Where There's Smoke

There's usually fire. But I guess y'all probably already know this. There have been a lot of fires popping up in Texas lately. Not surprising since we're in a drought. It seems like Labor Day weekend brought out the hazards. There was a small one in town but not too much damage occurred, thank goodness. The BF and I went to visit his parents in Blackwell for the long weekend. It was a great trip, if a touch windy and chilly. And by a touch, I mean 30 mph and we almost sunk the paddle boat in the waves. Lesson learned. Always bring a bailing bucket.

On the way home, we kept seeing big plumes of smoke in different areas. That part of Texas is pretty flat so you can see them for miles. Unless you're right near the fire, the air is really clear so that, and the flatness, make it easy to see the huge columns of smoke. They just sit there, all tall and grey and mushroom-y. Really, if they weren't gray, you'd think they were fluffy clouds, sitting up there in the blue sky. Looking at them, I was struck by how still they were. They don't move like normal clouds do, with the wind. They're generated from one place and most of them stays there for a while. Which is so different from how the fires are on the ground. With the high winds, they were moving quickly, I'm sure.

Once those smoke clouds start to dissipate, though, they look really creepy. They thin out on the edges, like grey skeleton fingers reaching out. It was like the sky was ready for Halloween or something. I don't have much experience with fires like that. It's not a common thing where I'm from. Historically, it's a wetter, more humid area and not often in a drought (although there was one for the two years I was in grad school at Georgia. I may have brought it here...). I'm familiar with bonfires and campfires but not large, dangerous, out of control fires. Those scare me.

Now the clouds are gone but there's a lingering smoke smell in the air, like someone's grilling went awry. It's fading but for a while my throat was hurting. Not pleasant, not at all. Here's to rain!

My Super Hot Birthday!

So, yesterday I turned 26. My Daddy came in to town on Thursday, before my birthday, to spend a birthday weekend with me. The high was 104 each day. Heat index of 110. We helped my boyfriend move, which was kind of brutal. He was a total trouper though and I'm pretty sure I would have been crushed by H's massive futon couch if he hadn't been there. Which my father would have been REALLY mad about. As would I. 

Besides my birthday presents, the best thing that happened was queso flamedo. You know what that means? Flaming cheese. And not just any flaming cheese. Flaming cheese with chorizo in it. It. Was. Awesome. So delicious. And fun. Now I'm trying to dry out (too much to drink) and thin out (too much to eat). But I'm also homesick.

That's the problem with being so far out here, I guess. I really do like it but I miss home. Miss it a lot sometimes. Especially after I see someone from home. Poor H had to hold me while I had a little breakdown. I just get so sad that I don't get to see them more and sad to see them leave. It wasn't like I went home every weekend when I lived closer, or even saw the fam more than I see them now but I just feel the distance, I guess, when they leave. Sad times. After a day or so, I'm back in action though. So more adventures to follow.

On Living Alone

In less than a week, I will be 26 years old. Too old to be scared of the dark, one would think. 

If one was talking about me, that one would be wrong.


I seriously like having my own space. I like wandering around comfy outfits not fit for public consumption. In fact, I went through a leggings-ski socks-large fleece stage over the winter. Cute, let me tell you. I like always knowing where I put things and having the cabinet doors closed. I like talking to the dog (don't judge). What I don't like is when I get creeped out by something, Snapped, Law and Order: SVU, a scary movie, and then I "hear noises" and can't sleep because I'm convinced someone is trying to break in to my clearly occupied and alarmed residence. This is when I feel 8 years old again and I need my dad to come rescue me.

When I was much younger, my bedroom window looked out onto the roof of out porch. It was a relatively low roof, one that I climbed on frequently, either out of my bedroom window or up from the porch. One night, I was sleeping, as children do, and I happened to wake up. I glanced around and saw a weird circular light outside my window, through the curtains. It was flicking on. Then off. Then on. Then off. 

I. Was. Terrified. 

I lay there, covers up to my chin, trying to figure out what sort of criminal was on my roof, turning a flashlight on and off. I don't know how long I laid there but it seemed like forever. I finally got up the nerve to holler for my dad. He came to scare the criminal away and what did he find? 

A lightening bug.  

Terrifying creatures, as I'm sure you know.  A few nights ago, I was closing up the house for the night and my dog kept staring at the back door. I'd just let her back in from being outside and didn't feel like waiting on her again so I just put her on the bed, brushed my teeth and climbed in. She promptly jumped back down and went to the back door again. We repeated this one more time so I turned on the back porch light- nothing doing. I put her back on the bed and closed my bedroom door. She stared at that door, which really creeped me out. So I checked all the locks, the alarm, my pepper spray, put her back on the bed and locked the bedroom door. Then every noise that my house usually makes seemed amplified and sinister. I desperately wanted a stun gun or a Tazer, though my boyfriend is opposed to them because he's a true firepower man (guns) and also he once got Tazed by a friend. 


So I tried to content myself with pepper spray and a dog that would welcome an intruder because she would think it's a new friend for her to play with. And I coveted my friend Anna's matching pink Tazer and stun gun and the 130 lb. Doberman I saw outside of Lowe's last weekend.

'Dillas

When I was at the College of Charleston, I took a beginning theater course to satisfy some humanities requirements or some such thing. We paired off towards the end and had to do a short scene that we picked out of a pile the professor brought. One group did a scene of two strangers who met on a cross-country bus trip. I'm guessing it was set somewhere in the southwest because every once in a while, both of them would pop up a little in their seats. Why? Because they were running over 'dillas in the road. 'Dilla, of course, means armadillo. 

But I'm sure you knew that.

Me, I didn't really know anything about armadillos though maybe I'd seen one on TV or in a zoo. It was also the age before smart phones (Gasp! Such an age exists?!) so it's not like I could look it up on my handy dandy phone. You shouldn't be on your phone in class anyways and I always want to snatch it out of people's hands and throw it across the room but I couldn't get away with that unless I was famous. Hollywood! Here I am!

But, I digress. The reason I bring this up is because of a incident on Monday morning. I was walking my dog, as I do every morning (except Saturdays when I'm too lazy and I just open the back door), and we're heading toward the back of my complex when she starts pulling on the leash harder than usual. I vaguely wonder why but this early in the morning it takes all my brain power to hold onto the leash and walk at the same time. I make the left turn and I see a gray lump in the bushes. I feel a (very) mild rush of adrenaline because I think bunnies are totally cute. My sister and I each had one when we were younger and they each died a tragic death. We, the dog and I, get a little closer and I discover that this is the weirdest looking bunny I've ever seen. A little closer still and I see no cute long ears, no poufy tail, just what appears to be and overgrown rat. Then I recognize the shape from the roadkill I frequently see around here: an armadillo. The adrenaline rush becomes less mild because I have no idea what these things can do and I hear they cause leprosy. Plus, possums and raccoons can be very aggressive and an armadillo seems similar to possums and raccoons at 6:15 a.m. 

I pull the dog away and text a real Texan when I get back to the house to get an armadillo update. They aren't aggressive but you shouldn't touch them because they can carry leprosy (due in part to a very low body temperature). I file this info away in my brain and carry on. Tuesday morning, we go for another sleepy walk. The armadillo is back and isn't hiding in the bushes. He's (they all look like boys to me) digging up the grass in the back of the complex. We get real close and I'm sad I don't have a camera or a phone because this is the closest I've ever been to an armadillo! Then Hope sniffs him (probably not a good idea, what with the leprosy potential and all) and he scurries off. Well, kind of waddled off, like a pregnant lady.

This morning I was prepared. I brought my phone in case I saw Dillon (that's right, I named him) again. Alas, he was not there but I could see where he'd been but the ruts in the grass and mulch. Maybe tomorrow!

Texas Road Signs

For the past few weekends, I've been traveling to various Texan locations: Shiner, Blackwell, Denton. In the next month, I'll hit Houston (again) and Flower Mound, TX. And you know what I've been noticing? Texas has some crazy road signs. They really do.

For instance, as I'm driving to Shiner, we go through some town somewhere that has some hills. In order to warn the hill-illiterate Texans driving through the town, they had a handy dandy sign they posted on the side of the road in the typical warning-sign-yellow and black. And this truck was going almost straight up the hill. It was comical. I was laughing so hard tears came to my eyes. It would have been dangerous if the hill has actually been that steep but it wasn't! It was just a hill, same as any other hill. The sign kind of looked like this:

 Except going up. Is it even possible to drive up a road with that steep of a grade? I doubt it. Regardless, I didn't have to. But I did laugh about it.

