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.

GKIAS

As a small woman, I'm very familiar with Grandfatherly-Know-It-All-Syndrome. I was exposed to it once in a while in DC but here it's endemic; men old enough to be my father or grandfather telling me what to do. I think it's a flip side of Texas niceness, and it's killing me.

I'm sure this common assumption that I'm too little to take care of myself is why I'm stubborn and determined to prove I can do it myself. Whatever "it" is, including lifting heavy things, building Ikea furniture, and filling my own tires. People often try to do those things for me and I usually bite their heads off and call them names. And in DC I found a good ol' "back off, grandpa" got my point across and earned respect.

But people in Texas are nice and I'm trying really hard to be nice too, even though I'm pretty sure the stress of it is shortening my life expectancy. So this morning when I was running and Grandpa called out, "it's too cold to be dressed like that, honey!" I just waved and kept running. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, exercising, and it was 65 degrees. Just because Mr. Native was wearing a wool stocking cap doesn't mean it was empirically cold.

And when I went to the DMV to get my motorcycle license, the guy behind the counter said "You want a motorcycle license?" I gave him my best steely eyed "Yes." "What kind of bike do you want?" "I'm looking at a 125cc scooter." "Ahh! That makes more sense. You, on a motorcycle?" He laughed again at the idea and set me up for the test.

Then Ed and I went to a shop that had both motorcycles and scooters, and after I was done with scooters I joined Ed and the salesman in the motorcycle section. The guy looked at me and said, "I have just the bike for you." He pulled me over to a big Harley and when I sat down I found that I could put my feet down on both sides, which I haven't been able to do with any of the scooters I've seen. "Hey, this fits me pretty well!" The salesman laughed and laughed. "You don't get to ride anything but a Harley, girl." Another salesman poked his friend and they both said "You look good on that bike! Buy it!"

My face turned red and I just about bought it to spite them all.

But then I'd have a Harley, and in spite of the mockery I don't want a motorcycle. I want a scooter. And I'm sure I look like a Scooter Girl. I hate when stereotypes about me come true.

Things I didn't expect (Part III)

I didn't fully realize when we decided to move here that the restaurant choices would be Mexican, Trendy Mexican, or Taco Bell. Madre mio.

Yes, you may say "I told you so." My response will be some variation of "I like Mexican food, bitches!" We'll both know I don't like it that much, but that I'll feel better after I say "bitches."

Prisoner in my own home.

Friends are scratching their heads back east; everyone who's seen me leave book club early because the hostess has a cat or two is wondering what's magically changed, or if the truth is that I just didn't like book club and was making excuses by saying I was allergic.

For the record, I loved my book club.

I guess I thought that since Gigolo is such a good, sweet cat who desperately needed a home before he was fricasseed and eaten by whatever jerk of a cat was mutilating him at night, nature would give me a pass. To be on the safe side, I made an appointment yesterday with an allergist, who gave me the first available appointment: March 6. But it was okay, and I spent all day yesterday with Gigolo on my lap purring.

And this morning woke up with my eyes stuck shut, sneezing and having an asthma attack.

We've already been keeping the bedroom door closed, but Gigolo otherwise has the run of the house, and I don't feel good at this point about confining him to one room, especially since I like the litter box and food where they are, hidden in a hallway. We can't exactly lock him in that hallway, so instead I've locked myself away and let him keep running. It's a good thing I don't have kids or they'd be spoiled terrors.

When we moved in this house, Ed and I decided to make the guest room a reading room for me, sort of a partner to the office space he's claimed. I hadn't bothered to do much with the room, but it does have doors that close in Gigolo's face and keep him out, so I've made myself a nest. Forget the neutral walls and the tone of the rest of the house, this girl likes COLORS. I don't care if they don't match the grey/green trim.

Though I am sad that I can't get at my Sex and the City DVDs from this room. Stupid cat. What's the good of being home if I can't watch TV all day?

Yes, I'm still very allergic.

Sunday night when we got back from motorcycle school Gigolo was on the front porch and was even more meow-y than usual. We let him in the house like we've done a couple of times since the thunderstorm, and poor guy had a scratch on his nose and a hitch in his giddyup; he wouldn't put much weight on one of his front paws.

Instead of wandering the house like he's done before he jumped right up on the couch and stayed there, tail twitching and lifting his head every time there was a sound from outside. Dude must have gotten his butt kicked in some kind of cat fight, and when it came time to put him outside before we went to bed he just stood on the porch meowing and meowing...

And Monday morning when I came back from my run he was there waiting, and his leg was bleeding. Geez, fella, pull the heart strings a little more! He bolted into the house, jumped on the couch, and didn't move until I picked him up a few hours later. I put him in a box, taped it up and drove to a vet, where they kept him overnight fixing his paw and cutting out his man-bits.

