Wild turkey and moon pies

No, not that wild turkey. 

Wild turkey hunting. 

They are much more difficult to kill than one would think by watching all those gobbler-hunting movies. It looks like you sit for a few minutes, call the bird, bird walks seven feet in front of you, you shoot, then take pictures with said bird. 

Not the case on my hunt over the weekend. 

We didn't even see a turkey. 

We heard them. And saw plenty signs of their existence. Even had one ten yards away from us. But nothing to shoot. 

We hiked 2.5 miles in Friday and Saturday, in freezing early morning weather, all to come back empty handed at dark. 

Our wildlife sightings only included one rabbit we think we ran over, three elk (two cows, one with tiny nubs), a squirrel and three steers that ruined our water hole stalking hunt Saturday afternoon. 

But, we did have moon pies. Double decker, orange-flavored moon pies. 

Which I think just sound disgusting, much less the sight of them. 

Brandon, on the other hand, loved them. At one point, he held his double-decker organe moon pie in the air and said, "This takes a regular moon pie, and says, 'You suck.'" Seriously. He was that into the moon pies.   

He found them Friday night when we stopped at Bass Pro to pick up a new choke for my shotgun (To make me shoot in a "tighter pattern"? Makes sense when you're aiming for a turkey head), or self-defense weapon, as I like to call it. Conveniently, it doubles as a turkey hunting gun.

Brandon bought it for me shortly after we got married, because I am scared of the dark and hate being alone in our house at night. Which happens quite often when I don't tag along on the middle-of-the-night irrigating trips, "man weekends", and other things that take him away. 

So, he found a fairly-priced youth model, pump action 20-guage for me to keep by the bed. Yes, my youngest brother gives me a hard time for having such a "sissy" gun. But I sleep better at night.

Brandon said, "I am not getting you anything automatic. You'll probably shoot me. If you're fixing to shoot, I want to hear it."

I guess he thinks I might be a little trigger happy when I'm scared?

An empty glass

This has nothing to do with an old country song or a lack of optimism. It has everything to do with marriage. 

Sharing. You would think someone who grew up in a family of four kids would have a very good sense of this word. And I do. When it comes to sharing my room, my socks, the covers, books, etc. Not so much when it comes to food. 

But I don't think you really learn how to share food in a large family. Mealtime at our house always meant you better put everything you even think you might want on your plate the first time, because there might not be a second round. Dinner was all about survival of the fittest, and no one wanted to be last in line. 

Brandon is much better about sharing food. He also happens to be much better at sharing drinking glasses. In fact, he prefers to share beverages. 

Brandon's standard response when asked if he needs a drink to go with his meal? 

"No thanks, I'll just have some of yours."

Or, if we're at his parents: "No, I'll just drink out of Katie's."

And every time, I sigh, or make a face. Because I don't want to share. 

If he did the dishes, I might understand. But I don't mind washing an extra glass after each meal if it means I get to have my own. 

I also might not be so opposed to the idea of sharing my glass if we owned gallon-sized ones. That way, I might actually get some of my drink. Currently, I average one sip out of my glass at each meal before Brandon finishes it off in one big gulp. 

Last night, I had my plate and glass on the table. Brandon sat down with his food. No glass. 

Me [thinking I could give a subtle hint]: "You don't want to bring anything to drink?"

Brandon [looking at me strangely]: "You already have water here."

As if it would be absolutely absurd to have two glasses on the table! 

Not three minutes after we sat down for dinner, my water glass was already empty, and I hadn't even touched it. 

I'm thinking they should add this in the marriage vows. Something like, "...to love and to cherish, to share drinking glasses, as long as we both shall live." 

Setting a bad example for the boy scouts

I got to spend the weekend hanging out with this girl: 

And we had a great time. She helped me with a few little jobs on the farm, which I greatly appreciated, went hiking in the White Tank Mountains, enjoyed a good breakfast together every day, and got a little pool and sun action in the last few hours of her trip. 

