The transition

I moved this little ole blog over to our own hosting last week, but forgot to mention it for anyone who was following via Google, rather than typing in the domain name.

In order to keep up with us in the future, actually visit http://KatieandBrandon.com, or add this feed link to your Google Reader or other RSS reader.

If you were "following" with Google, Google Reader is probably your best bet.

Sorry if we were lost in cyberspace...

[Twitter: @KatieandBrandon]

The immobile mobile phone

That's what I have right now. It looks like it's straight from 1990 and has zero battery life.

Oh, and it causes Brandon to shake his fists in frustration. Daily.

[Aside: It also contributed to my wipe out last week. I was on the phone when that happened with one of my very favorite people, and trying to change some water at the same time. The phone had already died once while I was talking to her and attempted to close two port lids and run back to the truck in time to plug it back in before the battery died. Which failed. So I really didn't want to lose power on her again. In all my hurrying to make it back to the safety of my charger, I didn't notice the mud that caused me to crash.]

The reason the lack of mobility I have with my cell phone frustrates Brandon so badly? For $50+, I could become mobile again.

The catch: in a mere 20 days (which will be a total of about 50 since I lost mobility), I can get a free phone. One that doesn't cost a dime. So for a couple months of inconvenience, I save us a minimum of $50.

Makes perfect sense to me.

Brandon doesn't quite agree.

In his world, I should be attached to that phone 24/7, because that's how he operates. But he operates that way out of necessity for our business. I, on the other hand, could go (and have gone) days without receiving a single phone call, as long as I'm with him. So it's just not that important to me.

And the only time it's really an issue is when I have to work on the backhoe (it's the only piece of equipment without a cigarette plug where I can plug my phone in). Which has happened twice. And believe me, we both remember those two times very well. They were times where Brandon Could. Not. Wait. to tell me something.

And every time I spend $50 on anything, including groceries? I get grilled.

"So, how much was that grocery bill?" he asks.

"$82."

"Hmmm...that could have bought a cell phone."

Then we go through the whole process of me trying to explain that it's not about the spending $50. It's about the spending $50 when, in a few weeks, I can spend $0. And the fact that I don't have that option with other things, like providing sustenance for his hungry belly.

So here we are, roughly 30 days later, still having the same conversations as days one, two and three.

But I'm holding strong.

Only 20 to go...

The cookie monster

Monday afternoon, Brandon discovered one of my grocery purchases from the day before: Blue Bell Fudge Bars. We always have ice cream, but during the summer, he likes to have something cold, quick and portable to run in and grab. So I bought a box of 12 bars for the week, estimating they would get us to the weekend, even if we each ate two a day.

Let's just say my estimate was wrong. I realized that on Monday when Brandon had devoured four fudge bars before supper.

Sure enough, by Thursday, they were wiped out. I had two, y'all. Two. I averaged half a fudge bar each day.

Brandon's average? 2.5.

Then, he had a bad day yesterday. One of those don't-talk-to-me-about-my-problems bad days. [His reasons were totally justified. It was a big deal. And we do talk about things later, after the "mood" has worn off.]

So I got out the reserve break-and-break cookie dough from the freezer, hoping some Toll House chocolate chips would brighten his day a bit.

I don't know if he was trying to drown his sorrow in a plate of cookies, or if they really helped on some level, but he was serious about mowing through them.

I only made 12, thinking that would get us through a couple days, even taking into account Brandon's normal cookie consumption.

Not so much.

Before supper was ready (which went into the oven immediately following the cookies), he had eaten five. Sometime between supper and bedtime, consumed four more. And the midnight snack he grabbed for his 3am irrigation run? The remaining two cookies.

At least I ate one.

But really? Ten cookies in eight hours, half of which he was sleeping? Pretty sure I would have a belly ache.

Becoming a real farmer

So it rained last night.

In all the right ways, thank goodness. It hit the fields where it didn't matter, and pretty much missed the ones where we had hay down. But all that is beside the point.

The real point here is that now my husband thinks he's a bona fide meteorologist. That, or he just has a special connection with Mother Nature.

You see, we've been threatened with a late summer monsoon rain for going on two solid weeks now. Every afternoon, it would cloud up, we could see some rain in the distance, and occasionally catch a far-off lightning bolt, but it never would quite come to fruition in our part of the valley.

Yesterday morning, upon being outside for a mere two hours, Brandon said, "It's going to rain tonight. You watch. I haven't said that with confidence yet, but it will rain tonight."

So this morning, when we awoke to half an inch on one part of the farm, a little more than that on another, one-tenth at our house, and just a few sprinkles where the hay is, Brandon couldn't resist gloating a bit. (If you can imagine that, of course. I mean, let's look past the whole scorpion prediction incident.)

As we were sitting down for lunch, he really let loose with it: "I told you it was going to rain, didn't I? I haven't said that yet, even though it's clouded up almost every day. But I knew it was going to happen last night. I totally called it. Say it ain't so! I'm like the best weatherman ever or something."

"Or maybe you're just finally turning into a real farmer?" I offered.

He didn't appreciate that one very much. "I've been a real farmer."

But at least he was quiet about his rain prediction after that.

The makin' of climbin' trees

A few weeks ago, I finally got around to trimming the trees around our house, which at that point, were in dire need. I had intended to take care of it before Allison visited in early May, if that tells you anything.

Every other time I've been in charge of the tree trimming (Or every time the trees have been trimmed since I said, "I do." However you want to look at it.) I have received quite a bit of criticism, and Brandon has typically ended up whacking the tree to pieces afterward.

This time, I determined, I would get the job done. Even though I always felt like he left the trees a little too bare, I didn't want to catch any grief for "leaving the job half done," like that was what I intended to do or something.

So I worked on my first tree a bit, then had Brandon give me a few pointers on what additional trimming should be done.

These were his instructions:

"You see how I've left these trees a smooth trunk all the way up? That's what makes it a good climbing tree. You want to get any branches that are growing down, and all the little shoots and branches that get in the way of climbing. The main trunks and limbs should be smooth."

"For climbing?"

"Yeah. I've already started making these into really good climbing trees. We need to keep it up."

"Uh, Brandon, who is going to be climbing these trees? You planning on it?"

"Maybe..."

So if anyone is interested in joining Brandon, we have about seven "good climbin' trees" in the making over here.

Why I don't jump the ditches

My parents gave me lots of things: food, shelter, love, nurturing, encouragement, and on and on.

They did not, however, provide me with the DNA required for things like coordination.

Which is why Brandon had to be so careful with his purple big toe, and often calls me "Grace," followed by a "Yeah right..." under his breath.

Anyway, a point of contention in our marriage we often is meet is the fact that I don't (or won't, interpret it how you will) jump the irrigation ditches.

This drives Brandon absolutely up the wall. Because when it's time to work the only action words allowed are "Go!" and "Fast!" — definitely not "Take an extra 20 seconds to run to the closest bridge."

But I do it anyway. I'd like to think it's just to watch him roll his eyes, because that's awfully cute, you know, but it's not. It's because I know my ditch-jumping skills very well. They don't exist.

Anyway, Brandon doesn't exactly appreciate this, because it takes a little extra time (in the form of seconds, y'all). But I place my safety, well-being and dryness above his disdain.

And until Friday, I could say that in 2.5 years of irrigating, I had never really fallen into the ditch.

One time last summer, I had a leg get pulled in by a giant check that just had too much weight behind it (in the form of a wall of water) for me when I started yanking on it to get it out of the ditch.

But I had yet to slip and fall while lunging across the water. I took great pride in this.

I can't tell you how many times I've had someone ask me, upon watching Brandon jump a ditch, if we ever fall in. And my standard response? "Brandon does."

Because he does. All. The. Time.

Now, we do have a few smaller ditches I will attempt to jump if there's not a close bridge. But we have this one ditch, at the field we have cotton in right now, that is a monster. And I NEVER jump that sucker.

Wouldn't you know, that this field is primarily my responsibility, too (as Manager of Rocker 7 Farms West and all). And has big gaps between the bridges. Meaning, I sometimes have to walk down five borders or so before I can safely cross.

