Pa

Happy Father's Day out there. I don't like to brag, but my Dad is kind of the best. This guy...

Dad and me at Benihana last Father's Day with the Kerley's and Clyde.

Thanks, Dad, for being the best pa a girl could ask for. No thanks to you, I will never find any man to fulfill the understanding I have of what a man should be.

Appreciate it.

Fitting In

Last night, on the patio of Donald's Depot, I found myself, after downing a fruity yet delicious shot, needing to spit... and so I did. But I did it in the most courteous and polite way (or as polite as a woman can be when she is spitting off a balcony). And granted, even though I was surrounded by some of my closest man-friends and none of them seemed to notice the discrepancy, I suddenly became embarrassed and felt the need to apologize or excuse myself or something ridiculous such as that. What is happening to me, I thought. Is Austin doing this to me? Or am I growing up or something? Since living in the thriving metropolitan that is Austin, I have found myself on more than one occasion, feeling out of place or awkward in a situation where in my hometown, I would not. To name a few:

Spitting. I used to mow my dad's lawn at the Taxidermy Shop and secretly chew his stash of Red Man Chaw. Disgusting? Yes. But as a young girl, it was thrilling to be able to spit like a grown man. It also gave me a terrible headache under the boiling Texas sun, but I only kept it in long enough to be able to spit far and feel cool. Sick.

Knowing How to Gut a Deer: In Smalltown, USA, this sort of knowledge is commonplace. My dad raised my sisters and I outside; hunting, fishing, and learning all the things that go along with that, ie: If you're going to kill a feral hog, you need to cut his neck so the buzzards can clean him up. These things are also topics of interest at local places of gossip in Hometown, Texas (again, the Taxidermy Shop), and if I wanted to contribute to a conversation dealing with gut shots and brow tines with Keith Allen, there would be no harm. God forbid I share this information with a bar patron in Austin for fear of being labeled a redneck. By the way, I don't remember the last time I worked in a field picking up rocks and ploughing and acquired a "red neck," so please stop calling me that.

Talking "Country": Crap. This does me in every time. And I think more so when I am bartending I throw in a twang; people get such a kick out of an accent. But then again, when I start getting a little too comfortable with my friends, like on the river, I start saying old grandma phrases like "Come a cloud!" and calling mud puddles "lob-lollies."

Cleo: Uh, oh. Brynnan's getting country.

I try to fit in, but then I go home and my father asks me what's the matter with my accent, and why I'm "talking up." You can't take me anywhere! I don't want to change who I am, and I honestly make no attempt to try; and everyone knows it's hard to adapt to another culture or society. Everyone suffers from misplacement, right? People in Austin label me as a Rebulican (how did that happen?) and people in Hometown ask me if I'm gay and/or a hippie. What the hell!? I don't think people in the country even know what a hippie is. For that matter, I don't think Austinites really know what a Republican is.

Oh, if they only knew.

Here's me, trying to pretend I fit in here:

And here's what's really going on...

Cat fishing at the Leon.

Shooting guns with Hey-Hey. Me, blue dress. Alyssa on lap.

Alyssa and Cousin Jamie. Learning at an early age.

Bringing Bella up in the same fashion. In the deer cooler at the Processing Plant.

Oh, to be a chameleon!

Fact, Fiction or Just Plain Crap

Just a little FYI, when a writer is given a pen and paper, or in this case, a MacBook and a keyboard, it is then in her hands to do whatever she wishes with said keyboard. As in, I can make up shit all day long if I want to and you, the reader, would not know the difference. That's not to say I lie, it's called creative freedom. So I embellish when necessary. But I'm not necessarily going to denote every time I embellish; why should I? It's my blog and I can make up crap if I want to.

Figure it out.

And lie down, you're going to hurt yourself.

