At Least I Took the Whole "Not Posting on My Blog Ever" Thing and Really Ran with It

Discovering Jeremy's busted driver's side window this morning brings the total number of car break-ins we've experienced to three in five months. I see cops in our area but they're never actually working, only getting breakfast tacos.

In related news, we are making an offer on this house today.

I think we would have fewer things stolen if we lived there.

Now back to our regularly scheduled silence.

Pick Me Ups

Scene: Today at the beach

Him: Hi, I'm Dave...You want a Gatorade?
Me: No I'm fine, thanks. I've got water.
Him: It's not drugged or nothing.
Me: Uhh, no thanks.

In other news...
Is it odd that I went to see a movie based solely on one blogger's suggestion? That's what a weekend home alone and a lack of inspiration gets you. Anyway, Once? totally worth seeing, which is saying something for "I hate watching over-priced movies in cold theaters" me. It's like a love story meets 'how I made my first record' and the non-traditional storytelling (via music and unspoken interactions) really appealed to "oooh, I love watching music videos" me. I'm not sure it imbued me with the year's worth of inspiration that it did Spielberg, but for a movie made more only $160 grand, it's pretty awesome.


P.P.S An SNL from 2000 featuring Britney Spears just came on. Wow.

Tidbits

As I was leaving work today it occurred to me that of our four male employees, three carry man-bags and only one is gay. Somehow my Timbuk2 has achieved Most Masculine Carrier status. I win.

Of late Jeremy and I have been spending an inordinate amount of time house hunting. This is due partly to our roommate/landlord's planned departure/house sale next summer, and partly to the fact that Houston housing is under-valued and the market here is not quite as eff-ed as it is everywhere else. It's almost as if the little Baby Jesus smiled down on me from heaven and said "You know what, I'm gonna reward you for all the shit luck you've had recently by making a two bedroom one bath cottage totally affordable for you." See, living in an entirely undesirable city really does pay off! And I'm not just talking about the killer breakfast tacos. Anyway, we're doing it the fun way, where you do some investigating of your own and let your imagination run wild to the world of possibilities all before actually talking to the bank. This dream-crushing conversation occurs this weekend. Will keep you posted.

Speaking of the roommate/landlord. He is driving me bat shit insane. Who applies to what, 20 (?) grad schools anyway? And then talks about that, and only that, constantly. If I remember correctly, I myself tired of the topic some time around November of 1999. Best quote: "It's so weird. For the past, like, three or four weeks everyone I talk to winds up talking to me about grad school. And I'm totally not the one bringing it up!" Umm, yes. Yes you are.

Also. I got a car alarm installed. In the subsequent five days my car has totally not been stolen. Woot! Probably since it's so uber-awesome and supa-sensitive. Meaning it goes off All The Time. Like if you walk your dog by it. Or breathe. Score!

My job is still going swimmingly and recently has primarily revolved around planning this enormous party. The theme is burlesque and there are gonna be girls on swings hanging from the ceiling getting naked. Envy me.

Our quest for a store that can even begin to rival C-Ville Market may be over, as Jeremy and I finally visited Canino's Produce and picked up about $15 worth of vegetables for $7. The selection is vast, they're open daily, and prices are rock bottom. Of course there's a huge open-air market behind the main building that seems to house all the best deals. Never before have I wished so badly that I retained more than a hint of my college Spanish. Good news is that any feeling of despondency is immediately erased upon visiting the Mexican bakery next door. Four enormous, delicious pastries for $1.90? Yes please.

The weather here is still oppressively hot and unfathomably humid. But guess what? Fall is coming and I'm gonna be warm, bitches.

Lately I've been:
Reading this. Inspired by Nate, I tried reading a book about salt, but couldn't get past the long (boringly-related) history. Now I'm reading about corn and, hello, tis fascinating!

Baking this. It was good, but probably not worth the three or four pounds I'm sure I put on as a result.

Listening to...oh wait, I've only been listening to my iPod, now seemingly filled solely with old songs I am SO SO sick of. The reason being twofold: still no CD player in the car, and Best Buy still has my old laptop. The one with my iTunes library on it. Or rather it was on there when I turned the thing in so they could fix the 'x' key. Then they erased my hard drive. No one can tell me if a back-up exists or not. Oh and my new computer doesn't want to talk to my iPod, and gives me the option of either deleting all my songs and starting afresh or, well, nothing. I've heard rumors that there's some program that let's you go from iTunes to iPod, rather than the reverse, and loads all your songs to your blank library. Is this true? Send it to me.

Overheard In Our Staff Meeting

Co-worker A: ...So I was talking to this woman and she's an art teacher for, can I say this?, retarded adults.

Co-worker B: Well we're the only ones here...

Co-worker A: Anyway, she's really excited about making an [Art Project] with them and was really pleased with the information I sent her.

Co-worker C: Don't we already have enough retarded [Art Project]s?

Christmas in August

Before my mother unearths this (second) blog of mine and I cease writing about her entirely, I figured I'd relay a mom-related anecdote from today. My mother, you see, has been remarkable in terms of regularly sending me letters, cards, magazines, books, and assorted knick knacks ever since I moved to Houston. Very 'care package at camp'-ish and only slightly less lovely. [Come on, you know getting a care package at camp was The Best Thing Ever and there's little that can top the feeling of superiority you experienced while retrieving your spoils from the distributing counselor distributing as your fellow mail-less campers looked on with dismay.] I am genuinely grateful for her generosity and thoughtfulness.

Because we live in a part of town where you cannot leave your automobile outside lest it be stolen, and since the postman is apparently aware of this, I received a card last week stating that there was a package awaiting me at the post office and no, they wouldn't leave it on my doorstep because, hello! someone is gonna steal that shit just like they did you car. And car stereo. So I trekked to the post office today at lunch to pick up my prize, and when the clerk returned from the back I was surprised to see such a large-ish box when I was expecting something more along the lines of an oversize envelope. Not only that, but I noted that it cost $8.20 to be mailed, so I knew it had to be something good [this is the part where I want to add "because hi, my mom currently has no job," but I don't (really) because I feel sorta bad about that.]

To prolong the ecstasy, I waited to open the box until I got home for lunch. Admittedly, I did pull off the tape while waiting at various stoplights on the drive back, so once I got inside it was easy to quickly remove out the packing paper and reveal my reward(s).