Most of the time, I'm okay with that. But some days, when it's 115 out, and there are bad spots on the ditch bank (where all the dirt has been washed away, leaving only the concrete edge of the ditch itself, testing my coordination skills to the max), I look at the other side longingly, wishing I could jump.

There was only one place down the entire ditch I ever attempted to jump. There, the concrete had cracked and shifted, creating a little ledge on one side, if you will. When the ditch was only half full of water there, I could land safely on that ledge without having to chance stretching all the way across the thing.

I had to work in this particular spot Friday afternoon. So I braved it and jumped across, safely making it to The Other Side to close the port hole. Coming back?

Not as graceful.

There was a lining of mud that had crept it's way up into my landing ledge. So, as I'm sure you can imagine, as soon as my foot hit it, I slipped. And crashed. Wiped out.

Did I mention this field is also right along a busy road? Routinely traveled by Brandon's friends and fellow farmers? Who drive by honking and waving all the time?

Yeah...

So before I could even fully take in the pain of my wipe out, I scrambled to my feet and ran to the truck, hoping I could make it out of there before anyone we knew saw me.

Once there, this is what I saw:

Ouch. Is all I have to say.

So I immediately called Brandon and told him to never give me a hard time about not jumping ditches again, because clearly, I'm not cut out for it.

I also asked to be placed on the injury list for weekend irrigating.

I'm limping down the ditch bank (and across the bridges) instead.

Other people say y'all. ...Right?

When Brandon and I began our trip to Colorado, he said, "You know, about every other person we'll see up there is from Texas."

"Vacationers or people who have relocated?" I inquired.

"Both."

Indeed, he was right. On a 30 yard stretch of sidewalk in town, there were two people wearing Texas shirts. We passed cars with TCU, A&M and t.u. decals. While eating supper, a couple walked in carrying a baby decked out in t-sip attire.

Seriously. Everywhere you looked, there were signs of Texas. Which didn't bother me at all, of course.

Anyway, the last night of vacation, we were coming down from the mountains and decided grabbing a good burger sounded good.

And it was.

As our waitress was making her final round at our table, she asked Brandon, "Are y'all ready for y'all's check?"

As soon as she left to retrieve it, Brandon told me, "Hundred bucks says she's from Texas."

"Why do you say that?"

"She said 'y'all'."

"Other people say y'all."

"Nooo, noo, no. Not like that. She said 'y'all' twice in one sentence. I'm telling you, she's from Texas."

"Brandon, other people say y'all. I've heard it."

So the waitress returns, check in hand.

Before she even reached our table, Brandon asked, "Are you from Texas?"

"Yeah...why?"

"The 'y'all's'," Brandon replied, "Because she [pointing to me] is too, and thinks other people say it too."

"Oh, yeah," she said with a red face. "Where are you from?"

"Close to Houston," I replied. Because being from Texas does not mean you automatically know where my town is.

"Me too," she said. So, of course, I inquired further.

Turns out, she grew up in Baytown, which is probably 23 miles from my parents' house.

She asked if I was going to Gatorfest this year. Apparently she's a fan.

But seriously, other people say y'all, right?

The perils of vacation

So, we're on vacation.

But actually getting here was about the farthest thing from vacation you can imagine.

Originally, we were supposed to leave pretty early on Saturday.

Well, Friday evening rolled around and there was no way we were getting off the farm Saturday. After we each had crossed about 1000 things off our respective to-do lists, we still had 500 more creep up during the day.

Then Sunday rolled around. We were only supposed to haul a few loads of hay, get our things packed and clean up the wreckage that was the inside of Brandon's truck.

But that, of course, ended up taking until nearly noon.

We finally hit the road sometime around 1pm to settle in for an 8 hour drive to Colorado.

And it actually ended up being a really nice drive. We weren't even antsy to get out until a hour or so from our destination.

We pulled into the town of Durango around 9pm, relieved to finally be on vacation.

Then the trouble began...

About halfway between town and Brandon's family's cabin, we came down a hill, rounded a corner, and saw the lights of a police car flash behind us.

Yep. That was a nice welcome to town.

Turns out the speed limit at the bottom of that hill is 25 mph. Although Brandon was completely convinced his speedomoter registered at 32 when we saw the lights, the lovely public servant insisted we were clocked at 40. And he had no sympathy for vacationers.

Luckily, La Plata County must have insanely inexpensive ciation fees, because we were informed we would only owe the court $75.

Anyway, we were soon back on the road, and both sighed with relief when we reached the door of the cabin. I began unloading the bags while Brandon unlocked the place. We had all of our things sitting on the front porch, but Brandon was still fumbling with the locks.

So I waited...and waited...

Eventually, he decides his key just isn't going to work. I thought he was joking. He was not.

After a quick phone call, we found there was a spare set of keys on the premises. Only the same key we were having trouble with didn't work on that set either.

After climbing onto the back porch that's ten feet in the air (with a boost provided by me) to check the back door, Brandon finally conceded.

So we headed into town to find a hotel room for the night, prepared to call a locksmith the next morning. Neither of which we were excited about.

close to 11pm, when we found it was going to be nearly impossible to find a room for less than $80, one of us (I won't tell you who - that would be gloating) had the bright idea to try to find a 24 hour locksmith. Even with an additional fee for a middle-of-the-night run, we figured by the time we paid for a room and still had to pay the regular fee the next day, we would end up being better off just getting in and being done with it.

So we find Bob the Locksmith in the yellow pages from a phone book dangling from a pay phone outside a Conoco station.

We met Bob back at the cabin around 11:45. we were prepared for a professional to have us inside, in bed, in five to ten minutes.

Turns out this lock was one of the most difficult Bob had ever experienced. Seriously. I was holding the screen door, Brandon had the flashlight, and Bob spent a good thirty minutes grunting and groaning at his work.

Finally, sometime after midnight, the door broke free. I'm pretty sure Bob was just as relieved as we were, maybe even a little more.

Dude worked for that Benjamin.

After profusely thanking Bob, sleeping in, recharging and determining the rest of our vacation will be filled with rest and relaxation, we're feeling good. And completely realize all the hard work leading up to our departure, and the subsequent travel worries were well worth it.

To quote Grandma Mary, "After all the hassle it takes to get up there, when you walk onto the back porch, it doesn't matter, because you're in heaven."

Indeed, Grandma Mary. Indeed.

Becoming my father

A long time ago, I brought up my Dad's idea of a vacation. And how it somewhat differed from the rest of the family's.

While my mom had the four of us kids playing on a beach, swimming in a lake, hiking an Arkansas trail, or otherwise actively engaged in our surroundings, my dad was rocking the camper with his thundering snores.

Seriously. It never mattered to him where we chose to vacation, because to him, it was just a place to nap.

Now, I really don't mean to be giving my dad a hard time. I love that man. And it's not like he wasn't "present" for family time or anything. He was very involved in our childhood.

But you can bet when the sun settled directly overhead and we finished our noon-time meal, there was only one thing left on his agenda.

And I have to admit, there was always something welcoming about returning to the camper in the evening, to the sound of his snores from a quarter-mile away.

As a kid, I never understood this. I mean, vacations are for exploring, checking out a new place, doing things you can't do every day, right?

But as an adult, who actually puts in hard working hours every day of the week, I think I may be changing my tune a bit.

For every bit of my memorable life, my dad has been a small business owner. Which means he never escapes work, and there is always plenty of it for him to do.

Now that Brandon and I are in that boat, his vacation philosophy is starting to make sense.

We're taking a couple days of vacation this week, as long as the farm can remain in operation without us, anyway. This vacation comes after two weeks straight of us both working more than 16 hours a day and sleeping four each night.

And on this vacation? All I'm really looking forward to is getting decent sleep at night.

I understand now, Dad.

What do you think?

Let me just say we've been a tad busy around here. At this point in the craziness, I can't quite remember the last time either of us got a decent nights' sleep.

It has all just been a blur of pipes, ports, shovels, dirt, cement, hay, Round-Up, water and the occasional glorious shower.