The most interesting part of our mid-morning mini-hike turned out to be the fact we didn't carry our water bottles down the trail. There were quite a few hikers out, all loaded with three days worth of fluids, power bars, walking sticks, and probably their Swiss Army knives. We just sauntered along the trail, talking up a storm, empty-handed. 

The first group of ladies we passed asked, "Where's your water, girls?"

Another set of hikers inquired, "No water?"

At least two others offered us a drink from one of their five canteens. We were seriously on a five-hour mountain trail, but planned to only walk a short while, then turn around and head back. These people all looked like they would be climbing in the rocks for five days. 

We both considered carrying our small water bottles along with us, but opted not to, realizing we were young, in fairly good shape, would return soon, and had been on far more treacherous hikes loaded down with gear and a limited water supply. We survived then, in the true wilderness, so we were not concerned about this short walk in a national park. 

When we came upon a group of five adults, the woman in the lead asked us, "Do you need some water, girls?"

We politely thanked her, declined, and explained we were just on a short walk, had properly hydrated ourselves before beginning, and had water waiting for us in the car. 

Apparently, the man in the rear of their group missed this explanation. When we passed him, I heard him whisper to the woman in front of him, "Those girls don't have any water." 

The last group we passed was a pack of 10 to 12-year-old little boys, whom we presumed to be a group of Boy Scouts, and their two leaders. We assumed they had camped overnight (or we're hoping so, unless firetruck pajama pants are the cool thing to wear on a hike these days), as they were loaded down with gear. 

After we passed them, I said, "Those boys are all getting told, 'that is a perfect example of what not to do while hiking in the mountains in Arizona.'"

Amanda replied, "Probably so. But we should tell them there are so many good Samaritans on this trail you don't need to pack your own water."

She had a good point. 

This is not the Cleaver household

Apparently, some clarifications need to be made about our lifestyle. There have been mentions in several different posts about me cleaning, making dinner, baking cupcakes, etc. 

It has been mentioned to me that some are getting the impression we have reverted back to the 50s, and these things are expected in our home. Au contraire.  

In all fairness, I offered to make the cupcakes, I just didn't think he would take me up on it. So I took ten minutes to get them ready, stuck them in the oven, went back to work for half an hour, then repeated that process. Very minimal effort that hardly interrupted my day. 

Baking is a new thing for me (and mostly still from a box), but something I have taken up because it makes Brandon happy, not because it is in any way expected of me. If it were "expected", I guarantee you I would not do it. That's how I operate. Brandon will be the first person to verify that statement. 

I am also not expected to take up the brunt of the housework. But, when you're building a business (which we both own), there are some things that have to be delegated. And when one person occupies the location where those things are done all day long, it's pretty easy for us to determine who they fall upon. Therefore, I do clean, but I also take care of the other things that take place in my work space, like paying the bills and keeping the books in order, feeding the cows we have here, and irrigating the field in front of our house (now that we have ports there). 

Unless I wanted to eat at 10pm every night, dinner duty falls on me as well - by default. I'm already here. When we lived in Texas and Brandon was just a school boy, not a farmer, we shared this chore quite equally, and often prepared it together. Dishwashing worked the same way - I washed, he rinsed - every evening. And he does not demand dinner, with the exception of specific "bad day" cases, which is what most of us feel like when we've had a crummy day.

Most of the time we only really make dinner once or twice a week anyway, then eat leftovers for the remainder. There's only so much food two people can consume in one evening, and since we're definitely not picky, it works for us. And saves electricity.

Likewise, Brandon usually takes care of the household duties that are done at his location. He fills our water bottles and dumps our trash at his parents', because he's there nearly every morning to pick up equipment, and every evening to feed cows. 

Brandon says all the time how he has been "pleasantly surprised" and is "very appreciative" and certainly "does not expect" the things I do in our home. For us, it just makes sense. 

