I really and truly keep trying to update my blog, only to write something about how much I hate being in transition, not really knowing where things are gonna go. I’m not about to emo out on anyone (bad poetry isn’t my style), so I’ve decided to dedicate this entry to telling you what you’re missing by not following me on Twitter.
Weighed in at the gym: 14 pounds down. I don’t see a difference, but I’ll take it.
As mentioned in the entry from the other day, all I do is work and work out. As further paragraphs in this blog entry will prove, it’s not entirely true; but I do work out on most evenings. Since I haven’t really done anything intentional to lose weight, it’s proving that consistency is key to seeing a change.
In truth, I don’t see that change. But my jeans are telling me it’s true. And my shirts. And my gym clothes. Any my gaping bras, DAMMIT.
When I get down a bit more I’ll consider a large-scale shopping excursion. Until then, I need to find a local, fashionable friend to tell me what to buy. Since leaving Chicago, I’ve resorted back to nothing but plain-colored shirts. At least I’m now wearing them with cute skirts, wedge sandals, and awesome jewelry instead of plain jeans and chunky-heeled boots with silver studs.
Happiness is “Men in Black” on TNT.
I so rarely watch movies (despite what this entry will have you assume), but there are a few that feel like home.
We all know that “Amelie” is every girl’s favorite movie. I found it so absolutely delightful that I left the Dobie theater and walked straight to the record store on the Drag and bought the album. And though I deem it charming and love the story, acting, and soundtrack, my favorite movies are still those with karate and explosions.
Particularly, “Rush Hour” and “Rush Hour 2”.
My TV watching is also along those lines, but it’s not as embarrassing to say that “Burn Notice” is my favorite show.
For the record, I’m looking for a boyfriend with TiVo since “Burn Notice” starts at the beginning of June.
Rascall Flatts and ‘mutton bustin’ were worth my AmEx points.
Right before I moved, I checked my AmEx points and saw that I had roughly a gazillion of them. I planned on getting myself an iPod since everyone else seems to really like theirs. I even went so far to find a faux-boyfriend to load it with music so I wouldn’t have to invest in hard drive space for MP3s or install iTunes.
I loaded up the points page, browsed through the selection, browsed some more, and then hit the browse button even harder, like I meant it. Alas, all they had was a stupid silver iPod. Silver is not purple, so I defiantly didn’t get one.
So instead of buying an iPod to listen to music I don’t even really like, I accumulated even more points.
Then I found myself in Houston and remembered that the rodeo exists and that I love me some boot-scootin’, and I blew all of my points on tickets for my family.
My maa, Jenna, and I saw Rascal Flatts. We liquored my mom up, danced in the aisles, and had an all-around good time — despite the woman next to us smelling like she sprayed herself with every available perfume in Walgreens. With so many rhinestones and big hairdos around, I vowed to amp it up a notch the following week.
The following Wednesday, I took the entire Keena clan (minus my oh-so-studious brother) to see Reba. Forgetting about my broken foot (Did I mention that? No? So, I broke my foot. All is fine now. The end.), I wore boots. Other than the crippling pain, we had a great time. We took the kids to the carnival first, watched the cowboys and cowgirls so their things, then settled in for Reba’s show. For about 20 minutes of the show, my niece and nephew dropped it like it was hot. Then the boy announced he had growing pains in his shins, and the girl was tired. So we left. And went to the carnival again because they apparently weren’t *that* tired. All in all, it was a fantastic night.
A week later, Jenna and I took off by ourselves for Keith Urban. Despite not particularly caring for music, I’ve been to my fair share of shows. Of everything I’ve ever seen, this was the best show I’ve been to. Keith Urban was ah-may-zing. If you ever have the chance to see him, DO IT. It was so much fun.
After that show, Jenna and I got our IDs out and went to the big tent on the other side of the fairgrounds for an adults-only show and dancing. We made friendly with another group of women and danced until they shut the place down.
Besides all the family stuff and partaking in some great entertainment, there was also something called mutton bustin’. My descriptions can’t do it justice, so I’ll leave this topic with this video:
Not only is Boy cuter than the other kids, he’s better at t-ball too.
My time in Houston primarily revolves around my family. After my sister got herself a couple kids, the dynamic at our get-togethers really changed. I actually *gasp* like these people I’m related to.
That being said, I spend A LOT of time with my niece and nephew. I regularly find reason to pick them up in the early evening, take them to run my errands, and stop for dinner before dropping them back at home.
Despite a Facebook page full of reminders that people have similarly-to-my-sister squatted out children since I left this sleepy little town 15 years ago, I’m still shocked when I see someone I previously knew at tee ball practice with their very own 5-yr-olds.
But as this area’s header says, my nephew is better than your kid. The end.
Happiness is a half-off diet cherry limeaid.
Do I really need to explain that Sonic has happy hour from 2 until 4 every single day?