Oh, and the mighty fine irrigation boot tan line I am currently sporting.

And really, I'm not complaining. Promise. Just setting the scene so you'll fully know where I'm coming from here.

That said, every day has been filled sleepy eyes and sore muscles.

Tuesday morning, I spent the first full three hours of my day in irrigation boots with a shovel in hand, fighting gopher holes leaking out of our cotton.

They totally won. That's about all that needs to be said.

After three hours of me wading through the mud wielding my shovel, Brandon showed up to move the thirty-some-odd pipes to the next border.

My only request before he arrived was that he came bearing water. And he did. But after helping me for ten minutes, he drank half the water he brought. So there I am, boots full of water and practically parched.

Of course, as soon as we moved the water, we found ten more gopher holes. Since I was clad in the irrigation boots, I was still the wader, stomper and shoveler. Only this time, with him providing instruction.

Finally, after I had one plugged, and was leaning on my shovel huffing through every breath, I told him, "Well, you've been saying I should work out my legs more.* I think this morning qualifies."

"So are your legs tired? You really think you gave them a good work out?"

This, as I was standing in a foot-and-a-half of mud, water currently pouring into my boot.

He received a cold stare in return.

And a solid two minutes later, "What do you think?"

*These remarks were solely related to hunting. With the amount of hiking we do, it is imperative to have legs in decent condition. I've been attending an exercise class, but we focus a lot more on abs, arms and cardio than legs. So he's been complaining that my class is not helping out in the hunting/hiking department at all.

It's official.

Scorpion breeding ground now open.

We welcome them all. Large and small, yellow and brown, ceiling hangers and floor dwellers; our doors are open.

We might as well post a sign with these words. That way, at least we would have a disclaimer when a friend unsuspectingly met one of our new house guests.

I know, I know. It was pretty obvious last week that we needed to spray this place down. It just didn't get done. But, Brandon has gone on a killing rampage since then.

Which has only provided more evidence in defense of bug killer.

Saturday, he looked up from the sandwich he was enjoying at lunch to find a big one hanging right over his head.

That night, upon returning from a 12:30am irrigation, he killed three more outside, and labeled one as an "escapee."

Sunday night, another dead one.

There were a couple more in there somewhere. We've been trying to keep a tally on the white board in the kitchen, but we can't keep up.

Visitors beware...

Another example of underestimation

I may or may not have already made fun of told a story about Brandon and his knack for underestimating home improvement projects. Or, anything we do for that matter.

Last weekend, he and a buddy, who told us he in no way wanted to be part of this "blog thing," (we still love you, Travis — oops!) worked on replacing the wood floor area in the entryway of our house.

No big deal for a pair of strapping young men, right?

Of course.

Now, Brandon did tell me before they began that he suspected it would take them a lot of time, probably an entire day, to remove the old floor and grind/sand/scrape/clean all the glue off the concrete underneath. (Yes, the dude who built our house glued down wood flooring. In case you're wondering, you cannot find a square corner or level wall in this place. But we love it anyway.)

But, beyond that, he said, "Once we finally start laying down the new stuff, I bet we'll have it finished in no time. Two to three hours, I bet."

Now, not to discourage my husband who was, after all, taking on the role of handyman, I kept my eye rolling and laughter at his unrealistic optimism internal.

So they began.

And it did take an entire day for the floor removal and subsequent cleanup. So he was right on target there.

But it also took an entire day to start laying down the new flooring.

To give Brandon credit, if you fast forward two days, to Day Four of the Flooring Project, it did take two to three hours.

To lay down the very last row of planks.

It's okay, I'd take this handyman any day. As long as I don't have to start paying by the hour.

Bow owner rule number one

I got a bow for my 25th birthday.

(I wanted it, ladies, don't be alarmed. I have lime green and hot pink zebra-striped wraps and fletching on my arrows, if that makes it better.)

I've been pretty good about shooting it as often as possible. For the first week-and-a-half, I shot it every evening, and this week I've probably averaged every other day.

So, at this point, you could very well say I've shot this thing quite a bit.

The bow shop set it at 37 pounds the day we bought it. You have to be shooting at 40 pounds to hunt with it in Arizona. Which means I have to get three pounds stronger before I can even think about killing anything.

Last night, we were both out shooting after supper, and Brandon mentioned something about us getting archery deer tags in August if we don't draw a tag for the fall.

I asked, "August? Like, this August?"

"Well, yeah."

"Do you really think I'll be ready by then? And I have to get to 40 pounds first."

So he asked for my bow to bump it up three pounds. I mean, let's not worry about moving gradually or anything.

As I was walking over, I looked down at my string, and noticed a few places were starting to look a little gray and frayed-like.

"Hey, why is my string turning gray here?" I asked my hunting mentor.

"What? Let me see...Oh, I never told you to wax your string, did I?"

"No, you didn't. If you had, I would have done it. Is that what's wrong?"

"Yep. You're supposed to wax your string."

"How often? I've shot it a bunch."

"Oh, pretty often."

"Brandon! That's probably Bow Owner Rule Number One, and I didn't even know it!"

"Yeah, you're probably right..."

So now I'm in the market for a new hunting mentor. If he steered me wrong on rule number one, how can I be sure about all the rest of them?

They have returned...

By the end of last summer, we had found a ridiculous amount of scorpions in and around our house. And by ridiculous, I think we were on about number 67.

It's amazing we only ended up with one sting. (Brandon would probably disagree on how amazing that was.)

We started finding them during spring break last year, while my parents were visiting, of course. In fact, my mom, of all people, was the person who spotted that first scorpion. Luckily, we got her out of here before the invasion began.

So this year, as soon as it warmed up, we were prepared to once again become a breeding ground for those suckers.

Brandon started hunting them with our blacklight flashlight and whatever screwdriver, wrench or pocket knife happened to be handy.

But, much to our surprise, he wasn't finding anything. In the past four months, I would venture to say we hadn't killed five of them.

We found out this weekend they must have just been waiting on it to hit 117 degrees.

Because last Friday? We found two inside our house during the day.

Brandon, being the Master Scorpion Hunter he is, knew these two sightings were not random. So, after a 2am irrigation run, he went on a little hunt.

And sure enough, he ended up finding four right around the outside of our house, two at the shack, and one more in a pile of steel by our barn.

I woke up the next morning to a pink Post-It on the fridge tallying up his kills, totaled at "9 DEAD Scorpions."

Brandon says it's time to spray now. I agree.

What does cooling down mean to you?

To me, "cooling down" means some sort of cool front is going to move through.

To Brandon, apparently it just means below 110.

All my praise for the wonderfully long, cool spring we had in Arizona didn't get me anywhere with Mother Nature. She brought summer back with a vengeance. We've been battling temperatures ranging from 112 to 117 all week. No lie.

When you go to Weather.com, after you get past the heat alert warnings, there's a box that provides the "Comfort Index." Ours has a red box with the word "Uncomfortable" next to it. Understatement, I believe.

We were discussing the heat last night, since we've both been out and about in it all week, and Brandon said, "I heard it's supposed to cool down this weekend though."

Me, getting excited, "Really!? How much?"

"I think it's only going to be 108, maybe even 105."

"Seriously? That's 'cooling down' to you?" I was not impressed.

"Well, at least it's not humid."

And he is right about that. We may have high temperatures, but you can get comfortable in the shade. This time of year back in Texas? Pretty much unbearable.

A couple days ago, I was listening to the news on the radio while heading out to irrigate at 4:30am, and the weatherman said, "It's going to be a hot and humid one today."

And I laughed. Out loud. Because these people have no clue.

One day last week, there was only three percent humidity here. I didn't know humidity could even go that low. Back where I'm from, it was probably 93%. Those are the kind of numbers I'm used to.

But, as Brandon always tells me, "You're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

I'm telling you...

I can't recall a time in my life where I wasn't familiar with this phrase.

Examples of conversations you might hear in Texas:

"Man, it's a hot one today"

"I'm telling you."

"That was one good steak right there."

"I'm telling you."

"Whew! That was a long sermon today."