Since I work from home and get started early in the mornings, I have plenty of time to do things around the house during the day as well. 

So I'm not June Cleaver. I'm just pulling my weight. 

Signs of adulthood: Married, filing jointly

Taxes. 

The time of year when we're all most proud to be American, right?

Luckily, Brandon did most of the data entry into our makeshift spreadsheets, since we never got our Peachtree accounting software set up in 2008. (Or so far in 2009, for that matter.) I was just stuck with the filing and sorting from his half of the year (pre-marriage). Everything from my half of the year (post-marriage) was in place. 

One source of frustration for us in all of this has been our different record keeping methods. Brandon is a paper nut. If you buy a pack of gum, it needs a fully annotated receipt that is kept in a pile on top of a desk. I prefer to go the more modern route, and keep electronic copies of these things, and back them up with online storage. 

But he's holding solid on his paper stance. I don't stand a chance. So I'm dealing with the hundreds of file folders, pieces of paper floating around, and numerous ink cartridges run dry from all that printing - and hoping we never have a fire.

Brandon, the King of Clutter, tried to explain the way he handles receipts, invoices and the like: "I use the 'pile method.' You let everything pile up for six months, and then when it's about to fall over, you sort through things and file them."

Me: "That's not a method. And it makes me crazy."

Brandon: "Yeah, I know. That's why we're going to use your method. ...As soon as I finish going through this pile."

And now, our things have been fully sorted and properly filed away in their respective folders according to my method. We have met with the accountant (for two solid hours). We have created, filed, corrected and refiled W-2s for two of our four companies, corrected all of our employer tax returns, and filled out the necessary paperwork for interest payments we made. 

But today, we will still not be sending in our tax returns. We will be filing an extension. I think we overwhlemed our accountant with the stacks of ledgers and forms we dropped off. We like to make things complicated, especially if it saves us a buck in the long run.

It was very nice to select the "Married, filing jointly," option for the first time, especially after I took a good look at those tax brackets. There is a definite advantage to that status, so I was glad .

I am most happy we survived this first year of working together on taxes, despite me using the phrase, "I despise working with you on this," numerous times. And Brandon responding with, "Oh, yes, and it's just looove-ly working with you." At least we're honest and open with our feelings, right? 

But now that we have the record keeping preferences battled out, and we no longer have a "pile method" (which I still say is not a method), I think 2009's taxes will run much smoother.

Especially once we get around to getting our software set up...

It's a good thing Brandon is the farmer

Just a couple weeks ago, Rayanne gave me some tomato and squash plants she had leftover from planting her garden to try for myself at our house. 

I haven't experimented with much, but I've never had the best luck growing things. I did manage to keep a tiny house plant alive for four years, but I think I tossed it out when I left College Station. 

My other experiences growing things are as follows: 

1. When I was nine, I planted some watermelon seeds by our back door, and diligently kept the plant watered. When I told my parents I was growing a water melon vine in our backyard, they told me I had been watering a weed. So I stopped. About the time it was dying, my mom really looked at it one day, and decided it was indeed a watermelon vine. Too late.
   
2. At one of my college residences, I decided to grow some jalapeno and habanero peppers. Right about the time they were sprouting tiny peppers, the lawn boy mowed them down. 
   
3. I bought a pot of assorted cactus' my last year at A&M. I killed one. How does anyone kill a cactus? When you water them in a climate where it rains every other day. Apparently not good for a cactus. I left the cactus pot in Texas, where my mom has kept them all alive, and one has grown a solid foot. 
   

Needless to say, I don't really have a "green thumb" background. Which doesn't make much sense to me, because it's definitely in my genetics. My MeMe always had flowers galore in her front yard, and my grandma had a huge vegetable garden for years.

But, apparently those talents, along with all of their creativity and craftiness, did not reach my share of the DNA.

