about texting back and saying "thanks! Who are you?" but thought that'd be rude...I figured I'd just think about it more and would figure out who the messages were from. Then I got two in a row that said "a little birdie told me to text you a happy birthday." What? The next said "happy birthday from so-and-so's friend!" Ah...it became clear who the little birdie must be.

All told, I got 49 texts before 4:30. Some favorites:
"Happy birthday from a friend of a friend in Athens, Greece!"
"Happy birthday from a little birdie's mom!"
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATIE - Kristin" I haven't seen Kristin in at least five years. It was after this message that I went to the little birdie and said "Whut?" The little birdie told me about the other little birdie who instigated the text storm.

The birdies say their methods are top secret, though I'm determined to find out how this happened. How did I get to the point where I have so many friends, great friends, and little birdie friends who work as catalysts? I'm touched more than I can say. Thanks for the messages and I love you, birdies.

"Happy birthday Katie! I don't know you, but it's clear you are much-loved :) Have a wonderful day!!"

Holy crap, I live in Texas.

It's a Friday night and one of Ed's coworkers has invited us to meet her and some friends at Fatso's Sports Garden. Of course we go, it's the basketball playoffs and I'm still fighting the lingering effects of Spurs Flu. We have to watch the game on a big TV.

So, um, Fatso's is definitely in Texas. Long wooden benches, lots of neon, lots of cowboy hats. Kids running around while their mothers dance on tables. Yeah. Saw that one coming, did you? Then You Might Be A Texan.

Then a guy, a young guy, got up to karaoke. He chose David Allen Coe's "You Never Even Call Me By My Name." Have you heard this song? I hadn't, and now...well, now I have. And I will never be the same. Skip to 3:00 for the talky bit that made me spit out my beer laughing.

When the beer hit my lap I realized it wasn't a dream. I was really listening to a dude in a cowboy hat karaoke this song. He wasn't being ironic. He was singing the Perfect Country Song.

This is my life.

This is my life?

Howzzat?

The Caller ID says "Texas number" and is followed by seven digits. So someone within San Antonio is calling me. Woo! It's a job offer! "Hello?"

"Is William there?"

"You have the wrong number." And thanks for getting my hopes up, lady.

"Is this the Barton residence?"

"Nope, sorry."

"Yeah right." She slams the phone down.

????

What just happened? I know she's not there anymore, but I keep talking into the phone. "Ex-CUSE me?" I want to call her back and tell her that she's not allowed to sneak rude me from a Texas phone number. At least have the courtesy to call from an unlisted number so I don't expect politeness coming out of the phone!

And by the way, what has this William Barton done that would justify such mean-ness from a Texan? I can only assume he's defaulted on a debt; if he'd killed someone I'm pretty sure Texas gun laws would be in his favor.

I'm watching you...

Saturday the new "Museum Reach" section of the Riverwalk opened, which is very exciting since the new part means I can get in a full run without going around the loop with the restaurants. I mean, I know the tourists just love having my sweaty butt staggering around them as much as I love doing the staggering, but it's a pleasure we will all learn to live without.

The new section is pretty neat, it goes under some major roads but local artists have beautified the underpasses, with giant hanging fish and with mirrors that reflect the light in interesting ways. I wouldn't have thought of enormous colored fish, but that's why no one pays me to decorate underpasses. Gotta say, though, there was one underpass that gets a big "FAIL" from me - it looks like you'd expect an underpass to look, dark and creepy and dirty looking, but they've piped in sounds. Birds and frogs and things. Magnified a hundred times. Damn creepy, it sounds like the front lawn of a haunted house in the movies. That's not what I need to hear when I'm trying to keep my tired legs moving.

But otherwise I'm really happy with how pretty and convenient it is. Though I ask you, look at this picture from yesterday's San Antonio Express News:


I ran by the spot where I think this face is supposed to be, then walked back past it, then jogged by it one more time. How did I not see this enormous face? Where is he? Did he leave his grotto to go make haunted house sounds? He totally looks like he would.

Series schmeries

So that whole "proud series on Texas Rantings"? I know y'all were looking forward to each installment and have been holding your breath since I first said it'd be a continuing feature...but allow me to sum up.