"I'm telling you."

"Those boys played a good game of football last night."

"I'm telling you."

You get the idea...

Apparently this little phrase was never popular in the West.

It kills Brandon.

Every time I say this, he's all, "No, actually, I was telling you."

And then a few seconds later..."I just don't get it. It doesn't even make sense. I was the one talking. How were you telling me anything?"

It wouldn't really be a big deal, but this particular Texas root is so ingrained in me that it seems we have this conversation every. single. day.

And probably always will...

Right side up, or upside down?

Another day, another burrito.

I feel like that's all we've been eating lately. I vow that will change today.

It's just that we have sweet corn overload, and the only way I can think to incorporate it into breakfast (because we pretty much have to eat it at every meal) is to add it to a breakfast burrito.

Then, we were in a hurry to put together some lunch yesterday, so I dumped some leftover steak, onion and bell pepper (from the philly cheesesteak sandwiches we made over the weekend) into a skillet with some chili powder, and called it good for making a fajita burrito.

In the process of assembling our lunch, Brandon was kind enough to retrieve us each a tortilla and sprinkle some cheese on top.

Only, he sprinkled cheese on the "outside-side" of my tortilla. You know, the side that clearly looks cooked, and has some darker brown bubbled-up looking spots on it, as opposed to the smooth, solid white inside.

So I quietly tried to remove the cheese from my tortilla, flip it over, and place it on the "inside-side" before he turned around. But I got caught.

"Did you really just do that?" he asked.

"Do what?" knowing exactly what he was talking about, just not wanting to be ridiculed for it.

"Switch your cheese to the other side of the tortilla. Like it really mattered what side it was on."

"Well, no, it doesn't really matter, it's just that...this side is the inside of the tortilla, and you had put the cheese on the outside. I like to make my burritos with the stuff on the inside."

Rolling his eyes... "You are so anal when it comes to food. Who really pays attention to the 'inside' and 'outside' of a tortilla? Have you always been like this?"

"Well, with some tortillas, it's harder to tell which is which. But anytime I have a tortilla where you can clearly tell it has an inside and an outside, yes. They fold better to the inside."

He had really never thought about a tortilla having an inside and outside before. Something I found hard to believe. Just as much as he found it hard to believe that thought had actually crossed my mind.

So, does anyone else think there's an inside and an outside to a tortilla? Or is Brandon right about me being "anal" about how I eat my food?

It'll boil out.

So, we picked some sweet corn yesterday.

A neighbor farmer grew some in the middle of his corn silage and invited us to gather our fill of the stuff. Which, unsurprisingly, turned into an event.

Where I learned a little something about myself.

First, my Easter egg hunting skills do reflect how I handle tasks such as corn pickin'. Translation: I am slow. For every five ears Brandon picked, I added one to my bucket.

To be fair, though, I was also more selective.

I also found out last night I might have a little more of my mother in me than I thought.

You see, my family sits on quite opposite sides of the fence went it comes to food safety.

My dad? Well, let's just say he's probably never even tried to find an expiration date on any sort of food item before consuming it. (Which he regretted once, after a battle with food poisoning from some old cheese in a can. But not enough to change his habits.)

My mom, on the other hand? She's more likely to throw something out two weeks before it expires, and would be more than happy to toss out supper leftovers that aren't eaten by breakfast the next morning.

I tend to lean toward my Dad's line of thought: I test expiration dates (although I do check them, and heed their warning), and eat leftovers well beyond the bounds of a normal person.

My sister typically is more on my mom's side of the spectrum, but not quite as dramatic about it.

And my brothers? Well, they're currently in the typical teenage boy "eat everything in sight" phase, so I'm not really sure where they stand.

Anyway, back to the corn pickin'. So we're trotting along, and Brandon mentions that he's seeing a lot of worms in the ears we're picking through.

I say, "Well, you're not getting those, are you?"

"Sure I am. "

"Brandon, no way am I eating a wormy piece of corn."

"Well you don't eat the worm. It'll boil out."

"So, what? I pick the worm off and throw the corn in the pot?"

"Exactly. It'll be fine."

I was still skeptical, and left with a slight churning in my stomach at the thought.

This morning at breakfast, we were both ready for some of our freshly picked sweet corn, so I decided to get a skillet of burrito fixin's going with some diced potatoes, onion, Rotel, sausage and sweet corn. (And an egg on the side for me.)

When it was time to slice some corn off the cob to add to the skillet, I reached into one of our bags, and came out with an ear Brandon had already chomped into to "test" it. I unwrap the husk a bit, and there sits a fat, juicy worm.

I tried, y'all.

I really did.

My stomach just couldn't handle throwing those particular kernels in the skillet. So I dug around until I found two worm-free ears.

When Brandon came in the kitchen, I told him I just couldn't eat his wormy ears of corn.

Once again, he resorted to his comment, "It'll boil out."

So, who's with me? Do I just sound prissy? Or does anyone else find it a bit disgusting to gnaw on an ear of corn a worm inhabited just prior to boiling?

A night of dancing

For some strange reason, Brandon and I have been watching movies pretty regularly here lately, staying up way past our normal bedtime to finish them.

Granted, most of them have titles like Extreme Bulls or Texas Predator Pursuit or Dead On, Elk and Coues, but occasionally, a Redbox rental slips in there.

And, sometimes, like last night, we pull one out of our extensive DVD collection. Meaning we have an entire 23 non-hunting DVDs to our combined name, including a couple of duplicates, and one titled Slim in 6. We have more VHS tapes than DVDs (even though neither of us has owned a VHS player in ten years).

With a collection like that, let's just say at this point, we've seen them all. Multiple times.

With one exception.

Last night, it was Brandon's idea to watch a movie, but he told me to go get one out.

"A hunting one, or a regular one?" I politely asked.

"I don't care. Your pick."

So I rummaged through the movie drawer. Which took all of about 45 seconds. At the very front, I found the only movie one of us hadn't seen.

Dirty Dancing.

I figured it was about time Brandon joined the rest of the world and at least knew what people were talking about when he heard Patrick Swayze's famous line, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

And so we watched it. Brandon's defense? He watched it "for the dirty, not the dancing."

But he ended up being pretty impressed with Patrick Swayze's dance moves. Which means he knew nothing of his career in dance.

As we were climbing into bed, he said, "You know, with Patrick Swayze being able to dance like that, I wonder why they never have him on Dancing with the Stars."

"Probably because he's dead."

"Nah-uh! When did that happen?"

"Uh, last year."

Apparently those headlines don't come across talk radio in the tractor cab.

Days to remember

When we picked our wedding date (as in, finally found one that worked for both families and a preacher), Brandon was pretty excited.

We were married on June 7, 2008.

As in, 06.07.08.

He was all, "This is going to be so easy to remember. I'll never forget it!"

And to top it off, my birthday is exactly two weeks later, so it's quite possible to celebrate both at the same time and that sort of thing.

Anyway, he thought he had it made with an easy-to-remember date, and a birthday close behind.

Last year, my birthday gift was him driving me to West Texas to meet my family for the weekend. Which was quite generous, when you take into account the 15-hour drive. One way.

So this year, as June approached, I mentioned how much I loved my birthday gift last year, and we talked about trying to make a Texas trip again this year in honor of the occasion.

The only problem? We farm. Therefore, have no predictable, plan-in-advance schedule for both of us to leave for a few days.

So we sat back and waited to see what the June calendar might bring to our program of activities around this place. Around the first of the month, Brandon called me ten minutes after he left the house to change some irrigation water one night.

"Hey, so I was just going through all this in my head, and we're going to finish the water on the cotton on [this date], we'll have the new grass done on [that date], and we'll have all the alfalfa done on [this date]. Tell me one thing we have to do after June 5th! Nothing! Ha!"

"Brandon, I have Vacation Bible School the 7th through 11th."

"What? Why would you do that? That's your birthday! You've been telling me for two months you wanted to go to Texas for your birthday! How we can we go to Texas if you're doing Bible school?"

"Brandon, Dear, that's not my birthday. It is another important day for you to remember, but it's not my birthday."