So now we have an indoor pet.

Weigh in on this in the comments section please: my dad pointed out that he's clearly a Sylvester like me (Sylvester is my maiden name); his coloring is just like the cartoon cat. Now Ed wants to change his name to Sylvester. I still like Gigolo, given his history of lady-loving. Maybe we should go with Arlene's suggestion of Gigo-Sly?



I NEED A JOB. I'M WRITING ABOUT THE CAT. AGAIN. SAVE ME.

Hey, wait up! You guys! Wait for me!

Ed and I have never been big Valentine's people...that is, Ed isn't a Valentine's kind of guy and I don't care enough to make a fuss. He usually comes through with a card and when we lived in Arlington we would always go to O'Sullivan's on V-Day; we never had trouble getting a table and I love their Drunken Turkey Gouda sandwich. Highly recommended.

So when I said, "Hey, want to take a motorcycle class Valentine's Day weekend?" it was the first time I've suggested a couples activity for Valentine's Day. Ed said "WOO" and my "Happy Friday the 13th" surprises included flowers, chocolates, pink champagne and a gift card for NIA classes. Karma works very quickly in my life.

Of course, I have no interest in riding a motorcycle, but I do have an obsession with the idea that I should be That Girl, the one on the scooter with the baguette and fresh flowers sticking out of the basket. And if I don't want a wimpy wimpy wimpy scooter I need a motorcycle license. So what Ed and I both know is that he was doing me a favor by taking this class. And the reason I chose this particular class is that I'd called the school and confirmed that they provide scooters as well as motorcycles.

Saturday morning we reported bright and early and during the first break the instructor took me outside to "try on" scooters. The first one, the Pink Lady, was way too tall for me. So was the second. Finally he pulled out a tiny 50cc Baja scooter, the kind you don't need a motorcycle license to ride, and I could just get my toes down on either side. Stupid short legs. We went out to the range and I was immediately nicknamed "Scooter Girl" by my class. They were all riding motorcycles named Stella and Ruby and Belle. Mine was named the Pokey Puppy. And boy was it pokey. Everyone else had their engines barely turning and I had my throttle fully open as I scooted at the back of the pack all afternoon.

But yesterday afternoon I passed my road test, so now I just need a scooter, a basket, and a baguette.

Are you pondering what I'm pondering, Pinky?

Seems a shame to waste all these 70 degree days.

Bouncy...bouncy...

Monday afternoon I trekked out on my most ambitious project yet; I went mattress shopping. Shut up. I'm not getting dumber staying home like this (yet), mattress shopping is very hard for a mattress-buying-newbie in search of a deal! We want something comfortable enough to keep our guests here for a few nights, not so comfortable that they want to move in permanently, and cheap enough to keep me in the bon-bon eating lifestyle to which I hope not to become accustomed. That last part is the kicker; at first it looked like I would have to get a paper route to make our monthly mattress payment.

After my car's navigation system took me to not less than THREE former sites of mattress stores, I ended up on the other side of the city and walked into the deserted mattress emporium. The very, very fat man working the place let me wander for a minute before asking what I was looking for. "Something cheap for the guest room." Fair enough. Stacked against the wall were the super-duper-clearance-best-deal-of-your-lifetime mattresses, and he pulled one down and put it on the bed frame. I sat down and bounced a little and almost fell through it. "Um, something a little firmer?" He put that mattress back and pulled down another. He was huffing a little and I rolled my eyes. San Antonio is the second fattest city in the country; I guess all the delicious enchiladas take their toll.

I bounced around on this one too. Hmm. "Can I see another?" He put that mattress back and pulled down another. This entire time he was talking faster than an auctioneer, but I was concentrating more on the shade of red his face was turning. By the time I bounced on five mattresses he was wet with sweat and I was becoming concerned. "Are you okay?"

"What? Of course, let's just get the best mattress for you."

"Um, okay, I think I want to try that first one again."

I sat on it. Oops, the first one was the too-soft one. "Actually, sorry, the second one."

That second one felt terrible. Which was the one I liked? The third? The salesman is about to have a coronary and my CPR certification is expired. I stop to think before asking him to pull down another mattress. And when he pulls it down I buy it. Is being extraordinarily obese a good sales technique? I felt obligated to reward his enormous physical effort, even though he was just doing his job.

It was just delivered and I think I liked the fourth one best after all.

I named the cat.