People in Texas are slow. They walk slow. They talk slow. They drive slow. They move slow. And because I am not a slow mover, talker, driver, or slow at much of anything else, I find Texans in my way very often.

Now, I have nothing but time, true. What would I be doing if I wasn't waiting AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES at the pharmacy? Watching tv or yelling at the computer for not having any new job postings? Re-reading the entire Harry Potter series? You know what, pharmacy "workers"? It's none of your business what I have that's soooooo important. The point is that I should have control of that 75 minute block of my life. Not you. So get off your duff, acknowledge that you have a customer at the window, and give me my prescription. It's RIGHT THERE. It's FILLED. GIVE IT TO ME OR I WILL JUMP THE COUNTER AND GET IT MYSELF.

And then I'll, um, pat you on the back and say "thank you, have a nice day." I am in Texas, after all.

Traffic jam

Yesterday I was wandering the restaurant portion of the Riverwalk, chilling with the Memorial Day crowds and deciding whether to buy a necklace at the craft fair. The Riverwalk is generally wide enough for three or four people across, and people were wandering both directions. Until I came on a crowd, all heading the same direction as me, but walking slower than a three legged turtle. Generally I 'm an "excuse me" and cut around people kind of girl, but there must have been 20 people in the crowd and that's more "excuse me"s and "coming on your left"s than I felt would be Texan of me. Don't want to be rude, now.

So I walked behind this crowd, getting more and more impatient because we were barely moving, it was very hot, and the CVS where I was heading to buy Sparkling Green Tea (strawberry kiwi flavor) was RIGHT THERE, if only the crowd would pick up the pace. But if anything we started slowing down, and soon I was walking forward two steps, then hopping in place three, just to give the people in front of me time to get out of the way so I could move forward one more step.

We came to a place where the sidewalk widened for a few feet, and the crowd started rushing, breaking both directions and zipping towards the other side.

And I saw the problem.

The log jam was caused by a couple, two people with the BIGGEST ASSES I HAVE EVER SEEN. They weren't morbidly obese in the faces and upper bodies, but their butts were big enough for THREE seats on Southwestern. They'd blocked up the Riverwalk so badly that no one could slide by them. And when people got the chance, they rushed and pushed and zipped around the couple so they could walk faster on the other side. The crowd practically pushed the couple into the river in the need to go faster. It was rude and crazy.

I felt like I was back in DC for a minute. Le sigh.

I love Texas!

Okay, maybe I'm not quite at "I love Texas" yet, but I definitely love shrimp. Definitely. So yesterday when I was at Central Market and there was a big sign saying "Sale! Peel and Eat Shrimp! $7.99/pound!" I did a little dance up to the fish counter.

"Hey, dude, which shrimp is the sale shrimp?"

"Um....this one." The Fish Dude points to some grey, uncooked shrimp. Darn.

"Oh. How much is the cooked shrimp?"

"$13.99 a pound."

"Oh." I think for a minute about not having a job. "So, this raw shrimp, I just steam it or something?"

Fish Dude comes close to the counter. From there he looks me up and down: my fuzzy ponytail, my "Reading is Sexy" t-shirt, my cart full of cocktail sauce and lemons. I try to look like I know how to cook shrimp and was just fooling. He doesn't buy it.

Fish Dude sighs and looks around. There's no one else at the counter to commiserate with him. I think woefully about my cocktail sauce and shrimp dreams, so bright a moment ago. He sighs again and puts his hands on the counter. "I can steam it for you."

"Really?" I'm shocked.

"Really. Give me 15 minutes."

"Yay! Thanks! I'm so...." He's turned his back and is chopping a large fish to bits.

But 15 minutes later, when I pick up my cooked-but-still-cheap shrimp, he gives me a wink. Texans are SO NICE, man.

A compromise suiting no one

Running with a regular bottle of water wasn't working for me, so I bought a little bottle that clips to my shorts. Only, my shorts are from Target and don't have the tightest elastic, so that bottle bounced all over, and after ten steps I couldn't stand the motion and had to jog holding the bottle in my hand. Ends up that it's at least more comfortable than holding a regular water bottle, though it gets just as slippery when I'm sweaty. Plus, it's getting hotter every day, so that little 5 ounce bottle won't be enough in another week or two.

