Kathy Lynn Harris's Blog, page 12

Two Things I Miss Most About South Texas in the Spring

My book tour in Texas is coming up the week of March 26 (see details on the events here), and I'm so looking forward to not only the book events themselves, but just being in Texas in the spring.

This time of year is actually when I miss home the most. Where I'm at (high in the Colorado mountains west of Denver), we're still very much in winter mode. March and April are our two snowiest months of the year. The huge blizzard of 2003 when we got 9 feet of snow — not a typo, that's 9 feet — occurred in March. We just had windchills that were near 20 below in the past week. Our doors were frozen shut.

So, the thought of being in that warm, albeit humid, Texas air is exciting right now. I'm bringing my flip-flops, y'all! (I don't think my mother will let me wear them to the book signings, though. And I'm pretty sure my ankle surgeon would not approve.)

Two more things I miss about home this time of year?

Spring in Texas. Photo credit: flickr.com/photos/bobrosenberg CC license 2.0

First, the wildflowers. The fields of bluebonnets that look like a sea of blue. The red paintbrushes (we always called them Indian Blankets). The pink buttercups. The list goes on. There's nothing quite like a drive down a rural Texas highway in March and seeing the beautiful colors lining the roadways and dotting the pastures along the way. Our wildflower season at 10,500 feet above sea level is in late June and early July, so this trip in two weeks is going to be a real treat.

Secondly, and most importantly, I miss my mom's lemon icebox pie. She always makes a double recipe for Easter Sunday. (Well, because we love it so much, she's now starting making it at Christmas, Thanksgiving or anytime my son will be around! Spoiled kid.) I've tried making it up here a dozen times and it never tastes as good as hers. She uses the organic lemons that she and my dad grow there in Gonzales, Texas, which probably makes all the difference in the world.

I hope she doesn't mind that I share her recipe below.

These things are seriously good. And since they are baked, I take it to mean I can eat the whole bag.

In other very exciting news, Blue Straggler is now on an Amazon.com bestseller list!  It hit the top 20 best sellers in ebooks/comic fiction on Friday. That meant, of course, that I celebrated all weekend. (Send vodka replenishment and those Snappea Crisp things.)

Mom's Lemon Icebox Pie

1 can sweetened condensed milk
2 packages (8 oz.) cream cheese, softened to room temperature
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice

Beat the above ingredients until smooth. Pour into a 9-inch graham cracker pie shell. Spread whipped topping (or make your own whipped cream!) over the top of the pie.

Chill in the refrigerator for at least three hours before serving.

Great Reviews and Book Tours Are Making Me Consider Spanx

Blue Straggler's official release date last week was A-MAZING. I mean, we're talking an all-out love fest! Readers were buying it, talking about it, posting reviews. (And not just my mom, either, for you cynics out there.)

The cake my husband and son brought home to celebrate launch day!

In fact, as of this writing, the novel has 38 reviews on Amazon.com and an average 5-star rating. Can I get a yeehaw? I'm just so grateful to everyone who has read the book and thought it worthy of a positive review.

I also am solidifying my book tour dates here in Colorado and back home in Texas. (There may be one in Seattle, too!) But I'm starting to get a little nervous. Why? Because I'll be the center of attention at such events, I do not like being the center of attention at such events, and basically, doing a book tour is like combining five or six high school reunions and family weddings all in one month or so of happenings. But, no pressure or anything.

This is NOT me in Spanx.

Now, I'm usually a pretty laid-back person when it comes to my appearance. I am comfortable with who I am and have found, at age 42, that I can even like myself some days. (Those are still rare days, but they do occur.) I am the kind of person who would never in a million years consider wearing shapewear (i.e., Spanx®) because I prefer to be able to breathe in and out without pain.

But still. People will be LOOKING at me. Bleh!

So I thought I would let all of those people who will be attending a book tour event, and who haven't seen me in 10 or more years, know a few things up front. I think it'll be easier on us all to just get these things out in the open prior to the event, so we can move on to drinking wine and/or coffee.