This was my mini-garden the day after planting: 

This was my mini-garden on Good Friday:

Now, the state of my garden is not completely my fault. I had only killed two plants before our lovely hound dog took over. At first, he just dug up the dead plants. No big deal, right? Then, on Good Friday, we were outside and Brandon yelled, "Hey, the dogs got in your garden, huh?"

Me: "Yeah, but just the dead plants."

Brandon: "Uh, you already killed all those? Wow."

So I go over to take a look. No, I had not killed that many plants. But that's not to say I wouldn't have. 

My mini-garden is now in the same state as the rest of our yard. You would think it was once a battle field. There are giant land mine-looking holes everywhere. 

Wilbur starts them by smelling a gopher underground, then Dixie takes lead and dirt flies four feet behind her with Wilbur howling at the hole all the while. The neighbors thoroughly enjoy it. About as much as they enjoy waking up to Wilbur at 3am (which is why we now sleep with the shock collar remote by the bed).

Man jobs and woman jobs

I have a whole list of things around the house that I have labeled as "man jobs" and reserve for Brandon to do:

• Spraying the weeds. Hey, I mow. He can handle the chemicals.
  
• Spraying pesticide. He's already used to dealing with the chemicals.
  
• Killing scorpions, spiders, and any other things we don't invite into our home. Aren't men supposed to love killing things anyway?
  
• Anything that involves climbing on the roof. We all know how clumsy I am.
  
• Grilling. You probably know why that's a good idea.
  
• Making sure the yard gets irrigated. He wanted me to live in the desert. The only thing I asked for was a green yard.
  
• Changing the air filter. This I am perfectly capable of. Frankly, I just don't want to do it. Our filter is in the ceiling, so when you change it, all the dust falls down on top of you and gets you all dirty.
  
• Changing light bulbs. For similar reasons. And he's taller. 
  
• You get the idea...
  

And Brandon has a similar list for me, which includes things like mowing, feeding the dogs and goat, and scrubbing the toilet.

A couple Sundays ago, we had a little man job versus woman job battle. 

He was sitting on our bed, talking on the phone, waiting for me to be ready for church. I looked on the wall, directly above my side of the bed, and saw a cricket. 

Since he was on the phone, I just made the various gestures and eye movements to point out the cricket. Ten minutes later, I'm ready for church, he's off the phone, and the cricket is still on the wall. 

Brandon: "Are you kidding me? It's still there? You just left it?"

Me: "Yes, I did. Killing things is a man job. Now can you kill it so we can go?"

So he grabs a shoe, kills the cricket, it falls and bounces on my side of the bed, then lands on the floor near the bed post. A dead cricket. And he leaves it there.

Me: "Seriously? You're going to leave it there? You can't pick it up?"

Brandon: "You said killing it was the man job. I say cleaning it up is the woman job."

So I scoop it up, dispose of it, and we go to church. Smiling and holding hands...for God.  

Welcome to home ownership

Today, we had to get the air conditioner worked on. 

We found out it wouldn't come on the night of our Spring Break fish fry, when we had 30 people in and out of our house, and wanted to use it for the first time in two months. Yesterday brought the first temperatures above 90 degrees for the year, and I called Brandon to let him know that I was okay for that day, that one day, but we better do something — quick. 

I did not want to get any closer to summer with an unreliable air conditioner. Even though ours was working last year, I spent my days in the office in front of a box fan, no lights on anywhere in the house, and would only cook at 4am, to avoid letting heat travel through the house at any other time of day. 

[Now, this was partly due to the fact that I am too cheap to put the thermostat below a certain temperature, but also because when it's 120 degrees outside, there's only so much cooling a little air conditioner can do.]

So, one of our softball playing buddies, Johnny Kerr, who also owns an A/C repair company, came over this morning and had it going in 15 minutes. And I can now rest easy awaiting the dreadful temperatures Arizona summers bring. 

