Traffic was horrendous today.  It took me an hour and a half to get to work.  It should take about thirty minutes.

To add insult to injury, I didn't have any coffee.  I had water, because I foolishly thought I'd "had enough coffee."  However, I had not had enough coffee for a 90 minute commute.

I stopped at one of my favorite local coffee shops, Thunderbird Coffee.  They're really cool there.  And they know it, but not in that annoying way.

Vintage light fixtures, mismatched chairs, good coffee...
You get the idea.

I was chatting with the baristas when a man came in, very sweaty from what I believe to be a recent run, to get his coffee.  He was clearly a regular and clearly very invigorated by his recent exercise.  He was chatty.

As I said something to the guy making my latte, he turned to me directly and said:

"Are you a hipster?"

Not even intentionally, this image is from an online article about AUSTIN HIPSTERS.  Sigh.

Oh, Lord.

It didn't take me long to answer, but time did slow down a little bit as I stood there and had an existential life crisis.  

Clearly, I am not a hipster.  I am a 37 year old lawyer who's in the Junior League.  Seriously, people.  

On the other hand, I like to thrift and find new music and eat weird things and generally keep it real.  And we compost.  So, you know, not all hope is lost.  AND, I have Warby Parkers.  Phew.  A sliver of redemption.

But, yeah, no.  I'm not.  My days of smoking Gauloises and wearing Doc Martens are over.  I don't even live in South Austin anymore.  And I am not going to tattoo a bird or an arrow on any part of my body.

And so, when time sped back up after I'd candidly assessed my life in order to respond to Ye Olde Sweaty Chatty Man, I simply said this:

"No.  I used to be one.  But now I live in Steiner Ranch, so I can't be one anymore."

He smiled.  The baristas groaned and chuckled.  The legit hipsters agreed with me.  I was an acceptable, honest and humorous, non-hipster.

(Note:  For non-Austinites, Steiner Ranch is a very tony suburb of Austin that I like to refer to as "gracious lakeside living."  Side note:  I actually love living there.)

So, there's that.

Hope your day involves some refreshing self-assessment.

Talk soon,

Heather

the one with popcorn

We took Jack to his first movie in the theater recently.

Of the three of us, I was by far the most excited.  You would think we were going to, like, a queso festival or a party thrown by Oprah.  I was giddy.

Durel was, as he tends to be, a bit more pragmatic about it.  The movie of choice, Planes, wasn't getting great reviews.  The attendee of honor, Jack, isn't always known for his patience or ability to sit still and be quiet when it's required.  

Still, it was exciting.  

Tickets were purchased.  Photos were taken.  Jack's outfit represented an amalgamation of transportation:  monster truck tee; planes on his shorts, Star Wars moving thingees on his shoes.  And, Francesco Bernoulli in his hand.  

(Come to think of it, Jack may be the Roger Ebert of the family.  He knew that Planes would be so formulaic and modeled after Cars that he just went ahead and brought some Cars propaganda.  You know, since we haven't been to Target to buy the Planes propaganda yet.)

So, how was the movie?  

Um, I liked it.  Dane Cook voices the main character, Dusty Crophopper, who is a crop dusting plane who dreams of being a racer.  (Not really a) Spoiler alert:  He overcomes his fears, is a good guy, and wins the race.  

Durel thought it was a smidge hard to sit through.  Fair enough.  (If Sean Payton had voiced the "coach plane," I bet he would be singing a different tune.  Just saying.)

Jack thought the popcorn was delicious.

Waiting.  For.  Popcorn.

We went to one of those awesome theaters with reclining seats and a full menu.  Jack insisted that he just wanted popcorn.  So, we got him popcorn.

In reality, we got him a bowl of popcorn approximately three times the size of his head.  Gallons of popcorn. A huge mixing bowl of buttery, popcorny goodness.  He dove in.  We almost had to grab him by his ankles to make sure he came out in one piece.  