I will not be wearing Spanx, and I'm sorry for what that means for my side profile.
I have grown some additional chins, and I'm afraid they are here to stay. They have names.
The Colorado air is awesome, but very dry. This means that I will have more wrinkles than all you South/Central Texas byotches who don't even have to moisturize because the humidity stays at 90 percent.
I wear glasses now if I need to see anything in the distance, but I don't like wearing them much. So if I'm not wearing my glasses, and you wave to me from across the room, do not take it personally when I do not wave back.
For about a year now, I have been experiencing robust, random hot flashes. We're talking the kind that makes me want to strip down to my underwear and sit on a block of ice in the shade. The hot flashes are made worse by things like wine, coffee, Colorado fireplaces and Texas heat. All of which I still love and enjoy. So be warned.
My sense of fashion has not evolved since the last time you saw me and in some cases I may still be wearing the same pair of Justin boots I wore in 1998.
I used to wear makeup like a good Texas girl, but now I'm more like a Colorado hippie. That means that what you once believed was my true complexion was probably wrong.

Well, there you go. It's all out there now. I feel so much better. Do you?

Details are still being nailed down for many of my book tour dates, but I do have one that I can pass along! I'll be in Bryan-College Station, Texas (Texas A&M graduates like me call that the Mecca) on Wednesday, March 28, from 5:30 to 7 p.m. at the Downtown Uncorked wine bar in Bryan. I'll be signing and selling books and drinking large amounts of wine. Please join me and bring 100 of your closest friends!

Fly, Baby, Fly! Or, Blue Straggler Officially Released in Paperback

March 1 is finally here and my novel Blue Straggler has been officially released out into the wide, wide world in paperback.

The best indie publisher ever.

I am so thankful to 30 Day Books for taking a chance on my work and this story.

I am so thankful to all of my readers who have been encouraging me all these years (like … ummm … 10 or more).

I am so thankful to have friends who continue to pimp me out, I mean share information on my novel with everyone they know.

I am so thankful for the friends who are helping me set up signings and release parties and who have written just to say they are proud of me. I never get tired of hearing that.

I am so thankful for each and every review posted online (I'm up to 34 reviews on Amazon!)

And I am so thankful for my family who put up with this crazy dream of mine and never once told me it wouldn't happen, even though they were probably getting kind of doubtful around the time I turned 40.

Yep, I am one thankful person today.

Now, I guess it's time to sit back and see how my literary baby does out there in the broader universe.

Until the verdict is in, I say with fervor, "Cool Whip for all!"

(If you don't get that reference, by the way, you'll just have to read the book!)

Sheplers Shopping, Texas Dancehalls and the Price of Home

Not many places in Colorado remind me of home so resolutely as — believe it or not — Sheplers Western Wear.

Sheplers is really the only game in town (Denver) when it comes to true western wear — you know, the kinds of clothes you'd wear to the rodeo (or to rodeo, when used as a verb).

Yesterday, I visited not one but two Sheplers stores, looking for the perfect pair of jeans in my size and length. Didn't find them, darnit.

But I can't say that I didn't enjoy my time in those stores. Unlike when I shop for typical clothes for work or play, at places like Dillard's or Macy's or Kohl's, I find myself feeling quite happy at Sheplers.

After all, I like the people shopping alongside me. For instance, there was a mom-daughter duo, who had just drove down from Wyoming. Sheplers was a destination for them, and they were having a good time hitting the sale racks. Watching them made me miss my mom terribly. There was also a father in the store with his elementary-school-age daughter; he was wearing Wranglers and she was, too, along with some mighty fine pink

Kickin' red boots. Maybe I should have bought them.

boots. And there was an older couple, probably in their 70s, who gave me some pretty funny commentary as I tried on some awesome boots in deep red. The wife said they were too flashy; the husband thought they were fine. Unfortunately, I would've needed a loan to take those babies home with me.

I also love the country music piped through Sheplers store speakers. It's GOOD country music, too, not just radio-friendly crapola. We're talking vintage George Strait and Reba (before she was overproduced) and even Keith Whitley and Waylon. The kind of music that makes me miss the South Texas dancehalls I grew up in.

I miss Texas dancehalls like this one.

As weird as it may sound, I also happen to love the smell of Sheplers. Leather boots and belts. Stetsons being steamed in the middle of the store. Ahhhhh.

And just shopping for the jeans themselves reminded me of all those trips to D&D in Seguin, or to Cavender's in College Station when I attended Texas A&M and was, shall we say, very into cowboys and All That That Implies (bonus points for any reader who knows what movie that line comes from). I remember my sister and me trying on about a million pairs of Rocky Mountain-brand jeans back then. I had a pair in just about every color and wash of denim possible. They went well with my cowgirl-spiral-permed hair and purple roper boots. (What was I thinking??? And no, I'm not posting a pic of that hair.)