"Oh...it's the 21st...yeah...our anniversary..."

"But I do appreciate it. It was a very nice try. Thank you."

Brandon, deflated: "Yeah..."

So, note to any men: while having both your anniversary and significant other's birthday in the same month can be convenient and helpful for remembering, it also increases the chance you get the two mixed up.

'Cause I'm a man

Yeah...

This is the new catch phrase in our house. Well, for one of us, anyway.

But seriously, here lately, anytime Brandon completes a task around the house, it's usually followed up with this line.

For instance, let's say he opens something that was screwed on tight, and I say, "Wow, you made that look easy."

He responds with, "'Cause I'm a ma-an."

Or, I tell him way to go on smoking the pigeon he just nailed with the BB gun in our barn.

He says, "It's 'cause I'm a ma-an."

Better yet, I simply tell him he looks handsome on our way out to church.

You guessed it: "'Cause I'm a ma-an."

I guess sometimes we just all feel the need to state the obvious.

Or inflate our egos a bit.

"I'll be there in no time."

We were farming in style last week with a just-entered-into-production John Deere test tractor one of Brandon's good buddies hooked us up with.

Let's just say we don't have anything that even compares.

When a friend stopped by to ride along with me and check it out, I said, "Step into my office," as he entered the cab.

Because y'all, that's exactly what it felt like. It was spacious, held two computer screens (one for the GPS, the other for the tractor itself), a digital screen for speed and RPM, a pretty crazy stereo system complete with an MP3 player, and who knows what else.

The first day I was supposed to take full reins on driving this sucker, I, of course, beat Brandon to the field. I gave him a call, and he said he was just pulling out of the shop. The shop that is more than ten miles away.

I was a bit antsy and didn't want to sit and wait for him to drive a tractor that far. So I asked if I could drive through the bank and run another errand until he arrived.

He said, "Katie, this thing flies down the road. I'll be going 26 miles a hour. I'm going to be there in no time."

And that's when I knew something was officially wrong with us.

When I heard my husband say he would be flying down the road at a whopping 26 miles per hour.

Wow.

The second best anniversary gift ever

Since Brandon already declared my laundry duties as the best anniversary gift ever, I think it's safe to say that what I found waiting on my kitchen counter that evening was the second best anniversary gift ever.

First, I saw this:

Granted, it's not quite as detailed and artistic as the card that awaited me on our first date, but who complains about this sort of display of affection?

Then I opened it to find these sweet words:

In case you have trouble, it reads:

"To: Katie

I love you so much I didn't want to waste your money on a store card!

Love, Brandon"

And just in case he hadn't satisfied my desire for thriftiness enough, there was the clear evidence he had used recycled printer paper from our days at A&M:

A man after my own heart for sure...

And this, folks, is why we're going to live happily ever after. Just give us some clean underwear, a highlighter and old paper, and we have the best anniversary ever.

The best anniversary gift ever

So, yesterday we celebrated two years of wedded bliss.

And, according to Brandon, I gave "the best anniversary gift ever".

Anyone who knows me well is probably a bit confused by this, because you know I am completely anti-anniversary gifts. No joke. And it's not one of those girl moves, where I just say that, but secretly hope for a surprise.

My point on that being: it's a day for us to celebrate the fact we are together; neither of us deserve an individual gift for that. And also: if either of us has to go above and beyond with some sort of grand gesture on that day, we're probably not doing something right the rest of the year. So we just try to spend as much time together as possible during the day, whatever that may be (last year, it meant I accompanied Brandon on the swather all day).

But I digress...

It all started the day before, actually, when Brandon entered the kitchen and announced he was on his last pair of clean underpants.

Which probably gives no indication of the good little wife I really am. But that's okay.

Not wanting my dear husband to suffer the consequences of opening an empty drawer the next day, I found time between my water changes to wash a couple loads of work clothes and accompanying undergarments.

So when Brandon met me in the office Monday morning, he thanked me for "the best anniversary gift ever".

"Um, what's that?" knowing I had nothing planned to "give" him in honor of our vows.

"Clean underwear," he proudly announced.

And there you have it, y'all. The best anniversary gift ever.

Our definition of a fun-filled weekend

I've gotten in the habit of keeping a stock of pre-made hamburger patties in our freezer (one of three). Every few months, I make up a batch of about 60 with a combination of ground elk and old cow beef.

We used our last package of four from the previous batch while Allison was visiting. When I was getting out the piece of halibut we had for supper Tuesday night, I noticed the hamburger shelf was empty.

I told Brandon, "I need to make a new batch of hamburger patties this weekend. Yep, that's what I'm going to do. Make a batch of hamburger patties and a few loaves of banana bread."

Brandon: "So let me get this straight. While everyone else is taking a long weekend and doing things like going to the lake, having cookouts and drinking cold drinks, we're going to be..."

Me: "Irrigating and making hamburger patties?"

Brandon: "Yeah, sounds like fun."

Anyone want to join us?

One of my favorite meals

After supper last night, I did the unthinkable.

I ate ice cream without Brandon.

And boy, he let me know it.

I mean, I was ten feet from him the whole time — he could have mentioned he wanted some. Instead, he waits until I finish, then complains about how "we didn't sit down and eat it together" and how "it was rude to eat it right in front of him and not make him a bowl".

Because, you know, I'm the only one who can open the freezer.

Anyway, he finally got his bowl of ice cream, and added a few fresh peaches his grandma had sent home with us earlier that day.

And I joined him on the couch while he ate, so he wouldn't feel alone.

Pretty soon, he said, "This is one of my favorite meals right here. Fresh peaches and good vanilla ice cream."

"Meals, really?"

"Well, you know what I mean. And by good vanilla, I mean it has to have the bean in it."

And by that, he means Blue Bell's Natural Vanilla Bean flavor. I'm more of a Homemade Vanilla kind of girl.

Which is another battle for another day...

What happens when the wind blows

We had one of those desert days with crazy hurricane-like winds on Sunday.

So, what do a farmer and his wife do in weather conditions like that? Assuming there's no irrigation water running, of course.

They sleep in. Not like 7am sleeping in. Like, "I-can't-remember-the-last-time-I've-ever-slept-that-late" sleeping in.

They make a big breakfast. That's right, we had Brandon's favorite — pancakes and sausage gravy. (I know. I don't get it either. I actually just had pancakes and a couple sausage patties. We put our gravy on a biscuit in Texas. I told Brandon there was just something not right about pouring it over a pancake.) And sat at the table to eat it, not on a to-go plate in the car.

They get to church on time. Since there was no work to be done beforehand, we did the impossible. We got to walk in the middle door (not the side one they leave open for late arrivals).

They go to Cabela's. Brandon is borrowing a bow for his elk hunt this fall, and needed to get some adjustments made. Had we not had this break, he probably would have been doing this in August. And, we had a lunch date there.

They watch TV. We caught up with the rest of the world and finally watched the season finale of Grey's Anatomy on the laptop.

They watch hunting movies. Our choice that day was "Awesome Bulls 1&2" — all about some archery elk hunts, which is exactly what Brandon will be doing this fall. Hey, you've got to take time to prepare.

They eat ice cream. Yep, that's what we had for supper. Pistachio and Almond for me, Natural Vanilla Bean for Brandon.

They talk about doing bookwork. We both had some things to work on in the office, none of which actually got accomplished.

They go to bed early. And so ends a day of high winds, with the windows open, trees rustling and gusts howling.

Always somethin'

Not all that much is going on around here, really.

We're kind of just sitting back, waiting on the barley and wheat to be harvested. Then we'll kick into gear for a bit to get 80 acres of cotton planted right behind the barley. Which should be fun. (For a few hours.)

Of course, the hay harvest is cranking, but we're still a little behind, based on all the calls Brandon has been getting lately. Thanks in large part to this little guy.

And, we're trying to get our sunflowers pollinated.

Which is proving to be a bit more of a challenge than last year.

Last year, our germination was the problem. So we spent a lot of time, planning and effort (and money) this year to combat that issue.