And he told everyone for the rest of the weekend that he loved going to the movie theater because he liked eating popcorn.

Hope you have a relative victory today.  With butter, maybe.

Talk soon,
Heather

super duper flashback

That's all.

Hope you admire a hairline today.

Talk soon,
Heather

the one where I pick a fight with my to-do list

Every weekend, I make a to do list.

It always includes the basics of a Type A working mom's life:  laundry, cleaning, planning the menu for the week, grocery store.  It usually includes some aspirational me time:  yoga?; pedicure? (These are always accompanied by a question mark because I know, deep down, they are unlikely.)  And it usually includes like a dozen other things that I can't recall but seem very important to me at the time the Type A-ness washes over me and the list-making begins.

In other words, it's always far too long.  

Never mind that from Monday through Friday, I have no less than 10 separate to do lists with multiple tasks in them blinking at me from the wonderful (pun) app that is Wunderlist.  Never mind that.

No, my weekend lists are different.  They're old school -- on paper, in pen.  They sit on the kitchen counter all weekend as I go back and forth past them in my rush hours of doing.  They make me happy when I cross items off, but then, somewhere around lunchtime on Sunday, they start making me sad.  Because they are un-doable.  Un-finishable.

I've been this way for a long time.  Over-planner.  Poor manager of my own time.  Exceedingly ambitious. List-maker extraordinaire.

In fact, once, in a law school class that shall not be named, I wrote and wrote through the entire class with a determined and thoughtful look on my face.  (For most of law school, I was a dinosaur and hand-wrote my notes and exams rather than using a laptop.)  

One of my classmates asked me after, "How on earth did you pay attention and take all those notes?  That was SO BORING!"

I blithely responded with the truth.   "I wasn't paying attention.  I was making to do lists for every area of my life."

He roared with laughter (and relief, because law school is nothing if not competitive) and walked off.

The Interwebz are awash with articles about unplugging.  Don't look at your phone all weekend, they say.  Be present in the moments, they say.  Don't clean so much, they say.

And for the most part, they are totally right.  (I'll ignore the obvious paradox of using the Internet or even Facebook medium to communicate this to an audience of clicking multi-taskers.)

I still do need to clean a little this weekend, because if I don't, the dog hair will adversely possess my house.  And I do need to buy groceries.  A pedicure would be nice, but you know what else would be nice?  A trip to Starbucks with Jack, where he eats a scone and we talk about what he wants to be for Halloween.  A nap when Jack naps.  (What?!  I know; crazy talk.)  A run before it's 104, while the guys are still sleeping.  All of those things would be fantastic.

So, you know, I think that's my to do list for this weekend.  It can't go any worse than the ones I usually make.  And regardless of how much I finish, it won't make me sad.  Which is pretty cool.

Hope you reevaluate your list today.

Talk soon,

Heather

dreaming

One of my most sincere goals for parenthood is to encourage Jack to dream.  I want him to know that the world is wide open to him.  I want him to know that he can create art, create change, create joy, create adventure.  And that to create, you need to dream.

Admittedly, this is a lofty goal when I'm still wiping his bottom, but parenting is a marathon, not a sprint, people.

Anyway, one of my favorite Irishmen summed this up pretty well, I think.

Yes, I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can find his way by moonlight, and see the dawn before the rest of the world.  - Oscar Wilde

Hope you dream big today.  And wipe your own bottom.

Talk soon,
Heather

the one where I'm a sucker

To be honest, I always thought that when Durel and I became parents, I would be the "bad cop."  

Sure, I knew that I would be really good at kissing boo-boos and cuddling and stuff.  But I always thought that he would be a softie, sort of, about things while I was the stalwart Keeper of the Rules.

Hey, guess what?  I was so wrong.

Jack is a good sleeper.  He always has been.  In the past few months, he's also become quite the negotiator at bedtime.  I know this, I do.  I see it for what it is:  a stall tactic.

It usually goes something like this:

Me:    OK, Jack, time for bath and bed.