Inside I found this:

Attached to this:

Hurricane Season

Someone at the gym this morning smelled distinctly like maple syrup. I'm smelling syrup, so suffice to say no, I haven't drowned in Erin's wake, although the flooded roads did make me 15 minutes late for work--quite a feat considering my drive is 2.7 miles, but I am still largely clueless when it comes to the roads here, hence the delay. Yesterday we spent the hours of 9-3 "team-building" at work. With no internet and no network on account of the storm, I shot the shit with my boss and co-workers, listened to a bunch of music and hung posters in my office, played too much minesweeper and hearts, and, when I tired of that, I even wrote you all a lovely blog post, only to lose it all when the power went out briefly.

I also tried my first Whataburger, as that's where the only employee brave enough to face the rain was headed for lunch. It's one of those fast-food chains people rave about for no good reason. Sure one meal tasting of sawdust may be "fresher" and "more authentic"-seeming than another, but in the end it all still tastes like sawdust. My co-workers were so excited for me to experience this Southern phenomenon and kept asking how I felt about my grilled chicken sandwich. "Kind of disgusted with myself," I thought, but "oh, it's good" came out. I found it hard to expound on the lie while holding a lukewarm mass of fat that was dripping mayonnaise juice.

Anyway, the Erin damage in our area was minimal, but Dean is still en route. Over lunch today my co-workers were trading hurricane stories from Rita and Katrina. No one had suffered any losses, save for one girl who'll never get back the 18 hours she spent in the car evacuating to Austin (three hours away), only to turn on the TV upon arrival and see pictures of a road in her neighborhood where traffic cones arranged before she left still had yet to blow over. In fact, thankfully most of them actually enjoyed the time they spent riding out the storm, relaying stories of days spent drinking and playing cards, talking and eating.

I'm still operating under 'it won't happen to me' the pretense. We don't live in an evacuation area and I don't have any friends or family who have ever been impacted by severe weather. That said, I met with a guy from the Surviving Katrina and Rita organization today about an event we're hosting with them, and it was quite a wake up call for someone like me who is new to the area. While I'm certainly educating myself about his project at work, I prefer to remain blissfully unaware at home, save for vague 'we should plan on heading somewhere inland' emergency plans. So don't worry, wish me luck, and if worst comes to worst, send booze and food.

Houston is Like Charlottesville Because...

• I have a job I love (most of the time) and a great boss with awesome musical taste who wears band shirts to work
• Free soda at work
• I've been drunk during the work day
  
• Same Tuesday night trivia format (minus creative team names--The Rockets?! Come on people!)
  
• I still can't answer any of the trivia questions
  

The Worst Is Over...Maybe?

So they found my car. I know. WTF? I suppose I never recounted the story of it being stolen though. It went something like this: went to bed and car was there, woke up and it was not. Pretty anti-climactic, huh? At first we assumed it was the same person who took my stereo, but that individual was so well-versed in car stereo theft that s/he didn't even need to break the glass, whereas the eventual car thief did indeed do so--but what are the odds I'd be targeted by twice in eight days by two independent thieves? Actually? With my luck lately? Well we all know the answer to that.

It was funny, though (well not at the time), as my first thought was: "is someone gonna pay me for this?" I honestly had no idea that insurance even covered this because I never even conceived of my car being stolen (or read through the descriptions in my terms of service apparently). But Progressive has been lovely to me, and, prior to it's recovery, my co-workers even seemed convinced this was actually gonna be a great break for me what with getting the blue book value for the thing and all.

But I just wanted my car back. And to avoid the hassle of waiting 30 days for insurance to declare it a loss, and getting a loan, and wasting weekends finding a car, and blah blah blah. So I was ecstatic when I learned that it had not only been found, but was also fixable! I went and saw my car Thursday and it looked...sad, somehow seeming depressed in reasons to it's recent abuse and the resulting broken steering column and window (okay, okay, that was probably just my reaction).

Anyway, it's in the shop now being restored to its former glory[-ish-ness] and I am enjoying one less iota of stress as a result. Sure I'll owe the deductible, but I'll also claim that there wasn't the hint of a scratch on the thing before this and please repaint it all, thank you very much. Oh, and they're gonna cover a new stereo for me, which otherwise would've gone entirely unreported to the ole insurance. So in the end, yes, this has been huge pain in the ass, but way less of a disaster than it could have been. And just like I learned the random life lesson of always knowing where your water shut off is located by flooding the house, I'm not sure I'll ever own another car without adding an alarm. Or, as my dad suggested, "a Club with a gun."

In My Office There Are Many Things

Is it an office? Not as much as it's the front room of a house badly in need of a flip. Complete with:

• Christmas Lights
• A small plastic chandelier from the 70s
• A 'cotton'-scented candle
• A pinata of a Mexican man
• A small plastic Christmas tree, also probably from the 70s, unrelated to the lights
• Plastic ivy

Yes, I finally got a job, and I think I'm gonna like it.

I am still accepting vehicle donations, however.

SOMEONE STOLE MY FUCKING CAR

One A Days

As I mentioned yesterday, our new bedroom carpet was finally installed and Jeremy and I were tasked with moving all of our belongings back in to our room last night. It wasn't a huge project--we really don't have that much stuff--but there were some large items, the heaviest being an oversize bookcase we recently purchased from IKEA.

I couldn't carry the bookcase for more than a few feet at a time, so I put it down as soon as it was fully inside the room. A minute later, as we move the thing in to its final position, we noticed that the spot where it had just rested was now covered in an enormous black stain. On the new carpet. Huge stain. Brand new carpet.

After moving the bookcase back in to the hall, we immediately set about feverishly, yet ever so quietly, scrubbing the shit out of said stain. Our roommate is fairly particular and there was no way we were revealing this to him. After fifteen or twenty minutes the spot was sufficiently unnoticeable. We seem to have determined that it came from some mold that had started growing on the bottom of the bookcase as it sat in the humid garage for three weeks.

This morning the stain is gone, but the new carpet is noticeably worn. I've succeeded in hiding it from our roommate so far by placing various articles of clothing and reading materials over top in a seemingly absent-minded fashion the befits our still-disheveled bedroom.

Not that our roommate was sitting around all morning scrutinizing the new carpet. No, no, he was busy helping me since when I got up and looked outside today the first thing I noticed is that I had an entirely flat rear tire.

Wherein I Flood the House

I know I will look back on this catastrophe years from now and laugh--having learned a valuable lesson the hard way--but twenty days later it's certainly not funny yet.

After [yet another frustrating] day of job hunting, I'd had a great workout at the gym and was excited about the evening ahead and the prospect of having a free day with Jeremy mid-week in recognition of the Fourth. Before changing out of my workout attire I decided I would scrub out the cleaning products I'd left sitting in the tub that afternoon, and finish off cleaning our downstairs bathroom.