This weekend, on the drive between College Station and Denton, I saw at least three awesome road signs. First: Sadberry Lane. Seriously? SADberry? Who wants to live there? I felt bad for the road with it's depressing name!

Of course, I perked right up when I saw the cross street a ways down the road: Pneumatic Tool Rd. Really? Why this name? Was some woman trying to get a point across to some man? Or is there a tool shop down there? I couldn't tell. 

Something else I was confused about: Hog Island Cemetery. An island? Doubt it. Hogs? Probably. But who is this cemetery for? People or hogs? I had the same question about the Buffalo Cemetery. Is it for buffalo or the citizens of Buffalo, the town? I need more information.

Texas Summer Heat

It's hot here. I don't know why that surprises people but apparently it does. It's southeast Texas in July. It gets hot. But every day I still here people complain about it. Filling the hot air with their hot air. There's nothing you can do about it, y'all, except move to Alaska. Of course, even there it's getting warmer than usual, like every other place. 

Here we've had our hottest month on record (June) and the driest weather on record from October to now. It feels nice when I walk the dog in the morning and by the time I leave for work, it's warm enough to make you sweat. If you're outside a lot then, which I'm usually not. However, I frequently have to walk (partway) across campus for presentations. I leave my cool office around 9:20 a.m. and get a little glow on while pulling the dolly. When I come back at 11, I'm in full on sweat. Needless to say, summers are not my most attractive season.

When I lived in hot, humid Charleston, you learned how to walk. First of all, it's old so a lot of the sidewalks are all crazy and uneven so you have to pick up your feet. Second, during the day, you find the shade. Depending on the time of day, one side of the street would have more traffic than the other. Third, you picked your own special pace. You found the speed of walking that worked for you: fast enough to create a breeze but slow enough to keep the sweat from pouring off of you. I still do the same thing here but when pulling a dolly, you sweat and there's no getting around it. 

And you'd think some of these nice Aggie gentlemen would offer to help. 

Fightin' Texas Aggie Ring

Yesterday, I was judged for not having a ring on my finger.

We've all done it. Don't even try to tell me you haven't because I won't believe you. We've checked the ring finger. Maybe it's a cute guy (or a not so cute guy followed with a "who married HIM?!"), maybe it's a girl ("check out that rock!" but it's happened. You've tried to surreptitiously check to see if someone's ring finger has been claimed.

I'm sure it's happened to me before. I mean, I'm not totally heinous and creepy. But here, you don't just check the left hand, you check the right hand too. And sometimes you check that hand first. Why? For the Fightin' Texas Aggie Ring. I've posted about the FTA Ring before, so you know I don't have one. Last night, I got the hand check though and it was not subtle.

I was chatting with someone at a social event and she happened to ask me when I graduated from A&M. Not uncommon. That's how we ladies politely attempt to figure out someone's age. I, however, have not graduated from A&M. Ever. And when I said that, she said "Really?!" and proceeded to check out my ring finger. On my right hand, of course.

Nope. Not lying. There's no ring there. And you won't find a tan line from where a ring used to be. I just don't have a ring or a degree from Texas A&M. Although, I do have a few others.

This was the first time my right ring finger has felt empty. I've had ring envy for a while and, as some people know, I'm working my way towards getting one of those rings. But my hand needed to be weighed down by that telltale symbol of Aggie-ness last night and it wasn't. Sad, sad day. She did continue to talk to me though and she's very nice. I think sometimes people here can't understand why I'm here if I didn't graduate from here. Or have family here. Or have married into the Aggie Family. I guess it is kind of strange. Some people move to New York just to move to New York. Or Chicago or DC or other places. Here, you come to be an Aggie.

Bodies of Water

I was driving (ok, riding/sleeping) through parts of Texas this holiday weekend and I noticed something: signs point out creeks and rivers. Now, this is clearly not uncommon. Those signs are every where. Then why am I pointing it out?

Because there's no water in them.


I see a sign for the Cow Shack Creek, I eagerly look over and see... nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. There's a rut in the field with some rocks in it that's currently dry as a bone. It does look as though, conceivably, water could flow through there. But it also looks as though it hasn't for quite some time. "Huh," I think. "I wonder why..." But obviously I don't ask to stop and inspect this lack of water because, let's be honest, it's a) hot as heck and b) a really long drive that I don't want to add any more delays to. I resolve to inspect the other creeks (and not just their funny names). 


I can't remember all the names, although lots of them include the word "branch," making me think it's part of another flowing body of water that might actually be flowing, but by and large, they were dry. Now, Texas is currently experiencing a drought so that will account for some of it but really, that's an awful lot of signs for what is essentially a rocky ditch in a field.

On Personal Safety

As you may know, I have crazy vivid dreams. Last night, I had another one, involved a tiny Kroger, looking for some grocery item and being in a weird, long house with lots of apartments, TVs with static and a flipped breakers. Anyways, I was trying to turn the power on and I flipped some breakers (in the dream) and it made a loud noise. I contacted the landlord but then I woke up. Once I woke up, I wasn't sure if the loud noise was only in my dream or had actually happened. So I tried to lay as still as humanly possible and listen, in case someone had broken in to my house. I kept hearing noises (which were probably normal, every night noises but seemed way scarier) so I finally convinced myself to very quietly reach for my glasses (so I could identify the intruder), put them on, pick up my phone (to contact the police, obvii) and my pepper spray (yes, I sleep with it by the bed). Side note: It's extremely difficult to fling open a door in a manner meant to startle intruder when one is carrying things in both hands.

So armed, I did a thorough inspection of my whole house but was still pretty frightened, even though my dog hadn't moved during this whole escapade and so far as I could tell, nothing was amiss. I tried to convince myself that no one would break into a house that was clearly occupied and advertised a security system when there are a lot of empty, for sale or for rent houses around me (it's summer in a college town, after all). No go. I then decided to leave several lights on, both inside and outside, to further discourage intruders and locked myself in the bedroom. While trying to fall back asleep, I decided it was time to look into something a little more threatening that pepper spray.

I do have a birthday coming up and it's legal for me to shoot someone in my own home if they're not supposed to be there. I don't even have to warn them. But I really think I'd be more likely to pull the trigger on a stun gun and proceed with duct taping an intruder to a chair (Wikipedia was not clear on the legalities of this so I'd probably check with the 9-1-1 operator before proceeding) than putting a bullet in a living person. Plus, that's quite a lot of mess the clean up and makes an awful racket. Although the pink Taser is super cute, I think that red sends more of a Stop or I'll Shoot! message.

 

What's in a Name?

Mine has eight letters, two repeats. It looks like it should have three syllables but when you say it, it's just two. I've never considered it to be very difficult to spell, say or hear. But since moving here... well, maybe they just do things differently.

Take, for instance, the spelling of my name.  M A R G A R E T. Not hard, right? Wrong. People here get it wrong quite a lot. Margret. Magret. Margrette (which is kind of elegant). But my favorite, and the one that prompted this post, happened this weekend while checking in with a hostess for lunch with the boyfriend. "Name?" she asks. "Margaret" I say. Because that is my name. She looks at me in confusion and I sigh (softly) and spell it for her. "MARGARET." I glance down to see if she's gotten it right and what do I see? "M A R G A R E T T E." Really lady? Like I don't know how to spell my own name? That doesn't even look like it would be pronounced the same as my name! (Side note: My name is pronounced like one of its common misspellings: Mar-Gret.) Mar-gar-et. Too many syllables lady. But, instead of correcting her, I gracefully said, "thank you" and took my little pager thingy. 

But maybe people in Texas aren't named Margaret very often. Because they don't seem to understand what I'm saying. Like the hostess above (also, why do I have the most trouble with hostesses??), she was totally confused about what I was saying. And another hostess when the BF and I were checking in for a delicious breakfast (but I don't go there anymore because of this situation and also because people wear pajamas there. Pajamas are for bed, y'all. Get it together.), asked for my name and when I replied "Margaret," she looked at me and incredulously, and very loudly, asked, "MARKER?!" No lady. My name is NOT Marker. It's Margaret. So then most of the lobby is looking at me and probably thinking the same thing as the hostess, "who names their child Marker?!" While markers are a fun and colorful writing implement, it's not my name. 


Anyways, my boyfriend rescued the situation (i.e. stopped me from loudly telling her that she should listen up and do her job because it's not that hard, all you have to do is listen for names and what does that say about you that you can't even get my simple name right, etc.) by calmly giving his name instead. The pancakes and coffee were good but between the pajamas and my new name, I'd written it off.