So I need to follow Lisa's advice and just go ahead and buy a water belt. And since the distances I currently run aren't worthy of the belt, I'm registering for a half marathon.

My logic isn't backwards. You're backwards.

Bouncing off the walls

OMG, I can't believe I haven't written about one of the Most Exciting Things In Texas! Y'all are going to be so mad at me for not telling you this before - here in San Antonio they have Diet Cherry Coke! Not Cherry Coke Zero, they have the real, original, first and only diet soda I could stand for many, many years, Diet Cherry Coke. I haven't been able to get Diet Cherry Coke in DC for a dog's age. They also have Cherry Coke Zero at the H-E-B, but I kicked that impostor to the curb months ago and am reveling in my artificially sweet nirvana.

So now I'm hyper-caffeinated as well as unemployed and self-pitying. This will end well!

Probably not worth it

Twice a week I scoot on up to the doctor for a shot in each arm. So yeah, when I talk about my "allergy shot" I really mean "multiple shots that sting like bees." Four shots a week, and Gigolo doesn't even care. I expect him to show me extra lovin' when I get home with sore arms, but a full half the time he just bites me and goes back to sleep. You'd think I would learn not to wake him up and demand cuddling, but I won't.

When I first started getting the shots, I thought it was weird that they put Scotch Tape over the needle hole. I asked a nurse at another doctor's office if it was weird, and she looked at me like I had a Scotch Tape head and said, "yes, that's very weird." But the nurses at the allergist's put the tape on my arms so matter-of-factly that I stopped thinking much about it, and Ed got used to pulling tape off my arms when he got home at night.

Then, one afternoon I went into the waiting room after my shots and another patient said, "Um, you're bleeding." I looked down and my arm had a drip of blood on it. So I went back to the nurse's station and said, "Hey, I'm bleeding, can I have a Band-Aid?" The nurse was startled. "Oh, I must have missed the injection site." She wiped up the blood with alcohol and put another piece of tape carefully over the needle hole. "Now, the tape may not stick because of the alcohol."

You know what would stick, crazy lady? A BAND-AID. But of course I didn't say that. I said "thank you, ma'am" like a good Texan. And went home with tape on my arms, again.

Octodecimom

This morning along the river there was a female duck with - I counted them twice - eighteen ducklings. No other Mama Duck in sight.

I hope she has a trust fund, or no way are those babies going to college.

You probably don't want to read this.

The last couple of days it's been in the mid-90s by afternoon, and above 80 by the time I get out for my morning run. I've been thinking I need to get myself one of those water belts with all the little bottles evenly weighted around the hips, but I'm first of all, I'm too lazy to actually go buy one, and secondly I don't see myself as such a hard-core runner that I can justify the doofiness of wearing the belt. The belt implies marathons and triathlons; it definitely doesn't say "I'm going to go home and eat ice cream for breakfast." Show me the belt that says that and we'll talk.

So I've been running on my merry dehydrated way, and though I know it's a bad sign to stop sweating when I was singlehandedly raising the level of the San Antonio River a minute before, I've been happy knowing that I don't look like a person who wears a water belt. I was happy until today. About two miles from home with no way to cut the run short, I realized I wasn't going to get home without a water infusion. I was stumbling a little, and though the river was right there I was pretty sure that falling in wasn't going to help my thirst in a way I'd feel good about later. So I pulled my emergency twenty from in back of my iPod (kept there for muggers and spontaneous latte needs) and went into the only non-sitdown restaurant on the Riverwalk. Starbucks. So I'll buy ethically bottled water, good for me.

I grab a bottle of water, drink half of it, and get in line to pay. Only, because this is Texas, the fact that there were three people in line in front of me meant that I waited 20 minutes. Yes, 20 minutes. And I'm not glistening with a ladylike dew. I'm drenched with sweat. The water hits my system and immediately pours back out. People probably assume that I have fallen in the river. I try to leave a courteous space between me and the person in front of me, but someone gets in line behind and stands close. I feel the sweat running down my arms. I'm going to puddle. GROSS! I wish I hadn't opened the bottle, I could have drunk the free water on the counter and been out of here by now. A drop of sweat runs down my ponytail and hits the back of my leg. I'M SO GROSS! I consider tossing my money on the counter and leaving, but I'm unemployed and $20 is too much for a bottle of water if you're unemployed. Or if you're a millionaire, $20 is too much for a bottle of water. I've been meaning to change out the $20 for a $5, why the hell haven't I???

