My boyfriend and I spent the weekend in Austin and now I’m so very tired. I’m always tired, anyway, on the Mondays after I have to go to Austin to get my kids. But this Monday I’m recuperating from days spent between hot cement and cedar trees, in air that was so very, very dry. I was like Alice, when they made her run. And then she said, “I’m so hot and thirsty,” and the Queen said good-naturedly, “I know what you’d like,” and gave her a dry, crumbly biscuit. That’s me. I’m filled up with dry, crumbly biscuits and I’ve gained about a hundred pence, I know I have, Kitty, so there’s no use arguing about it.

Speaking of. There was a hot, sad, dehydrated little pregnant cat in the parking lot of the Cedar Park Schlotsky’s. We tried to give it water but it ran away, and then a mockingbird attacked it. Very sad. (But not a metaphor for my previous life as a trailer-trash housewife in the hot, dry hills. No. I was glad to find that being there doesn’t affect me like that, anymore. No more melancholy. But I still can’t stand the heat.) I hope that cat’s doing okay now. We left a plastic cup of spring water under a bush.

I haven’t been watching American Idol this year, but I know that one of the contestants sang that song by Styx – “Renegade” or “Wanted Man” or “Oh Mama, Domo Arigato” or whatever it’s called. And now they’re playing it on the radio. All the time, pal. It reminds me of when Wayne’s World brought “Bohemian Rhapsody” back into vogue. I bet the members of Styx are kind of happy about it. I wonder what they’re doing now. Probably on ranches, producing songs for younger people. Or playing sessions for car commercials…

I tried to wear my contacts to work today and I can tell already that I’m gonna regret it. No matter how low the mold count outside, the air still burns in my “office” (read: plywood corral). Because the air here is poison. It’s poison, dammit, baby. You know how that little boy sees dead people? Well, I see flakes of asbestos floating through the air.

I want to make a lot of necklaces and earrings, but I hardly have the time. I didn’t want to buy new clothes this weekend, but I had to buy a few, because I only had six work shirts, and three of those were stained with grease or oyster sauce. So I bought a few new shirts. And I’m glad to report that my latest diet has pushed me past the line – from “fat” to “big.” Or, actually, “very, very big.” Sort of like, “Those guys with fetishes for the 50-Foot Woman? Could possibly make do with me, instead.” Yeah.

Last thing is a public service announcement. If you like good food, do not go to Kerbey Lane Cafe on 183 in Austin, Texas. No. Only go there if you like to wait for a table for 45 minutes with a bunch of people who think they’re awesome for being at Kerbey Lane Cafe.

Dear Kerbey Lane Cafe: It’s all well and good that you offer vegetarian selections, that your chicken is free range, and that your beef is Banderas-grass fed. But that doesn’t mean you can’t at least offer some mayonnaise or mustard for your dry-ass, overcooked, Banderas-grass-fed hamburger patties, does it? And have you ever considered repainting your walls? Or, at least, wiping the coffee stains off the molding?

Banderas-grass-fed cows crouch under the bushes behind Schlotsky’s, begging to be cooked right.