My Not-So Green Thumb

Until I moved here, I didn't have living things, beside me, guests and the occasional bug, in my apartments. I lived on campus for six years (no, that is not a typo) so we weren't allowed to have anything but fish. Well, now that I'm thinking about it, I did briefly have a fish in Charleston that I won in some sort of carnival game but he jumped out of the bowl. Sad day. Anyways, other than that ill fated attempt at life, I didn't have pets or plants in my home. There are both in my parents' home and throughout my memories, we had multiple pets. We still do. Moving on...

When I (finally) moved off campus and came here, I was super excited to experience home ownership. I bought a little condo with a little yard and couldn't wait to get some plants and a little dog. Dog: check. She's a tough cookie. After surviving life on a farm with long hair, two car run-ins (or over-s, I suppose), a coyote attack and a horse kick, life with me is a breeze. She's almost seven years old now so she's fine with a morning walk, sleeping in her chair all day, afternoon walk, dinner and an evening walk. Very low maintenance. One would think that after mastering the art of dog care, I could manage to keep a plant alive.

One would be wrong.

I've gone through several plants, indoor and outdoor, and have not managed to keep anything alive for more than two months. Some of the plants that have met an untimely end when matched with my "green" thumb include, but are not limited to: cilantro, rosemary, basil, parsley, thyme, dill, and various flowers. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong. I have since given up on my gardening, stacked my pots to one side and closed the potting soil (even though I have a cute trowel, gloves and knee pad). The only thing I've managed to partially maintain would be the grass that was already established in my mini-backyard. In the interest of full blog disclosure, however, I'll say that there a) is a sprinkler system on a timer and controlled by the HOA and b) brown spots in the yard.

So, imagine my surprise when I went out the check on the progress of the brown spots and discovered two non-grass plants happily growing in my yard and receiving no help from me at all. I was almost mad about it but then I figured, hey, I have a pumpkin vine and a basil plant so whatevs. Where did I get a pumpkin vine? Why, from pumpkin carving, of course! My wonderful friend from grad school, Jessica, hosted a pumpkin carving both years we were in Athens. When I moved here, I shamelessly pilfered the idea and we had a ton of fun. If you've ever carved a pumpkin, you know they're messy so clearly some seeds ended up landing, and thriving, in my yard. I kindly weedeated (or weed-ate? I'm not sure. My yard's too small for an actual mower) around it. The basil? No clue. Maybe some of it jumped out of the pot I had it sitting in. Maybe it just sensed my desire for fresh basil. Who cares? It's there now and I pulled the weeds (which are actually the grass that's supposed to be growing in the yard) around it but have not watered it because I'm so clearly not a gardener.

I have weird dreams.

If you know me at all, you know I have really weird and very detailed dreams. Last night I had three. First off, I dreamed that I was at my wedding reception and my mother had been in charge of ordering the liquor. {Side note: If you are in any way familiar with my family, you will know that this is A BIG DEAL, as we enjoy an adult beverage.} She'd ordered it (from a place called Whiskey Charlie's. Does that place actually exist?) but it wasn't scheduled to be delivered until midnight. NOT OK. All of my guests were leaving and I was not as distressed in my dream as I would have been in real life. I was trying to convince someone to give us some alcohol and my rationale was to loudly annouce "I JUST GOT MARRIED!" He looked at me, standing there barefoot in jeans and a t shirt, shook his head and left. End dream.

My next dream was really more of a short story, again featuring my wedding. {Side note 2: I swear I'm not a crazy wedding girl! My boyfriend has three weddings coming up in the next two months. That's all. Promise.}I was at my wedding reception and for some reason, all the attention was not on me and the groom (who was not visible, FYI). Why? Because a friend from work, M., brought John Stamos as her date. Also, M. is already married, and not to John Stamos.

In the next one, I wake up in my bunk bed on the third story of an old historic house one morning. I hear lots of party-sounding racket and I look out my window. One of my roommates has had an all night party and there are people and beer cans and trash strewn all about the front porch and yard area. I am NOT OK with this and wonder how I managed to sleep through such a rager. I stomp down the hallway and wake up another roommate (R. a collegue from work who is married with kids and certainly doesn't sleep in a bunk bed). She is much less concerned about the aforementioned party. I nonetheless stomp downstairs and begin yelling at people to leave immediately. I unplug three separate boomboxes and then yell and the partying roommate, "you cannot live here anymore!!" People wander off. I go inside. I wake up.

My brain is weird. I know.

Sno Cone Summer

When I was younger, we would get sno cones (usually grape, as that's my favorite flavor) at ball parks and, well, basically only ball parks. It was crushed ice in a little paper cone (you know, the kind that are really hard to hold on to because it's, well, cone shaped) with flavor stuff pouring on top. Sometimes you could get two flavors, one on each side. It wasn't really that big of a deal, just something cold to munch on while you were sweating outside. It is a completely different story here.

Last weekend, the BF and I drove west to visit his parents. During the drive, we go through lots of tiny towns (some of my favorites being Mound, TX and Flat, TX because they're right next to each other and I think that's funny). The populations are usually small numbers like 5, 684 (Cameron), 2, 588 (Early), 861 (Flat), and 360 (Blackwell). It doesn't matter how small the town is, there is almost always a sno cone stand. There are several (like 5) in my area alone. And they will have crazy long lines. People will sweat out in the heat for 30 minutes, waiting on a sno cone (i.e. a cup of ice with flavor) to cool off when realistically they could have just gone inside to the AC. But no. They have to have a sno cone.

I haven't had one yet. I'm not sure if it'll be the sno cone style I'm used to (crushed ice) or the shaved ice style. I hear they're delicious though and come in tons of flavors. Plus, as with many things in Texas, they're bigger. They come in Styrofoam cups. The big kind too, not the tiny baby coffee cup ones. And you eat with with a spoon instead of shoving your face into a pile of sugary ice and hoping for the best. I think I'll try one soon.

Creepy Crawly Things

Yesterday I helped a friend pack her moving truck for a trek away from Texas. When I got home, I saw what looked like a piece of black plastic sitting next to my walkway. I thought "Ugh. My trashy neighbors are littering again" and went to pick it up.

THEN IT SLITHERED AWAY.

Y'all. I almost picked up a snake.

I, of course, shrieked and jumped away. Then I had a freak out moment (or ten) in which I paced back and forth in front of my house, hopping a little to avoid getting too close to the snake, while I watched it to make sure it didn't sneak into my house. Then I realized I should call for back up. I quickly dialed the boyfriend. As soon as he picked up, I said (screeched) "IHAVEASNAKE!!!" Not "there's a snake near my door," or "I almost touched a snake because I thought it was trash." Just "IHAVEASNAKE!!!" as though I would ever actually possess a snake on purpose. He, fortunately, offered to come over and deal with the creature that almost killed me. I dialed my Dad, continuing my crazy, hopping dance to ensure the snake did not sneak away. Dad convinced me to go inside and retrieve my shovel and my flashlight. So then, I run back outside, carrying the shovel, flashlight, my purse and, with the phone pressed to my ear, narrate everything that the snake is doing. Which, to be honest, is basically sitting there on the ground, under my living room window. Boyfriend finally arrives and takes over the shovel and flashlight.

HOWEVER. He did not kill the snake and mount its head on a pike, which is what I wanted. He just poked around in the bushes and scared it away. NOT OK. What if it sneaks into my house at night?! I'm not trying to find a snake in my kitchen at 6 in the morning. Anyways, I finally have a clear path into my house, sans snake, and I take the dog for a walk. I grab my pepper spray on the way out the door in case the snake makes a return appearance. If so, I will blast him with pepper spray. This, for some reason, makes the boyfriend laugh and say things like, "it's not that big of a snake" and "it was just a little garden snake."

First of all, it was not THAT small. It was at least 2 feet long, maybe even 3 feet. Second, I almost touched it. Third, and probably most important, IT UPSET ME AND CREEPED ME OUT. Based on that alone, it is an incident that should be treated with the utmost seriousness. Having been properly chastised, H (my bf) makes amends and we continue the walk.

He doesn't make even a peep when I peer around the columns in front of my house with the pepper spray before deciding it's safe to enter.