One thing, though, that has changed dramatically since those days is the price of jeans. Holy guacamole! There wasn't a pair of jeans in that store for under $50. Even my beloved Wranglers were $60! And I thought $30 back in the day was expensive. I am officially old.

Move over, Willie Nelson. There's a new kid in town.

I'll leave you tonight with a photo of my beautiful son on the stage at Gruene Hall, Texas' oldest dancehall, and an excerpt from A Good Kind of Knowing, my second novel that will be out later this year as an ebook:

As always, the hall smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer. Most people probably hated it. But Sera cherished the feel of rural Texas dance halls. She preferred arriving early to beat the crowd and the inevitable clouds of smoke. She felt the fusty smell of Saturday nights past was somehow familiar to her, even though she was certain she'd never stepped foot in a VFW hall before she came to Texas. But it all seemed comfortable. Like an old pair of jeans you throw on for a Sunday afternoon, she'd just slipped right into it, almost forgetting it hadn't always been her life. To her, a dance hall just beginning to fill with people, just beginning to get all wound up, meant possibilities. You never knew what the night might bring, what songs would be played, who would come by the table to talk, who would have too much to drink, who would start a fight, who would wind up dancing a little too close to someone they shouldn't, and who would leave with someone new. For better or for worse, an empty dance hall practically shouted anticipation.

Colorado vs. Texas: Dog Lovers Unite

One thing I've found that Texans and Coloradoans have in common is dogs. Everyone I know in Texas has at least one dog and usually more (allergy-permitting). Most of my friends here in Colorado have dogs, too. It's probably a Western thing altogether. But Colorado just might have Texas beat when it comes to dog-friendliness.

Here, people hike with their dogs, bike with their dogs, fish with their dogs, snow-shoe with their dogs, canoe with their dogs, camp with their dogs, go to concerts with their dogs, attend sporting events with their dogs.

Many companies allow you to bring your dog to work (my company did until we moved to a new office building with more rules). Dogs are welcome at many outdoor cafés and bars — even some indoor ones. Dog parks are abundant (although I am still traumatized from my last visit to one). Mountain towns, in particular, are dog-friendly. Businesses have water bowls for dogs outside their doors.

In short, dogs are not left at home much here, and that's a good thing.

Our Sweet George Bailey

But there are some poor canine souls here who end up with Bad Owners. Our George Bailey (in furry-friend heaven far too soon) was one. He came to us from a rescue group with two broken legs. (If I could meet his previous owner, I'd likely be in jail soon.)

Our two golden retriever-mix hoodlums, I mean puppies, were the result of a Failure to Spay/Neuter.

Our puppies before they became hoodlums.

Today, my friend Judy sent me the picture and profile of another Colorado dog who needs a home after having Bad Owners.

She met Penelope at an adoption event, but couldn't take her home because she's highly allergic. But, like Judy, these sweet eyes called to me.

If we had just a little more room, I'd adopt her today. Of course, that would eventually end in a bitter divorce, but that's beside the point. We simply don't have any more room in our little log cabin.

Penelope needs a home. Can you help?

So, take a look. Read her profile right now! http://www.hfaccr.org/RP_AdoptMe.asp?aid=2408

And if you're a Coloradoan with space in your home and heart, prove me right — that the people of Colorado will do anything for their dogs.

Please pass along this post to others, if you can. Judy and I are on a mission.

A Land-locked Girl's Memories of the Coast

This is the resort we stayed at in Cancun. Swanky!

My husband and I just got back from a few days in Cancun. (Note to Mom: We were not attacked by, nor did we see, one armed bandito, which was a little disappointing after all the hype.) We did manage, though, to successfully escape two snowstorms and windchills below zero here on the mountain.

Overall, it was a good time that included a large quantity of unlimited, top-shelf alcohol, some fun-loving friends and hours spent catching up on some great novels on my Kindle. (By the way, ever heard of a Tequila Boom-Boom shot? I have now. If I could go back and rewrite Blue Straggler, the main character Bailey would definitely be drinking those.)

