Inside joke.  Sorry.

*I feel like I should preface this:  no ponies were met on this trip because we were there for like 36-48 hours over three days.  Blitz trip!

After Houston, we booked it in the stinky rental to Austin.  I couldn't go to Houston without seeing two of the most popular equestrian bloggers, right?  I mean, Amanda is my internet wife and Lauren is just awesome.

We got to Austin kinda late and headed to Amanda's house, promptly greeting her three dogs and completely ignoring her and her BF.  Amanda's dogs are epic.  After introductions, we headed out to get pizza so Amanda could carb load.  Can I mention how much I love plants?  Because I interrogated them on their plants before we did much else.  (I love plants.)  (And I'm awkward AF.)

The next morning, D and I met Lauren at an awesome restaurant called Bangers.  They have this magical drink that involves like the thought of orange juice and a bottle of champagne.  They stamp your hand so you can't over-indulge.  I bypassed that because I drank from Lauren's, too.  #signsyoureanalcoholic  In my over-imbibed state, I contemplated getting the restaurant's logo as a free tattoo.  After sobering up, I decided against it - which I honestly regret now.

it was all so. good.

Hubs left the brunch a little smitten with Lauren (sorry - should I have told you this first?) because of her intelligence and approachability.


We took Lauren's suggestions to heart and headed to SoCo (this is what locals call it, yeah?) and did some shopping.  Succulents, because I'm a secret hoarder, and art because that's tradition.

he joked the entire time about getting one of these damn things.

After returning from brunch and shopping, we had to get tattoos.  Because tattoos.

I've got a set procedure for how I approach my out-of-town tattoos, which, I don't fucking know, might help someone one day:

• Yelp.  Yelp the fuck out of them.  Figure out where you're staying and look in close proximity because traveling across town can sometimes be a bitch.
• Read the actual reviews.  Did the shop get poor reviews because some wimp walked in and requested some piece of shit tattoo and didn't expect to get charged at least the shop minimum? Because there is a shop minimum and there is an hourly rate.  Ask questions. Be logical. 
• After finding a reasonable shop, go to their website and review the portfolios.  Pick an artist.  Consider that what they have as their portfolio is what they consider to be their best work.  Does the style match what you're looking to get?  Are they consistently good?  Look closely.
• Reach out to them.  Schedule.  Pay the deposit, because if the shop is worth anything, there will be a deposit.  They should ask you questions - what are you getting and where?

Roar.

I think I might have gotten lucky, what with the boot eating, for two reasons:  1) Savannah hasn't barfed huge chunks of partially masticated rubber, which hopefully means that she'll just poop rubber, and 2) I think the remaining boot might be able to replace the super crappy boot of my old lace up pair.  What does this mean?  Two things:  1) I'm horrible at throwing away shit and 2) I'll be ghetto as all hell until I get another pair of boots.  Whatevs.  Oh, and today, I like lists.

Boss man just took the admin staff from my department to lunch.  It wasn't great company and it's my least-favorite restaurant (second maybe to McDonald's) in all the land, but I had a surprisingly good time.  It was four women (myself included) and one man.  Somehow, the conversation got on the topic of finances and gender in a relationship.  My coworkers were all screaming about how a "good man" pays for everything and that's "what he's supposed to do."  Oh, and how this magical man doesn't exist anymore.

Well, shit.

I said very little during the meal, but while this was still the topic, I waited for a lull and tapered down the anxiety that rears its head whenever I feel like I'm at complete odds with the general consensus.  I thought out my presentation:  my mother did not raise me like that.  Because if you disagree with me, you disagree with my mother, and I'll take you out back over that.  But I went on to explain that I was raised to not be dependent upon a man.  If he wants to help?  Great.  But I'm not asking for it nor expecting it.  Again, this is how my divorcée mother raised me.  And I think that independence is part of the reason D and I did so well and continue do so well together. For the longest, longest time, D was a jobless student.  I didn't expect anything from him, other than for him to carry his share.  When I was able to give him more, I gave.  I never resented that.  I had no problem working multiple jobs and supporting myself, alone.  And now that we're married and he makes significantly more than me, we still have a balance in our marriage.  I don't go blow my money on frivolous things (because you damn well better not lump Archie in that category) and I also don't ask him for money unless I absolutely need it.  I pay my bills.  In return and with consideration for the variance of income (dude makes over twice what I do), he handles general utilities.  It's a skewed sort of balance, but it's a balance.