The barista is still ringing up that first person. They're talking about the weather and how much the visitor is going to love San Antonio. She's not going to like it long if she slips in my pool o' sweat! Let me out of here! Move faster! I try to communicate this with my eyes and thoughts, but the barista just gives me a grin. My shirt is suddenly stuck to me with sweat. My socks are wet. AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

I think I must have blacked out from embarrassment, because I made it home. But I'm pretty sure I can never go to that Starbucks again.

Until next time there's a water emergency, at least.

4am

My cell phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Hello, who's this?"

"You called me, who are you?"

"Someone from this number just called our male stripper line." (Giggling in the background.)

"What?" I'm trying to wake up and realize it's not an emergency-type middle of the night call.

"Someone from this number just called and talked to one of our male strippers." (More giggling and "shush" sounds.)

"It's the middle of the night. No one from this number was calling anyone."

"Well, ma'am, some of us have lives ..."

I hang up. I can't be bothered to fight with someone who's so amateur at crank calls that she forgets to say "bitch" instead of "ma'am." Texans are way too polite.

Did I really say I wanted to be more Texan?

I'm home by myself right now watching the Spurs/Mavs basketball game. If the Spurs lose they're out of the playoffs. I hung up on Mama Sly when she called during the game. I yelled at the cat when he got in front of the tv. I'm very confused as to when I started to care, but think it was when I accidentally drank tap water instead of filtered. Spurs Drugs in the water would explain a lot, both about San Antonio in general and also my sudden interest in the team.

I had to add "basketball" to "Spurs/Mavs game" above, since most of my DC friends, like me until recently, will have no idea what sport the Spurs play. Since I'm getting them all Spurs jerseys for their birthdays I figure they should have a heads up.

Quest

Fiesta is to San Antonio what Mardi Gras is to New Orleans, basically a huge drunkfest with parades, and because this is San Antonio, carnival rides. I truly think that I could ride a ferris wheel any day of any week without heading up to Six Flags or another amusement park, since San Antonio always has a party going on, and what says party better than machines that take you ten stories into the air, yet can be disassembled in 10 minutes and reassembled in five? I feel totally safe on them, especially after a beer.

But Fiesta is the party of the moment, and the King William Fair last Saturday was a big event during Fiesta, and we live in King William. I decided we had a moral obligation to invite everyone we know to park in the driveway and walk over, with burgers and beers here afterwards. Good thing we don't know many people, since our driveway's not that long and street parking was a bitch.

Anyrate, since I'm new to the area but determined to be the Best Little Texan in Texas, I decided that in order to have a Fiesta party we had to have the papel picado everyone else in King William put up pre-Fiesta. It may be ugly, but if everyone has it, I'm a-gonna get it. I'd seen it at the store, but didn't realize people actually hung plastic "paper" as a decoration, so didn't buy it.

When I decided we had to have it I headed, of course, to HEB. They were out.

I don't know where else to shop in San Antonio.

What to do? We're having a party, dammit, and that paper is The Thing To Have!! How many sin points do you get for stealing the neighbor's papel picado? I knew the Spanish Market had it, but the Market was Fiesta-ing away every day of the week, and the police seemed to be deliberately sending traffic away from the area. Ed and I drove down there twice and couldn't get near enough for me to jump and roll out of the truck while he pushed through the traffic.

So early, early, early Saturday morning, while everyone else was sleeping off Friday night Fiesta, I quietly scooted up to the market, parked on the sidewalk, gave the cop a saucy grin, told him I'd be cinco minutos, and got me that paper. Lots of that paper. You'd think some kids came through and papel picado'd the house when they ran out of toilet paper.

And since I went to so much effort, it's staying up waaaay past Fiesta. We'll be like the house that still has Christmas decorations up in June, and it'll be totally worth it. I'm proving my Texworthiness.

Driving Rant

I've decided to go with yelling therapy and get all my frustrations written down, with the idea that I'll be so annoyed by my own complaining that I'll snap out of it. So here's the first in my proud series on Texas Rantings.

