When I complain about the once familiar, now foreign, humidity when visiting my family, my dad always had the same response: “It keeps me looking young.”

I used to simply roll my eyes and laugh
at this. But lately, I have unfortunately discovered my old man may have been on to something.

Because he doesn’t look old. But I am starting to.

And the only explanation I can possibly conjure up for that is the desert.

When I moved here, I was complimented on my “nice” skin. I had never found it to be all that nice myself but my desert neighbors seemed to be impressed.

Then, one fateful day last summer, I looked in the mirror. Like, really looked in the mirror.

And gasped in shock.

Those crow’s feet I had read about in “old lady” magazines? I had them. Laugh lines? Check. The deep creases in my forehead, courtesy of my father’s genetics? Were now permanent lines on my face, even when I wasn’t scrunching my face up.

I immediately called my mother for a wrinkle cream recommendation.

“Katie, you’re too young for that. You can’t possibly have wrinkles that bad,” she said, trying to reassure me.

But she was two states away. She could not see my face. She had no idea what I was dealing with.

“Yes, Mother. I agree I am too young for this. That is why I am having a mild meltdown about it. But trust me, I have them.”

Here we are, nearly one year later, with only more wrinkles.

On one of my recent Texas trips, I made my mother actually look at my face. Because she kept insisting it was not possible for me to have all the wrinkles I claimed when I brought it up.

I invited her in for a closer look at my adult face, since she clearly only remembered the soft, childish skin I left the swamp possessing.

And you want to know what she said after staring at my crow’s feet for a solid 47 seconds?

“…oohh…”

That’s it. But I’m pretty sure it spoke volumes.

I made a trip to Texas for an extra long weekend last week. I mean, people talk about taking a long weekend when they depart on Thursday, so departing on Wednesday would just be an extra long weekend, right?

It was quite a successful trip to add to the books.

I met my niece and played with my nephew, who I hadn’t seen in ten months.

I watched my brothers show their heifers at the county fair. (And win Grand Champion F1 and Reserve Champion Senior Showmanship, I might add.) And we celebrated my baby brother’s 17th birthday two weeks late by eating crab.

Yes, I am indeed the oldest child.

I saw my other two favorite high school seniors show goats for the last time (and take home another showmanship win).

I witnessed my cousin’s nuptials.

I spent time with all three of my closest Texas friends, all of whom went out of their way to visit me. (Unfortunately, I only took a picture with one of them.)

And I spent a very special hour on a drive with this 91-year-old beauty:

So yes, a successful trip indeed. But like all good things, it had to come to an end, and I was back on the farm hauling hay at 10am Monday.

I will admit, by Sunday evening, I was quite ready to get home to that husband of mine. Little did I know what he had in store for me at work.

Surprisingly, I entered a home with clean dishes. This is a praiseworthy event, y’all. Not only does Brandon not mind a sink full of dirty dishes, but he was also having to work around the clock without much help while I was gone. Needless to say, score ten points for him.

Not surprisingly, I entered an office where you could not tell the difference between our desks. This is not normal. Anyone who enters our home for the first time would be able to distinguish between our desks. (And not just because of the Texas A&M Scentsy warmer which adorns mine.)

I had been quite a busy bee myself leading up to my trip, so I had left behind a couple file folders on the surface of my desk. But my return was greeted with a mountain of unopened mail, half opened mail, hay truck records and weight tickets scattered throughout for every truck we loaded while I was gone, fuel receipts from our employees, and what I am convinced must have been every piece of paper to cross his path in the previous five days.

An overwhelming mess, for sure.

I didn’t have a chance to begin sorting through it all until Tuesday morning. As I went through the stack, it went to what I felt were appropriate places:  a stack of incoming mail, things to file, items for Brandon to tend to, hay truck related papers for me to enter, and so on.

But I didn’t really get everything right.

Brandon made his way into the office as I was still sorting and shuffling, and began informing me of each of my well-meaning, yet incorrect, actions.

You see, there was item in that haphazard stack that he still needed to review (I had it in the “file” pile), there were things I had arranged on his desk to review that he apparently had already looked at and now needed to be discarded (who knew?), and so on.

And then later he was asking for some kind of document, which I remembered seeing in the printer tray during my mission, so I let him know that was where it was.

“Katie, I needed you to mail that. Today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I responded, “I was unaware the printer tray was now our ‘To Mail’ box.”

I may have said that with a slight edge. Just maybe.

