The worst idea ever

To establish my position in this story, I have to give a little background.

Last Monday night, we actually ate a dinner at a normal hour, washed dishes, then headed out on an irrigating adventure. When we returned, I was putting the dishes away while Brandon was on the computer.

So, we have scorpions, right. Brandon hunts them and sometimes tries to catch them. And he's been stung, an experience that told me I never wanted to be.

That night, I took one step over to reach into the cabinet, and felt something under my foot. When I looked down, all I could do was scream. And I mean scream.

It was a scorpion. RIGHT UNDER MY FOOT. Like, my foot was touching it. I remembered the kind of pain Brandon was in, and just knew it was going to get me. My reflexes finally kicked in, and I jumped back and stood there trying to catch my breath while Brandon came running into the kitchen asking what in the world was going on.

I finally mustered out, "Scorpion...scorpion...under my foot...almost got me...under the island...get it...get it..."

He slid the island back and killed the scorpion.

The next morning, I was browsing Craigslist, because that's we do occasionally. And I saw an ad in the Farm and Garden section for free kittens. It suddenly clicked: cats ate all kinds of little critters, and I knew I had heard they killed scorpions. We clearly had a scorpion issue.

I played it safe and sent Brandon a text, "Can we get a cat to kill things around here?"

He replied, "Tried it before. Doesn't work. They run off."

I took this response as he didn't really care, he just thought it wouldn't hang around. But it was free, so even if it ate just a few things and then ran off, no big deal.

So I picked up a cat. At this point I should probably mention neither of us even like cats. I never have. I always thought they were pretty disgusting, actually. And I was a little scared of them after my sister's cat bit me on the neck in the middle of the night when we were younger. Very traumatizing.

But here I was, bringing a cat home.

This was the same day I left the paper on the cheese in Brandon's sandwich. While he was eating in the truck, I broke the news, "So, that cat I was asking you about earlier? I got it."

"What? Katie, we just got rid of the goat two days ago, and now you got a cat? I'm going to come home tomorrow and there's going to be a giraffe in our yard."

"Well, you agreed they kill things and they're okay to have around."

"Yeah, they do. So it's a stray?"

"Well, it's mom was..."

"So it's a kitten? You got a kitten? What we needed was one of those nasty stray cats no one can get within 20 feet of, and you got a kitten."

"Ohhh, well you didn't specify that earlier. And this one was free. People don't put out ads for stray cats."

"No, they don't. You just have to find one and trap it."

At this point, it doesn't sound like such a bad idea, right? Just wait...

He loves me, he loves me not

I tried to be really nice a few days ago.

Brandon hadn't eaten lunch yet, and was pulling into the field below our house to start cutting hay in the afternoon. I made him a couple of sandwiches, (Yes, a couple are required. Don't let his waistline fool you.) and threw a granola bar, some fruit snacks and cookies into a lunch cooler for him.

When I met him at the lower end of the field, he just hopped in the truck with me for a few mintues to eat his sandwiches.

We're talking, and I notice him begin to pick at his sandwich.

"What's wrong? Does it taste funny?" I ask.

This was totally possible. On our weekend trip to Utah, the ice packs we had in the mini cooler with the lunch meat and deli cheese melted before we made it home. We both inspected everything when we got back and it seemed fine. No odor or mold.

"Oh, just the piece of paper that's on the cheese," he said.

Oops...

Racking up street credit

Yesterday, Brandon stopped by mid-morning for what he called his "first lunch". We had several different leftovers to choose from. He decided on cutting up some elk steaks for a burrito.

Burritos are Brandon's staple food. In fact, when we were trying to decide what he would have for his "second lunch" later that day, he said, "I'm not sure. There's only one tortilla left and it's torn up. It would have a blowout. And tortillas are the basis for just about everything I eat."

But back to first lunch.