San Antonio is an easy city to get around; people who haven't lived in DC complain about the traffic, but honey, they got it soooooo good. Memories of my hours a week sitting on Route 66 are fresh enough to make me appreciate that it takes less than 20 minutes to get anywhere I'd want to go in San Antonio.

And when people complain about the traffic, I could tell them exactly why there's slow-downs. It's because people drive on the interstates, which run through the middle of downtown in a very convenient way, 10 MILES UNDER THE SPEED LIMIT. And the speed limit's not crazy. We live right off Interstate 37 and I take it everywhere from the big scary HEB near us to the fancy organic HEB up north. And the speed limit is 60mph. On a big, wide, comfortable, three-lane highway. Three lanes each direction, Texans. That's how you define a highway, by the lanes going ONE WAY. A two-lane highway is not one lane each direction where you get stuck behind enormous tractors. Hear and learn.

So why, I ask myself (and yell at the other cars), is everyone driving 50 and below? Why? In DC I'd regularly drive 10 miles over the limit and never got a speeding ticket. I'd get passed by every third car like I was going backwards. If the road is open, gun it, because it won't be open long. Here the road are always open and it's a luxury no one appreciates! People here don't even like to pass! No matter how open the road is and how many lanes are free and how slow someone else is going. When traffic backs up I'm sure it's because everyone's courteously slowing down to accommodate that 35mph Ferrari in the left lane. It's the peddle on the right, people!


Hmm...ranting does make me feel a little better. Yay!

You kids get off my lawn!

Saturday Ed and I went to the Oyster Bake at St. Mary's University, one of the "can't miss" Fiesta events. Chevelle was headlining, and there were five opening bands on that stage alone. There were other stages with local rock bands, country music, kid-friendly shows, and who knows what else. They had any kind of meat on a stick you could think of, and the whole thing was sponsored by Miller Lite. Plus oysters. Baked, fried, raw, in shots...have I mentioned that I love oysters? It was warm and sunny after a morning of rain and, even though they estimated the crowd at 15,000, the line to get in wasn't very long. A perfectly planned party for the entire city.

The crowd was young and cute and rowdy, throwing their plastic beer bottles at each other and waiting in line for port-a-potties, the girls were dancing with each other and the guys were ogling them, it was loud and festive and there were police everywhere. It was definitely a perfect party, but I suddenly realized I'm old. Very, very, old. It was too loud and too crowded and too high energy. I just wanted to go to bed with a cup of hot chocolate and a Jane Austen book.

Next thing you know I'll be eating the early bird special at the diner. I'll have a collection of small yipping dogs who wear sweaters that I've knitted. With matching hats.

And I'm kinda looking forward to it.

Weekend fun

Maybe the world's not such a bad place after all.

Conflict in the home

So, y'all may have noticed that I've been calling the cat "Gigolo" even though Ed wanted to change his name to "Sylvester." I wasn't keen on the name change, but he started calling the cat "Sly" or "Sylvester" anyways. That lasted until the third time he said, "Sly! Treats!" and I came running, to find that the treats were tiny fishy nasty things, not big cold margaritas. Imagine my disappointment. So I told Ed that I was Sly long before I was MacSly and I wouldn't give my name to the cat.

So Ed told me to pick a new name, since "Gigolo" is fine for a stray moocher cat, but not for one with toys and expensive fungus medicine. I told him I'd think about it, but didn't, and kept calling the little guy Gigolo. It's his name.

Only, Ed still hates the name and is determined to break me down...by calling the cat "Mr. Snugglesworth." And he always says it in a high, teasing tone that gets right down to my bones with the shudders. It's such a terrible name that I'm almost ready to compromise.

Almost.

He is kinda snuggly.

I don't know what I was thinking

Man, Texas sucks. In DC I had plans every night and so many friends it was a real effort to keep up with them. Here I have no friends and no job, only a cat that makes me sick and a husband who's so concerned about my lack of social outlet that he wants me to apply for any job that'll get me out of the house. I get where he's coming from, but the last three job listings he's sent have been for low-paying administrative or receptionist positions, and I remember how miserable I was when I hated my job. I don't want another sucky job! I want to be back in DC where there's a hundred foreign policy and social services organizations, which a quick search yesterday showed are HIRING.