Later, after we had been through several items like this, I had reached my limit with the ridiculousness of it all, and couldn’t help but laugh while I attempted to decipher the code of business for these things:  ”So, let me get this straight, the printer tray means things need to be mailed, publications on my desk mean they need to be thrown away, the freight invoice with unattached weight tickets mixed into this mess means it needs to be paid immediately, and anything that looks like it needs to be filed on my desk really means you need to look at it first?”

“Exactly,” he stated, straight-faced, not seeing the humor in any of it.

Noted, Husband. Noted.

File this in the box of “weird things you find out after you get married.”

Brandon has sensitive senses.

As in, his senses (hearing, smell, taste, etc.) are more sensitive to, shall we say, stimuli, than what I believe the average person’s tends to be.

For example, if we happen to be getting ready for the day at the same time, I must travel to the hall bathroom to use the hair dryer and hairspray. Because the sound of that hair dryer? Cacophonous to his poor, precious ears. And the scent of any hairspray? Usually something similar to the following:  ”Smells like dirty socks worn by an old man with athlete’s foot for five days then turned inside out to pooper scoop the yard before they were left in a wet laundry bag for a month.” [He also tends to have beyond ordinary skills in the exaggeration department, but that's for another day.]

Those things I can kind of get on board with. The dryer is loud, especially if you’re just getting up in the morning and a non-morning person. No hairspray smells the best, and having board-straight hair, if I’m pulling out the hairspray, you better believe I’ll be spritzing my locks to high heaven.

So I have sympathy in those departments.

But…he can’t stand for me to wear perfume, y’all.

Like hates it. Detests it.

This one, I have an issue with. When he asks why I insist upon wearing “that awful stuff that makes you stink,” I try to explain that a little splash of good-smelling stuff just makes me feel pretty.

He doesn’t get it.

At all.

And I am not one of those over-dowsers. I do not fill a room with my scent when I walk in. I simply spray once on my neck, rub my wrists into it to catch any extra, and I’m done. So this is not overdone. And it does not matter which one I use. He hates them all.

I quote:  ”I just want you to smell like a woman.”

What does that even mean?!?

Ladies, who’s with me? Doesn’t a little dab of perfume just make you feel prettier than you do before it hits your skin?

Last week, we picked the only feasible day and decided we would just “make it work” to go fishing. Other than our half-day fishing adventure on our Florida business trip, courtesy of our customers, we hadn’t made it out for a single day on the lake. Which is a travesty in Brandon’s world, but a reality for the past few years.

Anyway, we made it out, and after a fairly slow early morning, found a bite a little before lunch. We had several fish in the boat (we won’t discuss who put the majority of them there. One of us may still be a little bitter.) by early afternoon, before it died again. And boy, did it die. We didn’t get a single bite for hours.

Finally, as the sun began to set, we crossed the lake and cruised around, looking for “underwater topography” that met Brandon’s requirements for a place to drop a line. We settled on a little cove area, and began to switch out our bait for the water/time of day changes.

As Brandon hooked on his worm choice, he enthusiastically stated, “I am One-Thousand-and-Ninety-Percent-Sure this is going to catch a fish right here.”

And so, I did what I do, and mocked him, “Wow, one-thousand-and-ninety-percent, huh? That’s pretty sure.”

“You bet it is, Baby,” he retaliated.

And no sooner had those words escaped his mouth than, lo and behold, he hooked on and reeled a fish into the boat.

Me? I was not even a tiny bit annoyed at this ridiculous display of confidence and success. No sirree, not me.

Lesson(s):  Apparently, there are times in life when arrogance confidence pays off. If you are Brandon Leister, anyway.

And definitely times when mocking your husband’s silliness just makes you look silly.

It is well known Brandon and I came from very different places. I mean, I’m pretty sure when you look up the word “swamp,” the antonym listed would be “desert.” (If it’s not, it should be.)

Along with these geographical and climatic differences, significant cultural differences exist.

Examples of each:

• Upon moving here, I had never encountered a gopher. I really didn’t know what they were. Now, I know. Boy, do I ever know.
• Brandon had no clue I would be able to register even the slightest elevation change. (Because when you live at “Zero,” 1000 feet seems like you climbed Mt. Everest.)
• I did not understand the significance of a green chili. I was all about my jalapenos, let me tell you, but I was happy to welcome a new pepper into my life.
• Brandon was unfamiliar with the term “suck the heads,” when referring to seafood consumption. My brother Mason demonstrated.
• The boy had never heard of a boudin ball. That right there is a travesty, folks.

Anyway, when I traveled to Texas back in March, Brandon had me purchase some fresh, catch-of-the-day Texas Gulf shrimp while I was there and bring them back to the desert so we could occasionally indulge ourselves in actual fresh, open-water seafood.