So what happened to the cat? Well, after a few days of regular visits and petting, I got cat food at the grocery store and started feeding my little guy for real. I began to think we really had something, until one early morning I heard him meowing and rushed outside for petting and feeding to find that he was AT THE NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE. Another home-during-the-day lady was feeding him! Harumph. The next day it was another neighbor lady and the third day it was back to me. Harumph again. I felt cheated on. No amount of rubbing and purring was going to bring me around, by golly. Except he's so cute. So I kept feeding him.

Last night was our first real Texas style thunderstorm, amazing. Ed and I poured ourselves a glass of wine and went outside to watch from the porch. It was like a fireworks show and for the first time I understand what "sheeting rain" looks and sounds like. I wondered where the cat was, but figured he was probably with his Tuesday lady. Going back inside after the storm the house felt stuffy, so we opened the front and back doors to let the breeze through, and about 10 minutes later in walked a perfectly dry cat. I didn't shoo him out, and I think Gigolo the cat has found another sucker for his rotation.

Sugar and spice and stealing your kidneys

One by one all my stereotypes of Texas are coming true.

The latest? People are nice.

Three weeks ago I was desperately craving that consistent taste of Cinnamon Dolce Latte, so I walked right by two independent coffee shops that make fantastic cappuccinos and went all the way up the River Walk to Starbucks at the mall there. It was about 10am on a weekday and there was just myself, the barista, and one other customer in the shop. The barista asked where I was from, where I was living, what I was doing lately, how I liked San Antonio, and if I wanted Cinnamon Dolce powder even though I didn't want whipped cream. I told him "NO" and snatched my drink.

The other customer recommended two restaurants and a newspaper. I punched him in the stomach before he could drop the date rape drug in my drink. Why else would he be so nice to a stranger?

Later, when I told the guy at Lowe's that I needed keys cut he asked if I was new in town. I said yes, and he recommended a local flea market and told me I was going to love San Antonio. I kicked him in the shins and ran away.

The woman at the DMV...let me say that again, the woman who works at the place where out of state driver's licenses and dignity go to die...called me "sweetie" non-ironically and told me to cut to the front of the line when I came back with the necessary paperwork to get a Texas license. I assume she's had a lobotomy.

Why are people so flipping nice? What do they want?

My latest brain teaser has been that I don't have a job, so I should do volunteer work, but I don't want a volunteer job that requires a committment since I hope to have a job at any moment. All the "good" volunteer organizations require a committment. So how do I volunteer?

Shep suggested that I go to the airport and be mean to people on flights bound for DC. That way they'd begin to be acclimated and wouldn't have such terrible culture shock on arrival. I think it'd be a real public service.

I said words I didn't realize I knew

It was a slight exaggeration to say that all I did Tuesday was make banana bread. A big part of my week has involved eight different stores, hating on the world's curtain rod options, judicious use of power tools, epiphanies about the length of the room vs. the length of the curtain rods, and pounded fingers.

Two weeks ago my daily to-do list would be: unpack kitchen, wash all dishes and utensils, unpack living room, organize bedroom. And I'd do all that in one day. Now converting this


to thisis a three day project, and I think the curtains are lovely.

I don't own an apron...yet.

Today I decided I was going to bake. There were two old bananas on the counter, completely brown, and I have a new subscription to Cooking Light Magazine. Coconut Banana Bread with Lime Glaze, check. That’s a nice lot of adjectives and the recipe is five stars, definitely worthy of housewifeliness. The fact that I never cooked, or baked, in my DC existence doesn’t matter; now that I’m a housewife I’m sure more adjectives better Show My Man I Love Him.

Oh, I should mention that Ed doesn’t like sweets.

So I head off to the grocery store that so frightened me a week ago. Pre-Housewifeliness. Now I’m gonna take that H-E-B down. I have all morning and I go through in orderly fashion, starting on the right, working to the left, up and down every aisle and committing the layout to memory so I’ll never be frightened again. I ignore the entire front of the store – the jewelry counter, the pharmacy, the money wiring place, pet supplies, toys, the other things in the middle. Not important, I’m here for groceries. I will not be distracted by dried floral arrangements in disturbingly large vases.

I get home and organize my things on the counter. I read through the recipe again to make sure I have everything. Crap, no vanilla. Vanilla flavored coffee syrup? Good enough. No stick butter. But I have a tub of whipped butter. No powdered sugar.

Hum.

I debate throwing in the towel. But no, dammit, I’m making banana bread. Besides, what else do I have to do today? Job searching is taking an hour a day at the outside, and I’m running out of new companies or sites to check out.

I get back in the car and go back to the store. Butter. Vanilla. Powdered sugar.

Isn’t it beautiful?

I had a piece and decided it would be much better with peanut butter. But we don't have any peanut butter in the house, so I'm going to head back to the store. This bread is going to be perfect if it takes me all day.

In fact, if it takes all day so much the better.