I was almost done with the whole elbow-grease part when in an instant there was water shooting violently out of the wall behind the toilet. In retrospect I must have knocked the pipe as I maneuvered around the tub, but it couldn't have been that hard--it's too tight a space for anything but careful motions--and it shouldn't have broken simply by my nudging alone.

But it did break. The PVC pipe broke at the wall, the toilet water shut-off valve now dangling uselessly from the commode. I think it took me a minute to process what was going on, after which I worthlessly attempted to shove the broken pipe back together, figuring, I suppose, that maybe the connection had just come loose and that the thing was still salvageable.

After a few strong shots of water to the face as a result of my fumbling, I determined there was no fixing this and that I needed to shut off the water. This is probably about the time when I frantically called Jeremy at work, proclaiming that I was having an emergency and needed to know how to shut the water off. He didn't know. Our roommate, the homeowner and Jeremy's co-worker, didn't know. I alternated between placing a trashcan against the bathroom wall to catch some of the torrent and dumping the filled bin in to the bathtub, and racing outside to look for any knob, valve, or lever that could have possibly saved me.

Water continued to rush out of the bathroom as I pulled as many items off the floor as possible. Luckily, the bathroom and foyer are tiled, but unfortunately our bedroom--bordering the bath--is fully carpeted. I threw towels down in the bedroom doorway and raced upstairs to call the home builder's plumbing company. The dispatcher was surprisingly unhelpful considering that I was practically crying, and suggested that since we were no longer covered by warranty, I call the home builder directly. No answer there, on account, I presume, of its being 4 p.m. the day before a national holiday, so my next best bet was 911 I figured.

I immediately asked to be transferred to non-emergency, but at this point I was back downstairs and the sound of the rushing water was so loud that I couldn't hear the recorded message or menu options and had to hang up. In between calls back and forth with Jeremy and our roommate , I must have contacted five plumbing companies, none of whom had any idea where my water shut-off might be nor an available plumber.

(Jeremy, of course, was successfully assuming the role of My Better Half in all this, I must add. I wouldn't describe myself as 'calm' at any point during the disaster, but even I was surprised at how much his soothing helped. In addition to making his own calls to friends, plumbers, and the city, he also assured me that he was leaving work immediately and would be home as soon as possible. I assumed this meant forty minutes minimum given his commute and tendency to drive at Exactly The Speed Limit, but he was home before I knew it.)

Twenty to twenty-five minutes had elapsed by this point and I was beside myself. There was close to three inches of water in the foyer and it was pouring out of both the front door and the back door in to the garage. I'd seen a neighbor arrive home in the midst of this and attempted to knock on her door, but the gate was locked.

I eventually reached a plumber with a man in the area. He told me his guy would call me back ASAP to get a location, and just as I was hanging up I saw another neighbor arrive home. He had no idea where the water shut off was either but, after a brief, wet trek in to the bathroom to assess the damage, he quickly announced he'd be back shortly and went home to change.

"Shortly" meant something quite different to me than it apparently did to him at this point, but two or three minutes later he returned, water shoes and all, and promptly walked through the foliage in front of our house and yanked a lever (which, notably, was half-concealed under mulch). Immediately the water slowed util it was barely trickling from the pipe, and then finally stopped.

"How'd you know where that was?"

"I just guessed."

It was simultaneously a huge relief and a great disappointment that I hadn't managed to find the shut off in almost half an hour. But mainly a huge relief.

The house was a mess and I could already tell that the bedroom carpet was sopping. Looking in to the garage I noticed that my toothbrush, along with some socks and a flip-flop were now fifteen feet from the door, having been caught in the rush of water. I began sweeping the standing water out of the house when my neighbor, whose name I still hadn't caught, appeared with a shop vac and started the much more efficient clean-up effort.

Right around the time we got most of the obvious water up, Jeremy and our roommate arrived home. While it wasn't a pretty sight, I think my phone conversations with them up to this point had prepared them for much worse. I'm glad they didn't see the much worse point.

I thanked our still-vacuuming neighbor profusely and asked if we might borrow his shop vac for a few hours. He graciously agreed and we set about sucking at the carpet, hoping against hope that it might be salvageable. Jeremy went to Home Depot to buy some extra fans while our roommate called various insurers and plumbers, and generally let his home's situation sink in.

The carpet was lost. As it turns out, we wound up prying off all the trim too so we could fully dry the place out and guarantee no mold would grow. The dry wall that the water was directly shooting at--about six or so feet from the pipe itself-- was ruined, the paint stripped off by the force of the pressure. It was a pretty shitty way to spend an otherwise-free third of July evening, and an even crappier way to lose hundreds of dollars for no good reason.

As I write this, almost three weeks later, the new carpet is being installed downstairs. This evening Jeremy and I will finally be able to move our belongings back inside from the garage, and cease sleeping on either the futon in the living room or our mattress on the floor.

It's been an enormous pain in the ass and only added fuel to the recent "I feel shitty about myself" fire, but to be honest, every time something like this goes wrong for me I emerge with a renewed appreciation for everything I do have (and wind up thinking more reflective crap like that). I know I'm lucky that this is one of my bigger worries, and that I [will eventually] have the money to afford it. I'm also grateful that I have the support [financial and otherwise] of an awesome boyfriend, and that some people are still willing to help a nieghbor in need. Of course it hasn't change me that much--I still never bothered to get his name.

You Take the Bad with the Bad

When Dooce's car was broken in to recently, and then Holly's, it never occurred to me that maybe I should start taking some precautions. In fact, I have actually thought to myself, on more than one occasion, that not taking my car stereo face plate off was justified given that we seem to live in a fine enough neighborhood and there usually are far nicer cars parked on the street than mine.

But last night it happened, and my car was robbed (again). Unlike the first time, they didn't break the window, instead opting to apparently jimmy the thing open through the insulating foam surrounding the glass. Last time I had my car broken in to (on a trip to DC for a 9:30 club show) we collectively lost various iPods, keys, Timbuk2s, clothing, and wallets, but no CDs (despite having two huge books available) and no stereo. This time I lost the stereo, the handy new cord that connected my iPod to said stereo, and about 15 CDs.

Luckily my CD books were safe at home, but I almost feel more violated given the fact that the burglar snatched every last disc from my visor CD holder (even the spillover that I hid behind it!) but not the visor itself, which would have been a much more efficient way to go. I suspect he didn't look at the discs as he grabbed them in the dark, since I doubt he would've wanted the [primarily burned indie rock] albums I had to offer.