I'm proud of our home, and Brandon has done a lot of work, inside and out, to make it a nice place to live. And it is. Things just have a tendency to fall apart, rust up, or just not work quite right.

Everyone has heard all about our shower troubles and rusty well water. Many know the tale of our busted water line in January and roof shingles that need to be replaced every time the wind blows (which, in the desert, is every day).

After my parents had experienced no water, cold water, and electrical shock water at our house, and Mason had to use the plunger five times, I was really hoping we wouldn't have any more household tragedies while they were here. 

But, the night my dad made us all some Texas-sized steaks, he needed a pan for another dish. When I went to retrieve one, the cabinet door was left dangling from one hinge.

"Oh yeah, that's broke too," I muttered.

But my dad said, "Baby, welcome to home ownership."

"Something is always broke. It doesn't matter how old or how new it is. If it weren't that cabinet right there, it'd be something else. Just be glad you don't have bigger problems today."

And he's right. 

So for now, I will be satisfied our air conditioner is in working order.

...And wait for the roof to start leaking after the first summer monsoon.

Resuming the cheese conversation

Last week, as Brandon was digging through the meat and cheese drawer in the fridge, he asked, "Hey, what do we have this block cheese for?"

"For those pig-in-the-blankets you like for breakfast."

"Oh. When did we get it?"

"Um, you picked it out. Just two weeks ago. On one of the two grocery shopping trips you've been on since we got married. How do you not remember that? You spent five minutes in the block cheese section examining the per-ounce prices until you found one close enough to the sliced cheese per-ounce price that I would buy it."

"Oh. But didn't we just have a conversation about how we weren't going to buy this cheese?"

"Sure did. Glad you remember that now."

"So why did we buy it, then?"

"Because it's what you wanted, Dear."

"I think I'll have some now."

Signs of adulthood: feeling like a little old lady

To begin, let me preface with the fact that I know I am not "old" by any definition of the word. Which is why the current physical state of my body is so disturbing. 

I would classify my lifestyle as "active". Now, I don't run nearly as much as I should, but I get a good 1.5 miles in every now and then - usually 3 or so times a week for one to two weeks, then a two month hiatus, until I feel a little sluggish, and the cycle repeats. 

Even on my hiatus, I get out and about outdoors, trudge up ditch banks, chase Brandon across mountains on hiking hunts (no one can keep up with him), play sports with friends when the opportunity presents itself, etc. 

And I've always been fairly pleased with the semi-limber range of motion I still have, and the lack of an effect the infamous "college years" had on me. 

But today, I feel like a little old lady. 

With stiff, aching muscles. 

Last night, during our co-ed softball game (we have a 3-1 record, by the way), I think I half-pulled a muscle in my upper thigh. 

It had been giving me trouble on the last few 1.5 mile runs I've made, and has been a little stiff and sore since our first round of softball games. Before the game yesterday, I attempted to stretch it out well enough, but to no avail. By the start of the first inning in our second game, I was half-running, half-limping to my outfield position. By the last inning in our second game, I was just about holding back tears in my part-trot, a lot-more-limp to the dugout. 

It felt a little better after a hot soak last night, but was back with a vengeance this morning. My leg is even a little puffy on top of the sore muscle. 

If my half-pulled leg muscle weren't bad enough, I also woke up with an achy back. I didn't even lift any heavy objects yesterday, which has me really concerned about this sign of adulthood. The center of my back, right between my shoulder blades, has sharp pains with every move. Sitting up straight is out of the question. So is looking at my toes. And trying to put my hair in a ponytail? Forget it. 

I really never thought I would know this "little old lady" feeling so soon. The first half of my 23rd year aged me more than 18 to 22. Or maybe this is all just a sign to add more of those 1.5 mile runs to my schedule? After I recover, that is...

To top it off, I have a tiny bruise right below my belly button, which I didn't even know was possible. When trying to exit the dugout yesterday, I mistakenly opened the gate the wrong direction, and caught the metal handle right in the gut. 