Warnings

I like to keep up with the current weather conditions, mostly because I need to know what outfit will be appropriate and if I will need galoshes. However, there are times when weather is totally unpredictable. Ok, basically all the time but whatever. Back home, we had handy devices for such emergencies. They are called tornado sirens. A tornado siren will go off when a funnel cloud has been spotted in the area and you will know to take cover. My hometown is also semi-close to a nuclear plant so we have nuclear meltdown sirens (or something more professional sounding) as well.
Here, where there are more tornadoes than in my hometown, there are NO tornado sirens. They have lightening sirens. Seriously? Lightening is pretty obvious. It's a bright flash of light. Comes with thunder pretty often. Tornadoes are a little more sneaky. Or maybe they just seem sneaky to a person who is used to tracking the slow and obvious progress of hurricanes.
Last night, there was lots of lightening (no, I didn't hear any sirens) and wind and crazy weather. There's crazy weather all over the country. I was trying to go to sleep last night and I kept feeling like someone was creepily taking my picture through my bedroom window. Then I'd get nervous that there would be a tornado happening and I WOULD NEVER KNOW because there are NO TORNADO SIRENS HERE. You need emergency weather warning things for when people are not expecting dangerous weather, for example WHEN THEY ARE ASLEEP. Most people sleep indoors so the lightening is not going to effect them that much. You know what could seriously effect you? HAVING HALF OF YOUR HOUSE DESTROYED AND BEING SUCKED UP BY A FUNNEL CLOUD. That could really ruin your whole day. If not kill you.
But here, they're unconcerned. No sirens to wake me up and warn me to take the dog and run to the bathroom (where I will have to cover myself with a thick blanket because I have glass shower doors and that's the only completely interior room of my house) to cower in fear of my life. Not for the first time am I noticing Texas' Survival of the Fittest trend. It's dangerous here. And they won't warn you.

To Rain or Not To Rain...

I can never tell when it's going to rain here. Back on the East Coast, I could. It's really pretty standard. It gets cloudy, a little windy, a little (or a lot) cooler and it rains. There's a clear relationship between the previous weather and the weather in a few hours. Now, sometimes we'll have the whole raining-while-sunny thing or some heat lightening that can throw people off, but once you realize see it a few times, you can find that pattern too.

Here, not so much.

It rained this weekend for about an hour. This is after two days of cloudy, windy weather. After an hour of lightening and thunder. Crazy lightening too. And really long, loud thunder. It sounded like we were being bombed. I, however, still went to see Something Borrowed and it was totally worth it. I'm glad it's been a while since I read the book because I hear it's pretty different. But I digress. It rained while we were in the theater. It was still lightening and thundering (is that a word? Whatevs. I'm going with it.) when we got out, but just barely misting. It continued to be alternately very bright, like aliens were taking pictures of us, and very loud, like people were firing cannons (and this is not an unfamiliar sound for me, surprisingly enough). It made sleeping difficult, particularly since there was no sound of rain on the roof to dampen the thunderous noises. It was weird.

Despite the small amount of rain, it's still pretty humid, around 60% humidity. It may get worse as the summer progresses but the humidity of the other places I've lived (Charleston, SC anyone? Parts of it are below sea level. It gets really humid there. And then it smells like low tide. Ew.), tops it. The heat though, is different. When I was in Athens, GA for my sister's second graduation (Sarah, M. P. A.), when the sun went down, I felt downright chilly. Fortunately, I'm rarely without a cardigan and then all was right with the world. My mom was not so lucky and had to cover up with a Justice League snuggie.

Or maybe she was way more lucky. It's up to interpretation, I suppose.

Landscaping, Part Deux

I got to go home for a brief time last week. And by brief I mean I was in my hometown of York, SC approximately 34 hours, even though I was on "vacation" from Wednesday-Sunday. The rest of the time I was driving back and forth between Atlanta and Athens, helping my sister move stuff, seeing her graduate and assorted other things that kept me from relaxing on the couch at home. According to Google Maps, I traveled about 775 miles and spent about 12 hours in a vehicle. Obvii, I spent A LOT of time on the road, enabling me to take in the gorgeous green scenery on the South Carolina and Georgia roadways (until you get close to Atlanta and then you just see cars, buildings and more roadways). And man alive, were they green. Unlike in my part of Texas, SC and GA have been getting plenty of rain. However, College Station did recieve its first measurable rainfall since January while I was gone. Whoop!

My area of the south has a lot of trees and that certainly helps the green-ness of the landscape but do you know what else does? Kudzu. For those of you who don't know, kudzu is a crazy vine that was originally introduced from Japan a long time ago to shade Southern porches. Yes. It's THAT important. It was also used to stop soil erosion. It worked. Of course, it also spread everywhere else and has more lives than a cat, but it's green. And kind of pretty. I realized I missed it during my long drive a last weekend to that wedding. It just looks so bare on the side of the road.

Other things that look different on the east side of the country? Hills. They have them there. Lots of them. I moved furniture and boxes and stuff up and down those hills. Where I spent the weekend, they're pretty mild hills but there are some mountains around there. I would not want to move up, down, over or around a mountain. Hills are annoying. There aren't that many that I've seen here. I hear tell there are some though. I'll have to continue my exploration of Texas in order to confirm this. I suppose I could Google it, though, but where's the fun in that?

Landscaping

When people in my hometown first heard I was moving to Texas, a few of them asked me, "are there trees in Texas?" Yes, friends, there are trees in Texas. A lot of them are smaller, squattier versions of the ones back home, but some of them are big and provide excellent shade. There are also plants that try to eat your leg off, as I discovered this weekend.

This weekend, I went with the bf and one of his buddies to Brownwood, Texas for a wedding. It was an eventful trip considering the guys sat up front and the dog and I inhabited the tiny bench backseat of the pickup. It got even more eventful when we stopped on the side of the road in Flat, TX (actual town name. I used the GPS on my phone to tell people where we were in case no one ever heard from us again) because the oil pressure was down, the engine temp was up, there was a strange knocking noise coming from the engine and we couldn’t go over 55 mph. Limped to Gatesville (home of a prison and the only Wal-mart I’ve ever seen where the groceries and produce are on the left side), put three quarts of oil in, ate some Subway and booked it to Brownwood to switch cars with his parents, change clothes in a gas station bathroom and hustle to the wedding. We made it just in time.

Brownwood is pretty close to the center of Texas and it was HOT. And DRY. But lovely. The wedding was outside and in the afternoon so there was a lot of sweat happening but once I took off my boots, I was much better. And the groom’s uncles cooked a pig. In the ground. Only one of my favorite things ever. But pork BBQ vs. cow BBQ is another story and there was also chicken, brisket, blackberry cobbler and pink lemonade. I may have also eaten a vegetable. Ah-mazing. After the wedding, instead of staying in Brownwood, the three of us drove to Blackwell, TX to stay with the bf’s parents on the lake. The cool air from the water rocked and it was nice to see his fam again, including his chocolate lab (even though he brought my underwear into the living room twice).

Sunday morning we were up bright and early. Or, the dogs were up bright and early so we got up too. For some unknown reason, I decided to wander around outside, in an unfamiliar environment, with my glasses on. We’re walking around, I’m squinting in the sun, trying to keep my 18 lb. dog from pulling me off my feet whenever she sees a rabbit, which is often. She’s freakishly strong. Browning, the lab, keeps pulling as well and each time he does, the bf makes him heel (stop, go behind him and sit down to wait) so the walk is taking a really long time. I’m wearing flip flops because I love them but the ground out there is really different from most lake environments I know. It’s got a steep incline, it’s really dusty and there are rocks every where. They’re getting in my shoes, I’m rolling around, slipping. It’s beginning to get really annoying so I decide to stop waiting on Browning to heel and take off for the house. The lakes where I’m from have mud. It’s flat-ish and the ground is soft and full of grass. Every where that’s flat has big trees growing for awesome shade. Perfect hammock atmosphere. In Blackwell, there’s just rocks, mesquite “trees” and cacti.

I complete the loop about the same time that bf and Browning catch up to Hope and I and we start to cut across the yard/rocky ground with trees. Bf is pointing out mesquite trees (which are the size of South Carolina bushes) and I’m studiously staring at the ground, avoiding cacti and large, ankle-breaking rocks because I have no peripheral vision in my glasses and without sunglasses, the sun is blinding me. I notice some grass that is bravely poking up through the dry, rocky ground and step through it. The grass promptly reaches out and sticks its needle sharp blades into my calf. This causes me to shriek and jump away from this leg-eating grass. This causes the bf to turn in alarm, while Hope takes advantage of the situation, yanking her leash and making my remaining good leg skid along the rocks. Using my cat-like reflexes, I regain my balance and control of the dog and attempt to look at the gaping wound in my leg.

"Are you ok?" asks my caring bf.

No. I absolutely am not. That seemingly innocent looking grass jumped out and attempted to eat a chunk out of my leg. Now it's burning and stinging and red. And the sun is still in my eyes and I can barely see what's going on because I'm wearing glasses!

