tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48733512471606045502024-02-21T09:34:13.250-06:00MacSly's YeehawA Washington DC native moves to Texas. Giddyup, bitches.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-51720996443851205142009-11-17T10:47:00.002-06:002009-11-19T13:01:18.623-06:00It IS all about me.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJR0p6KJRR0suRWtDdzO_vXkRzGqH_4QSLoU9BkLyQyiNNc-yv8F_h1CwrVqk0SW15iSEzSVAyB6rRgXEFTt9bj_2AziWSmYnZTDpHEv3xVhgtveg-POi-cAf_bHKrkrIjfi95sn90GS4/s1600/half+marathon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJR0p6KJRR0suRWtDdzO_vXkRzGqH_4QSLoU9BkLyQyiNNc-yv8F_h1CwrVqk0SW15iSEzSVAyB6rRgXEFTt9bj_2AziWSmYnZTDpHEv3xVhgtveg-POi-cAf_bHKrkrIjfi95sn90GS4/s320/half+marathon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405891779686124210" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <em>before</em> the finish line? Why does that random girl hate <em>me</em> so much? In fact, she should just be thankful I didn't get even and shove her <em>again</em> 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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-74171528995613256092009-11-08T20:55:00.006-06:002009-11-08T21:11:51.956-06:00Like gum on my shoe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZB2jRKx5CV9wqWTTP2Afw0qJhE2d8Kh409X1meFvwjXVe3sBKR-yl_fp0f0LJp0sf_AeXxye3pog8G5puNzKZ_4_avrulnffI-OX8pp5t9ILidkxOB0AAYwIJxSFgSzbYKWMMGR-Eax8/s1600-h/cat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZB2jRKx5CV9wqWTTP2Afw0qJhE2d8Kh409X1meFvwjXVe3sBKR-yl_fp0f0LJp0sf_AeXxye3pog8G5puNzKZ_4_avrulnffI-OX8pp5t9ILidkxOB0AAYwIJxSFgSzbYKWMMGR-Eax8/s320/cat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401935920447174450" border="0" /></a>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 <i>being </i>a bully and getting scratched up when other cats <i>defended </i>themselves.<br /><br />Damn cat.<br /><br />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 <i>guest</i>, who was fortunately wearing jeans, and Gigolo will never know how close he came to being chucked out the back door.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYPyS2hNYbHzBiHvxWshbxnx-Whd8v2hUy6VK-DOyAZnzoLWCtya9Lz5bzoiVKDAxgqSQ5MyT8zg_cE_nERfAvDpwtw-kyOhmyBPGrGV3H8odOuEqdJgZdVrJcOgSDERODHTnoO993y0/s1600-h/Oops.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYPyS2hNYbHzBiHvxWshbxnx-Whd8v2hUy6VK-DOyAZnzoLWCtya9Lz5bzoiVKDAxgqSQ5MyT8zg_cE_nERfAvDpwtw-kyOhmyBPGrGV3H8odOuEqdJgZdVrJcOgSDERODHTnoO993y0/s320/Oops.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401932594904730082" border="0" /></a>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-69986055482692428452009-10-28T08:26:00.003-05:002009-10-28T09:58:04.208-05:00In case you forgot...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3enRkOQsMZMCAUsUDBm4-JCqzZL74S5vgIuIMqGJnkAhtcUXYrTc4QaKuho966YnpqyLQxr4mxHlYsu02OVw2ZJyV8g9WA-q-3lhyzv6ZOA9ryZefHIqIByok0TbMtK8GYNoXrdbQzI/s1600-h/indie_bash_poster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397642461247203458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 175px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3enRkOQsMZMCAUsUDBm4-JCqzZL74S5vgIuIMqGJnkAhtcUXYrTc4QaKuho966YnpqyLQxr4mxHlYsu02OVw2ZJyV8g9WA-q-3lhyzv6ZOA9ryZefHIqIByok0TbMtK8GYNoXrdbQzI/s320/indie_bash_poster.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />...I live in Texas.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />And the singer said, "okay, where's the gun?"<br /><br />"Didn't you bring yours?"<br /><br />"No, I was flying."<br /><br />"Oh. We assumed you'd have your gun."<br /><br />"Sorry, all I have is my electric shaver."<br /><br />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?<br /><br />And most importantly, does my pepper spray count as packing? I want to be Texan too!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-86024776325521936602009-10-16T10:08:00.002-05:002009-10-16T10:14:08.987-05:00Hot blooded<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOqG9x_X4MWX27ogCkw7XA8qbT0__X481l0mrSRQIgMqOnxqmlPX3Zz0QuBYROjOQkvLaF4t9DBBmog8QOSqdMWTNygdsnnfsysTkonYue4gwOPdhaBtm7ClZSRi7X1Q0n30irkIKJOo/s1600-h/snow.