In the rest of life stuff, we went and worked out at the gym after I took photos at the Humane Society.  I only had enough time to do the kitty cats.  My camera had been sitting in my car all day, in the under 50° weather, and I had some serious fog issues.  I still haven't mastered speediness with a small depth of field, but, dammit, I'm going to keep trying.

At the gym, it was arm day.  I think it's always arm day.  But D wanted to change up the order of things, so we did a quick cardio and then moved to the incline bench press.  I'm not sure why, but I was having serious problems completing the work out.  It was a strange one, too:  4 sets of 8-10 reps of an okay weight, remove the weight and do three sets of 7, while moving the hand position farther out with each set.  Then it was some easy bar bicep curls, dumbbell bench press, skull crushers, some abs and a little bit of a leg press.

I'm feeling pretty beefy.

But my weight is only increasing.  Damn you, weight.

This morning, I got to feed the horses.  It was still sort of brisk, but the day was supposed to warm up so I took the sheets off.  Skinny Guy's sheet is a little alarming:  it feels almost like denim and can't possibly be water proof.  I'm not sure what the thought process was behind it.  I'll feed again tonight, after I try to squeeze in a little ride.

Looking smart!

What?  You don't take awkward self-portraits with your angry horse at seven in the morning?

Skinny Guy's sheet.  Also, no butt straps, which I think would probably help with the twisting.

There's something about being the only woman in the iron-pumping section of the gym that both enthralls and infuriates me.

I had a few sequential thoughts about it: Sausage fest. .... Uggghhn, lift arm. ..... Why is that dude watching the veins pop in my forehead? Has he never seen a woman working out?  Is my level of red sexy? .... Where are all the women?...  Cursory glance around shows women are, in deed, still at this gym; however, they are all on machines.  Men are also on some machines.  The ratio of women to men is higher on the cardio machines.  This makes me wonder:  why do women focus more on cardio than muscle-building?  When women are lifting weights, why do they mostly use machines?  Is it lack of knowledge of technique (I admit, I don't expect everyone to know how to do an Arnold shoulder press)?  If men did not dominate the free-weight section, would women still stay out of it?  I've never been to a "Curves" gym.  I wonder what the dispersal of people looks like there.

Otherwise, the gym work out was pretty good last night.  I admit, I'm a wimp and I haven't been pushing myself with the weights.  We primarily worked with dumbbells and I upped the weight last night.  In the past, I've stuck with tens and fifteens as my "heavy".  If you've picked up anything about my physique from reading this thing, you should know that I am a (not) lean, (occasionally) mean, fighting machine.  But I am pretty beefy, dammit, and I should be able to do more than some damn fifteens.  So I did most of the workouts with twenties.  Except the wide flies on the bench - those were just twelves and they hurt, hurt, hurt.  I tried to do some bicep curls with a thirty and I couldn't manage it.  Next time, I'll try 25s.

And I am sore.

Sore feels good.

More bits of rando:

• BO can't put on a blanket to save her life.  Okay, let me rephrase that: she can't buckle the chest piece of a blanket to save a life.  I don't get it.  A piece of Velcro and two buckles.  Instead of having the two sides of the Velcro meet, the entire front is gaping open and the buckles are only partially shoved through the keepers.  I should have taken a picture of it, but I was too busy taking pictures of us:

• I brought in my pieces for the art show (which, in this light, I can tell the glass needs to be cleaned).  I've had two people ask if the frog picture was an iPad.  Shit you not.  Is that a compliment to my picture or to Apple?  And are we so entranced by technology that we no longer recognize "art"?

• Bought this "new" shake at the grocery store the other night.  It's supposed to be frozen and D put it in the pantry.  I stuck it back in the freezer and am going to eat it today.  If I'm dead tomorrow, this is why (unless I get hit by a bus or something, then it absolutely has nothing to do with this drink).

• Savannah ate another pair of shoes.  I've been lax about Operation Please Stop Destroying My Crap because she's got an injury on one of her pads and I don't want her running.  I did nag D about leaving leather around.

• Achilles is the spawn of Satan.

• My tattooer shared a compilation of my half-sleeve on Instagram and I swooned.  (Btw, I'm "bekaburke" on Instagram.  I'm looking for people to stalk!) (Oh, and the final "likes" came to 23!)