"Haven't you ever seen yucca before?"

"NO. I have NOT seen YUCCA before. This GRASS just attacked my leg and you're asking me about YUCCA?!"

"That's what that is. Be careful. It has stickers."

Too little, too late. By now I'm grievously wounded and I can't decide if I want to scratch the places where the yucca got me or put ice on them because it burns. I limp back to the house, avoiding anything that's not a rock, put my contacts in immediately and settle for putting lotion on my legs as it continues to alternately burn and itch for another 20 minutes.

Bottom line: Plants here will try to eat you.

With My Boots On

When I was younger, and taking horseback riding lessons, I had a pair of white cowboy boots that I loved. I wore them tucked into my jeans. That way you could see them better. Then I grew out of them, switched to riding boots (they look like hiking boots but with a larger heel so you don't slide out of the stirrup) and boots became something with a 2-4 inch heel, usually pretty thin. I had brown ones and black ones and tan ones and, horror of horrors, a pair of white pleather, thigh high boots. These were salvaged from a particularly interesting residence hall move out, tags still on, but they've been faithful costume boots for years. I thought I had the boots thing down.

Then I moved here. And you know what? It turns out I don't have boots. I have heeled boots. Or dress boots. Or flat boots. What I call cowboy boots are actually just "boots." And, of course, I bought a pair from the well known Cavender's. I mean, they should be authentic, right?

My white cowboys boots of days gone were pretty flashy. They had some rhinestones and stuff. But they are nothing compared to some of the gems you can see here in Texas.

And those are just the ladies' boots. The men's are also craziness. Take a second an imagine a stylish male friend in some of these:

Cute, huh?

And at about $200 (and sometimes upwards of $800), these fashion (mis)steps are quite an investment. So the next time you pull on boots, think of these. And decide if your boots are making enough of a statement.

It's all relative, I guess.

This morning was a "chilly" morning here - only 65 degrees. Brrr! Plus, it's only supposed to get up into the 80's today, as opposed to the 90's for the previous few days. It's basically a cold front. I can still withstand intense humidity (60%? Puh-leese. My hair doesn't even react.) but I know I'm acclimating to the temperatures here, particularly the summer heat. Not that I still don't get hot and sweaty, mind you. There's really no way to avoid that if you plan to leave the house anytime between, say, April and October. But I can tolerate the heat. In fact, I like it.

Of course, I've never been much for cold. I get that, along with low blood pressure, from my mother. I dislike being cold. I love wearing a cute cardigan but sweaters and jackets make me feel bulky and constrained and uncomfortable. I get angry wearing them. Much like with collared shirts and my hair falls down into the collar and gets all weird feeling. That annoys me too. People say "I like being cold. You can always add more layers." False. There comes a point where you cannot add more layers because you cannot move. Then you look like this:

We all remember this. We made fun of this. And you're telling me you like winter better because you can dress like this. I don't think so buddy.

However, in summer you just sweat. You just have to embrace it. Be ready for it. You're going to need a hankie, blotting sheets, deodorant and maybe an extra shirt. But you get tan so really, it's worth it.

Lenten Promises

For the most part, I've kept mine. I had banana pudding on St. Patrick's Day (I gave myself a pass because a) it was a special occasion and b) I had PMS). But other than that, it's been Jello and fruit pops for this girl. And I've stayed off The Knot too. Yay me! But man, oh man, am I ready for a cookie. Or ice cream. Or cake, candy, and even the peanut butter mixed with chocolate chips my GA was eating in the office the other day. I want it. In honor of this auspicious occasion (the end of Lent), I am making something I love to eat and don't particularly enjoy making because it's messy and I want to eat all the ingredients: Krispy Kreme Donut Bread Pudding. Oh yeah. It's happening. One of my very favorite authors is Linda Howard and years ago I read a book she wrote called To Die For, featuring one of my favorite characters she's written, Blair Mallory. In it, Blair makes Krispy Kreme Donut Bread Pudding as a strings-attached gift, or as a thank you, whatever pleases her. I tried it one time and I wanted to do her bidding as well, after eating it. Now that I've talked it up, here it is... Krispy Kreme Doughnut Bread Pudding 2 dozen Krispy Kreme Doughnuts 3 eggs 1 can sweetened condensed milk Vanilla extract to taste ½ stick melted butter Cinnamon to taste (I'm allergic to cinnamon so I don't include it and it's still awesome.) Milk 1 c. chopped pecans (optional) Never used this. Nutmeg (optional) Used this Directions Use a 13x9 in. glass pan so pudding doesn't stick. Preheat oven to 350. Tear doughnuts into little chunks. Put the chunks into a large bowl. Beat the eggs. Add the can of milk and beat again. Add vanilla, butter and cinnamon and mix. Pour into the bowl with the doughnuts and stir. Add milk until it is the consistency of lumpy cake batter. Add pecans and nutmeg if desired. Pour into the pan and bake for 30 min. Check with a toothpick to see if it's done. Glaze with powdered sugar and milk icing.

Bonus feature: You can color the icing to suit your holiday. I'll probably do pastels in honor of Easter.

I'm No Stranger to the Truck...

But trucks in Texas take it to a whole new level. An inappropriate, inefficient, excessive and annoying level, if you ask me.

Now, I grew up in a relatively rural area. It's about 30 minutes to the nearest mall and it was nothing special, so we usually had to make the 45 trip to a "real" mall. It's a small town. There are fields and farms and stuff there. People had trucks, even diesel trucks. I drove a (albeit small) truck for a brief period of time after I totaled my tiny Honda my junior year. And a few times, someone would bring a tractor to school. I dated guys who drove trucks. I even dated a guy who drove a large, loud truck. But nothing on the Texas level. And by not on the Texas level, I mean some of the trucks here could run over that truck and I had to hop to get into it.

The trucks here annoy me, quite a bit. They are loud. Tall. Huge tires. They can't see pedestrians. Or small cars. Or small SUVs. You can't park them. They look ridiculous. And gas is $3.50 and up. Usually up. Who drives these things?! Who wants to? I mean, look at this:

I see these, in multiples, EVERY DAY. In different colors, with color brush guards, mud flaps, tool boxes, etc. And you know what? Most of these people are college students. Who on earth uses their brand new, expensively tricked out (yeah, I went there) truck like this on a FARM? And actual farm. Doing work. Not many of them, I'm pretty sure.

So why do their parents buy them these things? They're so loud, use so much gas, cost so much money. And my second biggest pet peeve with them: They will not park in the lines. Or park straight. My biggest pet peeve? They drive like, pardon my language, a-holes. I don't know if it's because they can't see a darn thing because they're so high up or if they maintain the same entitled persona on the road as they do in college, but they stink at driving. But they should watch out. Just because my car is smaller, quieter, has fewer stickers of dead things and gets better gas mileage doesn't mean I'll continue to get out of their way. My car's pretty safe. It's already been nailed once and I wasn't even sore from that hit.

Let's face it: I'm older and I have better insurance.

Best. Boyfriend. Ever.

Friday was Fightin' Texas Aggie Ring Day and around here, that is BIG DEAL. You can read all about Aggie Rings here. It's is a super fun tradition (minus the incredibly unclassy student lead initiative that is ring dunk, gross) and I love helping out. This time, I was scheduled to hand out rings from 6-8 p.m. Which means I was on campus 'til around 8:30 p.m. And that I was tired, and my feet, knees, back and ankles hurt and I was STARVING. But it was worth it because I do love ring day. My wonderful boyfriend decided to cook dinner for us though, so I wouldn't have to eat fast food/fall asleep in my cereal. I called him on my way back from campus and he was hard at work. Yay! He also informed me that my dog had thrown up on one of my throw pillows. Ew. I told him to chunk the pillow and I'd clean the couch when I got there, already dreading it. Don't worry about it, he says, I already cleaned the couch. Wow. Thanks, I said, a lot. Then he goes on to say that my dog smells kind of bad (ok, that's not exactly what he said, but the point is the same). "I know," I said, "I'm going to wash her tomorrow." "Oh, I already gave her a bath. I couldn't stand the smell anymore." "Well, thanks for doing that. I really appreciate it." "No problem. And I Febreezed the blankets too and hung them up to air out." At this rate, I won't have any chores to do tomorrow. My couch is clean, blankets fresh, dog washhed. What else could he have done? He made ribs. Delicious, probably bad for you, on the grill, ribs. And cowboy potatoes. You know, potatoes with onions and cheese and bacon and cheese. And some butter and a little more cheese. It was delicious. It was so good I managed to stay away through the whole meal. As if that wasn't good enough, Saturday he mowed (or really, used a weed-eater on, because my yard is so tiny) my yard, raked the yard so that less grass would get into my house, reorganized all the junk I have on the back porch, and helped me give my dog a pretty horrific haircut. Sunday he helped me sweep, mop, and do laundry. And last night, before he went home, he told me he had a great weekend and was so glad we got to spend so much time together. Swoon.