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOqG9x_X4MWX27ogCkw7XA8qbT0__X481l0mrSRQIgMqOnxqmlPX3Zz0QuBYROjOQkvLaF4t9DBBmog8QOSqdMWTNygdsnnfsysTkonYue4gwOPdhaBtm7ClZSRi7X1Q0n30irkIKJOo/s320/snow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393216155072561586" border="0" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-20329029683386428592009-10-12T10:30:00.001-05:002009-10-12T10:31:23.390-05:00And now for something completely differentAn 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.<br /><br />I should say, they meet every <i>Saturday night</i>. 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />My knee hurts.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-45957030412740495412009-10-05T20:45:00.002-05:002009-10-05T20:49:41.676-05:00Normal namesEd 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." <br /><br />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!"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"She's a courtesan, not a prostitute. Get some culture, dude."<br /><br />"Same same. What's her name?" He turned to the computer (yes, we have a computer in the kitchen, have you <em>met</em> 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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-61080230131437835902009-09-20T21:42:00.001-05:002009-09-20T21:44:10.032-05:00First things lastOops, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-39169233733385016622009-09-03T22:12:00.004-05:002009-09-03T22:25:50.959-05:00Oops I did it againFor 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5e5icLXqT8h5Pop5PBd_3Xd2YRFWeKH8uFipD9yI22VAWPbrTbOPclvm9oZf71quYWQRBh_6Yv2Ezo5Y-K7qcGuptqZB569Te_hOY6wiAJNJqxU0GkrEudE2GMsDjPjKCz6x1Co5yfY/s1600-h/CIMG1985.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5e5icLXqT8h5Pop5PBd_3Xd2YRFWeKH8uFipD9yI22VAWPbrTbOPclvm9oZf71quYWQRBh_6Yv2Ezo5Y-K7qcGuptqZB569Te_hOY6wiAJNJqxU0GkrEudE2GMsDjPjKCz6x1Co5yfY/s320/CIMG1985.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377446777418216050" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-60540703547877878222009-08-24T11:52:00.001-05:002009-08-24T11:53:52.740-05:00Backhanded complimentsI am not a dumpy heifer. <br /><br />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.<br /> <br />I smiled about that for an hour, but didn't fill out the application.<br /><br />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.<br /> <br />Apparently he was afraid he'd be stuck with a dumpy heifer who <i>didn't </i>spill on people.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-58054513732992598122009-08-20T09:17:00.004-05:002009-08-20T13:29:27.392-05:00A matter of timeIt took eight months, but Ed's dream has come true. He got to see someone fall in the river. And that someone was me.<br /><br />The End.<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.latunagrill.com/index.html">La Tuna </a>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.<br /><br />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?"<br /><br />Ed just looked at me.<br /><br />"Uh, okay?" I tentatively followed him. His shoulders were shaking and he said, "C'mon, you're drying off."<br /><br />"I am NOT! I'm dripping!!"<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">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.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-AfcfurwkqHv0dCBSVeTpuyeTx3cdCYjQy9kBsaL1FkH0LbwrqaYkyBbuuBxw3L7IRQnb7FJ-FbP6KjVjkljLtaKnRXLfm9GzqJkR_M9LSbBxBiQwY0pCruZdgkYoRVpFWlalHrdq0I/s1600-h/river.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-AfcfurwkqHv0dCBSVeTpuyeTx3cdCYjQy9kBsaL1FkH0LbwrqaYkyBbuuBxw3L7IRQnb7FJ-FbP6KjVjkljLtaKnRXLfm9GzqJkR_M9LSbBxBiQwY0pCruZdgkYoRVpFWlalHrdq0I/s320/river.