Now, let me be clear: I am not a beach girl. I do not long to surf or own a long board. My skin's typically so pale all I have to do is look at the ocean and I'm burned. I never, not once, wanted to be a mermaid. (I wanted legs, dammit!) I couldn't sail a boat to save my life. I am not one of those women who look good in a bikini, tankini or ini of any kind. Sea water stings my eyes. I don't particularly care for mold. I don't like being shark bait. The constant sound of those waves gets to me after a while. And I will never, ever look good with that whole wind-blown hair thing. If given the choice, I would much rather be standing at the top of a 12,000 ft. peak than floating in any ocean, no matter how turquoise the water.

However, every now and then, I need the sea and a break from All Things Mountain. Plus, I do enjoy sea kayaking, snorkeling, building sand castles, shell hunting and a Jimmy Buffet song or two.

Colorado, of course, offers none of that. (Jimmy B., does come to town every five years to play huge stadium concerts, though. Land-locked parrot heads, rejoice!)

This is a lovely shot of Port Aransas, courtesy of Creative Commons/Flickr.

During my childhood in South Texas, we often headed to what we simply called "the coast." Port Aransas, located on the Texas Gulf of Mexico, was only a few hours away from my  hometown, so my parents could drive us all down in our 1970s-era custom party van with the swivel seats and curtains in the back, spend the day on the beach, and drive back that evening.

I distinctly remember that every day trip to the coast involved a great deal of pre-weather anxiety for us kids: My parents would nix the trip if the forecast called for more than a 10 percent chance of rain. We'd all hover around the kitchen radio the evening before, listening to the local radio station, KCTI, for the latest.

More memory snapshots: Getting to buy a new beach towel at Kmart in Seguin every summer. Feeding large flocks of aggressive seagulls that would swoop down to take bread out of my hands. Floating on large black inner tubes (the kind we'd use to float in the Guadalupe River, too) out in the waves. Keeping constant watch for jellyfish, which were not only in the water but all along the beach. My mom looking so glamorous in her swimsuit and sunglasses. My dad drinking Pearl beerunder the blue tarp we'd put up for shade. Eating summer sausage and blocks of cheddar cheese and greasy bargain potato chips and drinking ice-cold Dr Pepper out of glass bottles from the well-stocked cooler. Being completely unaware of my body and how it might look to others, concentrating only on jumping into the big waves as they tumbled to shore. Feeling the strong undertow grab me and buckets of sand, drawing us quickly out into the surf. A sense of pseudo-panic when I'd take a momentary break from swimming and playing in the water to realize I had drifted so much that the blue tarp and the custom party van were becoming far too small in the distance. Resting on those plastic-tube folding lounge chairs with hinges that got more and more rusted each year. And of course, after we got back home, those large gobs of Noxzema cream we'd all have to apply to our beet-red, sunburned skin.

Remember these?

We may not have had perfect, white-sand beaches or round-the-clock waiters bringing us drinks called Purple Rain and Superman under the shade of coconut trees, or Elvis impersonators as the evening resort entertainment , but we did have fun back then. Too bad there won't be time for a run to Port A when I'm in Texas in March for my book signing tour.

What are your favorite beach memories? Please share below! I'd love to hear about them.

Random Texas music note: The Court Yard Hounds, wrote and recorded a tribute song to the Texas coast. Listen to it here.

Five Reasons I'll Keep My Texas Twang, Thank You Very Much

A recent article in the Austin American-Statesman by Brenda Bell, titled "Is the Texas twang history?, questions how much longer the well-known Texas accent will survive.

The article notes that more and more young Texans, in metropolitan areas especially, no longer seem to "have" it. Or if they do have it at all, they only use it strategically to fit in or distinguish themselves, sometimes subconsciously.

Well, y'all. This flat-out disappoints me. I myself love the sound of a Texas accent, as I mentioned in a previous blog post. And I love my own accent. Even in my younger years, when I was trying to make a name for myself professionally, trying to be taken seriously in places like New York and San Francisco, I never tried to hide my accent. (Which is probably a good thing as some might argue that would have involved me actually keeping my mouth shut.)

In fact, I am damn proud of my accent and thought, after reading that article, I would think about all the reasons I enjoy having it around:

1. I stand out at Colorado mountain parties. The idea that there are a ton of Texans who live in the mountains isn't true in my neck of the forest. I'm usually the only one. Which often leads me to defending my home state because it seems there have been some bad apples who try to ski the black runs after drinking a case of beer. Also, there's that whole George W. Bush thing I have to explain.

2. I don't get mistaken for any of my colleagues on conference calls with clients. When I talk, clients from afar know it's me. For better or worse. Not that some of my coworkers don't attempt my accent, some out of complete harassment I might add, but none have achieved believable status.