When Texts Go Wrong

As much as I despise the world of growing technology, it's a part of our society and I have to acclimate myself to it. Try as I may to avoid the crazy noises coming from my phone at all times of the day, it's nice to open the phone and find that someone out there wants to communicate with me. So, response is necessary. As long as it's not during dinner with a friend. Please stop that, people.

But texting (someone told me this wasn't a word the other day, but I don't see why not if "blogging" is part of our language now, too) while fun, can get confusing sometimes. First off, there are some texters (again, actual word?) who refuse to punctuate properly, leaving the reader wondering whether or not the text was meant as a statement or a question, an excited exclamation or a cry for help:

hey girl need a break

What?! What does she mean!? Is she asking me if I need a break? Maybe she wants to do Happy Hour? Does she need a break? Like from life? Response:

Calling you soon. No brash decisions until I hear from you.

Then there are your friends who, while they punctuate correctly, refuse to use common terms and make up their own jargon, causing a panic on your part.

Say girl, kickin it til you's ready for some pool time. Lemme know tha deal, yo. Peace!

Oh no. Does he want me to comply with this typing method? Maybe he thinks he's gangster. Should I placate him or stick to my guns? Response:

Say hey there, guy. Going to call some bros and let you know laterz. I guess. Bye.

Or how about text flirting? That's always chancy stuff. Cute guy I've been talking to:

We can do a two-man tube on the river. I'll paddle while you look good.

Response:

You may be doing all the paddling, but you're still number one in my book.

No response twelve hours later. What happened? Did I misinterpret something? Was I watching TV when I wrote back? Crap. He thinks I'm an idiot. He's on the river right now with some beautiful woman who knows how to write a good text and he's wondering what the hell I was talking about.

Then of course, you can't see a person's face or expressions when you're texting, so you don't know when the texter is mad or glad or happy or sad. Especially sans question marks. A question mark makes all the difference in a properly put-together text message.

Why would you do that to me. Who do you think you are, MC Hammer.

Crap, I don't know if my Halloween costume pissed off this girl or what. Maybe she adores MC Hammer more than I knew. Maybe she wanted to be MC Hammer and I stole her idea. Maybe she is kidding and loved my costume. Crap, crap, crap. Response:

Do you want to meet me at the bar later?

The Rivah

Went to the river this weekend. Duh. Today, I'm still sore and exhausted and promising myself that I am getting too old for this shit, but I continue to head South once a week for the adventure that is the river.

Or more affectionately, the rivah. This particular weekend I chose to behave like one of those rookies who have never been on the river a day in their lives. And I have been to the river. A time or two. And I know a thing or two; like don't behave like you've never been on the river before. Your friends will not point and laugh, they will only hang their heads in disgust and embarrassment. So don't be "that girl." And this is coming from "that girl this weekend."

Reagan: "You're acting like an amateur."

Sorry, people-o-the-river.

Sorry for calling you all at 8:30 AM, Jimmy, for chewing you out and saying that you didn't know anything about anything, and that I didn't care if your ass was at the river or not. I do care.

And sorry, innocent bystander, when I asked you for a beer and you said you didn't have one, but I stuck my hand in your cooler anyway, only to bring out a nice, refreshing, full can of Miller Lite, and then called you a liar in front of your friends.

And finally, sorry to the waitress at Los Cucos? who brought me a margarita even though it was against both of our better judgement.

So as river season has fully kicked off after this Memorial Day Weekend, the jokes from my family come in at a steady stream.

Alyssa: "Oh, did you detach your ass from a tube long enough to come see us?"

Dad: "If you put as much effort into your future as you did that river..."

And so forth.

And here's some more material for the fam: I'm getting a season pass to the river. That's right. They make those.

Here's tribute to some of my favorite and best river rats.

Amy, always down for river. Even if its in the middle of the week. "COOL."

Reagan drove from Corpus at 7:30 and Julie from Houston at 8. Thanks, friends.

B-Russ at his birthday last year, suspenders reminiscent of Don himself.

And me, happy as a clam.