I know it could've been worse. I can live (barely) without a stereo for a while, and had my window been broken it would've needed immediate replacement and added yet another hundred dollars or so to my skyrocketing credit card bill. Sometimes I forget to take my wallet out of my car, and I used to leave my iPod in there. Given that the thief removed every last piece of paper from my glove compartment, and every solitary pen (there must be 50+) from my center console, I know he would've grabbed anything else of value that was available.

Still, it sucks. It makes me feel like this city is out to get me, or that I'm doing, or did, something wrong. But maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe it's just kids whose mama's didn't bring them up right, and to them I couldn't have said it better: "FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCKERS."

UPDATE: You know what else they took? All my gum. WTF?

Houston By/For the Ill-Informed

So maybe I've been giving this city a bit of a bum rap. Or maybe just giving my life one, from which one might infer that I am not yet convinced of the Lone Star State. But just because no one will hire [totally qualified, competent, and pleasant] me, doesn't mean that I've turned against the town entirely. I'm still getting quite a kick out of exploring its vastness/sprawl, and I love the new-ness of it all to me, particularly having come from a town where, on any given night, there were maybe ten potential establishments to patronize, all of which were way too familiar.

Despite having only been here a short while (and despite not venturing out during weekdays because I know I should be home looking for jobs and yes, I should be doing that now too BUT it's Friday, I'm over jobhunting for the week, and I figured blogging would be a good way to occupy the time while my cake bakes), I've already picked a couple favorite spots, laid out for you here in easy-to-read bullet form.

• Brother's Taco House - Located less than seven blocks from our house, our Saturday morning pilgrimage to this taco hut is one of my favorite weekend traditions ever. Their homemade tortillas and various scrambled egg-based fillings are a surprisingly stellar way to start the day. Add in the lightening-quick service and the fact that two tacos fill you up perfectly and cost less than $4, and I'm sold. Yeah, I'm always a little afraid of contracting eColi, but I squirrel away the change from my $5 bill and figure I'll just use all the money I saved to pay the insurance deductible.
• Central Market - Central Market might just be the greatest grocery store in history. It's like Whole Foods, meets Trader Joes, meets the kitchen of your friend from high school whose mom always stocked the cupboards and fridge with the best stuff you never got at home and welcomed you over to graze at your leisure. Sure the place is overpriced, but if you're wily (some might call it cheap) like my boyfriend, you devise a fool-proof method for saving yourself some cash by fudging the weights of all your purchases (they have you weigh and print your own barcodes for everything). Plus, with the overabundance of free samples offered (and not some bullshit free samples, I'm talking jambalaya and ice cream with hot fudge and these beer-flavored gourmet potato chips that are DELICIOUS) you can totally insert a trip to the store for a trip to get lunch, honest to goodness.
• Spec's - (I know, I know, more food/beverage purveyors, so sue me) Spec's is to beer/wine/liquor stores what Central Market is to grocery stores: everything looks great, they have a huge selection of totally obscure items, and again, TONS of free samples. I'd encountered the phenomenon that is liquor store tastings in Australia, but never here in America. Like Central Market, you can substitute a trip to Spec's for say, a mid-afternoon pint or two--admittedly I've only had wine and liquor there, but the level of intoxication achieved will be comparable. Plus, they've got a gourmet deli section with every random ingredient you need and can't find for that off the wall recipe you're making. Something about being able to grab imported mustard, fine chocolate, and morels along with a gallon of whiskey reminds me of heaven.
• Galveston - Fine, Galveston is kind of a shit hole, but it's the beach! Only 45 minutes away! Enough said.
• The Proletariat - I haven't been to nearly all of the major music venues here yet, but the Proletariat is already a favorite. It's just crappy enough--so-so sound, hipster bar staff with attitudes, but some great live acts--to remind me of home/the Black Cat. While they may have no clue what ginger ale is (wtf?), they do have a central bar accessible from three different areas/rooms, and a penchant for putting on great happy hour shows, where the venue's half empty and the drafts are $1 a piece. My roommate's disdain for the place stems from their apparent lack of A/C; I would beg to differ, but in the end I'm not sure the ultimate concert experience is achievable unless you leave the club soaking.
• The Flying Saucer/The Ginger Man - Neither of these spots is perfect (which is why the “best beer selection" title necessitates two candidates) and admittedly I've only visited each one once, but both bars have impressive draft and bottled beer lists. They each lose points for being chain establishments (the former more glaringly so than the latter) but the Flying Saucer has a ridiculously wide-ranging selection and a well-organized, informative beer menu, while the Ginger Man has that home-y feel you crave in a beer bar and just about the best juke box I've ever encountered (which is saying something for picky picky me). Unfortunately the Ginger Man, located in Rice Village, is awash with college and post-college twats, while the Flying Saucer downtown is full of, well, professional twats, but luckily they both offer enough tasty treats that before too long everyone starts blurring in to the background.
• Allen Parkway – Seems a bit ridiculous to include a stretch of road here, but this is Houston and given all the god awful highways encircling the city, it’s beautiful respite to have a visually appealing stretch of road that is seemingly never crowded and in fact useful in getting places. Plus they put this fountain along parkway, which is not only gorgeous, but oh-so-appealing when driving around the city in 95 degree weather in your boyfriend’s car with the broke-ass air conditioning.
• Houston Museum of Natural Sciences - Houston has a surprisingly awesome museum scene, and this is definitely my favorite so far. Someone more familiar with the oil industry (see: everyone in this city) might not be quite as entralled by the enormous exhibit on drilling, and I did feel a bit guilty over the fact that these companies have obviously funded pretty much the entire collection, but hello, that oil drilling probe simulator is awesome! It's the most modern, interactive museum I've ever been to, almost making up for the $12 I wasted seeing Night at the Musuem on the IMAX screen.
• Our Couch – In some ways my life has changed very little since moving to Houston, and indeed, I still spend an inordinate amount of time on the living room couch. This version has yet to develop the well-worn butt divot of our sofa in Charlottesville (it’s coming!), but it’s also newer so I never have that fleeting thought about all the possible substances that have likely been ground in to the fabric over the years that I used to get after multiple hours of sedentary-ness on Ray’s couch. Then again, if I spill something on this one I am totally in trouble, or at least expected to flip the cushion.