We have already eaten one five-pound bag, and are on our second.

Glorious days, I tell you.

So earlier this week, I was preparing some of the shrimp for use in a recipe. Brandon came through the kitchen as I was peeling and deveining, and was standing there, admiring our bounty.

“Hey, aren’t these straight-tail shrimp bad?” he asked, “There’s a lot of them in there. Don’t we need to throw them all out? We got jipped!”

And that right there is when I clearly remembered I was married to a desert dweller; not a bayou boy.

“Dear, that’s crawfish you’re thinking of,” I gently answered, “And it’s because you cook them live. If they come out of the cooker with a straight tail, it means they were dead before they went in, which is bad. But do any of these de-headed, raw shrimp look either cooked or alive to you?”

I’m just glad we covered that information while we were safely here in Arizona and not back in Texas.

Anyone who has spent more than 4.7 minutes with me knows I do not like birds. At all.

I don’t do beaks. I don’t do feathers. I don’t do chirping.

I don’t do the mess they leave under my front porch.

In short, I would be perfectly happy if they had never made it aboard The Ark. [Although, I'm not sure they needed to, since they can fly, but surely the wings give out at some point?]

So, for no less than two years now (a time period which has not been inflated by exaggeration), I have had little mesh wire squares measured and cut to cover the 20 or so holes in our roof above the porch area (on purpose holes, not where we’re just missing a portion of our roof or anything) where the wire that was in place has fallen out.

I hated the birds that had inhabited those holes and spent their days flying in and out of roof, building nests and hatching more birds to occupy our home. However, I was too frightened by the possibility of getting close enough to those birds to actually place the wire over the holes with the giant staple gun. The birds and I were at a stand-still in our battle.

Last week, I decided it was time.

So I marched out bravely with my wire squares in one hand, staple gun in the other.

And punched one corner of that wire with all the ferocity I had in me. And…nothing.

There were no staples in my gun.

Now, I should have taken that right there as a sign my bird hole covering just wasn’t meant to be.

But, I had a few other things to pick up for the construction guys who were still at our house, so I decided to get some staples while I was at Lowe’s anyway.

Once again, after loading my gun, I marched back out bravely where my step-stool awaited me at the first non-covered hole.

And…Success.

One hole covered, without being attached by an angry mama bird.

Then I got to the third hole. And could not get past all the chirp-chirp-chirping coming from inside. Talk about cacophonous. And disturbing.

I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t separate those baby birds (as nasty and dreaded as they may be) from the outside world and live the rest of my days with a roof filled with dead baby birds.

So I left that one and moved on down to the next one. And the next.

By the fifth hole, I was getting excited about my progress.

And then it happened.

Just as I reached up to pound my staple gun into the first corner of that mesh wire screen, an angry bird darted straight out of that hole, directly toward my head.

And I did what any bird-fearing girl would do:  let out a blood-curdling scream, as if it was an ax murderer coming after me rather than a little bird, jumped, and nearly toppled over with my stool.

Three of the five construction guys working in the house came running out, I’m sure expecting to find me barely alive out there after all the commotion.

When they learned what happened, though, their concern was replaced with laughter.

My heart, however, had not yet recovered. It was still beating out of my chest, my knees were shaking, and I could not get inside fast enough.

Later, I noticed my upper elbow was rather tender and remembered hitting it on something during the bird incident. Sure enough, a week later, I have an eggplant-colored, and almost eggplant-sized bruise just above my elbow.  From the bird.

Needless to say, my feelings toward birds have only been intensified.

And no, the wire coverings have not been completed.

One of those dreaded days arrived:  where I have to tell a story on myself rather than my dear husband.

But since he’s such a good sport,  and demanded requested I do this, here goes…

A few nights ago, one of those rare suppers occurred where we ate poultry. You know, just to mix it up a little, stir up the old cow, elk, deer, antelope and Alaskan fish we usually eat. And also? Only when it’s on super sale at the grocery store. Which is actually how the shenanigans below became part of our conversation.

So, there we were…Brandon, scarfing down his dinner plate; me, taking dainty bites while he rolled his eyes at my bite selection process and speed with which the fork was entering my mouth. In other words:  every other meal of our lives.

Brandon inquired as to why we were eating chicken. I explained the mega-super-sale at the grocery store I happened upon when that particular piece of poultry was purchased. And then told him about my most recent chicken score:

“Yeah, and last week, they had an awesome two-for-one thing going on with the chicken,” I started, “so I got two really good packages of chicken for less than five dollars. Some good breasts, and then a package of tenderloins.”