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372050266742097250" border="0" /></a></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-72264041778726780372009-08-12T13:56:00.002-05:002009-08-12T14:04:51.811-05:00Who says engineers can't dance?There's a ceilidh dance called "<a href="http://www.scottishdance.net/ceilidh/dances.html#StripTheWillow2">Strip the Willow</a>," 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.<br /><br />My dad was my partner. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />I laughed back at him, "U.S.A!!"Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-78993872302098423142009-08-11T08:49:00.002-05:002009-08-11T08:53:27.182-05:00Loving kindnessEd 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />That night Ed was sick. It happens, especially to non-smokers who get through an entire Cuban. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <i>yet </i>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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-22611022677652257892009-08-10T10:58:00.005-05:002009-08-10T13:10:58.557-05:00Another new job idea<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1pL2Df0uHKaCRZvJ96V_HMdTXeZvcqymj_zLo0WPWsjtTrfueHruvQaBD4RCxyfGQlG4vmyFCsJvpvPYbXQpLkshsupWp0zT_7bbQLm1Hnc9R_cSuo2PCJeKmKf4uYssED7HDznaVEQ/s1600-h/field.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1pL2Df0uHKaCRZvJ96V_HMdTXeZvcqymj_zLo0WPWsjtTrfueHruvQaBD4RCxyfGQlG4vmyFCsJvpvPYbXQpLkshsupWp0zT_7bbQLm1Hnc9R_cSuo2PCJeKmKf4uYssED7HDznaVEQ/s320/field.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368375705165485890" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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?"<br /><br />"Huh?"<br /><br />"That sheep! It's been spray painted!"<br /><br />Ed looks up from driving on the crazy skinny roads, shifts with his left hand, and agrees, "Yep, spray painted."<br /><br />"Do you think Irish teenagers are so bored that they spray paint sheep? Is that like cow tipping? Those poor little sheep!"<br /><br />"They seem happy enough."<br /><br />"Happy? They've got blue butts! Would YOU be happy with a blue butt?"<br /><br />"Am I a sheep?"<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Yep, I've only lived in Texas six months and already know Texas is Best. Giddyup, sheep!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-9633014950534474672009-07-09T20:34:00.002-05:002009-07-09T20:46:05.918-05:00Ed's fault<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFrlZlyqB0QRRPhuI2XA_s73pY9G5KN5ZGu1BvLtDAqyadB6VfG06-w6e8o_oJrEOQSFZ1nnUELB4xRqfEfGkEfwuCu4qmXxPoxA4_BTcxWk3TVgtrTvMiPJT4HSaVVYW9FqPDL_sMGQ/s1600-h/CIMG1941.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFrlZlyqB0QRRPhuI2XA_s73pY9G5KN5ZGu1BvLtDAqyadB6VfG06-w6e8o_oJrEOQSFZ1nnUELB4xRqfEfGkEfwuCu4qmXxPoxA4_BTcxWk3TVgtrTvMiPJT4HSaVVYW9FqPDL_sMGQ/s320/CIMG1941.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356640637989431858" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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 <i>pop </i>it. It'll be such a gratifying ooze, I know it. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />And because it's his fault I got burned, I get complaining privileges. I'm taking full advantage.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-67487008772054078532009-07-02T10:38:00.002-05:002009-07-02T10:42:23.229-05:00Rednecks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jFoEVj45xRrKu0vtMahRq5cf9WuhkqgdWLNa_myjjzYruziQnEnb-EDaBdB5hffAyuGkkimjE-Er6rPrZrp6QtKLNssbOc2U2dpuo1QfAmGzNscIgGHgRu9qrWIAXuKPH5rdnUXfp3o/s1600-h/CIMG1934.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jFoEVj45xRrKu0vtMahRq5cf9WuhkqgdWLNa_myjjzYruziQnEnb-EDaBdB5hffAyuGkkimjE-Er6rPrZrp6QtKLNssbOc2U2dpuo1QfAmGzNscIgGHgRu9qrWIAXuKPH5rdnUXfp3o/s320/CIMG1934.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353887870510272610" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />Nervy guy says with a grin, "Wanna race?"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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<a href="http://www.boudros.com/boudros/about_us.php"> Boudro's</a>, right?"