Was reminded tonight of just how impeccable a southern man’s manners are.
I have a man friend who whips between being a special someone and a not-so-special someone. It’s one of those things where things could potentially work out really well for smoochin’ and whatnot, but neither of us is willing to move to make it happen. And since neither is willing to do anything, nothing ever happens.
But when the sweet pea comes into town for work, I’m always reminded why my long-standing crush continues.
We have one of those relationships where we can be talking about nothing in particular, then it jumps into way more truth-telling than I’m comfortable doing with anyone else, and then jumps back into safe territory without me even taking a blink.
He touches my inner gooey parts, even if he doesn’t get to touch the outer, more fun gooey parts.
Drunk and at my high school nemesis’ house. She is fucking awesome.
There was a time where I had a very bad boyfriend who did very bad things because he’s a very bad person who should be hurt very badly. One of the things he did was turn me against someone I was acquainted with, and she against me.
Fast-forward 15 years, and I received a Facebook message from her. With a little hesitation, we met up at her house for Indian food and to catch up.
Lo and behold, she’s really, really awesome.
3.5 bottles of wine, some Wii bowling, and whole lot of laughs later, I have a for-real friend.
My dad came across a foreclosure not too far from their wiped-out house and wanted me to take a look at it with him. He told me about a grapefruit tree in the backyard, so we first stopped at the busted-up house to fashion a PVP pipe for some orb-picking. We walked away with better knowledge about the house’s pier and beam damage and two grocery bags full of the best grapefruit I’ve ever put into my mouth.
The grapefruit were so good, I *might* have gone back for another sack full of breakfast.
In striving to continue to expand my real estate business, I’ve been eyeing Galveston for a good, long while now and have made several trips out to that dirty little island. It’s by no mean one of those beautiful white sand beaches where the blue waves lap at the shoreline, but I’m a little in love with the place.
If I ever settle down there (a distinct possibility), I’ll have to put a grapefruit tree in the yard.
Newsweek: Stress is good for you. Screw you, Newsweek.
For the past several weeks, I’ve been packing for a move to an unknown location. My thoughts on where to land vacillate quite frequently. I’ve finalized my location to Austin’s Hyde Park neighborhood (and will be signing a short-term lease this weekend), but for a while it switched between that, Galveston, Phoenix, a nicer part of Houston, and my ever-present dream of Hawaii.
With exception to Hawaii, those are great places to do the above-mentioned real-estating. I figure if I can land somewhere for a couple months, I can see what there is to see for properties.
That, and there’s a man in Austin who I need to hammer things out with and figure out if it’s a Go or a No-go. But we’re not going to talk about that right now since I don’t mention smoochin’ unless it’s a Go. Do note that I’ve kept my mouth shut for years now.
That being said, there’s been a significant amount of stress in my life. And I don’t care what Newsweek says, I prefer my life stress-free.
Even better: Renters approved, and they want most of my stuff. In Chicago soon-ish to clean things out.
After some donkey in my Chicago building listed her similar unit $50k below market in an attempt to sell it quickly, I put mine on the rental market and got renters immediately. That meant I had to hustle up to Chicago to clean out my place for them to move in.
My very first post-flight encounter with another human was in line to buy a CTA card to ride the train into the city. There was a single line for two machines. Being second in line, when the lady in front of me didn’t have her money out and was fiddling with her purse, I announced that I was going since I sufficiently had my shit together prior to being at the front of the line.
The old bat didn’t like this, exclaimed that she had her money ready, and insisted that I not go before her.
“Fine, you go.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d not be such a sack of crap. In my defense, my flight was at an ungodly hour. And, really, the lady had more than enough time to pull $2.25 out of her purse and position it in-hand to keep others from waiting any longer in the line.
She shuffled forward, putting her first dollar bill in. Then her second. Then she hit vend.
Again, under normal circumstances, I might have said something. Ya know, like, “Note the eye-level signs, lady. The train no longer costs $2. You need to put in another quarter.”
But since she was so insistent that she was ready to roll, I let it go and smirked to myself about how pissed she was about to be when she’d have to stand in line again to add a quarter to her card.
I was done with my transaction just in time to witness her smack her stomach on the turnstile and be told by a not-so-friendly CTA employee that she needed to learn to read signs.
The rest of my weekend went pretty well. A friend kept me constant company while I packed everything up. My not-boyfriend and I coordinated his movers to facilitate a mass move with both our items. I had dinner with the gays and learned a new game that’s worth remembering. I had brunch with a couple friends and shared girly talk. I had dinner with the regulars. I had another dinner with another set of regulars. The movers pulled up to take the last of my stuff as I was literally on my way out the door to go to the airport, and it was kinda zen to say goodbye to Chicago.
Miracle of miracles, $62 and no diabetes.
And in final news, the cat indeed doesn’t have diabetes. He’s back to his normal self, and I’m not spending $200 a week in getting him poked and prodded.