He grabs a plate and cuts up one of the elk steaks. But now, he has meat cut up all over the plate, and it needs to go in a tortilla to be heated up. He stands back for a minute and says aloud, "Hmm, what to do?"

Apparently some sort of light bulb came on. He places the tortilla on top of the meat, with one hand on top of it, and grabs the plate with the other hand. He flips the plate over quickly, and all but three pieces of his steak end up in the tortilla in his hand.

"Did you see that!? It was pretty bad ass. I'm pretty proud of myself, to be honest with you. I should get some major street credit for that."

So that's how street credit is acquired. Tortilla flipping. Forget the pizza toss.

Ruffled feathers

I've been fairly in touch with my husband's likes and dislikes for quite some time now, but I recently came across a couple more things he's not so fond of. He let me know.

Ruffles

One day while Mason was visiting, we had about 45 minutes to kill in the midst of our work, so we ran over to the SuperTarget about a mile from Brandon's Grandma's house to walk around in the air conditioning.

As always, I made a quick pass through the women's clearance racks. This is what my idea of "shopping" consists of. When I have to go into a store that sells clothing for some other reason (groceries, Band-Aids, computer gear), I pass by the clearance section. It has treated me pretty well so far. I realized a couple months ago I haven't spent more than $8 on any one article of clothing since I moved to Arizona.

Until this one day. A bright yellow shirt in the middle of the rack caught my eye.

Of course, the first thing I checked was the price tag. The red clearance price was $11. Out of my self-appointed price range. I almost didn't even try it on. But there was something about this shirt I really liked, so I took it to the dressing room against my better judgment.

And it fit perfectly. I loved it. I spent the next 20 minutes trying to decide if I was going to buy it. I told Mason about my dilemma, but he just rolled his eyes.

Now, Brandon normally doesn't have much of an opinion about my clothing choices. Even when I beg for one. I guess it's because he likes most everything else in my wardrobe. Until the yellow ruffle shirt.

He didn't know what to call the ruffles. He just knew he didn't like them.

"It just has all that stuff on the front," he said, "It's just all out there. And you've never worn anything like that. Maybe that's what it is. You just don't normally wear clothes like that."

Nope. The next time I tried to put it on?

"I just really don't like that shirt."

So I'll look forward to a Girls' Night, where I can wear my yellow ruffled shirt.

Bangs

There's only so much you can do with short hair. This last time I got mine cut, I wanted to do something a little out of the ordinary. I saw a few pictures with chunky bangs, and decided to go for it.

The lady didn't even make them that thick and chunky. Just thick enough they were obvious. When we were getting ready for Jamie Rovey's rehearsal dinner, Brandon walked by the mirror while I was working on the bangs.

He said, "Those things make it look like you're from the 1970s."

"What, my bangs? I kind of liked them. And Mason gave me a thumbs up the day I got them." (Seriously, that's what he did. He was my consultant before I left to get it cut, and approved the bang decision. When I got back, he just walked in the house, gave a silent thumbs up, and left.)

After several different days of conversation like this, I finally asked him over the weekend, "So no more bangs next time, huh?"

"Nah, I like you better the other way."

Note: None of Brandon's comments about the ruffles or bangs were in bad taste. They weren't against me - they all referenced the ruffles and the bangs. We're just very straightforward and honest about things like that. And I like it that way.

The beauty of Craigslist

Yesterday was a pretty big day for us.

The Goat* found a new home.

We decided many months ago it was time for The Goat to go. She was fun when we first got her. She ran through the yard and played with the dogs, chased cars driving past our house, and helped eat the grass and weeds in the yard.

Then one day, she started eating the trees. The baby fruit trees we were lugging a five gallon bucket all over the yard to water at the time.

Then The Goat ate one of the bird of paradise plants on the porch. Down to a one inch stem. Someone told us later goats were allergic to those plants. Our goat must have been mighty resilient, because she did this five times.