<br /><br />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 <i>know </i>I could use my head as a watermelon if I chose? That I'll stop wearing one since I don't <i>have </i>to wear it? Nervy keeps talking, "We've asked a bunch of people, it's true!" He's excited as a kid.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Some stereotypes have followed me.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-50704763357423533682009-06-30T14:08:00.003-05:002009-06-30T14:22:48.292-05:00Business Plan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA5osDdOjUPW_1il6SEQqG8gAl-TfU0wCbzQNK6B4s4Cepc2ML-hDAteVcCbVQNmhh5AZsV_EOHkR5N8UHtIm12895qskxVRqX3I3o1hWn5zl0FI8uquJYJU2MqIDvPdUo_Y_PS5U5wfQ/s1600-h/cupcake+couture.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA5osDdOjUPW_1il6SEQqG8gAl-TfU0wCbzQNK6B4s4Cepc2ML-hDAteVcCbVQNmhh5AZsV_EOHkR5N8UHtIm12895qskxVRqX3I3o1hWn5zl0FI8uquJYJU2MqIDvPdUo_Y_PS5U5wfQ/s320/cupcake+couture.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353202441672813330" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />Ends up that <a href="http://www.cupcakecouturesa.com/">Cupcake Couture</a> 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.<br /><br />So what to do next? What could make people happier than cupcakes?<br /><br />Drinking.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Full ownership once I die of liver failure - if you'll give me some start-up cash now.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-63674331629797313492009-06-27T18:06:00.005-05:002009-06-28T09:24:19.936-05:00My weekend<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVMo3du4mrc1CG8hwLZeBWEn7uIye-dHU8dPKMCHOfWODZD3rfQS61s-mxcNR8fnR4dRB7jTCOIjDNEZAV_Q3LMSXYoaEZ60fwNZfuOGpwtPYKGzeSyDGxV-Hpged-rOos737_QqIskI/s1600-h/Jeff+005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVMo3du4mrc1CG8hwLZeBWEn7uIye-dHU8dPKMCHOfWODZD3rfQS61s-mxcNR8fnR4dRB7jTCOIjDNEZAV_Q3LMSXYoaEZ60fwNZfuOGpwtPYKGzeSyDGxV-Hpged-rOos737_QqIskI/s320/Jeff+005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352148215764881154" border="0" /></a>Ed bought champagne that my brother in law Jeff saber'd open off the back porch so my unemployed ass could drink it. Yeehaw!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-34328254670800116182009-06-12T11:56:00.000-05:002009-06-12T11:57:02.349-05:00Alien assimilationThis 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.<br /><br />The one with blonde, Texas hair turned to the other and said, "You see? All Texans are super friendly. Unlike the tourists."<br /><br />WHOA THERE LADY. <i>I'm</i> a super-friendly Texan???? Next time I won't try so hard not to fling sweat at them, and that'll show <i>her</i>.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-6513342330259835462009-06-11T12:22:00.002-05:002009-06-11T12:25:34.913-05:00Biological weapon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSZin7vWFCR8sExIqCM87aJ3auuXKvptMRIaivqcsTxSulgA8K_CA2wvz2H3-V2mELtZuMURrgXo9VUDtPMlzjfL4wQWzU5LCXtG9iodBzltadIsTFqVbfVCi5E7PaDxszdpaMg0c8EE0/s1600-h/CIMG1858.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSZin7vWFCR8sExIqCM87aJ3auuXKvptMRIaivqcsTxSulgA8K_CA2wvz2H3-V2mELtZuMURrgXo9VUDtPMlzjfL4wQWzU5LCXtG9iodBzltadIsTFqVbfVCi5E7PaDxszdpaMg0c8EE0/s320/CIMG1858.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346122097441509122" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />Then this morning, at 11:32am, temperature 88 degrees with moderate humidity, I got in my car again. I died. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-84117759949085069192009-06-10T18:37:00.002-05:002009-06-10T18:40:15.329-05:00Update67. 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 <i>after </i>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.<br /><br />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<b><i> I</i></b> 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.<br /><br />Besides, there's TWO boxes in this picture.