I had this crazy-ass dream last night that I was a million (maybe eight) months pregnant.

I think it has something to do with the friend who had the baby shower.  She's in a tough situation.  The pregnancy wasn't planned and her and her boyfriend have since broken up.  I don't think there's a major loss there, but it's been on my mind.  I feel for her.  When D and I started dating, I was very adamant that I wanted one child.  I think I placed a lot of emphasis on the fact that we wouldn't have a large family and maybe not enough emphasis on the fact that we would have a family.  I think he would be perfectly content to not reproduce.  He used to make jokes about coming home with puppies when my clock started ticking.

Because he was no where to be seen in my dream.  Which makes me oodles of sad.  But let me just say:  I made a beautiful preggo chick.  :)

It's sort of weird to think about one day spawning.  I was never the maternal type - I never sought out little kids and made friends or anything.  And I was actually pretty intolerant of my peers until they reached a certain maturity level.  I don't have a good relationship with any of my nieces or nephews, which I'm sort of okay with.  There's an eleven year gap between my middle brother and myself.  I was a teenager when those kids were born. So.. I'm sort of banking on the concept of "you love your own."

No smooth segue from spawning to feminism, so I'll jump in.

There's a local magazine, actually a quite nice one, called the South. It was the "Power Professional" issue.  I didn't get very far, but I got far enough to read a couple snippets from local businesswomen.  Who might be idiots.

The first lady was the CEO for a local security company.  They all had the same question:  what advice would you give, blah blah blah. The jist of her answer was all about family and the baby Jesus.  The second lady was a lawyer and her answer was, I shit you not, to apply some lipstick and "show up."

It infuriated me.  I'm all about freedom of speech.  You can say WHATEVER you want.  I support that.  Do it.  Think things.  Speak things.  But think first.  Your family may have supported you as you climbed to your position as CEO, but you did the climbing!  And, fine, baby Jesus, whatever.  But lipstick?  Really?  To be a successful and "powerful" lawyer, all I need to do is apply some Sarah Palin-esque lipsmear and show my pretty face?  Are you fucking kidding me?

Here's what would have been my response, should anyone ever deem me powerful:

Do a personal SWOT analysis.  Know your Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats.

• Strengths: Exploit what you're good at.  Let everyone know what you are capable of doing.
• Weaknesses:  You have to know what you suck at in order to develop it.  And do develop your weaknesses!
• Opportunities: Don't be afraid to be opportunistic.  I can guarantee that everyone around you is looking out for themselves with a secondary thought for those around.  Which means, frankly, that if a better opportunity presents itself you ought to take it.
• Threats: These are purely an opportunity to be knowledgeable about your weaknesses, which, if you'd been properly introspective and mature and strong enough to tackle your shit, would be an ever diminishing list.

Carrot Cake.  Obviously.

Or.. "Not a Single Fuck Was Given."

I hit six months with the municipal corporation for which I work. If you aren't familiar with what that is, it's a city. Excluding my three days for my surgery, various doctor and dentist appointments, and federally recognized holidays, I have consistently been at work. Until yesterday.

Merry Margarita.

Yesterday, I took a half day after a legal training and met the man for lunch at a nice, ritzy restaurant. It's called Toucan Café, and the owners actually have couple places in town. I think the sister restaurant, Sweet Potatoes, was on Food Network a couple times.

After a fancy lunch? Pedicures and cupcakes. Cupcakes are normally reserved for a Saturday guilty pleasure, but we were killing time for a 3:15 movie. If you've never been to a Gigi's, go. ASAP.  I had the "Merry Margarita" and D, being a ginger, had "Carrot Cake."  I have the tendency of only eating half of the cake itself because all I really want is the frosting.  Oh, and this is one of those places that won't reveal how badly they're killing you.

And then we went to the movies.  I know he really wanted to see the Raven, because we both love suspenseful horror-ish thriller things, but I also wanted to see the Avengers.  I figured a matinee 3D might actually be a cost-efficient idea.  And, man, it was a damn good movie.  I had no idea who the Black Widow or Hawkeye were and asked loudly (he says) if they were the Wonder Twins.  I've since learned that no, I'm an ignoramus.  As badly as this failed the Bechdel Test, it was still an entertaining movie.  I have to give props for women who fight.  And, naturally, I wanted Black Widow to be the best character ever.. but I kind of loved Hulk's character.  "That's my secret:  I'm always angry."