Drama Breeds Drama

Work has been like a soap opera lately. Except for the fact that most of the things that are happening are not widely recognized as dramatic or life changing events like they are on most soap operas. For some reason, most people don't think cutting all of the funding for graduate assistant tuition has the same level of drama as "my husband cheated on me and I found out but then I was in a car wreck because I was so distraught and had a head injury and so now no one knows if I remember." Which has not actually happened to me, obvii. And I try to convey the appropriate level of tragedy that this actually is for those of us involved, particularly those who decided to come to Texas A&M specifically because they were offered tuition waivers and now face difficult choices about continuing, student loans, staging a riot, etc. But I can tell from the bf's "well, that sucks?" (you know, where their voice rises on the end of the word as though they're not really sure if this is the correct response) and associated comments that he doesn't get it. Non student affairs people usually don't. It's our own little world and is currently filled with intrigue, annoyance, melodrama and a little bit of hysteria. And as the title of this post suggests, drama leads to more drama. And I don't like it. Drama on a Division level. Drama on a Department level. Drama across Departments. Drama between coworkers. And somehow I've ended up as a sounding board for a lot of it. I don't really mind. To be quite honest, the main reason I ended up in this profession was because, as a freshman, I thought the RAs must know EVERYTHING that happened in the building and I needed to know this stuff too. But now we've reached a whole new level. It seems that every day is more dramatic than the last and, I'm sorry to say, it's turned me into a bit of a drama queen. Not that I don't have my moments already but it's concerning when the drama of the work day follows you home, through P90X, through cooking dinner and suddenly, you CANNOT take the battle noises coming through the wall one.more.minute and you burst into tears. Not to mention, it kind of freaks the bf out. He handles it well though. So my charge to you is: Think before you drama. Is it really necessary to stomp down the hall, burst into someone's office and start with "you WILL NOT believe what so-and-so has done now!!!"? The answer is: No. It's not. Air it out. I know it feels better. But y'all are killing me. And you're making my boyfriend think I've gone off the deep end.

Back to the Grind

And a grind it is. I need a serious vacay. SRW - weekend + ACPA + actual work = WORN SLAM OUT. I cannot promise to be any good to anyone on Saturday. Despite the pile of laundry, stinky dog, mud spot on the floor leftover from when the BF re-did my patio (thanks!)... I may not get to it. The only thing I will do is go to the grocery store because let's be for real, a girl's gotta eat and historically, relying on the BF to do the grocery shopping and cook usually leads to hunger. But he's excellent at changing light bulbs, fixing my closet door, saving me from the wasps that insist on building life threatening nests around my house, letting me do what I want and generally being an awesome boyfriend. ACPA was so worth it though. At least, from what I can recall, it was. I need to go through my (almost an entire legal pad worth of) notes to really remember all the things I tired to learn because right now, in the haze of over-stimulation, it's kind of a blur. One thing I do know - my black pumps to be re-heeled. The skywalks, sidewalks and weird tiles of Baltimore were not kind to them. Or really my feet in general. Poor feet. I'm really sorry I stuffed you back into pumps today. Flats tomorrow. I promise. Of course, as it did last year, ACPA brings a sense of Athens/UGA-sickness. A type of homesickness unique to those of us lucky enough to live in Athens, GA, go to school at UGA and fall in love with the city and school. It's awesome. And as someone who spent four years in a tourist town (Charleston, which, b t dubs is also amazing), the food is better in Athens. So, knowing that I will always have a home there, a home closer to my actual home (which is still what I call the place my parents live), makes me yearn for it. And then I feel guilty because I have a great life here, aside from the lack of delicious-to-the-point-of-distraction Mexican food (yes, even though I'm in Texas). Plus, I'm kind of committed here. And I say kind of because I could technically go at any time, should I wish/have another job but the BF can't. And I'm committed to him so hence the "kind of." It was still amazing to see people I have seen for a long while, some of them since graduation. And of course to learn all sorts of awesome things that, if I can read my handwriting, will help me improve myself, my job, position and office. But really I wish I could live in a combination of all the places I've lived and with all the people who have made me who I am. Of course then I'd for serious eat way too much and have to buy all new clothes.

I Would Never Make It on Wall Street

Or in any other setting that requires lots of hours worked consistently. Like, say, more than 45 a week for a few weeks in a row. I'm hoping this doesn't make me lazy, just... unaccustomed to a faster pace of life and uninterested in becoming accustomed to that sort of nonsense.

This week was SRW, a week long program or series of programs doing stuff. It's complicated to explain and not really germane to my point. It did require that I be at work at 6:30 A.M. on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday this week. And no, I did not get to leave early. In fact, I stayed a little late. Today is finally Friday and by the grace of God (and my awsome boss), I don't have to work as late as I anticpated. Although, she did say "you look tired!" when she came in this moring which I totally appreciated, let me tell you. So, to do the math (on a calculator), discounting today (TGIF), I've already worked 41 hours this week and will end the week with 50-52 hours clocked. And no, I don't get flex time or time off or over time or that. All I get is the satisfaction of a job well done. And to leave earlier than anticipated today (but still after normal business hours).

Does this sound whiny? Are you thinking "Mags. For real? Suck it up and deal."? Probably. And I would blame you. However, I do implore you to take this into account. I leave tomorrow afternoon for Conference (in Baltimore, where my sister spent the summr doing an internship with some government something). It's work. So, I'll be traveling for work Saturday (I'm not an awesome traveller), leading an orientation Sunday morning, spending Sunday afternoon in a business meeting, attending sessions at least 9-5 on Monday and Tuesday (with evening commitments as well), and traveling again on Wednesday. Oh, and back at work Thursday, with a night committment to teach class. And Friday, to complete my assessment stuff.

Do I mind doing all this? Not really. I love my job. I like being in a new place (although I dislike traveling). Would I be able to maintain this (what seems to me to be a) frenetic pace for much longer? No. Boss Lady is right. I AM tired. My eyes are slgihtly puffy (although excellent eye makeup application helped some). My throat hurts (probably from allergies but really, how much straw can a camel's back hold?). My e-mail has piled up. I need to go to the store. I want to buy a new purse (don't tell my dad!). And I miss my routine. To add insult to injury, the automatic door opener for the fire door near my office is acting up and making a heinous noise. Stop being lazy, people, and use your arms to open that door!

So, the point of my exhaustion driven diatribe is: I'm not a workaholic. I do my stuff. I do the extra that's asked of me. But I'm not trying to knock myself out every day working 14 hours. I have things that I want to do for myself. Like cook, snuggle my dog, clean my house (not that I ever want to do this), see people outside of work, make sure the BF doesn't leave my because I'm never around, and sleep.

15 Minute Blog

I'm leaving work in 15 minutes to go pick up my car from the dealership (that I totally dislike but they are the closest by like 35 minutes). I'm bored. Today has been a task-y day at work, preparing for Student Research Week. Count these things, inventory this stuff, make these copies, etc. The light at the end of the tunnel, though, is that we get Friday off. Well, maybe. Officially, the University gets Friday off but we may have to come in for a few hours to complete SRW prep. Either way, it's better than nothing. Having no day or a short day after St. Paddy's rocks.

Last year on St. Paddy's, I met this guy through a semi-random connection (he was the roommate of a karaoke friend of my friend). While chatting over various Irish-type beverages, I inexplicably agreed to go sky diving. I did go and it was by far the most terrifying experience of my entire life. Scarier than when my boyfriend-at-the-time hid under the bed and grabbed my ankle as I was coming back to bed from the bathroom in the middle of the night and I gasped so violently that I couldn't physically get the air out of my lungs. Scarier than when my parents thought I had cancer as a teen and I had to have surgery. Scarier than choking on food while alone in my apartment. TERRIFYING.

Now, I love a roller coaster. Love the fair, carnival, amusement park, etc. But I DO NOT do the free fall rides anymore. Anything else, I'm all for it (as long as my stomach is sufficiently coated with fried foods). So why did I agree to go sky diving? I'll never know. The beginning part was really fun (minus the fact that I didn't know anyone and they weigh you in front of a group. Awkward!). We hung out, cooked burgers and brats, got to know each other, put on our harnesses... THEN we had to get on the plane. I was getting increasingly nervous as I waited (FOREVER) for my turn. And they asked me "Pockets empty? Bladder empty?" And even more so as the plane circled around and around and around trying to climb to 10,000 feet (yeah, that's right). And as the pilot reported that he was having trouble making it that high and that the other plane had caught on fire.

