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!