I didn't have a picture to illustrate this entry so I've drawn a self portrait. Don't worry, in real life my arms are the same length and my hair's not quite that frizzy. But the abnormally long torso is to scale.

Choose your own punchline

Myself, my mother in law, and a giant pink bunny. It's too easy.

But if you need help, notice how his inflatable arms are getting pretty damn fresh. Accident, hah.

Resume

MacSly
Casa MacSly
San Antonio, TX
giddyup@bitches.macsly

Previous experience

• You won't care about this part, since it wasn't in Texas so might as well have been on Mars.

Education

• UT? Texas A&M? No? Harumph.

Special skills

• Desk drawer always contains chocolate, microwave popcorn, safety pins, ibuprofin, and lady things, available generously upon request
• Agrees that your child/spouse/neighbor is acting like a crazy person and you are completely in the right to be mad at her or him
  
• Has many, many stories of stupid things she's done and will tell them with faces and hand gestures
• Is disturbingly cheerful in the morning and will say "good morning, sunshine!" if you point it out

Interests

• Coffee runs
• Celebrity gossip
• Eating ice cream

Bring on the jobs, bitches!

Letter to the editor

The first Friday of every month our neighborhood hosts a street festival. It used to be an art walk; there are lots of studios up and down the main street that would display to the public that first Friday, but over time street vendors, fortune tellers, and bratwurst hawkers took over. One of the main reasons we moved to this neighborhood is this festival, which is bigger and better, every month, than the yearly Clarendon Day in Arlington. It's just fun and we love that it's in our community.

The problem is that every month our neighborhood newsletter has a pissy letter from a local resident saying that there's no parking on their street and people are standing near their front yards and they want the whole thing shut down. Since I have tons of free time, I've been working on my own letter telling those whiners to shut their traps. I blame each of them, individually, for the fact that jazz clubs, environmentally friendly dry cleaners, and ice cream shops that were once in the neighborhood are now gone. Apparently these letter writers think that vacant lots full of broken bottles and hissing stray cats are better than businesses.

At least, that's what my letter would have said if I'd sent it a week ago. Then my sister came into town especially for First Friday; we got dolled up and decided that we looked at least as good as the other women cruising up and down the main drag. We sipped our wine and ogled the art and stepped daintily around cracks in the sidewalk, seeing and being seen. Ed walked a little behind us, and we didn't realize he'd stopped until we saw a light saber-waving doofus chasing us down. Oh yeah. The rest of the night two girls in cute summer dresses and chunky shoes, pretending to be sophisticated, couldn't get away from the Dungeons and Dragons escapee who "protected" them. Now I understand why people miss the original low-key art walk and hate the street vendors. Those street vendors have got to go.


Before two more girls' mojo is ruined, shut the whole thing down.

Remember, I don't have a SALARY

This whole free cat thing is overrated - between fixing up his leg, getting rid of the tapeworm, neutering, testing for all kinds of diseases, standard shots, a litter box, cat bed, toys, boarding while we were in Kansas, and now fungus Gigolo has probably cost us a thousand dollars. Oh yeah, you read that right. Both the "thousand dollars" and the "fungus."

Gigolo's fur had a couple of patches when we brought him in the house, and I thought it was stress from getting his cat butt kicked every night outdoors. But now he has toys and shots and a litter box and is still getting even more patchy . So the vet ran a test, and yep, Gigolo has a skin fungus. I had to pick up a prescription for myself and one for the cat at the pharmacy today...and insurance didn't cover the cat's.

I told Ed to get ready to hold him down tonight and I'll just hose them with Tinactin.

Completely true story

This morning I burned my toast and set the smoke detector off. My first thought was, "I gotta tell Ed the smoke alarm works!"

It may be the most interesting thing that happens to me today.

Meet Jamie in St. Louis

Jamie, Ben and I met the first day of freshman year in high school. We were inseparable and teachers teased us about how we were going to get on when we went to separate colleges. That wasn't a problem, Jamie had car and I was only three hours away. We didn't see Ben much in that time, but apparently absence makes the heart grow fonder; when we were old enough to get married, Jamie and Ben married each other.