Jack:  I'm HUNGRY!

Me:    You had dinner at dinner time.  Now it's bedtime.  Let's go.

Jack:   I'm FIRSTY!

Me:    You can have some water after bath.  Come on.

Jack:   I want TEN! MORE! MINUTES!

Me:    Nope.  

(Yes, this exchange is thoughtfully placed to save face for what I am about to say, but seriously, it's accurate.)

Jack is also a good eater.  And I'm not just saying that so I can brag that he eats seaweed salad.  The kid can throw down some food.  And he's growing.  He's getting taller every ten seconds.  I have no idea what size pants he'll be wearing once the cool weather comes.  I'm pretty sure he's skinny like a 2T but that those will wear like capri pants.  I'm waiting until it cools off to buy anything at all, as a result.

So, last night...he had a cheeseburger, a few green beans, and some Pirate Booty for dinner.  He demolished it and said he was done.  OK, I thought.  Fair enough.  He chugged some water.  Great.

Bath time came and went without incident.  Story time came, and he chose to read one of his current favorite books about fruit.  The book talks about where kinds of fruit grow, if they grow in bunches or alone, etc.  He pretty much has it memorized.  

(Side note:  When he shouts out that peaches are FUZZY, I have a flashback to Shag: The Movie, which is a total non sequitur and only a handful of people will get.  Megan and Mandy, I'm looking at you.)

Yeah, so.  While reading the fruit book last night, Jack looked up at me and said plaintively, "Momma, I'm hungry."

Listen.  Durel and I are not allowed to watch Top Chef or Iron Chef after dinner.  BECAUSE IT MAKES US HUNGRY.  It was not that far afield to think that Jack's fruit book had made him hungry.  And after he demolished his dinner, I thought -- you know what?  I believe him!  

To take a three year old out of their bedroom once bath is finished and you're nanoseconds from getting into bed is a BIG DEAL.  You're challenging the very tenuous bedtime rules that you've instilled for said three year old, a master negotiator and button pusher. 

I committed to believing him.  We went downstairs.  Durel gave me a mild side-eye but went along with it and made Jack a turkey sandwich.  The three of us sat down at the dinner table for dinner.

Yeah, he totally wasn't hungry. 

He did want to sit at the dinner table with us.  He did want  me to light the candles.  He did want to blow them out.  He did want to hang out with us (kind of).

He wanted to stay up later.  And Momma bought it.  Hook, line, and sinker.

Anyway, that's that.  

Hope you outsmart someone devious today.

Talk soon.

Heather

hot, hotter, hottest

I moved to Austin in the middle of summer, 2001.  Jenny and I had just finished a glorious cross-country trip, where we argued some but mostly impressed people with how well we were getting along.  (A story for another time, certainly.  Three weeks.  San Francisco to DC.  Southern route.  We drove a pickup truck that we nicknamed Patsy Cline.)

Cross-country trip aside, I was relocating to Austin from San Francisco, where I had been a happy yuppie for several years.  Strike that:  I had been a happy, chilly, yuppie.  San Francisco is gorgeous -- alternately windy and foggy or crisp and sunny.   But it's never hot.

People who live in San Francisco can always spot a tourist.  They're wearing shorts and sneakers (all the walking!) ... and bright new fleeces that they bought in Fisherman's Wharf with the Golden Gate Bridge on them.  Because it's hard to understand how cold you will be when the fog rolls in over Nob Hill.

Anyway, I got to Austin and it was 102.  I was impressed with myself for existing in such brutal heat.  I was taking a hiatus from being a working professional, so I didn't have to wear a suit.  My apartment complex had a swimming pool, so I didn't have to slog through my days without swimming.  I thought to myself, "How do people do this??"

Then, it was 104.  I thought, to myself, in all seriousness:  "Surely, people don't have to go to work when it's 104.  Don't they have, like, a heat advisory or something?"  My overheated brain was scrambling back to the only extreme weather it had ever experienced.  When there is a blizzard in the East, they cancel shit.  Surely, they will do that, right?