Then she escaped to the neighbors' yard (we don't have a gate, it was our fault), and we got a phone call saying she was reared up on their front glass door, and they thought she might break it.

Even under close supervision, she kept getting to the trees and plants we wanted to grow, and would hardly touch the weeds we didn't.

So, The Goat has been living confined in her pen, all alone, for quite a while now. It was sad, really. Every morning I would let the dogs out, and she would run along the side of her pen hollering at them until I put them up that evening. She was only quiet when eating and when the dogs were in the pen next to her. As a result, she always had a potbelly because I fed her all day long to kept her quiet.

We hadn't really done anything to actively seek a home for The Goat. Then last week, Brandon suggested I put her on Craigslist.

So last Wednesday morning, I added a listing for The Goat, with one free bale of hay. I think I titled it "Free Hay with Goat," thinking the hay was probably more appealing than the goat. I called Brandon to let him know The Goat had been posted.

He said, "So, you put The Goat on Craigslist the day we're leaving town and won't be around for people to come check her out?"

Me: "Yeah, pretty much...I'll take it off."

I reposted The Goat Sunday morning, 12 hours after we returned from Utah.

Just two hours later, someone called wanting to come take a look. An hour after that, he showed up and agreed to buy her. And half an hour later, he came back to pick her up, strapped her down in the back of his truck, loaded up a bale of alfalfa, and handed me my money.

And that, my friends, is why we're such big fans of Craigslist.



*The Goat really is the goat's name. When I asked Brandon last year if I could get her, his only condition was she had to have a name when she came home. We tried out several different names the first two weeks she was here. He eventually agreed nothing fit, and we just stuck with The Goat. Even had it printed on her dog tag. I didn't tell the people who bought her we called her The Goat.

Ants go marching...

Through our living room.

That's right. The latest Leister household disturbance was a pile of ants. And yes, I do mean a pile.

I had offered to actually make breakfast Wednesday morning. Once a norm in our house, sitting down together for breakfast is nearly unheard of these days. It was the first morning in a long while one or both of us didn't have to run out the door to change water or tend to something else on the farm. So on Tuesday night, we decided we would have blueberry waffles for breakfast.

Brandon wasn't feeling so great that morning, so he landed on the couch for a bit while I finished working the waffle iron. I went to warn him the last waffle was nearly finished, and as I entered the living room, I saw what I thought was a pile of dirt at the entryway.

Just as I opened my mouth to yell at politely mention to Brandon he left dirt from his boots there, I noticed the pile was moving.

I leaned in closer. Not dirt at all. Just hundreds, maybe millions, or red ants lining our baseboard.

"Oh my goodness!" (Yes, I really do say that. A lot, actually.) "Brandon, we have ants in here!"

"What? What are talking about?"

"Come here. Look at this. They're everywhere."

"Whoa. How did I not notice that when I came in here?"

"Um, not going to say that thought hadn't crossed my mind too."

"Do we have any ant killer?"

"I don't know. Isn't that your department? I mean, if we did, it would be in the Man Closet, right?"

Brandon, after rummaging through the natural disaster known as the Man Closet — in my kitchen: "All we have is wasp and hornet spray, but I'll give it a try."

The ants did die. But when I went to vacuum them up later, I started at the baseboard where the huge mound was, and worked backward. And found ants scurrying all across the living room carpet.

I vacuumed up what I could find, and we left for Utah a couple hours later. Here's hoping we don't come home to an all-out invasion.

Fuzzy navel

After supper last night, between baling and roadsiding our sudan hay across the street, Brandon wanted ice cream.

The Blue Bell flavor currently in stock at our house is Peaches & Homemade Vanilla.

About halfway through our bowl of ice cream (we shared, because I didn't want much), Brandon says, "I don't really like those peaches in there."

Me: "That's funny. You like to mix peaches in with our homemade ice cream, so I thought you would like this one."

Him: "No, not really. I mean, they're okay, I just like the plain, creamy ice cream better."