So when Ben learned that he needed major surgery and would be in the hospital for up to a week, I booked myself a ticket to go stay with Jamie at their perfect home in St. Louis. While Ben was in the hospital I jabbered away, feeling sure that I was distracting both of them and doing my good deed of the day. Then Ben came home, with holes in his neck from the IV and strict instructions to be calm while he healed. And like most sick people, he was grumpy. But I have two younger siblings and a know-it-all attitude, so when he told Jamie "you're going to the store and you're going to buy me jelly." I yelled, "Say please, now!" He ignored me like my siblings do. But Jamie sighed. I thought maybe I should change my ticket and stay a few more days and be Mary Sunshine in the house with a grumpy sick person.

Because it would have been such a favor to let Jamie listen to her grumpy husband and bratty friend snipe at each other all day. Even though I think I'm funny when I snipe...especially since I think I'm funny. Hi-LAR-ious, actually. I crack myself up and you can join in or not.

I came home. You're welcome, Feig!

Rain, rain, go away...

We arrived here two and a half months ago and I still don't have a job. But I've found that complaining is a very effective way to deal with it and makes me popular at parties.

The Song of the Count

My grandfather, who lived an absolutely admirable life for 91 years, passed away last Friday. He's already very much missed, but my siblings and I found ourselves celebrating the man more than mourning him. All week people told stories about him as a cocky young pilot, as the commander of a base, as a strict and loving father, a doting grandfather and great-grandfather, an elder in his church, a volunteer in his community, and as a very, very dry wit. These stories made us want to be like him and honor him in our own lives.

And because anytime you get me and Ed together with my brother, sister, and their spouses we laugh a lot, the fact that this was playing on iPhones most of the week caused a few ruckuses. Grandfather modeled good behavior all the time, and I doubt he would have laughed at something so off-color in front of his grandkids, but I think that young man who wrote down his own anecdotes about going to see dancing girls would have gotten a kick out of the one bleeped word in a real Sesame Street skit. I know he would have loved to see us fall out of our chairs laughing.

That Girl

This is my bright yellow, daisy-embroidered yoga mat bag. I needed one with a strap so I could wear it when I scoot to Pilates; it goes well with my white jacket and white helmet with red stripes.

I didn't realize that people in class were paying attention until Tuesday; it was raining so I drove my car. Two people in my Pilates class asked where the scooter was - as one older lady said, "it's such a cute little scooter for such a cute little woman!"

I knew I should have gotten that stupid Harley.

Compensating

Since I can't run with my asthma acting up, I've been going for long walks in the morning. Yesterday there were dozens of baby ducklings all over the river, toodling after their mothers. They were so cute and fuzzy I just about scooped them up to come home and keep me company; I could give them adorable names and they'd think I was their mama and follow me around.

But I'm thinking getting allergy shots and keeping Gigolo is a better idea than realizing that Fluffy MacSnuggles and Mr. PaddlePuddle pooped on the carpet again.

My first Texas-sized breakdown

Friday I finally had my appointment with the allergist, which I'd been looking forward to since we brought Gigolo inside. Because when I say I'm allergic I don't mean he makes me sneeze, I mean he gives me asthma. Not-breathing asthma. And I didn't write about it online because Mama Sly's been known to read what I write, and as soon as I said "can't breathe" she'd have shown up at the front door and worried at me. And Mama Sly's got enough to worry about - have you met my brother? He's a complete reprobate. (Hi Dave, smooches!)

Kidding, he's a good guy. But not worrying my mom was a good plan.

So I went to the allergist and told him that I knew I was allergic but brought the cat inside anyways, and he looked at me in genuine bewilderment. "Why did you do that?"

me: "He was hurt!"

him: "You're not allergic to dogs, why didn't you adopt a dog?"

me: "There were no hurt dogs wandering around."

Then he just looked at me with these confused eyes, magnified by his glasses, until I blushed and looked away.

He decided to do allergy testing to make sure he knew what exactly was going on. When they do allergy testing they inject you with a histamine to see what a positive allergic reaction looks like. Then they prick you with 50 different types of typical allergens and see what you react to. My histamine control was about the size of a dime and bright red. Certain grasses, trees, and mold swelled to the size of a quarter, overlapped their neighboring allergens and made me want to tear my skin off they itched so badly. The cat prick only swelled to the size of a dime and turned bright red. I thought this was a good sign.