And we did. We probably have twice as many sunflowers in the field this go around.

The problem? Our female plants took a lot longer to open up this year, and the male plants we replanted didn't really come up all that well. So now we're expecting a pollen shortage. Which is not good.

We were talking about this whole process while walking through the field last week.

When we finished, I said, "It's just always somethin', isn't it?"

Brandon: "Sure is. It sure is..."

And it is. Just as soon as you think you have one thing figured out, something else changes.

You get your irrigations timed right, and you should have made a slight fertilizer adjustment. You wait a couple days to cut hay because there's rain in the forecast, and then the wind blows for three days and makes it dry. You make a bunch of light hay bales, and the next round of calls is asking for heavy ones. You get a good contract price on your grain, and it goes up the next week (this one actually worked in our favor this year, which was nice).

Anyway, you get the idea.

But it's okay. We're learning. And one of these days, we'll have it all figured out.

At least for a day.

The one thing Allison wanted to do

When I picked Allison up from the airport Saturday morning (long story on that — basically, she had a cancelled flight on Friday that forced her to sleep on a cot in DFW and board a plane at 7 the next morning), we were discussing what all we wanted to do that day.

She said, "Well, there is one thing I want to see while I'm here."

Me, a little nervous about meeting this request, since it's the one thing she's asking for, "What's that?"

"I want to see a really big cactus."

Me, relieved, "Oh. Sure. No problem."

"Like, one that's bigger than me."

"Yeah, pretty sure we can handle that one."

As we got closer to my house, she also informed me she would like to see Wilbur on the roof.

I told her that could probably be arranged. He had spent the entire day before running around up there.

We got her picture with a cactus that fit her specifications on Sunday right outside church:

While taking this picture, she said, "I'm not sure how to pose with a cactus."

I think she did a fine job.

And she was able to snap a few pictures of Wilbur on the roof later that day too.

We were happy to make her trip so eventful and fulfilling...

When there's nothing better to talk about than the weather...

I really don't think I've told enough people how ridiculously fantastic the weather has been out west this year.

Like, pretty unbelievable.

To add some perspective, my parents visited during their spring break last year. And I'm pretty sure it was over 100 degrees every day. The second week of March. But hey, it's a dry heat, right?

Until you step out of the shade and feel like you just walked into an oven, anyway.

Needless to say, summer began March 1st last year, and it was a scorcher.

But this year? Here we are, May 21st, without a single climb into the triple digits. Granted, they're predicting today's high to be 103. But just for one day. By Monday, it's supposed to be back down to 85 (when some "unseasonably cool low pressure moves in").

I almost can't believe it. I think I even told my sister a couple weeks ago, "You know, it's time to be in the hundreds, it really is." She's in Kansas, and our temperatures have been rivaling hers, which is just plain amazing.

Brandon came in from work last night with a damp shirt. It had been so long since this happened, I assumed he had simply gotten wet from a water hose or something, and continued to greet him with the usual hugging. Thought nothing of it.

Then, five minutes later, while he was taking off his boots, he was all, "This is the first time I've sweated in probably six months."

"Oh...that's what that was on your shirt. I almost forgot that happened."

"I know. It's been so cool out, I almost forgot what it felt like."

So I washed my hands...

But really. A farmer...in the desert...who hasn't experienced sweat in six months? Crazy.

Two days ago, I was pitching in some physical labor, and told Brandon, "You know, this spring in Arizona could have made some arguments for global cooling."

Then he made fun of me. Apparently that same sentiment has been all over the media for months. But since we don't have TV and I haven't been driving a tractor to listen to the radio all day, I had no idea.

Anyway, all that to say, this was the spring to visit Arizona. So we're really glad Allison made it out just in time.

*I do realize that as soon as I click "publish" the forecast will immediately shift to 115 for the next four months.

Anticipating a visitor

My dear friend Allison arrives on Friday for a fun-filled weekend in the desert. Brandon seems to be quite concerned with her visit the last few days.

Strangely, every comment he has made has revolved around what she'll be eating.

First, last week, I received strict instructions on her diet: "You better feed her good while she's here."

Like I had any intentions of feeding her poorly.

Then later, he expanded: "Let's not feed her any elk. I mean, she'd eat it, and she'd like it okay, but she wouldn't be like, 'Man, this is good.' We should feed her some halibut or something like that."

While looking through our fridge one afternoon: "You should go grocery shopping before Allison gets here. We don't have many good things in here."

And finally, after buying two half-gallons of Blue Bell ice cream, bringing the total in our freezer to five flavors: "What? It's for Allison."

He has also grilled me on what I plan to cook for supper Saturday and Sunday night. Both answers were followed up with: "And you're sure she'll like that?"..."Okay, good. That'll work."

Which is kind of funny because this girl is anything but a picky eater. In fact, both of us are a little annoyed by picky eaters. I really can't think of anything I could set in front her that she wouldn't touch. This is why we get along so well.

Although, I'm still trying to convince her that Red Lobster is not good seafood. These poor people who don't grow up on the coast...

So Allison, rest assured, Brandon will see to it your tummy is happy while you're here. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's all he's concerned about.

There might be a scorpion in your bed, but you'll eat well.

With four flavors of Blue Bell to choose from for dessert.

A hairy tale

Right now, my hair is probably the longest it has ever been. Ever. The last time it was even close, I was in first grade.

Needless to say, this is by far the longest it has been since I've known Brandon.

It all started by accident. We were just really busy for a while and I missed my regular three month interval trim or cut (you know, whichever one suits my fancy that day). Then it got super close to my sister's wedding, and I had never had an "up-do" in my entire life, so I thought I'd just let it get a little longer for that.

Anyway, for the first time I can remember, I can currently put my hair in a ponytail without any of those fuzzy hairs hanging down on my neck.

And I'll be honest, the prospect of being able to do this during an Arizona summer is quite appealing.

So I can't quite decide what to do. A few days ago, I sought Brandon's advice.

Brandon: "You need to cut a minimum of three inches."

Me: "What?! Seriously? Three inches?! That'll be half my hair."

"Katie, have you looked in the mirror lately? Three inches would put it right at your shoulders."

"No way! Really?"

So we measured...

Sure enough.

Me: "So my shoulders are the cut off, huh?"

Brandon: "I just think you look better with short hair. Well, let me say it like this: it's less time you're running that dumb hair dryer, it's less hair I have to move out of my face when we go to bed, and it's less hair I have to clean out of my shower drain."

Point taken.

"It'll only take 30 minutes."

These are the infamous words of Brandon Leister. But I'll tell you a little secret: it never only takes 30 minutes.

Never.

I've had a lot of experience with this in the past two years, so it doesn't really bother me all that much anymore. I expect it. And anytime I hear those words, I inflate them in my head to something more like two hours and 30 minutes. So it's really not a problem.

Most of the time, anyway. I'll be honest.

So we had a water line out in our barn break. Not yesterday or anything. More like two weeks ago.

It was right outside the dog pen, so naturally, I found it. I immediately called him and asked him if he could take a look at it the next time he was at the house.

Three days later, he finally sees it. "Wow. That's bad."

"Yeah, that's kinda why I asked you to take a look at it."

So he decides to turn off the water to the barn temporarily until he can fix it. Only you can't turn off the water to just the barn. You have to turn off all our water.

So, both of us knowing full well it will be a while before he can get to it, we leave the water line spewing everywhere.

Now I will give him this: he left town for about a week the day after he inspected this problem. Saying he would fix it first thing when he got back.

And what did he say about fixing it?

"It's easy. It'll only take 30 minutes."

"Oh, so maybe a couple hours, maybe a couple days?"

"No, I'm telling you. I know exactly what to do. 30 minutes. Tops. The only problem is the water will have to be off a couple hours to fix it."

"Brandon, I have full confidence you can fix it easily. It's just that something always goes wrong, we won't have quite everything you need, you know how it goes..."

So when I got home from exercise class Thursday evening, I noticed he was out at the barn. I don't know how long he had been out there, but it was long enough to dig a huge hole and rip out some pipe. I'm guessing at least 30 minutes.