3. It's easier to meet other Texans. If you're at a bar having a conversation with a group of people, and another Texan is around, I don't have to wave my Texas freak flag because they already have honed in on me as one of their kind. (I should note here that I can't really remember the last time I was in a bar due to the fact that I have a crazy-busy life and a 5-year-old who is attached to me at the hip.)

4. My husband likes it. Granted, he likes it better when it's not filled with a litany of cuss words aimed at him, but still. He grew up as an Air Force brat, living all over the place, so he doesn't have an accent of any kind. Poor guy. I do pity him.

This is an armadillo.

5. I like the way people stare blankly into space when they can't understand me but are too embarrassed to ask me to repeat myself. I also like just as much the long pause, then the, "Uh. What?" I then respond by translating. Really, when you think about it, I'm like an ambassador for the armadillo state. (Side note: Speaking of armadillos, my granny crocheted me one out of pink yarn when I was a kid. True story. I still have it.)

Seriously, my accent is important to me. It's part of who I am, a marker of where I come from — of the region, the food, the weather, the land, the people. Frankly, I'm disconnected from my family and friends back home in so many other ways, there's no way I'm giving up this one.

That's why, right here and now, I vow to never use my Texas twang strategically like those young city kids of today are doing. (Except for maybe if it could get me out of jail. Or a free bottle of vodka. Or if I really needed some BBQ and fried okra and I didn't have any money and ..)

If nothing else, I'm glad to be handing down my accent to my son, who has been born and raised in Colorado. We'll see if he shares the love of twang when he's 18 and being bullied by some guy from New Jersey.

Ode to My Granny: The Queen of Green

Every now and then on this blog, I'll share something I've written previously that I think my readers might find of interest.

Today, I'm pleased to present an edited version of an essay that originally appeared in the book, Going Green: True Tales from Gleaners, Scavengers, and Dumpster Divers (edited by Laura Pritchett, University of Oklahoma Press, April 2009).

My Granny, in the early 1970s, in Texas, of course.

I thought it was fitting to post this, as it honors my grandmother, Edith Harris, and her birthday was this month. I still miss her so much. (Side note: She was known by most people in town as simply, "Pete." Her dad had wanted a boy, so he gave her that nickname in childhood and it stuck. She was a helluva tomboy, too.)

 

 

 

Every Popsicle Stick Counts

My grandmother on my father's side would have rather slept with the Devil than join forces with any kind of hippie-based, peace-love-back-to-earth movement.

Let's just say Granny was quite the tough Texas ranch woman. A 5-foot-tall force to be reckoned with. A woman who could stare down a 900-pound Brahma bull in a pen the size of her kitchen in the morning, then fix collard greens and cornbread, still wearing her rubber farm boots, in the afternoon.

She was also a woman who, unlike me, didn't spend a great deal of time worrying about the future of our country's landfills, reading the current research on greenhouse gases, or considering whether or not a Sonic Drive-In "to-go" cup was in any way biodegradable (it's not). Yet my grandmother remains the one person who taught me the most about conservation and reuse.

One of my first lessons in reuse from Granny involved a rather hot summer afternoon—and a wooden popsicle stick still wet with purple stains. I remember aiming that stick at the trash can, intent on tossing it away quickly before those evil South Texas fire ants covered it, and my hand, in their fiery red stings. That's when my grandmother promptly yanked the stick from my hand with her own calloused one, and gave me a look that would've made a preacher feel guilty.

"What?" I asked, hand on hip and with a bit more sass than I could usually get away with around my grandmother. I was feeling brave.

She didn't answer me, just faced me with a raised eyebrow and a tightly drawn mouth. I knew that face—and that face was never a particularly good sign. She proceeded to guide me not-so-gently by the elbow to the kitchen sink, where she stood behind my shoulder, forcing me to wash that one stick with green Palmolive soap until every trace of stickiness was gone. Then she took it from me, dried it with a kitchen towel and dropped it into a brown paper grocery sack that held at least 50 other sticks just like mine.

Two months later, Granny had me working alongside her in the garden, labeling new fall plants with popsicle-stick garden stakes.

Today, as I look around my little log cabin located here in the mountains of Colorado, the floor is covered with piles of things I've collected with hopes of recycling … items I'll eventually take down to Denver on a once-a-month recycling drop. The number of aluminum and steel cans alone makes me cringe. Just two weeks' worth takes up far too much space and tells me just how often we Americans use containers like these only once and then chuck them without another thought.

