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.