When I approached him, he said, "So, it's not really what I thought it was."

And I laughed.

So I made a trip to Lowe's that evening while he was out changing some water, and the two of us worked on it Friday morning.

For more than 30 minutes.

Because sometimes, you know, things just take a little longer than you expect.

Or at least longer than Brandon expects.

Why this marriage works

One morning way back before we said, "I do," (I know, an eternity ago, right?), I was over at Brandon's place for breakfast. With his roommates. Whom we promptly kicked out June 1, 2008. (Well, one of them took some prodding. But that's an entirely different story.)

I ended up toasting a couple of bagels. But while I was lathering them with cream cheese, I had what has become one of the biggest revelations in our relationship.

I was so not looking forward to eating the top half of my bagel. I'm just more of a bottom half kind of girl. They're not as thick and get more crispy when you toast them.

Brandon, on the other hand, likes the bigger, softer, thicker top half. Partially due to the fact he would rather "warm" the bagel than fully "toast" it.

So, I had the best idea ever.

"Hey, since I like the bottom half, and you like the top half, I'm going to give you both tops, and I'll eat the bottoms," I proposed.

"Oooookayyy," Brandon responded with an arched eyebrow, clearly not seeing this as the grand revelation it was.

Then I said, "You know, this is why this marriage is going to work."

"Because you like different parts of a bagel?" a roommate asked (the one who required the prodding).

"Exactly."

And you know, it's true. Just on a more figurative level than literal. But we don't like to get all mushy and philosophical on here.

A multitude of Katie moments

So I mentioned how Brandon has dubbed a few events around here as "Katie Moments".

These can range from simple "duh" and "aha" statements throughout the day, to doing something physically stupid (i.e., walking into walls or other permanent fixtures in our home), to just doing some really dumb things a strong majority of the population avoids by simply thinking through things (such as my consistent ability to lock my keys in vehicles and never having a clue where my phone is).

Well, this past week, we had a plethora of Katie Moments.

We were visiting with a couple friends Wednesday morning, and the whole losing-my-phone issue came up.

We had stayed with them for two nights, and were getting ready to leave. I was talking all about how I just set it down in one room, and five minutes later can't remember which room it was, and just generally leave it behind all.the.time.

Really. It's a running joke around here. Brandon asks me multiple times a day, "Do you have your phone?" Or "Do you know where your phone is?" Because if we wait too long to start looking for it, I really have trouble figuring out where it might be.

Anyway, so I'm recounting all this to these friends, we say goodbye, and get on the road for a two hour drive to our next destination.

20 miles down the road? I start frantically searching through my purse, hunting pack and overnight bag, looking underneath me and the truck seat, then look at Brandon: "I think I left my phone at their house."

Sure enough. Luckily, they were actually headed out in the same direction we were, so we only had to drive halfway back.

Doesn't change the fact that I felt completely dumb. I mean, I was standing there five minutes before we walked out the door talking about leaving my phone everywhere. You would think I would have checked to make sure I had it. Not this girl.

So we get back on the road and continue to our next stop — an overnight stay with another couple.

I make a grocery store run with them and on the five minute drive, I tell them the phone story from earlier that day.

And the next morning? I find out I left my wallet in their car the night before.

Lovely.

So yeah...this is Brandon's life. Good thing he has it together.

The driving skills of a flatlander

It's no secret I'm a flatlander. Straight out of the swamps of Southeast Texas. Where anything above sea level is considered to have "elevation" to it.

In fact, one of Brandon's primary complaints about the area (aside from "it makes him sweat like a hog") is the lack of topography.

But I live in Arizona now, where there are mountains (hence, Brandon's "topography"). Lots and lots of mountains. So to get pretty much anywhere, you have to drive through mountains. Which, until last week wasn't such a big deal. Brandon usually drives when we go anywhere far, and being a native, he has plenty of experience driving through mountains, canyons, valleys, etc.

This girl? Not so much.

Brandon likes to give me a hard time because anytime we get over 1000 feet my ears start popping and I can't hear a thing he says for the next half hour (which, now that I think about it, might not be so bad...).

Anyway, early last week we headed north for a couple days and had to drive separate halfway so I could return to the farm when Brandon went to judge a fair.

Which meant I had my first taste of driving myself through mountains.

As the road first started climbing and dipping, I began to think this little adventure wasn't going to be so bad after all. Brandon called a couple miles in to see how I was doing, since it was my first time and all. I reported all was well.

Then I got to what must have been the daddy mountain. This one was steep, y'all.

I started to climb. Not far in, I had to give my little standard F-150 more gas. And then a little more...and then some more.

You see, I have this "service engine soon" light that's been flashing for about a year now. Whatever is making it do that affects the power my truck has while driving. Or so I've been told, anyway. So I'm thinking my little truck is having trouble because of that.

I accelerate more. And the speedometer falls in the wrong direction.

Pretty soon, my foot is slammed against the floor board. And my speed? At 40 and declining.

I started to panic slightly, imagining my truck slowly powering down before I reached the summit, and rolling backwards uncontrollably down the windy mountain. Not something I really wanted to experience.

I frantically grabbed my phone to call Brandon.

"Something is wrong. I don't know what to do. The accelerator is on the floor, but I'm at 35 and going down. What do I do? I feel like I'm going to start rolling backwards any second."

And after a solid 15 seconds of laughter, he finally answers me: "You have it in fifth gear, don't you? You gotta shift down coming up something like that. You didn't know that?! How could you not know that?"

Me, frustrated: "No, I didn't know that. You have to tell me these things. We just covered the fact that this is the first time I've driven in mountains. I've hardly so much as driven up a big hill, much less a mountain."

"Well, just shift down and get with it. I bet I'm five miles ahead of you now."

I mean really, he could have warned me, right?

P.S. I made it up the mountain (obviously, I guess). In fourth gear.

Going to Texas mode

So I left for Texas last Saturday. And started gearing up at least five days early. I mean, this is a big deal. It's Texas we're talking about.

By Thursday, I was nearly bursting with anticipation.

As soon as Brandon walked into the kitchen that morning for breakfast, I started drilling him.

"What time do you think we need to leave for the airport?"

"Katie, what day are you leaving again?"

"Saturday."

"So maybe we could revisit that question tomorrow night?"

I was okay with that. I'm a fairly reasonable person. I would agree it was a bit premature.

Then he was bombarded with a list of questions concerning all the things I had to get done around here before I could leave, any instructions I had for him while I was away, and I even showed him how I had lovingly arranged the freezer in the kitchen to contain only things he might need while I was away: ice cream, beef hot links and buns, four servings of lasagna, Toaster Strudel, whiskey and so on.

When I finished, he muttered, "Oh, great. It's already started."

"What?"

"Your 'I'm-going-to-Texas' mode. Where nothing else matters until you leave."

And he just might be on to something here...

Another Katie moment

I was out irrigating last week, and noticed a really nasty smell coming from near my truck when I got back in.

Now, I didn't really think much of it. It's pretty common to find dead fish in and around the irrigation ditch, and in the field. So I assumed that was what I was smelling.

But later, upon entering my truck at the opposite end of the ditch, I caught the stench again. It seriously smelled like something had died and was rotting. I would have sworn it was coming from underneath my truck. I had no idea what it could possibly be.

I sent Brandon a message reading, "I think something died under my truck."

I knew it was quite common for cats to climb into engines, so I thought that maybe a neighbor cat had done that, and I had killed it when I started my truck. Logical, right?

Two days later, Brandon was helping me load a mower into the back of my truck, and he smelled it too. At this point, it was awful.

I had brought a bag of trash to dump when I met him, so he thought it was coming from the trash bag. But I told him I had just loaded that bag a few hours before, and the odor had been present for several days.

I dumped the trash bag just a few minutes later. And found the source of the smell.

I called Brandon to let him know.

"You know how I told you it wasn't the trash in my truck that smelled dead?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, it was trash. Just not that trash. It was a plastic bag of fish ribs and scraps from cleaning those fish we caught last week. I put it back there, but forgot about it, and never made it to the dumpster."

