It’s not so much that I don’t have a plan for how I want my place to look.  It’s just that these things cost money… and lots of it.  My 900 square feet of blissful young independence could make me go broke faster than Heidi Montag maxing out her credit cards in cosmetic procedures. 

Not even my artistic skills can help the situation.  Supplies are just as much of a problem for my wallet as buying pre-fabricated and mass-produced decor.  Even vintage shopping is pricey – time-consuming and entertaining on a boring weekend – but nonetheless, expensive .

And so I’m reminded of yet another adult reality: things take time.  I’m also reminded of a piece of advice my mother once gave me: marry rich… and stupid.  Thanks, Mom.

I’ve only done a major move like this twice before and those moves were really just warm-ups before the actual race.  Both times I recall a period of kicking and screaming my way there.  You know, the butterflies of excitement, loss of security, the frustration of not understanding where you are or where you want to go (both physically and figuratively speaking, of course).  The second occurrence of folley in question was more prolonged panic- probably because it was a move back to where I grew up (aka: the blackhole of self-identity).  Home has a funny way of giving a false sense of grounding through old familial/friendship roles while also suffocating old dreams in the same breadth. 

But I digress.  I have had a similar period of panic moving to the Big D.  No offense but it’s not exactly a place someone longs to be.  I had worried days and sleepless nights, wondering if this move would benefit my life goals.. and then of realizing “Oh, shit! What are my life goals?!” Doubt over my decisions  inevitably ended in crying like a baby on a few occasions (But of course behind closed doors so that those sadly letting me go would not see me looking completely broken.  Afterall, I’m a tough, young, vibrant, and successful new career woman.  We wouldnt want a moment of weakness to make me look human, now would we?).  I ended up doing things I never thought I would do.  I began stalking old pals on facebook just to feel close to them again (what’s more pathetic is that I am now adicted to that dreadful site I so begrudgingly joined).  I even called home often to (:::gulp:::) hear my parents’ voices.

Now, bare with me. I’m going to bring this home. Promise.

I want to say I heard this from a wise person but I’m thinking it was a movie. Anyways, it was still wise and I’m going to share it with you.  It said that going back to a place you once knew feels different not because things there changed while you were gone but because you changed.  And that little nostalgic feeling in the pit of your gut comes from the realization that you can’t go back to the way things were before you left. 

Somewhere around slash during my holiday trip home I had such an epiphany.  I don’t know if it was the stress of my flight getting canceled, the fear of an old relationship being canceled, or suddenly unfamiliar sights and sounds of a place and people that were once familiar, but I finally realized I was settling into the Big D and that I was (…wait for it…) enjoying the adventure. 

Suddenly this whole losing myself thing felt ok… even good.  I was detertmined to return to Dallas to take advantage of the opportunity to lose myself  for the purposeful intent to change.  I’m not sure if I can accurately articulate how I’ve changed thus far but a vague description would probably go a little something like this: I’m more free.  I’ve been living more by my gut and less by my head.  I’ve been less concerned about what others think of me or how they will feel about the things I say and do.  Most importantly, I’m making more of my life choices just for me.Maybe this is a sign of growing up (pfft. whatever that means).  But I do know it feels great and I’m having a hell of a lot of fun in the process. 

And so boys and girls, here are words of wisdom I leave with you…  I think in life changing moments- the ones where you know from the jump that your life will never be the same as you once knew – you have a choice to become the person you’ve always wanted to be but for one reason or another have talked yourself out of doing.  This requires purposeful thinking about where you want to go, who you want to be, and how you will react to the unexpected.  And this my friends sounds more like finding yourself than losing.  Just turns out it takes one to have the other.

I have joined a brazilian samba class, gone to gallery openings, open mic nights, and bars with great happy hour specials.  I’ve went to drastic measures by attending a young Democrats of Dallas get together to find intelligent liberal folks such as myself (I don’t recommend).   I even have plans to take short trips to places I’ve never been, do things I’ve never done, and nurture my creative side by getting back into things I have neglected for far too long.

So I guess, so far, my existence in the Big D has been eventful and I will admit, down right fun at times.  Not sure I’m in love yet, but I’m getting there.  Plus my stories of my escapades** will be delightful at the next party slash dinner slash visit with friends.