Note taken. No more Peaches & Homemade Vanilla.

Later, I look over, and see Brandon scratching the back of his neck with his big spoon. Then dipping it right back in the bowl - the bowl we're sharing, mind you - for another big scoop.

Did I mention he had been out working? Irrigating, then baling hay?

Me: "That is really gross."

Him: "What? It's just my neck."

Me: "Yeah, your dirty neck. That just polluted my ice cream, too."

There were only about three bites of ice cream left, including one with a giant piece of peach in it. Brandon went after the first two, so I dove in for the third. As my spoon is making its way out of the bowl, he starts scraping away the ice cream surrounding the peach.

Me: "Hey, I wanted that!"

Him: "Well, I just didn't want that peach."

Me, laying down my spoon: "Well I didn't want just the peach either. I don't want it anymore."

Him: "I don't want it either. I'll just throw it away."

Me: "Fine. It probably has your neck scales on it anyway. With pieces of sudan grass."

Him: "Ok, I'll eat it."

Riding in cars with boys

So. It was an eventful, whirlwind weekend.

We left last Thursday afternoon for Wyoming, drove through the night to participate in pre-wedding festivities, and returned late Sunday night. And the drive was interesting, to say the least.

I accompanied a car full of boys (Really, just four of them, in a Yukon XL. But still. I was definitely outnumbered.) for the 16 hour drive from Buckeye to Laramie.

Now, why in the world would I volunteer for such a trip? This is a question many have asked. The thing is, I didn't volunteer.

Several months ago, Brandon presented the idea of driving to me. Just me. He liked this idea because he wouldn't be tied down to leaving or returning at a certain time. On the farm, a little flexibility is always nice. Scratch that. It's required.

He also thought we (as in, the two of us) might be able to make a mini vacation out of the trip, since we haven't been on one of those together since, well, our honeymoon. So we tentatively planned to spend a night or two at the cabin in Durango on the way there or back.

Shortly after, we tried inviting two different couples to come along on this vacation with us. The problem? Boys, all for it. Wives, couldn't go. I never heard more of it.

Closer to the wedding, we realized we would not both be taking vacation at the same time for several more years with all the work we have going on right now, but Brandon still wanted the flexibility to leave when he wanted, so we still planned on driving.

At some point after this, there was a little discussion of me flying from Texas to Denver and getting picked up there, since I would be in Texas shortly before the wedding. But, Brandon said he needed me to return from Texas as soon as I could to help on the farm, so that idea was nixed fairly quickly.

Next thing I know, it's a couple weeks prior to the wedding, and I find out (not from my husband, mind you) that both of the boys from the previously mentioned couples are riding with us. Too late to buy a relatively inexpensive plane ticket.

Fine. I'm a tough girl. No worries. Then, just one week before we depart, Brandon invites his friend Jake to tag along. Now, any of you who know Jake will understand why this was the deal breaker.

But I survived. And the ride home was actually about 15 times better.

On the way there, Jake made a comment to me like, "You, mean? I can't imagine you being mean."

At some point that weekend, he looked at me squarely and said, "You're mean."

But, before the trip ended, we kissed (literally, the boy kissed me on the cheek twice while we were there) and made up.

While eating dinner at the reception, we were relaying tales of our trip to some other friends. I was mentioning the crazy number of times we had to stop...for boys. I was pointing out we only made one stop for me — the only girl in the car — the gender with a reputation for causing rest stops on road trips.

I was saying, "Yeah, it took me forever to ask them to stop. If I would have known we would be stopping another 700 times for them, I wouldn't have been worried about it. But this was the very first stop, and I didn't want to be 'THAT GIRL' who made the boys stop."

A friend of ours, who was in the car, said, "But you were already 'that girl' who rode with the boys."

I quickly retaliated with, "Oh yeah? Well, then my husband is 'THAT BOY' who invited all the boys to ride with him AFTER he invited his wife."