So in looking at this list I guess it seems like all I do is sit around and eat and drink. And that would be a largely accurate observation. My gym is decidedly absent from the list given the fact that it is enormous and I get lost in it (honestly, I only know where one lone toilet is, I can never find any more although they were definitely pointed out to me on my initial tour. Oh and also their ceiling leaks poo-water all over the place. And I have to pay $1 for parking). Also missing would be my job (surprise! don’t have one yet), and my horseback riding barn (see: no job). So see, there is some actual activity in my life, or at least there will be in the future, but as long as I'm well-fed and well-drunk, well then I'm pretty happy.

Here's Your Update

Yes, yes the story of my flooding the house is forthcoming. I think I've been hesitant to post it because I realize that despite 1)barely leaving home all day, 2)having no friends, and 3)being unemployed, I have still managed to accumulate an interesting tale of sorts. And yet the account of events I've worked up so far is so...boring?

In light of the fact that I spend hours each day applying to jobs where I promise potential employers that I am creative! and full of ideas! a font of never before thought-of thoughts! that is, in fact, a total crock. (Similarly, I've assured each and every one of these people of my detail-oriented nature and pressed my love for proofreading on many of them. In retrospect, having re-read my letters and resumes, I suspect 30-40% of them received documents containing one or more typos.)

During one of my interviews last week I revealed that I was ultimately aiming for a job heavy on the writing and editing, despite the fact that this position pertained more to my event planning experience. The interviewer assured me there would be ample opportunity for me to flex my English-major skills, "just maybe not in the way you imagine." And I admitted to her then that I don't think I'm actually cut out for the glamorous positions I imagine. Sure it'd be nice to work at one of the publications I love, writing on topics I actually care about, but I can barely come up with something to post on this blog weekly, much less a story idea or two to pitch daily. Rather, I'm feeling increasingly resigned to the knowledge that more mundane, precisely-directed writing assignments are better suited to my skills, although in my heart of hearts I hate to admit that.

So I've been expanding the job hunt, checking the PR/Marketing box on my Monster search despite always saying I was adamantly anti-marketing. I think it would still take a special job to get me to head that route, but then again, I owe $1900 for flooding the house.

Please

Yesterday was probably our worst day. I wouldn't call it a fight, but definitely an argument (if you feel, like I do, that there is a difference)--something we've really never had to deal with before and something that made me feel like I was breaking in two.

I understand that it sounds insincere when I say I can't help it. That I can't control how needy I am these days, or my heightened expectations, or the reassurance I crave. I know I've always seemed stronger than this and I want to believe, as I'm often reminded, that I should be able to alter my flawed thinking in these situations and will myself to feel better.

But when you're stuck in a hole sometimes it's hard to see over the edge.

I'm depressed here. I have no friends and I have no job. I have no idea where anything is or what I like or where to go. I know it takes time to develop these things. I understand that and I expected it. But that doesn't make it any less frustrating. I hate that every trip out of the house has to be a pre-planned endeavour for me. I hate that when I know I should be taking a break from it all, collecting my thoughts and getting some outside insight, all I can do is phone a friend or type away at an email--there's no one else here for me to talk to.

So I need extra everything. Extra support and care. Extra comfort and confidence. I know it's a lot to ask. But I'm asking.

Let Down, Hanging Around

Five days ago I was ecstatic that I'd been asked to come in for an interview at one of the local urban lifestyle magazines here in Houston. In light of the overabundance of media in the city that seems only interested in rich people attending expensive parties for people with money, this rag certainly seems to reign supreme what with their interviews of bands I care about and features on areas and events I might try. "This has to be it," I figured, as I quietly tried not to get too excited and imagined how I might deal with the utter heartbreak were I to be passed over.

Yesterday I interviewed with the biggest douchebag I've ever encountered in upper management. I'm not just saying this because I didn't get the job (whoops, spoiler!), no this was my position immediately after the interrogation (cause really it was) as well.

The stage seemed set as I entered the business' suite in a surprisingly run-down building. For a magazine that prides itself on its glossy pages and cutting-edge fashion and design opinions, I was surprised to find the office housed in such a derelict building what with its stained carpet and scuffed walls. Upon arrival I saw one man sitting alone in a conference room, ibook poised (complete with oversized quicksilver sticker) and magazines strewn about him on the table. It was too perfect a scene and I suspect now that it was choreographed. This was not anyone's office and this guy was not getting any work done in there.

And he was the man in charge. I thought I'd be meeting with the female editor I'd emailed with, but it turns out I was meeting with her as well as another female editor and this "dude" in the conference room.

Oh what a dude he was. The laid back office atmosphere and nonexistent dress code certainly appealed to me, but I think this guy was a bit too old to sporting his designer t-shirt non-ironically. If not that, then definitely his buzz cut mohawk--better suited to someone ten, if not twenty, years his junior. But more glaring were the sunglasses. The blue, mirrored, fashion glasses he wore the.entire.time. ON HIS FACE.

The interview lasted all of twenty minutes and it seemed largely like an opportunity for the dude to talk about himself and his accomplishments and then briefly accuse me of something which I would either refute or explain. Rather than asking me questions about my capabilities, it seemed more like a test to see if I was up to their standards of 'cool.' And this guy's wearing mirrored glasses? Of course I pale in comparison. I obvisouly don't even know what cool is!

He was the type of guy I talk shit about unprovoked when I seem him across the room at a lounge-y bar that one of my friends has forced me to patronize. Sometimes I feel bad about the assumptions I make about unfamiliar people--people I've never met or spoken to but who I assume must be assholes based solely on appearances. But then every once in a while I actually do talk to one of these guys, and I'm confirmed in all my presumptions.

It wasn't just his nasty attitude or ridiculous attire. It was the two phone calls he took, both times while I was mid-sentence. It was the fact that he didn't mind in the slightest when one of the other editors present interrupted the discussion to announce an email she's just received. It was his complete and utter apparent lack of respect for me as a person and the way he projected an air of cockiness. An attitude I deem undeserved given that the nature of his magazine pretty much prevents it from having any new or groundbreaking content (unless you count what hats are hot this season as an example of such) and the fact that in a brief read-through of one issue I spotted three typos, and I'm not even the stellar proofreader I told him I was!

I was torn after the interview. I know I probably won't get another opportunity like this in the near future. I would love to work for a magazine covering topics I'm interested in and I know that this experience, unlike any of my other jobs, would really start me on the path toward a career I could enjoy and be proud of. On the other hand, I can't imagine working for someone like him. I've considered that maybe he was just doing his best to scare me--acting his toughest to see how I'd react--but I'm not sure that's the case. And even if it is, I don't like what that says about the man.