"And here we have another Katie Moment."

A Southeast Texas girl's dream

We made a roast a few nights ago. I was running irrigation water all day and Brandon was out and about with other farm duties, so I wanted something that wouldn't take a lot of preparation come supper time.

So crockpot roast to the rescue.

Growing up, my MeMe made a roast, rice and gravy nearly every Sunday. My plate always consisted of a full layer of rice, covered in gravy, with some shredded roast on top.

And that's exactly how I made my plate Tuesday evening.

Halfway through our meal, Brandon asked, with a disgusted look on his face, "That really looks good to you?"

"Heck yeah. It's rice smothered in gravy. That's, like, every Southeast Texas girl's dream."

What did you do to yourself?

When Brandon came in for lunch on Monday, I couldn't even say hello. I think I greeted him with "What in the world did you do to yourself?"

He started out, "Well, I loaded two trucks..."

And I interrupted with, "By hand? With muddy hay bales? Or what?"

He continued, "...And the squeeze broke down on me three times. So I spent most of the morning working on it."

Y'all, this is what he was wearing:

And I really wish I would have captured a head-to-toe shot when he came in. Just imagine his face, arms and pants looking exactly like that t-shirt.

It seriously looked like he had gone out and rolled around on a freshly tarred highway.

I had to wash his hair in the sink before he went back to work, or it would have looked like he died it black.

He had just showered Sunday night before bed, so while washing his hair, I thought out loud, "Wow. This makes twice in the last 12 hours. That has to be some sort of Brandon Leister record."

And because I said that? He'll probably start some sort of silly shower strike. Because that's the person I live with.

Trying to be nice

I'm heading out of town this weekend for a long overdue return to Texas. Okay, so it really hasn't been that long this time. But even a few days away from my two favorite young men is plenty in my book. (Notice I said "young" Brandon. You're my favorite in a different age category.)

I'll be gone a whole four days this time to eat some crawfish with friends and family and watch Morgan's baseball game — my first time to see him in a high school uniform, even though it's the end of his sophomore year. One of many drawbacks to living out west.

Anyway, when I leave for several days, I try to do some cooking and stock the freezer with meal-size leftover portions for Brandon to enjoy while I'm gone.

Because if I don't? Brandon will spend all our hard earned cash in the Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru buying tacos. (Yes, we have very different ideas when it comes to fast food.)

Don't get me wrong. He's a perfectly good cook. He just doesn't take the time anymore. He'd rather be out selling hay or something. Which is fine. It helps pay for all those tacos.

So Sunday night, I made a huge lasagna. Okay, it was really a normal size lasagna. But for two people? That's huge.

We spent this morning irrigating together, then returned home for lunch and some bookwork.

And Brandon just about had a fit when I started making myself a hot ham and cheese sandwich, rather than digging into the leftover lasagna pan with him.

"Well, I want to make sure you have plenty while I'm gone, and we're both having it for supper tonight."

"Oh, great. So I get to eat lasagna for three days. That won't get old."

And now? He'll be lucky if there's a bite left.

Sweet redemption

So I lied.

We're just going to talk about fishing this week.

Because we went again. As I told my sister, "Life is good when you have an employee. One who knows what he's doing, anyway."

And it's true. Life has been good. So good that after we went on a two-day fishing excursion the weekend before Easter, we were able to spend Wednesday on the lake this week.

And the best part? I had some luck this time. I caught the first fish of the day. At the time, I thought this was a bad sign. I had also caught the first fish on our last trip, and only caught two more for the next two days; one of them the last fish.

But I was quickly proven wrong. Around mid-day, Brandon asked how many fish we had so far. Without opening the live well, I quickly informed him we had nine fish in the boat, "Four for me, five for you."

"Really?" he said, "You've been keeping track?"

"Of course. It's in my nature. You thought I wouldn't?"

"Okay, fine. But I don't think you really want to play this game."

"Game on, Buddy."

So I spent the rest of the afternoon falling down by two, catching up, getting up one, then falling behind again. I think our final count for the day was 23 fish caught, with Brandon leading by two.

But, I had some distinguishing factors that I think help even us up.

1. I caught a carp, which although they're nasty and I really didn't want to catch it, Brandon says they're really hard to catch, so I felt kind of good about that.
2. I caught the only two bass of the trip. We were fishing for crappie, but still. Bass are better, and definitely put up more of a fight.
3. Once again, I caught the first and last fish of the day.
4. I caught the biggest, fattest, most full of eggs mama crappie, and I caught her by the throat. I think if we would've counted pounds caught, rather than fish caught, I would have won, or at least been even. And that's what really counts, right?
5. I probably used half as many minnows as Brandon. Where he averaged two casts per minnow, I averaged closer to 20. Seriously. We went through six dozen of the little guys before 3:30pm. So I caught almost as many fish on half the bait.

On the way home I told Brandon, "You know, really, we weren't killing those minnows or using them for bait. We were just assisting them in fulfilling their role in the food chain."

We will also be assisting all those crappie in fulfilling their roles.

Yum.

One last fishing story

We were supposed to leave for the lake at 10am on Saturday. This turned into 3pm. So by the time we got there, all we could do was set up camp and break out the bucket of fried chicken we had picked up to eat on all weekend.

But before we could climb in the tent, Brandon insisted we get all our gear ready so we wouldn't "waste any fishing time" once the sun came up.

So we got back on the boat with a lantern and began assembling our tackle. When you fish with Brandon, you also have to bring a minimum of three rods per person, each set up for a different type of bait, so that, "When you decide to switch, it's ready. There's no down time."

First, I got instruction on how to properly tie on the hook I would be using. Then I had to try for myself. It seemed just fine to me, but when I tugged to check it, the whole line broke. I went on a little rant telling Brandon how I had done it correctly, there was no reason it should have broken, I had no idea what went wrong, and on and on.

Until we realized the problem. I had been holding my pole across the lantern. Heat and fishing line? No good together. My hook was secured just fine. The line had melted.

Then Brandon requested my assistance in tying two different lines together to create a "leader" or whatever it is he called it.

We went through the whole process five or six times, with the line snapping each time. Finally, Brandon said, "Okay, this is the last time, I promise. If it doesn't work, we'll put it up."

Well, it didn't work. But it also wasn't the last time.

Four tries and 20 minutes later, I was completely annoyed, but he had his leader.

And after wasting probably 100 yards of fishing line, we called it a night.

And that's the last thing you'll have to hear about fishing...until our next trip, anyway.

Here we go again...

So, yeah...Brandon got another elk tag this year. Once again, he was one of the fifteen luckiest elk hunters in the state of Arizona.

He and fourteen other hunters will get two weeks at the end of September to sling an arrow at some of the biggest bulls in the state. We're just hoping he comes away with the biggest.

We've already called the taxidermist and asked him to hold off on last year's bull in case this one is bigger. Because we certainly will not have two elk shoulder mounts in our home. We're still trying to figure out where to put one.

But for the time being, I have to live with the guy who drew an awesome elk tag.

Granted, I didn't get pounced on at 2am like last year, but what I had to endure was nearly as bad.

We were on the lake when he found out. We turned a corner into a cove, and Brandon's phone started buzzing like crazy. I think there were a total of nine messages letting him know the draw results were out.

Then we tried to get through on the AZ Game and Fish line, which rang busy three times before Brandon's phone went out of service. We then went through calls and text messages to a friend and his parents, along with 20 minutes of anxiety-inducing waiting, before we finally heard back from his mom.

No tag for me, of course. But Brandon? Brandon had a hunt. An early 23 South archery hunt.

Now, his mom only had the hunt number. So it took five more calls before Brandon found someone with a hunting regulations book to confirm it was indeed the hunt that would warrant all his whooping, hollering, jumping, fist pumping, running around the boat. With other anglers staring.

I'm pretty sure I told him at one point, "Brandon, settle down. Everyone on this lake is going to hate you."

"I don't care. You know why? 'Cause I have an elk tag, baby!"

And I'm pretty sure I'll be hearing that exact statement many times over the course of the next six months.

Lucky me.