“Katie, chickens don’t have tenderloins. And even if they did, they’d be so tiny they’d be like the popcorn chicken bites. Tenderloins are a mammal thing. And chickens are not mammals.”

“Sure they do,” I insisted. “It’s what I bought.”

And Brandon proceeded to provide another good argument for his side of the case.

This next little gem? Is the most embarrassing thing that came out of my mouth during the entire ordeal. Now, anyway. At the time, I was exuding confidence in such a way that should be criminal. So sure of myself. Which is where things usually take a turn for the worst in my world.

I gave Brandon my best “Duh” look, and said, “Brandon, where do you think chicken tenders come from?”

Yes. I. Did.

I know.

Now, on the other side, I’m still holding my head in shame.

Anyway, at the time, our friendly banter continued until it was clear I was going to have to prove my case, once and for all. And yes, I had that air about me when I set out toward the freezer to retrieve the package of chicken tenderloins to rub in Brandon’s face.

He called out behind me, “Oh, are you going to go prove it now? Please do!”

And I swung that freezer door open with all might. I’m lucky I didn’t hit myself with it, my chest was so puffed out with confidence.

…That is, until I saw the chicken package I had been referring to the entire evening.

These three words from Foster Farms shattered my dreams then and there:  ”Chicken Breast Tenders”

Then came my march of shame. Since I had insisted upon solving the issue before finishing my supper, I had to return to the table. Where my husband waited, eagerly anticipating the verdict.

I just slumped in my chair and stared down at my plate as I tried to finish eating in the midst of my embarrassment.

Finally, Brandon spoke up, as if he even needed to ask after witnessing my reaction.

“So, what was it?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I replied, which is always code for “I was wrong,” in Katie-speak.

Eventually, I had to concede I was incorrect in my knowledge of a chicken’s anatomy and the cut of meat I thought was in our freezer.

Moral of the story:  ”Tender” is not equal to “Tenderloin.”

The first evening of our Florida trip, after we had safely settled into our booth with menus at Cody’s Roadhouse (following the Uncle El’s Seafood fiasco), Brandon felt it was necessary to properly prepare me for our trip and all it would entail.

As I was perusing the menu, probably looking for a hamburger or something of that nature on the low-end spectrum of the menu, I heard Brandon say, “Um, Katie?” very seriously.

I glanced over the top of my menu to see he had laid his down on the table, had his hands folded on top of it, and was looking directly at me. I told you, all serious-like.

I acknowledged him, followed suit by dropping my menu, and sat back preparing for some serious talk.

And he began:

“Katie, look, we’re going to be on this business trip for a few days. This is only our first meal out. Now, we’re going to order whatever the heck we want. But just so you know, it’s going to be like this for three days. This meal right here is only the beginning. Some of our meals out will be with other people–our customers–and we are not going to look like cheapskates. We may even be paying for some of their pricey meals. So you just need to get over it right here, right now, at this first meal. Okay? I mean, this is why we work hard. We don’t eat out when we’re at home. We’re going to enjoy ourselves on this trip, but I want you to be prepared that we’re going to spend some money on food the next few days. So, like I said, get what you want tonight, but remember, it’s only the beginning…”

What can I say?

The boy knows me.

And I am not going to pretend his little pep talk wasn’t necessary. It was.

And it certainly worked that night. I ordered one of the platters.

How do we spend a Saturday night around here?

Well, this past weekend, we spent our Saturday night sitting in our “new” living room, measuring things and discussing how we were going to arrange the room going forward. Part of the previously mentioned construction project included installing a wall of walk-in closets in our giant cave of a living room. Now that the room is much smaller, and the back wall has been broken up by the addition of two doors, we have some rearranging to do.

And we are finally considering getting a TV.

I know, welcome to the modern world.

Anyway, we pretty much know where the TV would go (on the wall between the closet doors) but we were planning everything else out (shelves, TV accessories, power outlets, etc.).

During our little brainstorming session, Brandon blurted out, “Hey, we should even get one of those wireless DVD players, then we wouldn’t have to have any visible cords coming from the TV!” [We already had a plan for the others.]

“Brandon, do they even make wireless DVD players?”

“How should I know, but surely they do by now.”

And then I caught the train down the track we were heading…

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I let out, “Slow down! I mean, we’re going from not having a TV to all mega-high-tech in one step?”

“Hey, Baby, go big or go home. That’s how I roll.”

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?”

But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.’ “

Mark 16:1-7