Nope.  People still go to work when it's 104.  Some of them wear suits, even.  Some of them work outside, even.  My eyes were opened.  And I was not just a little bit afraid.

So, fast forward (ulp) 12 years.  It's summer 2013.  It was 106 yesterday.  It is probably 106 today, too.  I go to work.  I do things.  I do not expect them to be cancelled.  I sweat.  We all sweat.  I wear flip flops all the time.  I have learned.  Dare I say it, I may have even acclimated.

Anyway, here's what 106 degrees looks like on a sunny day in Austin, Texas.  

Clear skies, cool boots, can't lose.

Hope you feel like you've acclimated to something today.

Talk soon,

Heather

just right

When I met Durel, he shared a house with two other guys.  One of them was Sean.  (The other was Okie Roy, which is an entirely other story for another day.)

Sean was dating Emily.  

Durel, Sean, Emily, and I all worked at the same restaurant.

Emily and I became friends.

Durel and I became flirtypants.

Two weddings and three children later, we're still friends.  

Sean and Emily just started Tipping T, an intimate event venue, family reunion spot, vacation rental, or where I like to gather with the girls and drink lots of wine.  It's awesome.

Earlier this summer, Durel, Jack, and I went to check it out.  Jack quickly abandoned us to hang out with Connor and Cal.  We expected this.  They ran around, got dirty, played with stuff, stopped long enough to eat (just), ran around more, watched a show, got dirtier, and then got bundled up into a serious tickle fest and monkey pile with Durel.

It was one of those summer moments where everything is just right.  

Hope you have one of those moments today.

Talk soon,

Heather

friends in texas

I am not a big fan of getting older.  (Every birthday I have, I pretend I don't care about the number, but that's really because I've spent the last 6 months "trying on" that age in my head, so by the time it rolls around, I'm almost used to it.)  (Also, I am very Type A.)

I am a big fan of realizing that you've been friends with someone for over ten years.  

I am an even bigger fan of realizing that their spouse, whom you have not met before, is like totally your best friend separated from birth.

Enter:  Kristin and Brandon.

Brandon and I went to law school together.  We were in the same section, so OBVS we're close and have stayed friends.  (Just kidding; it doesn't really work that way.  Our section was just really cool.  But, I digress.)  He married Kristin a few years ago in a stunning wedding that Durel and I could not attend because Jack was a baby and we were exhausted and broke.

They recently came to Austin for a few days.  It was super duper fun.  Super.  Duper.  Fun.

Here's some of what we experienced.

We also experienced 100+ degree temperatures, hours of awesome conversation, lots of wine, and lots of pettings, as demanded by Pablo and Lucy.

Suffice it to say, carnivorous, wine-drinking, intelligent, fun friends who you've either known for a decade or feel like you have, well, I like those.

Hope you have some laughs and some brisket today.

Talk soon,
Heather

philosophers and giraffes

I read this quote recently and just loved it:

"Nine requisites for contented living: Health enough to make work a pleasure. Wealth enough to support your needs. Strength to battle with difficulties and overcome them. Grace enough to confess your sins and forsake them. Patience enough to toil until some good is accomplished. Charity enough to see some good in your neighbor. Love enough to move you to be useful and helpful to others. Faith enough to make real the things of God. Hope enough to remove all anxious fears concerning the future." - Johann von Goethe

I'm not sure there's enough Goethe in my life right now.  Or enough literature.  I'm going to fix that.  (Kristin, help me.)

Anyway, I don't have the mad ego to say that I "disagree" with Goethe.  Those nine things are beautifully expressed and seem pretty comprehensive to me.

But I know, without a doubt, that Jack would say the tenth requisite is Legos.

So you can build towers.  Which he does, all the time.

And giraffes.  Which is new, but super awesome.

Hope your day has some Goethe in it.  Hell, hope it has giraffes in it, too.

Talk soon,
Heather