Let me paint you a quick picture of this plane: Originally for 4 people, all the seats had been ripped out except the pilot's seat. There were seat belts bolted to the ceiling for you to hold on to. The pilot has to wear a parachute as well in case one of the jumpers hits the wing of the plane (and dies) and he has to jump out. The door was held shut with a hook and eye closer you'd see on a screen door. There was a "button" that said "In case of emergency, push here." I say "button" because it was a sticker and there was no one there to save me.

We finally make it high enough and the guy I'm about to be strapped to says "ready?!? in this excited voice that means I'm supposed to be having fun. In reality, I haven't taken a full breath in about 27 minutes and am about to pass out. I want to back out but I can't because then the other guy won't get to go either because there's not enough room for us to move around and I'm closest to the door. So I have to go before he can go. As if this weren't bad enough already, it gets worse. He straps me on front of him, unlatches the hook-and-eye on the doors and HE OPENS THE DOOR. THEN he has the NERVE to say "put your feet out the door." EXCUSE ME?! I don't think so mister. But then he just swings me around and my legs are hanging out the door. It's cold that high up and the we're moving so fast that I can't even put my feet on the step to steady myself. I try to give him a terrified look but as I'm strapped to his stomach, we can't make eye contact. He smooshes my head on his shoulder so I don't knock him unconscious with my head and says "here we go!" AND HE JUMPS. I'm too terrified to scream and the wind it moving so fast that I can't actually take a breath and the free fall is making my shirt flap against my neck in a painful way and the safety goggles (so ugly) I'm being forced to wear are smashing into my face in an even more painful way and WE ARE MOVING TOWARDS THE GROUND AT AN INCREDIBLE SPEED AND I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO TERRIFIED IN MY WHOLE LIFE. Then he shouts some of the most beautiful words I've ever heard in my whole life, "I'm going to pull the chute now!" YES!! PLEASE!!! WHY DIDN'T YOU DO THIS AS SOON AS WE STARTED PLUMMETING TOWARDS DOOM?!?!

Then he pulls it and although the harness yanks uncomfortably in the crotch area I will take that feeling over a free fall any day. Then it's actually kind of nice. Texas is really very pretty and we're over farm country. I get to "steer" a little (not that I can tell which way we're moving) and we do some swoops. Then he starts giving me directions about landing. Pull, push, bend, etc. We move towards the ground and it seems faster and faster and then we get hit by such a big gust of wind that even I can tell something is wrong and we go shooting away from the "landing site" and towards the barbed wire fence that keeps the cows (and their poop) off the runway. He starts yelling directions that WERE NOT covered in the original landing brief and I'm trying my best to comply but I really don't have the upper arm strength to man handle a parachute. We miss the fence by like 3 inches (ok, maybe more like 3 feet), land sideways and skid across the dirt/grass, narrowly avoiding both cows and the patties (of poop). He manages to get the chute under control so we stop being drug across the ground and I breathe a sigh of relief that I am still alive and uninjured because no one I'm with knows how to contact my father (who is my emergency contact) and he doesn't know how to contact anyone near me (except my office number but it was a Saturday and two days is too long to wait when your daughter went sky diving with some random and might be dead).

Some barefoot guy races over to us to make sure we're alive, does some fancy arm signals to show we're ok. A tiny Honda races up to the fence and a (barefoot) girl gets out (wearing a bikini). We spend the next 15 minutes trying to maneuver both the chute and ourselves through the fence and trek back to home base. Slash I got to ride in the car because I'm a paying customer and they almost killed me. We're checked out (sort of) when we get back but no one offers me a band aid for my scuffed up palms, elbows and knees. In fact, I begin to suspect there is not even a first aid kit in the place (and I am a big believer in first aid kits as I have one in my car, two at home, on in the office and a travel one). Fortunately, I'm exempt from clean up because it was all done during my interminable ride to the top of my fall and we load up and go to the Renaissance Fair.

That's right. The fun didn't stop with my near death experience. We then went to the Sherwood Forest (actually not a Renaissance Fair, it's a Robin Hood/Fairy thing) and the guy who invited me to go proceeded to get drunk on mead (honey wine), wore a kilt, I almost ran out of gas on the way back and I finally made it home late that night and didn't do anything for the next day.

And that is why I will NEVER go sky diving again.

Lent

Not the kind in your belly button or between your toes. The kind that comes before Easter. This year for Lent I have given up two things. The first is sweet. My cookie/cupcake/candy/cake/ice cream habit was out of control. It is time to take a step back and look at my enormous sugar consumption. That being said, I couldn't totally give up the sugar in my life but have limited it to a Jello at lunch and a fruit popsicle (with real fruit) after dinner. Of course, I'm also planning to celebrate the end of Lent by making Krispie Kreme Donut Bread Pudding but we'll see how it goes.

The other thing I'm giving up? My theknot.com account. Does that sound as creepy to you as it does to me? Probably. Again, my habits were out of control. Not without provocation, however. The BF and I have been talking marriage for a while. And not just marriage, but details. He's picked his groomsmen. He knows he doesn't want to get married in College Station (annoying, as that would be very easy to plan). He also wants to have maroon in the colors. Now, that really tripped me up as I've been planning a mint green wedding in the spring time for... well, years. However, I can work with that. I just told him I could change my color to a jewel green. Then that sparked conversation about attendants' gifts, favors, wedding location, etc. So I start thinking, "he's going to ask pretty soon. I should be ready because he thinks it takes 4 months to plan a wedding and I know better." So, I started browsing theknot.com because if you know me at all, you know I NEED to be prepared.

THEN. The other day, we were chatting about it and he commented that it would be two years. Pardon? Two years? I was totally unaware of this lengthy timeline. I'm not pushing. I just really thought this was more imminent. But by then, I'd developed theknot.com habit. I'd even decided my bridesmaids could pick their own dresses. And even after learning that a proposal would not be happening soon, I.could.not.stop. It was ridiculous. So, along with sweets, theknot.com is going out the window for Lent. With one caveat: I can check other couple's sites because I do like to know what's going on at the weddings I'm attending. But I will not log on to mine. I've asked the computer to forget my password. I've also asked him to stop talking about it and semi-explained the situation. I think he understands.

Also, I feel like a creepy stalker girlfriend who is putting deposits down on locations before the man ever pops the question. Note: I HAVE NOT actually done this but I feel guilty in a way that makes me think I have. Or something.

Strategery

"Where do you see yourself next year? Or in the next three to five years?"

These are the questions my supervisor asked me yesterday. I didn't have to answer right then but now I do have to think about it. And that stinks. I'm a planner but I'm not really a strategizer (Is that a word? Whatevs. I'm using it). I run scenarios through my head almost constantly but these are like short movie clips, not long term plans. So, yes, I know what color I want my bridesmaid dresses to be. What I'm going to plant in my yard when I have my first house. How I want my living room set up. How I'll tell my (potentially) future children that I love them. These are simple things. Small things. A five year plan is not.

One of my student workers has been teasing me about being on the five year plan in regards to the BF. As it turns out, despite my protestations that I'm not, I am. Because now when I'm thinking long(ish) term, I have to (get to) think of him too. Where is he going to fit in all this? If I leave for my career, what would that do to his? Would he come with me? Does he want to? And now I have to ask him these things just so I can answer two, seemingly simple, questions my supervisor asked me.

Anyone who says their personal life and their work life are separate is either lying to you or lying to themselves.

Is that you, Summer?

I think it might be almost that time of year. My favorite time of year. When it's hot and sunny a lot. Back home, we had spring and we could kind of ease into those 100 degree, 90% humidity days. Here, in this part of Texas, we just go from 30 degrees to 75 and breezy beautiful in one day. A lot of people complain about the heat here and I can't say that I blame them. Lord knows I'll be griping with the best of them when I go hauling my dolly over to Rudder Tower full of presentation materials a few times a week. It's tough to present in a calm and professional manner, and feel capable of answering crazy questions thrown at you by parents, when you're cheeks are bright red and you're concerned that people can see the wet marks under your armpits. Gross, I know, but that's my summer reality.

