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.