Another female at the table: "Yep, he is 'that boy'."

I guess it's one of those gender perspective issues.

Marital success

In reference to the previous post, my most recent attempt at packing Brandon's bag was actually successful. We were both equally surprised.

I only had to add to the things I had laid out; there wasn't much editing or removing. I forgot undershirts and one belt, so we added those. Brandon wanted to take along a vest I didn't have out either. We both like wearing vests, but they're only in season for so long in Arizona, so we both packed them for our trip to Northern country.

And there was only one edit. One of the t-shirts I chose was "too itchy," which should not have come as a surprise. Seriously. A 100% cotton t-shirt. I would venture to say my husband has the most sensitive skin of anyone I've ever met.

He refuses to wear anything less than 100% cotton. No big deal, so does my dad. But even half his 100% cotton, fabric of our lives, clothing turns out to be too itchy for him.

In honor of Jamie Rovey (whose wedding we were traveling to attend), I also selected Brandon's "I Put Out"* t-shirt for the trip.

Aggieland is quite notorious for shirts like this. The main reason this shirt was chosen to wear for Jamie? Brandon gave Jamie an Aggie t-shirt that reads, "I hump it on the first date," a few years back.

Now, those who are familiar with A&M tradition don't bat an eye at that statement. Those who aren't? Well, they may send some skeptical glances. Therefore, just about everyone Jamie came across in Arizona while sporting this shirt had a whole different idea about his clothing choice.

Well, the moral of this rambling story is this: I can finally, after more than one year of marriage, nearly pack a bag for my husband without him removing every piece I selected.


*My sister gave us each one of these shirts. They are in reference to the smoking ban the city of College Station recently placed on all public locations. As a member of the Texas A&M Cancer Society, she helped sell the t-shirts on campus to support the effort. But you don't get that message until you read the back.

A momentary dose of reality

I escaped to Texas for a few days to return Mason to his rightful owners and conduct a little business. But let's face it, I was on vacation for the most part, considering what I was escaping here.

Brandon put me back in check as soon as I arrived. I went straight from the airport to a tractor. In a skirt.

Since then, we've been collectively working around the clock in preparation for tomorrow's departure to Wyoming.

This evening, Brandon said, "I'm so glad to have you back home."

Me: "Yeah, I bet you are. Now you just have to stay up half the night, instead of the whole thing."

He said he had other reasons too. I'm not so sure. Other than we do both have clothes laid out for the trip already.

Had Brandon been here in charge of things himself, he would have twice as many clothes on the bed, but they wouldn't be there until about 15 minutes prior to walking out the door. That's just how he does things. I'm more of a pack-three-days-in-advance kind of girl.

When he called to ask me to gather his clothes for the trip, I just groaned. I loathe this job. Not because of the job itself. Because it usually ends up being a big waste of my time. And Brandon knew exactly what I was thinking.

In his persuasion, he said, "I know you don't like to do it, and I know I'm going to come home and make some changes to what you have, and I know it's going to annoy you, but I could really use your help. It's just a lot easier to edit than create."

So as he throws his things in a bag tomorrow, we'll go through the process of switching out one plaid button-up shirt for another plaid button-up shirt, replacing two striped polos in blue and orange for striped polos in yellow and red, and exchanging the Cinch jeans for another pair of Cinch jeans in a slightly different wash. Really, for someone who has such a limited wardrobe (striped, plaid, work pants, good pants), packing is quite an ordeal.

Last time, I'm not sure anything I had out actually made it in the bag. Maybe the socks. Let's hope I did better this time.

We still have a full plate before we head out tomorrow. Brandon is taking the first irrigating shift, and I'll take over from 2 to 6 am, then we'll start tackling the rest of the list.

We're planning to hit the road at 2pm, but we're not really known for our punctuality with those things, so we'll see. Regardless, it's another few days of vacation for me!