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1k8ip8Hil7k-iGlQIHvoQ_lKXte3CNfZGQ9_voxRmFz7o6QkZU51BdVxUmLBZwuZFu-sOUzTFJlL9sITFEI0QhBY_-lmkbnAVewRNR9iVXGyizddK2VyVxkHuZSsz-hnLSOWy9JIzJc/s1600-h/CIMG1855.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1k8ip8Hil7k-iGlQIHvoQ_lKXte3CNfZGQ9_voxRmFz7o6QkZU51BdVxUmLBZwuZFu-sOUzTFJlL9sITFEI0QhBY_-lmkbnAVewRNR9iVXGyizddK2VyVxkHuZSsz-hnLSOWy9JIzJc/s200/CIMG1855.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345847543671167090" border="0" /></a>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-32705678648498255972009-06-08T16:38:00.001-05:002009-06-08T16:41:23.327-05:00June 8<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZeJyzZNNZhVCdmAZyw01ZeoKSI8Paz2XhyISXa2T-thzQzTTermp6r-SlFZU5CA43arRjZgrHfrUjIFKIttdgEVbunIeFlIpYehlY_gMnKKdlHlOcpc2ivD618M_XhXtGhVX4x0gYjQ/s1600-h/CIMG1852.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 169px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZeJyzZNNZhVCdmAZyw01ZeoKSI8Paz2XhyISXa2T-thzQzTTermp6r-SlFZU5CA43arRjZgrHfrUjIFKIttdgEVbunIeFlIpYehlY_gMnKKdlHlOcpc2ivD618M_XhXtGhVX4x0gYjQ/s320/CIMG1852.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345074625520996930" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />All told, I got 49 texts before 4:30. Some favorites:<br />"Happy birthday from a friend of a friend in Athens, Greece!"<br />"Happy birthday from a little birdie's mom!"<br />"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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><i>"Happy birthday Katie! I don't know you, but it's clear you are much-loved :) Have a wonderful day!!"</i>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-70349602443692155132009-06-04T09:24:00.002-05:002009-06-04T09:32:33.488-05:00Holy crap, I live in Texas.<object width="340" height="285"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LEo8poVlQrM&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LEo8poVlQrM&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="340" height="285"></embed></object><br /><br />It's a Friday night and one of Ed's coworkers has invited us to meet her and some friends at <a href="http://www.fatsossportsgarden.com/">Fatso's Sports Garden.</a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />This is my life.<br /><br />This is my life?Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-87651149467185474542009-06-03T08:29:00.000-05:002009-06-03T08:30:24.116-05:00Howzzat?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?"<br /><br />"Is William there?"<br /><br />"You have the wrong number." And thanks for getting my hopes up, lady.<br /><br />"Is this the Barton residence?"<br /><br />"Nope, sorry." <br /><br />"Yeah right." She slams the phone down.<br /><br />????<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-222437901035787502009-06-01T09:45:00.002-05:002009-06-01T09:50:24.819-05:00I'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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkpO77yplyuO9K_25xLHclG6XRKn5q5DewWezQ2LIOs-bFdBwRVUomQKWZQYd7Qn1xETrNpolYLNSj_gzIvso29E1CRCJRYRTgofAD16aT6uU6K49UlpLJIl_vg2E9XRIOonITaKkOUZA/s1600-h/WALK+04+mySA.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkpO77yplyuO9K_25xLHclG6XRKn5q5DewWezQ2LIOs-bFdBwRVUomQKWZQYd7Qn1xETrNpolYLNSj_gzIvso29E1CRCJRYRTgofAD16aT6uU6K49UlpLJIl_vg2E9XRIOonITaKkOUZA/s320/WALK+04+mySA.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342370630985186498" border="0" /></a><br />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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4873351247160604550.post-85567940487758377442009-05-29T11:32:00.001-05:002009-05-29T11:35:04.012-05:00Series schmeriesSo that whole "<a href="http://macslysyeehaw.blogspot.com/2009/04/driving-rant.html">proud series on Texas Rantings</a>"? 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />And then I'll, um, pat you on the back and say "thank you, have a nice day." I am in Texas, after all.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08934863002708753423noreply@blogger.com1