I'm pumped though. I wore a skirt (AND shaved my legs, thank you very much) today just to feel the warm sun on my (pasty, winter white) legs. I'll wander a little more slowly when walking the dog (as opposed to the penguin shuffle, which is what I do when it's 25 and the wind is blowing 25 miles an hour and I have on so many layers I can barely move) and let her linger to sniff things. I'll walk her to the dog park and let her get stinky and dirty playing with other dogs. And perhaps the best part: Laying out by the pool.

I love the water. Love the sun. And I like being tan-ish. Plus, I hear the MOST RIDICULOUS stories at my pool. I'm an avid eavesdropper at places like this. I may have my (probably trashy) novel, but I'm totally listening to you. If you're going to talk so loud about how you think vodka has no calories because it's clear, it's hard NOT to hear you. And the guy-trying-to-impress-the-girl convo about your friend the hitman who went to jail? Probably not gonna work, buddy. That's shady and probably a lie. Your ex who wanted you to elope to Mexico? Fascinating. Who got drunk and hooked up with someone else boyfriend? Tragic and like a real life reality show. Bring it on. I'll be right there, trying not to laugh out loud or interrupt you to point out your incredible misconceptions.

For the record, I did recommend that they Google the nutritional information in vodka.

Underpants

Here's the thing about underwear: you wear them under your clothes. You put them on and unless they ride up or give you VPL (Visible Panty Line), you hardly even think about them. So, you go all day at work, thinking you've got it going on. You like your outfit; you're confident; you're getting things done. You have it together. You quickly change clothes in your off and hit the gym. Because you were so awesome all day, you knock out a killer work out. Sweaty, tired but feeling good, you head home. You walk the dog (after layering up due to the frigid winter conditions). Then, you finally change clothes before dinner and you realize: my underwear have been on inside out all day.

This Weather is Gross

I woke up about 4:30 a.m. today. This is not a pleasant time for me to wake up. I had the weird moment of something's-not-quite-right-but-I-don't-know-what-it-is. Did my alarm go off? No. Was there an intruder? No. Did the dog step on me? No. Wait, why's it so dark? Oh right. The power's off. At first, I was excited because a) I love candles and b) You can't do morning P90X with no power. But then I couldn't fall back asleep. I had another hour and a half of quality sleep time I couldn't take advantage of. It was a sad day. So, I started creating my back up plan for getting ready. Flashlights and candles in the bathroom for a dark shower. Makeup by candlelight. Breakfast from Starbucks. Drying my hair at work. Then I remembered I was an adult and I should probably call the utility company and report my outage so I could get power back at some point. Despite my epic level of preparation for things that will probably never happen, I did not have the number of my utility company or working internet on my laptop or phone. Adult move, thwarted. So, I did what any resourceful daughter does: I called home. I'm sure my mom was a little concerned about getting a phone call from me at 6:11 a.m. EST but she found the number for me (which I wrote down in the dark). I called it in a lo and behold, I had power back in a little less than an hour.

Of course, that meant I didn't really have an excuse to go by Starbucks so that stunk.

Now, it's windy. What started as a rainy, 60 degree morning has morphed into a miserable, cloudy, 38 degree day with 25-30 mph winds and a wind chill of 26. It's only supposed to get worse, too. At about 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, right when I'm supposed to be walking my dog, it'll be about 20 degrees, 20-25 mph winds and a wind chill of 4 degrees. Four! I have more fingers on one hand than that! When I'm walking across campus for our Division meeting, it will have warmed up to about 7 degrees. This is NOT the Texas weather I expected. I want my 110 degrees and sunny back. Or, failing that, I want a snow or ice day. Not just miserable wind with no reason not to go to work expect for the fact that my sweatpants are awesome. I want something tangible to go with my cold weather.

Really Extreme Dislike

Hate is such an ugly word, a stong word. I'm sure we've all heard that before (and if you haven't, now you have). But it really is. "To disklike instensely or passionaltely; to feel extreme aversion or hostility toward." And when I use it, I typically feel this sense of anger towards whatever I'm using "hate" to describe, cold weather, tea that burns my mouth, reckless drivers, hearing my neighbors playing guitar and singing while I'm attempting to sleep. I get ANGRY and annoyed and frustrated and the only thing I can think about is how must I HATE THAT ___ (fill in the blank here)! And that leads to me being an unhappy and not-fun person.

I'm thinking about this because last night, I did hear my neighbors. A LOT. I should probably preface this little story with this: I don't like my neighbors. Ironic because much of my job is helping students learn how to be good neighbors. Everything started off fine; they were nice, quiet, introduced themselves. Good neighbors even if they did have a band, I couldn't hear them playing in my bedroom. Then the only female living in the house moved out and things started to get louder. Last semester, I spent 80% (a made up but fairly accurate statistic) of my nights sleeping in my guest room because the person sharing a bedroom wall with me watched TV to fall asleep. And during the day. And in the mornings. And basically ALL THE TIME. And it was LOUD. Then there was the loudly whining dog they would leave alone for hours at a time. Or they would be at home and let it whine. And the time one of their guests walked into my house. There was other stuff too but that's not the focus of this post.

Last night, it started about 8:30, loud talking, chatting, some music playing, etc. The usual. Then the guitar playing began. I made it through some DVR and prepared for bed, still listening to wall music I didn't want to hear. I tried closing all my doors and turning on my fan but I could still hear it. I moved my stuff (high maintenance sleeper, remember?) to the guest room. Door closed, fan on and then the singing started. I thought "I HATE MY NEIGHBORS!" and then that was all I could hear, them being loud. I was so angry that even after they quieted down, I still thought I could hear them, like I developed super-sonic hearing and could hear them breathing. I was SO ANGRY.

While on the way to work this morning, tired from my night of angry sleep, I thought "HATE" again when a rude Jeep cut me off. And then I finally thought "what's the use?" I mean, I'm already tired so why waste the energy I do have on being angry at things I can't change. Why dislike something "passionately" when I can direct that towards something positive? Why foster this "extreme hostility," so much so that there's no room in there for anything positive? So I tried some deep breathing (it was hard because the air was real cold and I was drinking hot tea) and just carried on about my day. Of course, it totally helped that I picked a good lane and passed her later when she wasn't paying attention to the road (don't text and drive people!). Moral of the story/post: I'm trying to avoid using the word hate.

Sleep

I love sleeping. Love it. And I'm good at it, at least now. In grad school, there were times that I would be awake for hours, just laying there trying to fall asleep. I would get so frustrated or get this idea in my head that I couldn't get out and I just couldn't sleep. This would usually lead to tears (read: sobbing) of frustration until I either a) broke down and called someone to have a sleep over or b) cried myself to sleep. (Thanks for everyone who ever answered a semi-hysterical insomniac phone call from me and allowed me to come over and sleep in your bed.) Sometimes I would be running on 4 hours a sleep a night for days at a time. Now, some people only need four hours of sleep a night. I am not, have never been, one of those people.

I'm a notoriously high maintenance sleeper. Ever since freshman year, when our room was so stinkin' hot we could barely breathe, I've been sleeping with a table fan running. It started out as a comfort thing but now the noise soothes me. I find it difficult to sleep without it. And if there's noise, heaven forbid, I can hear it. Somedays I'm concerned I'm going partially deaf but as soon as I lay down to go to sleep, I develop bionic hearing. If you snore, prepare to be kicked. I HATE snoring. It's my nails-on-a-chalkboard noise. Ask my family. I tortured them enough trying to get my dad to stop snoring on family trips, to no avail. I also like three pillows, two under my head and one under my knees. I also like to be crowded in my bed. I like things around me, not too much space. I don't know why this is but I like things in my bed, extra pillows, several blankets, my dog, you name it. If it all comes together for me, then I can sleep a good 10 hours if you let me. It's like that saying I've seen on magnets and napkins and various other things, "Damn right I'm good in bed. I can sleep for days."

These days, I like a solid 8 hours of sleep. Fortunately, I usually get it. I can handle the odd night out, late movie, social that restricts me to 6 hours, or even 4. But if it happens in multiples, then you get sleep deprived Margaret. And let me tell you, she is NOT fun. I get cranky; I can't think well; my stomach's all off so all I want is junk food... In short, I am not a nice person and I don't get things done. This concerns me because at some point in my life, I would like to have children. The question now is whether I can handle being seriously to moderately sleep deprived for years at a time and not drive my future husband to divorce. Does being a mom release some hormone that helps your brain need less sleep? Do you develop immunity to the heinous symptoms of sleep deprivation? I can only hope, for the sake of my future marriage and children, that something happens where I can function on less sleep. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure someone will try to check me into the loony bin. Which I may enjoy if I get to sleep.