Ahhh, growing up. Who knew it could be filled with such...pain.

Oh, and Brandon found another scorpion on his hunt last night, which he killed with the trusty pipe wrench. He thinks it was one of the two we missed last Thursday. So we now have a total of seven scorpion sightings, six that met their fate with either a pipe wrench or a coffee mug, in four days.  

A tale of two forks

Brandon likes this story, and has been slowly embarrassing me in front of our friends and family by telling it to each of them, so I just thought I would speed the process some and get it behind me. 

We have two types of forks in our house, as I'm sure most people do. One of them as long, skinny prongs (left). The other one has short, fat ones (right). 

I always use the shorter fork, but Brandon prefers the long one. A few weeks ago, he set the table for dinner, and grabbed two of the big forks. 

All through dinner, I kept stabbing myself every time I would try to take a bite. 

Brandon: "What's wrong with you? Why do you keep doing that?"

Me: "I don't know...but it hurts."

Then I glance down, and realize I've been using the wrong fork. 

Me: "Ooohh, I know what it is. I usually use the small forks. You gave me a big one."

Brandon: "What? Seriously? You can't just compensate for that when you bite? ...Now this is blogworthy."

When it rains,

"It snows," Brandon says.

Which kind of reminds me of one of those Jamie Rovey phrases (Brandon calls them "Roveyisms"), where he takes some age-old adage, but changes the words, and you have to use context clues to understand what he's trying to say.

But for Brandon, that phrase summed up how he felt Wednesday night.

About the time he was supposed to be returning from irrigating in Palo Verde, he called and asked if I could come help him. His truck was stuck.

"Like how bad?" I asked.

"Like I can't open my front door," he said, "And your truck is not going to cut it."

When I arrived, I quickly saw why my little F-150 wouldn't do the job. As someone from the swamp who has experience with these situations, this was one of the worst "stuck" jobs I had ever seen. Half his truck was in the alfalfa field, which was currently being irrigated, and just about high-centered on what was left of the outside border.

But we gave it the good ole' college try with my truck anyway. Once the tow strap was snug, the weight of Brandon's buried truck literally sent the back end of my little pickup skidding three feet across the road. So, we went in search of a tractor.

By 9:30, we had the truck out of there, were home by 10, and he had most of the foot of mud cleaned off his tires by 10:30. At this point in the week, Brandon had slept for a combined three hours in the past 2.5 days, as we had some night irrigating to do. So, especially after the truck-in-the-field incident, all he wanted was to crawl in bed.

That just wasn't what fate had in store for him.

Seconds after he walks in the door, I hear lots of screaming, hollering and not-so-nice words, and come running. I enter the kitchen to find him on one foot, holding up a coffee mug with a smushed, giant scorpion on the bottom, and Brandon still cursing him.

Even though we periodically find the little menaces in our house, neither of us had ever been stung. Until that night.

We got him to the couch with a cold pack for his foot, and Googled "scorpion sting" to find out what we were supposed to do about the burning and stinging that had now reached his knee.

I am now convinced Googling is NOT what you want to do when seeking medical advice. We read everything from hospitalization to foaming at the mouth. We're both against medical care unless it is absolutely necessary, and certainly didn't want to spend the next six hours in a waiting room.

But once the burning, stinging and tingling reached his upper thigh, we were a little concerned. Since Google wasn't any help, we called his parents (at 11pm) to seek advice, and they recommended calling Poison Control. So we did.

They told him to take some Tylenol, put something cold on it (both of which we had already done), and go ahead and go to sleep - if he could sleep through the pain, he would be fine. We added a little dose of hydrocodone to the mix, and headed to bed. Although, we had a little difficulty figuring out how to keep something cold on the bottom of this foot during the night.

This is what we came up with and strapped to his foot:

There was a cold bottle of chocolate syrup in there. The freezer packs were "too cold", and the chocolate was the only thing in the fridge that came in a plastic container, so we stuck his foot in the middle of this bundle, and cinched the belt up. And that's how we slept. 