Until the allergist sat me down. And said that just because I'm insanely allergic to other things doesn't mean I'm not very, very allergic to the cat. That if I was his wife or daughter he'd tell me to get rid of it. That the cat was making me sick. That he'd help me no matter what I decided to do, but that for someone like me to bring a cat into the house was ridiculous, especially with all my other allergies attacking my system.

I held in my tears until I was in the car, and held in the sobs until I was home. I didn't tell Ed I was hysterical, just that the allergist said to get rid of the cat, and he came straight home.

He's worried about my mental health if my only friend in San Antonio gets taken away.

Tattling

Today was Gigolo's two week checkup, which also means it's his two week anniversary of housecat-edness. And argh, sometimes I miss that needy, hurting, CALM AND QUIET cat we first brought into the house. The one who would curl up and sit next to me for hours. This new, healthy, playful version of Gigolo runs through the house at all hours chasing his toy mouse, slipping on the wood floors and slamming into walls, wrestling with anyone who comes near, and the damn cat's bit me about once a day for the last week. He never breaks the skin, but playful biting is still a no-go. Ask Chris Brown.

Then he hops up next to me and purrs for an hour until I forgive him. Then he rolls on his back in wrestling stance, gets that look in his eye, and bites me again. I run and tell Ed on him, but Ed just tells us we need to learn to get along.

Southern efficiency

This particular paper is newsworthy because it landed on our lawn this morning. "But Katie, isn't that how people get their papers? From their front lawns?" Yes, Grasshopper, that's what I thought too. Let me tell you a story.

I first requested a subscription when we were still in the extended stay hotel, and about three weeks ago I went online and requested it again. It's no Washington Post, but I can read the entire thing in 20 minutes, and 20 minutes a day to hear about the guy who got killed two houses down is a good investment. I should say "I could read the entire paper," since we didn't get a paper after that second request either, so I didn't read.

Monday I called the SA Express News customer service line and waited on hold for 10 minutes listening to two overlapping automated messages. I never figured out what either was about, since Lady One would say, "If you are interested in this service contact" and then Lady Two would cut her off with "this very important cause needs your" and Lady One would say "8241. Again the number is 210-" and Lady Two would say, "a dollar is all it takes."

When the very nice human person picked up the phone she took down my address and put me back on hold while she phoned another department. Apparently there is no route that covers our new subdivision (the historic area of the city is a "new subdivision?") so they'll have to re-route a paper boy, but she said I should get the paper by Wednesday.

Thursday night I called and told another very nice lady I still wasn't getting a paper. She took down my information again, and she even took a charge card number. And look! All you have to do is find someone to tell you how to pay, and you too can receive a paper. Well, find someone to tell you how to pay and also say, "I really hope I get a paper, I'm very frustrated." That's the Texas version of "f-ing get me an f-ing paper or else I'll f-ing cut you." She got the point and I got my paper.

Don't even get me started on our still-missing recycling bin.

Excuse me, I just need to pop out for a minute and KILL MYSELF.

Yesterday I had an email from a recruiter, asking me to please call so we could discuss potential opportunities. I phoned him right away and left what I was proud to think was a competent, friendly greeting asking him to call and leaving my home number. I knew he had my number from my resume, but figured leaving it rounded out my message nicely.

He called back a couple of hours later and after the "hi's" and "thanks for callings" he mentioned that the reason he emailed rather than calling in the first place is that I had a typo in the phone number on my resume, and I might want to fix that. Then he continued with the phone screen. He asked what my strongest professional skills are.

Well, since my go-to answer about my skills is that I am very good at "writing and proof reading," this job search is over. I have no choice but to fall on my sword.

Conjugating

Now I can use the verb, "to scoot." I scoot. You scoot. They scoot. It's just superfun to say, try it.

"We scoot" is the only conjugation I'm not allowed to use, since Ed's head just about explodes when I say, "We should scoot to the restaurant!" He rides his big tough manly dangerous black motorcycle. He emphatically Does. Not. "Scoot."

So I just tell him he's not cute enough to scoot anyways. Hmph.