We both had one chance to make an impression and I suppose we both failed to make a positive one. At least I don't have to fret over a decision, though. They did the hard work for me.

Things I Learned Last Week From The Seemingly Put-Together But Obviously Befuddled Gentleman I Encountered in the Continental Building's Lobby

You that button by the elevators with the fireman's hat on it? The one that you suspect would summon emergency help or sound an alarm were you to need it? Well if you press that button hard. Twice. Nothing happens. Just FYI. In case you're ever in trouble there or anything.

Redeemed

So maybe I haven't been quite fair to Houston here thus far. Indeed, last Friday was immeasurably better than the preceding day and I was practically euphoric for most of the weekend. Of course this change of attitude was precipitated largely by the call I got around noon on Friday asking me to procure a keg for the evenings activities--you knew things had to start looking up.

Particularly since getting a keg means a trip to Spec's which, aside from my boyfriend, is probably the best things about Houston so far. An expansive beer, wine, and liquor selection combined with a well-stocked fine foods market makes Spec's just about heaven for me. But wait, there's more! They have free samples all.the.time. Of EVERYTHING. In fact prior to moving here one of the events Jeremy had planned for us during one of our visits was a Saturday trip to Spec's to get drunk for free.

I arrived Friday to get the keg and grab some dinner ingredients, but not before sampling assorted tortilla chips and salsa, some cheese, red wine, olives, vodka, and a watered-down margarita. Not bad for 3:30 on a Friday. And for free. And it helped me realize that when things get real bad, and I can't stand to spend another minute hunting for a job, there's always one place I can go. It's not the Bistro, and they may not know my name, but they serve me free booze all the same.

So I Had A Bad Day

Yesterday was my first interview here in Houston and the first time I felt like I got a bit of a reality check on what life might be like here. And I HATED it.

I didn't know much about the position I was applying for, but from the get-go I was fairly convinced it was not a job I wanted. That said, in the days preceding the interview I started to think that "hey, maybe this could be better than I expect," and even consider that I might like the job.

Of course that wasn't the case at all. The position, as described to me by the supervisor, largely consisted of repetitious data entry and included a varied schedule with work weeks of either Sun-Thurs or Tues-Sat and arrival and departure times starting as early as eight and ending as late as ten. Oh and they were offering $10-15K less than I think I should be making.

In fact now I know I should be making as much. I was terribly overqualified for the job and frankly felt more competent than the assistant manager I spoke with. I explained to them that I was applying for this entry level position because, despite having a solid work background, I have yet to work in writing and editing specifically and none of the other jobs I'm applying for in that field consider my past experiences relevant. All true, but I know I'm capable of more than this sort of low level starting position and also can't bear the thought of taking yet another job that pays me just about as much, if not less, as I've gotten for the past three years.

Add to that the fact that it took me 55 minutes to get home (all 11.1 miles) in bumper to bumper traffic and I was a miserable mess by the time Jeremy returned from work. It's not just the job, or that job; I know there will be other opportunities and hope something I can enjoy will come around. But gah! the traffic. And the idiot drivers. And the fact that you have to get on the highway to go anywhere.

I knew I was spoiled in Charlottesville what with my three minute commute to work--ten if it was rush hour. And I knew I wasn't gonna find another job like my last one. But the combination of not having any appealing employment prospects on the horizon, with the realization that I might join the masses in wasting two or so hours daily on a commute, on top of the fact that I have not one (non-Jeremy-related) friend here kinda made me crumble.

I'm not convinced I can't like it here. Frankly, living this fantasy life of unemployment is quite pleasant (surprise!). I like driving around the nearby downtown area on my way to the gym (no highways needed!) and the city strikes me as grit-ily attractive most of the time when I'm doing so.

But as it is, I only want to stay within the safe two mile area that surrounds our house. I want to go to bars I can walk to and get familiar with the clientele. I want to eat at restaurants right down the road and see my neighbors there. Hell I want to see a neighbor.

When I was living in Charlottesville I knew I needed to get out--to go to a bigger city with more people and places and things. But now I'm here and I'm lonely its vastness. But I guess that's just what happens when you put the small town girl in the city.

Tubing, Texas-Style

Houston is too fucking hot. I like the warm weather and all, but this is utterly ridiculous. Walking back to my car from the gym today, observing the various smokers outside, I was reminded that Houston used to carry the title of the fattest city in America. I can't even fathom experiencing this heat with an extra hundred pounds or two on my frame.

Of course this is not to say that I'd prefer it the other way, all bundled up in my winter wear trying endlessly to regain feeling in my fingertips. In fact, I really wouldn't mind the weather so much if I wasn't trying to be at my most presentable most of the time I go out.

Today, for example, I ventured to a nearby medical center in hopes of dropping off a resume. The whole trip, from home to medical center to gym, took no more than 30 minutes, 15 of which were spent in the air conditioned car, and by the time I stepped out of the cool and in to the gym's parking garage, I had sweat stains under both arms and all the way down my back, in addition to the unbecoming facial sheen and frizzy hair I've come to accept.

This past weekend our answer to the oppressive heat was a tubing trip outside of Austin. There are few things in this world I enjoy more than a good tubing trip and this one was no exception, despite falling short of the almost unattainable standard of awesome-ness that is tubing the James River in Virginia.

The natural river we had originally intended to float was closed due to high water so we headed instead to a nearby, man-made alternative that was ridiculously crowded due to, I'm sure, the awesome weather and fact that it was the only option that day. Unlike the pastoral scenery you experience on your way down the James though, this lazy river snaked through the less picturesque backyards of condominium complexes and public picnic spots.

It did, however, include a couple of shoots and a waterfall which added quite a bit of the right kind of excitement at the right point in the ride--two to three hours/four to five beers in. The James, on the other hand, has a couple of spots of rapids along the way, but they often succeed more in bruising your behind than providing any sort of momentary thrill.

The thrill was greater here for some than others, of course, as this river featured police officers throughout and, at one spot, a check point set up to arrest underage drinkers and those deemed drunk in public. Which of course we all were, since said check point was toward the latter half of the river. The police, formerly ignored upstream, were beset by boos and taunts as they arrested a slew of unsuspecting tubers. I can only begin to imagine how it feels to experience the stark contrast of tubing bliss and police detainment within minutes of one another.

But all in all the experience was stellar. Sure the river was swamped with people, but that just meant I got to talk to more strangers. Yeah I missed the natural aspects of tubing on the James, but I liked being able to stand without worrying too much about what was beneath me, or grab on to a dock to stop and drink an extra beer or two while still in the water.

