Three hundred lives of men I have walked this earth and now I have no time.

I haven’t had quite 300 years, but it seems I should have gotten more accomplished in the 3 months since we decided to live together. I’m also feeling rushed to get my credentials together for the various professional organizations I need to apply for membership with. Also, I need a CV, just in case. It is my understanding a CV is organized differently than a résumé, which is the standard marketing tool in the US. Thankfully, working in academia provides me with great resources. Faculty members submit nothing else for university level positions. I should start asking around! (yet another thing to add to my list!)

More detritus, or flotsam and jetsam, that washes into my brain and onto my To Do List: find tailor / seamstress, locate reliable shoe repair, google “bead store” or “jewelry repair”, discover the nearest massage supply store and non-chemical dry cleaners. These are service professionals I regularly visit and have fears they don’t exist in Ireland. Isn’t that silly? My little Big daughter informs me I am not relocating to the Stone Age, and I agree with her, but there is still a chance……

The man Himself will be here for his requisite pond hop in just 3 short weeks. I Can Not Wait!! I’m taking him to many of the traditionally Austin experiences we’ve missed on his other visits. We’ll watch the bats emerge from under the Congress Avenue bridge. We’ll drag ourselves out of bed Sunday morning and over to Ginny’s Little Longhorn Saloon for chicken shit bingo. The beautiful drive will be made to the Salt Lick, so we can enjoy more of a true Texas heritage: slow smoked BBQ. An evening of two-stepping at the Broken Spoke will be in order, as will soaking in the frigid chill of Barton Springs.

As I list these treasures of the city I love, I realize how much I will miss the quirky loveliness that is Austin. With it’s hipsters and hippies. It’s rockabilly and swing. But maybe I can convince Himself to join me on a yearly Austin City Limits Music Festival pilgrimage, after all, I know his weakness. It sits down south, nestled on First Street, under a neon sign, and is filled with peppery, hot saucy, ice cold beer and margarita goodness:

Polvos

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