I doubt my grandmother ever even heard of a recycling center in her rural area. But she certainly had her own recycling program: She made sure just about everything she acquired had a second, third or forever use. (The most impressive of which, by the way, was to cut aluminum beer cans into pieces and stitch them together with crochet yarn to make funny little hats. I have pictures to prove this.)

I remember Granny would buy those generic-brand 2-liter bottles of soda to have on hand for us kids. Inevitably we'd find those empty plastic bottles all over her house and yard, used in a multitude of creative manners—cut in half and used to protect young plants in her garden, made into a weird kind of shower caddy for the bathroom, or sitting beside her favorite chair in the living room, keeping her crochet yarn from tangling as she worked on her next project.

Where there wasn't plastic being reused, there was glass. Used bottles and jars of all kinds lined the garage utility shelves—themselves old 2 x 4 slats of wood from some torn-down shed. The jars were stacked neatly and arranged by size, to later use as flower vases and incubators for cuttings of ivy and other plants. Or as containers to hold nails. And those little round margarine containers? They soon became "I Can't Believe It's Not Tupperware" in her refrigerator, their contents labeled over and over again in black marker.

When clothes didn't fit anymore or were so worn they had holes in them, she'd remove the buttons or snaps and cut the fabric into cleaning rags and dish towels.

We often ate lunch with Granny after working cattle, and it was usually a quick sandwich on white bread. Even then we all understood to save those plastic bread bags and the plastic-covered wire bread ties. To this day, I'm not sure how she used those wire bread ties, but there must have been hundreds tucked around the house.

My grandmother has been gone for several years now. But her beliefs in gleaning all we can from all we encounter are alive and well, if only in my own attempts to salvage and recycle even the smallest of items. I wash and reuse pieces of foil and those pint-sized plastic food storage bags. I have far more than my share of sour cream containers stacked in my kitchen cabinets. I drive my husband crazy storing junk-mail paper that I use as notepads. I even save those little wire bread ties, though I still don't know why and have yet to actually reuse one.

I'm well aware, of course, that my grandmother didn't take on her philosophy of frugality and reuse because of any high-falutin' idea of saving the earth for future generations. She learned that way of life from her parents and grandparents, from years of finding it difficult to put money in the bank, and from the only lifestyle she ever knew—farming and ranching.

But I also believe that somewhere beneath my grandmother's no-nonsense side, there was a soft and unspoken, perhaps even whimsical, respect that guided her choices — a respect for not only the land and its role in her daily life, but also for the people who provided and packaged the items she couldn't grow or make herself. Because she made so much by hand, and labored long hours to manage and generate livestock and produce, she understood that every item, every person, every blade of grass, every drop of rain, had value. And it was only right to honor that.

In short, you don't throw away a perfectly good popsicle stick just because the icy grape treat is gone.

Copyright (c) 2009 Kathy Lynn Harris

Love/Hate Relationship with Texas Tornados … and Exciting Book News

Yesterday was a crazy, roller-coaster kind of day, full of ups and downs.

First, I got word that my sister's home in Central Texas was side-swiped by a tornado as they were all getting up and ready for school and work. Everyone is okay, thank goodness. The house, not so much. But insurance is a good thing. And my nieces will have a great story to tell for the rest of their lives about the January morning the sky turned green-black and they spent some scary moments praying while crouched in a hallway closet.

Personally, I've always wanted to be a storm chaser (seriously) because tornadoes intrigue me like no other weather event. I'm addicted to Texas Storm Chasers on Facebook and I love The Weather Channel and Storm Stories. In fact, I have very few regrets in my life at this point, but if I had to name one, it would be that I did not pursue storm-chasing back when I didn't have a kiddo relying on me for, oh I don't know, daily needs and such. Now, we live so high in the mountains and so close to the Continental Divide that a tornado up here would be a hugely rare event. As in I think there's only been one reported in a million years (don't quote me on that). We do have our own bizarre weather events, but let's face it, chasing blizzards isn't nearly as exciting as chasing a massive, cat 4 funnel cloud.

Back to reality: I spent the remainder of the day out shopping. Lots of ups and downs here, too.

Up: Upgraded to a Kindle Fire and am in love. Tip: Target has a better warranty, but Best Buy has better Kindle cases.