Of course some things are always the same. In the James you're excited to see cows on the river banks, and even more entertained when you catch them cooling off in the water alongside you. Until you realize what else they must be doing in the water. And here it was no different, if, that is, you assume one cow's patties equals the piss of a thousand.

Hopeless That This Will Turn Out Better

It's hard to think about blog fodder when I spend all day thinking up possible employers to contact and about whether or not I am ever going to find a job I don't despise. I know it's only been a week proper and that, prior to my arrival here, I figured two months was a good goal to shoot for in terms of length of unemployment. But every day that passes is more and more defeating.

I know I'm a worthwhile person and a great employee, but when you get no reassurance on that from the outside world of potential employers, you start to wonder about it yourself. Deep down, I think I'm just terribly disappointed in myself. For being lazy, largely. I know I'm a good writer and that I would be an asset in that role to anyone that hired me, and yet I don't produce any written work. How the hell are these employers supposed to know that without proof? And the reason there isn't proof? Is because I didn't produce any. I always tell myself, "Well, if you had an actual assignment you would totally write something good." And this is true, I always have and I would. But then why haven't I taken a few hours here and a weekend or two there to give myself an 'actual assignment' and submit it for print? Because I am lazy.

Lazy and doubtful. I'm terrified of being rejected; of having this confidence in my abilities--confirmed largely by teachers and family members who have to say nice things--whittled away by hearing no after no after no. I worry that this would cause me to produce even less...but what is less than nothing?

Jeremy always says I have an excuse for everything and it's true. If I could find a position coming up with spur of the moment reasons not to things, I'd be golden. But of course I'd probably never get that job, so why try?

ISO A Great Job or Some Sympathy

I went to my first job fair today. It was less fun than any other fair I've been to.

I mean I wasn't really expecting to find any great leads there; I'd reviewed the companies attending and unless, unbeknownst to me, my future lies with the border patrol or that company that sells inflatable hot tubs, well then there wasn't too much to be had. In truth, I felt more like the recruiters than the job seekers--like I didn't fit in with the latter and should have instead been there in a professional role myself.

Which is not to say that the pool of job hunters was anything to scoff at. Sure there were the kids in either baggy street wear or too-tight club ensembles that really weren't getting much attention from anyone except the armed services, but I was amazed at the number of people who looked way more professional and experienced than I, be it their age or their attire or the air of confidence they projected.

I wanted to go up to all the twenty-somethings that looked like they could be friends and talk to them. I mean, I'm at home all day alone looking for job, are they too? I tend to do that, make up stories about the people I see in passing and what their lives and backgrounds must be like. In this case, I assumed most everyone I saw in my age group was in a totally similar boat and that they were just itching to get approached, make small talk about how lame this career fair was, and split for a beer and a half hour of sharing job-hunting horror stories.

But instead of talking to my cohorts I forced myself to speak with a few recruiters. Really the only ones I approached were the staffing agencies. I know AFLAC and Dreyers Ice Cream have positions I could enjoy--maybe writing their ad text or preparing website copy--I just suspect they weren't looking to fill those jobs today at the Reliant Center.

The staffing agencies didn't seem to have too much in my area either, but they certainly wanted to be helpful. One recruiter suggested I should try their agency since they have a lot of clerical positions for companies that promote from within. "After only a year, or maybe not even that long, you could transfer to something in your field!" I know I am a cry baby, but a year?! I couldn't cut that.

Good news is that the temp agencies seemed to find me totally employable, unlike any of the other companies I have applied to thus far. One recruiter wondered aloud whether I'd ever considered sales (me: nooooooo!) and then divulged that she was holding interviews tomorrow for potential candidates to join the staffing agency's own workforce and that she would call me if they hadn't found the right person by the day's end. The next recruiter not-so-subtly wrote "*hot*" at the top of my resume in her bubbly script.

So I know I can find a job, but I can't help but think my pickiness is a good thing. I know what it's like to dread getting up every morning and to count down the minutes until 5 pm on a clock that never seems to move. I also know what it's like to not mind working, sometimes, in fact, to even enjoy it. And to make friends at your job and to care about what you produce and the quality of your efforts simply because it matters personally to you.

So I'll meet with these agencies when they call and look in to what they have to offer, but I won't take a job that sounds like it'll have me ripping my hair out by the end of week two solely for the sake of being employed. I'll wait for something I don't have to convince myself I can care about, something I can wholeheartedly commit to.

Of course after the first job offer it will be a lot harder for me to continue with the nightly complaints I've grown accustomed to, directed at any friend or family member who will listen, about how this is so hard! and how I will never find a job! and how I hate job hunting! I guess at that point I'll have to grit my teeth, swallow my pride, and go ask a stranger from a job fair to grab a beer.

My, My, How Far We've Flown

It's quite odd to go from pining over someone daily to being inundated with them daily. Everything is going perfectly between Jeremy and I thus far. I knew it would be a little difficult, and we talked over the potential problems months prior to my relocation.

I don't have any non-Jeremy-provided friends here yet and I'm still unemployed. I'm spending all my days job hunting, save for an hour or two at the gym where you would be totally out of line to even think about speaking to me, which means in the evenings, it's Jeremy and I. And on the weekends, it's Jeremy and I. Sometimes we throw in the roommate or a soon-to-be mutual friend, but by and large it's solely us two peas in our new Houston pod.

We haven't driven each other insane yet. Maybe irked one another now and again, but after eleven months of being apart and missing each other, I figure our tolerance is pretty high. But living together certainly changes things.

Most obviously to me is the feeling that we can never go back. I've never succeeded in backtracking in a relationship; that whole "let's slow down, let's go back to the way things were" conversation has never worked. So where do you go from here? I've always asked myself that, but now things are a little more immediate.

And I can't help but feel like some aspect of passion is lost when you go from seeing each other only on stolen weekends and special occasions to waiting around for your partner to return from work daily and dealing with all the realities and responsibilities together that you overlooked for two or three days when you were together in months past.

Everything seems a bit less urgent now; we'll wake up next to one another tomorrow and our next dinner won't be the last we share for the season. It was exciting and novel and overwhelming to feel that way last year. But the first morning he was gone, or the next dinner I ate alone, was crushing. It was a cloud that settled over me for days on end, a fog I couldn't emerge from for what seemed like ages.

So I may miss the feeling of greeting Jeremy at the arrivals gate or being held by him for the first time in months, but I love having a hand to hold and a listening ear (almost) any time I want it. We can't go back, but I'm perfectly happy with where we're at.