For now, I will have to put up with the wierd looks and the abrasive tonal questions about where I’m from until I hit the friendship Atlantis.  It’s a numbers game… but replace promiscuous sex partners with lots of handshakes and hand sanitizer. 

**random encounters this weekend:  man getting arrested mid-Sunday for public intoxication and two other drunk guys reenacting a football play.  Looked more like the beginnings of a sumo wrestling match.

I got a clue I was right when I came into work in the morning.   We had heartattacks for breakfast. 

Heart attack (function – noun): a sandwich made of rolled stuffed sauage. Stuffed with cream cheese, jalapenos, some other type of ground up sausage and then rolled up and wrapped in bacon.  Prepared in a smoker and then served on hawaiin king rolls.

I was not well the rest of the day.

Randolph the bow-legged cowboy
Had a very shiny gun.
And if you ever saw it,
You would surely make you run.
All of the other cowboys
Used to laugh and call him names.
They never let poor Randolph
Join in any cowboy games.
Then one foggy Christmas Eve
The sheriff came to say,
“Randolph with your gun so bright,
Won’t you shoot my wife tonight?”
Then how the cowboys loved him
And they shouted out with glee,
“Randolph the bow-legged cowboy,
You’ll go to the penitentiary!”

You’re welcome.

• Iranian
• Mexican
• Greek
• Russian
• Portugese
• Brazilian

 And my personal favorite (please follow along in your best Texan accent impersonation): “All I know, is that the tan girl is NOT from Florida.”

Chess pie is a particularly sugary dessert characteristic of Southern U.S. cuisine. Recipes vary, but are generally similar in that they call for the preparation of a single crust and a filling composed of eggs, butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla. What sets chess pie apart from many other custard pies is the substitution of corn meal for flour. Some recipes also call for corn syrup, which tends to create a more gelatinous consistency. The pie is then baked. The result is very sweet and is often consumed with coffee to offset this.

Chess pie is closely related to vinegar pie, and the two terms are often used interchangeably. Vinegar pie generally adds somewhere between a teaspoonful and tablespoonful of vinegar to the above ingredients to “cut the sweetness”.

Although preparation of a pecan pie is similar (with the obvious addition of pecans), pecan pie usually contains corn syrup.

The pie seems to have no relation to the game of chess, which has led to much speculation as to the origin of this term. Some theorize that the name of the pie traces back to its ancestral England, where the dessert perhaps evolved from a similar cheese tart, in which the archaic “cheese” was used to describe pies of the same consistency even without that particular ingredient present in the recipe. In North Carolina and Old Salem Cookery, Elizabeth Hedgecock Sparks argues that the name derives from Chester. One folk etymology suggests that it was referred to as “just pie”, which soon shortened to “jus’ pie” or “jess’ pie,” and then corrupted to “chess pie”. The ingredients support this etymology, as chess pie is identical to the custard “base” for other custard pies that have an additional dominant flavor, such as pecan pie and chocolate custard pie. There is also a theory that the word “chess” pie comes from the piece of furniture that was common in the early South called a pie chest or pie safe. Chess pie may have been called chest pie at first because it held up well in the pie chest.

I’m pretty sure trained assistant canines don’t go nuts with barking fits when they see other dogs.  I’m also confident that they don’t have make-shift harnesses. 

Oh well.  That didn’t stop this guy from taking his fuzzy friend into the local Starbucks.  Nice dog, but not so good with, oh, say opening doors or heeding when directed.

They pose as gang members.  Yes gang members.  These two “thugs” drive through Mexican neighborhoods with their windows down playing Mexican music and flashing gang signs.  Stupid and racist.  Of course, this is the same grown woman who last week just learned that Iceland has people on it.  …yeah.

Anyhow, the council called the meeting to order and asked those in attendance to bring up concerns to the members.  An old woman stood up and posed a case against “blue headlights, or for the savvy kids out there, HID headlights.  Her request?  To ban the use of blue headlights because they’re much brighter than regular lights and therefore are blinding and a hazard. 

The council was quick to shove her onto a city employee to answer her concern but the point is the request was hysterically unreasonable.  I was laughing for about 5 minutes straight.  The truth is funnier than fiction. It’s for sure one to go in the old memory book.