Down: Again saw that indie authors are so not well-represented on the shelves of Barnes and Noble. (I had a gift card to use.) Very disappointing. I had a list of about five indie books that I wanted to get my hands on, but they had none of them in stock.

Up: Treated myself to Starbucks coffee with … wait for it … real whipped cream in large amounts.

Down: Tried on swimsuits for an upcoming trip to Mexico. Sometime I would really like to sit down and have a discussion with a swimsuit designer or two just to figure out what in the hell they were thinking. Potential question: Did you really think that a very large polka dot design would look good on anyone, especially grown women with, errr, curves? (I refuse, however, to regret the whipped cream noted above.)

Then, a Big, Huge Up: Got home and found that the galley proof of Blue Straggler had arrived in the mail from my publisher! It looks fantastic, as you can clearly see from this photo of a cute mystery kid displaying it for the camera.

I then proceeded to stay up til 2 am proofing the book because I couldn't wait.

Exciting times. The official release date is now March 1, and I have so much to do to prepare. It's a good thing that I have so many wonderful friends and family to keep me sane.

Stay tuned for more information on a book release party or two in Texas and book signings/readings in Colorado.

Random Texas music note: If you've never listened to the San Antonio-based band, the Texas Tornados, give them a try. Good stuff.

Things You May Not Know About Texas Men (and Turkeys)

This week for a work project, I had to conduct a phone interview with a gentleman I knew very little about, except that he had some insight into the project that I needed. But within a few minutes of our conversation, I knew without a doubt that he had a heaping portion of Texan in him. (Which, for me, is always a comfort, like sipping Jack and Coke and wrapping myself in a quilt that's been passed down through the years.)

Some might think it was the guy's accent that tipped me off, and I'll admit I'm still a sucker for a long drawl. But that was only a small part of it. Texas men, in my experience, have certain traits that other men don't have. (I know it's always dangerous to generalize, but bear with me here. I like danger.)

1. Texas men begin most conversations with strangers by injecting a sense of humor. Maybe it's something about the weather. Or traffic. Something general enough not to offend but common enough that you get the joke in it, no matter who you are. And before you know it, you've chuckled with each other, and things just seem easier now. It's brilliant, really.

Ironically, I think it's a coping mechanism. Texas men don't typically trust complete strangers right off the bat, so easing into a conversation with humor sugar-coats that mistrust a bit and gives them time to size up the situation. Like I said, brilliant.

2. Texas men respect women. Now, I'm not saying that chauvinism doesn't run rampant in the Lone Star State, because it certainly can and does in many circles. (I always had a love/hate relationship with that whole "let me help you with that, little lady" philosophy. On one hand, I can handle just about anything on my own and don't need a man's help. On the other hand, let's face it. I really don't mind if a man in a Stetson and Wranglers offers to fix my flat tire or pump my gas. And yes, I'm aware that not all Texas men dress like cowboys, but you have to admit the image is a nice one…)

But my professional experience, at least, has been that Texas men have a deep-seeded understanding that women are just as smart as they are. Back when I worked at Texas A&M University for many years, which was pretty darn male-dominated, I always felt that my male counterparts valued my opinions and typically began our relationship from a point of mutual respect. I didn't have to work hard upfront to earn it—likely because many strong and intelligent Texas women before me had paved a nice, smooth path. (Thank you, Mom, Mammaw, Granny, Mary Nan West, Ann Richards, Molly Ivins …)

In contrast, after having spent 11 years now in Colorado, I've found that I have to prove myself for many months before most of the professional men I've worked with will begin to truly respect me and seek out my opinion. And this is not a dig on Colorado-grown men, because as everyone here knows, there are only about 10 Colorado natives in the whole state.

So, there you go. That's my take on Texas men. Maybe it'll stir up some real controversy and my blog will become famous overnight. *Crossing fingers.*

Now, I'll leave you with a little humor myself.

Check out this photo (taken by Kelsey Blair) of my friend Briana Wenholz being chased by a seriously annoyed turkey. She (Briana, not the turkey) was visiting a friend in North Texas, in a seemingly benign, friendly, little suburban neighborhood. And then … she learned a valuable lesson. Turkeys mean business in Texas. And you never know when you might encounter one … Aunt Betty's farm? Yep. Future Farmers of America petting zoo? Sure. Gated neighborhood where Rich Uncle Ted lives? Of course.

I'm telling you. Texas men may be cool, but Texas turkeys will take you down.