You would think the story would end here. But it gets better. As we were limping down the hall to our bedroom, we found another scorpion on the wall there. Then, as we were leaving the house at 4:30am to irrigate, there was another one just outside the pantry door. We went scorpion hunting last night with my mom's blacklight flashlight, and found four more outside the house - and two of them got away before Brandon could kill them with his pipe wrench (his scorpion-hunting tool of choice).

Our house has turned into a breeding ground.

And since he could still barely walk yesterday, I got to be head irrigator.

Just another day in paradise...

"So why not drive on Allison Road..."

Another one of my favorite people turns 24 today! 

Six years ago we were strangers. We are one of those rare stories where a potluck college dorm roommate situation actually works out. 

We first met over the phone. She called me the day after we received our roommate assignments in the mail for Legett Hall at Texas A&M. The first question she asked me? 

Allison: "Do you play basketball?"

Me [thinking, what else does she already know about me?]: "Um...yeah, I played in high school." [not sure where to go next in the conversation]

Allison: "You're probably wondering how I know that."

Me [you think?]: "Yeah, actually, I was."

Allison: "Yeah, my dad Googled you. And we found an article about you playing basketball."

And then later in the conversation, I found out they had looked my dad up too - in her parents' Aggieland yearbooks, so she asked about him having long hair in college. Something I didn't even know. I'm sure her parents were just concerned about shipping their only child off to live with a stranger. Understandably so. Especially after learning that stranger was from a place called Anahuac. 

Needless to say, I was a little apprehensive about meeting this saxophone-playing, only child, high school Valedictorian, Catholic, Music major from Clyde, TX. 

Just as I'm sure she was about meeting a swamp-dwelling, cattle-showing, basketball-playing oldest of four children, Protestant, Agricultural Communications major from Anahuac, TX. 

We were quite different then. But if two people can survive spending one year in a dorm room together, and still like each other, I'd say that's a pretty good sign. We even ended up choosing to live together for two more of our years at A&M. And we're much more alike now. Maybe it's that whole "environmental" concept of personal development.  

Some highlights of those roommate years, for those who were there: 

• My drooling incident
  
• An arrangement of tater tots
  
• The demise of Allison's innocence (thanks, in large part, to my 21st birthday)
  
• One White Elephant gift exchange, Crayola markers and indecent exposure
  
• Calli's smell of "morning"
  
• Monkey bread at the start of each semester, made by Allison
  
• Hurricane Rita weekend and the burnt macaroni, made by me 
• Many, many nights of dancing and singing to Aaron Watson

Allison is known quite well for her gift of...words. 

On one of our trips to Texas, Brandon asked who would be picking us up, as we were landing at the Austin airport. I told him Allison was on her way. 

"Oh, well I guess we won't have to worry about bringing up conversation."

[Allison already knows this story, which is why I can tell it here. She's a good sport.]

   

I consider this trait a blessing for the most part. She's hilarious, so it's entertaining to listen to her, and you never have to worry about what to say next. 

I better say some nice things about Allison, too. After all, she has quite the collection of compromising photographs of me (some related to the White Elephant and Crayola markers reference, all related to indecent exposure), that I just know will be used as blackmail one day. 

• The two of us can laugh together at just about anything.
  
• She's one of the most compassionate and giving people I know...most of the time.
  
• She has great faith.
  
• She picks out good shoes that other girls with big feet get to borrow - until they move two states away.
• She's smart. Really, she is. Don't hold past stories against her. 
  
• She's a very talented musician, but not one of those people who is weird about it (contrary to what I first thought).
  
• She doesn't have too many of the "typical only child" characteristics.
  
• You know you can count on her for anything in this world.
  
• I'm very thankful I didn't ask for a room change after that first telephone conversation. 

Happy birthday, Al.