Five Alive

Day five and things are starting to make a little more sense. I'm starting to get vague notions about what streets lead where and how to get home, albeit circuitously, without inadvertently getting on the highway.

I've been working out at the downtown YMCA for the past 3 days after getting a week's free pass on Wednesday. It's not nearly as nice as the Charlottesville Gold's in terms of cleanliness and age of the machines, but they do have free towels and a heck of a lot more space than any gym I've ever seen so despite the fact that you have to pay for parking I think I will sign up.

If Jesus really loved me I'd get the job I applied for today that's located less than two blocks from the gym and less than a mile and a half from the house. How much would Jeremy hate me then? I don't want to get too excited since it's a bit dream job-ish and thus no easy feat to obtain I suspect, but I don't think I'll be the least qualified person that applies and if I got an interview I would feel damn fine about myself. Of course this is what I've said about every job I've applied for so far and well, still haven't tailored that suit yet in preparation for any big days.

In addition to the dream job, I managed to find the office of another organization I would be more than excited to work for. This required highway driving alas, but I managed well I think until, whoops, said organization just so happens to be housed in some ginormous stadium which I only at long last located an open entrance for. En route to the stadium, coincidentally I realized I had left the house without my phone and my wallet so when I reached the gates for the pay lot, I turned around. I plan on heading to a job fair at the same spot later this week so I hope I can sneak around and drop off my resume then.

Tomorrow's my birthday, for which Jeremy apparently has exciting plans, and tonight we're headed out to dinner and then to see the CD release party of a band he likes. Not that I don't have high hopes for this evening but it'll be hard to top last night's trip to the West Alabama Ice House, a largely outdoor bar with tons of picnic bench seating, live music, cheap beer, and free(!) horseshoes. What are the odds? The minute I think I'm sad about leaving Charlottesville and my backyard horseshoes, I find this. Now all I need is a cool job I like to round out the picture.

First Impressions

I successfully left the house today. It's the first time in a while where I can count something so mundane towards the day's overall productivity, but it's also the first time in a while when I've been completely surrounded by the unfamiliar. Sure I'd visited Texas a handful of times while Jeremy was living here and I was still in VA, but I still had no idea how to get to the highway on my own, and the Home Depot I visited still seemed somehow otherworldly, despite my knowing that the store and it's customers were absolutely comparable to those of my local hardware shop.

Frankly I didn't feel as though I had any reservations at all about this move in the weeks preceding it. I knew reality would hit eventually and the hesitations and doubt that are never far from reach would return, I just wasn't sure when. By all accounts they were right on schedule, I was cranky leaving Charlottesville and just felt something was somehow "off" for the entirety of the drive down. Which is not to say the drive down wasn't good.

We left Charlottesville on Friday afternoon, after a lunch that ran long and a rude-ish last interaction with my mother. By the time arrived in Knoxville that night we were exhausted and had only enough energy for a quick run to Kroger and some lazing about in the (newly redesigned!) Red Roof Inn. Saturday we got to explore Knoxville a bit which was utterly charming, or at least the parts we saw were. There was some kind of children's festival ongoing and the streets in that area were swarmed with color-coded kids, but the downtown area was much more laid back and reminded us both of Charlottesville's downtown mall. After an awesome lunch at the veggie-friendly Tomato Head, we were off to Atlanta.

Things got off to a bit of an awkward start in Georgia largely because Jeremy's brother and more so his sister-in-law are a bit, well, awkward. We hadn't come with any plans, kinda expecting the locals to show us around, so there was a bit of "well what do you want to do?" and "I don't know, what do you want to do?" before we finally decided to head to the nearby farmer's market to pick up some dinner. Wise choice I must say, as this was definitely one of the top five best grocery stores I've ever visited with insanely low prices and a huge selection of fresh fruits and veggies, spices, baked goods, fish, meat, cheese, and kitchen sinks. We settled on some snapper and corn which we later grilled and enjoyed immensely along with some fantastic margaritas.

Feeling a bit low on energy, we decided to catch Shrek 3 for the evening's activity and wow, if that movie didn't put me to sleep. Shrek 1 was funny, this was just tired (like me!). The next morning more than made up for that hiccup, however, as we enjoyed fabulous, enormous breakfasts at The Crescent Moon. Our hosts had urged us to get there early and they were right as our own wait was only five minutes and by the time we left the line stretched down the block. To walk off some of the calories we decided to browse around the Decatur Arts Festival that happened to be taking place up the street. It was like every other arts festival you've been to, which is to say, lovely, full of overpriced crap along with some treasures, and overall just a great way to pass time.

We left Atlanta for New Orleans around 1 and arrived in the Big Easy around 8. I know I didn't see much of the city's damage at all but it was striking to witness what I did see. This long after the storm there are still so many basic things wrong and missing. We checked in to our lovely hotel, the Queen & Crescent, and left almost immediately to explore Bourbon Street. Our first stop on the way was the Moteleone Hotel, where I originally wanted to stay based solely on their rotating carousel bar. Good choice on the cheaper (nicer?) hotel and visiting the Moteleone bar. It rotated once every 15 minutes and despite having had only one drink prior to arriving I could already tell it would be a bad bad thing to be sitting at that bar after more than a couple.

After a lovely cocktail there we set out for Bourbon Street which was a bit, you might say, much? for me. I mean I'm glad I went, it was something to experience, just like Daytona Beach Spring Break was, and similarly trashy, overpriced and loud. We didn't manage to find any bars that struck our fancy but we did managed to get drunk nonetheless what with the mixed drink stands that line the street and the fact that you can grab a beer at a convenience store and walk around with it no problem. At one point we settled in to a traditional New Orleans bar to hear some great jazz and get a drink. It was crowded and costly but the band was swinging and I couldn't help but feel, however entitled this might seem, that we were doing something good for the city by getting drunk there.

Monday morning we both woke up ravenous after never really getting dinner the night before and then drinking the whole evening. On our way out of town we stopped at a Greek hole in the wall to get some greasy eggs, falafel, fries, bread pudding, and beignets. Yes all of that. We ate all that. And didn't eat much more until we arrive here in Houston.

I’m surprised at how good I’m feeling so far, not homesick or sad at all, but I also have way to many things to think about and get excited for and look forward to to waste time worrying. I can see how that might come though. Jeremy works insane hours and without a job, or friends, or familiarity with the city to occupy my time with, this staying home thing might get old fast.

But it hasn’t yet. It’s hot and it’s sticky, it’s sprawling and gritty, but it’s got Jeremy, and it’s got my future and now it is my home.