Houston! My Houston!

I love Houston, Texas. I mean, really truly love it (just don't mention the weather from May through September).I was born here, moved away as a child, and now I've been back for the past six years. I used to imagine moving somewhere colder with snow or four actual seasons (and I still do sometimes). But Houston is my home.

And, let's be honest, Houston does not have a reputation for being a city of charm and culture. We are known for oil companies, NASA, and suburban sprawl. We are one of the more obese cities in America, we do not have the best schools, and some areas of town are downright seedy despite the decrease in violent crime over recent years. If people fly in for a business conference, and only eat at the franchise restaurants near the airport hotels, or only drive on the freeways in rush hour, it is understandable that they would not be itching to spend vacation time here. Which, in all honesty, is exactly the way we like it.

I'm going to let you in on some confidential information: there is a secret Houston that only locals know about. It's true! Why else would so many people live here, if all we had was the typical business trip fare? Why would we have top research universities, a population as diverse as New York City, and even more theatre seats? The cost of living is not very high, relative to other large cities, and the best in restaurants, museums, art, and music can be had here. And, when looking at the map of Texas in recent elections, Houston is a bright blue spot in a very red state. Our mayor is the first openly gay mayor in America, and she's a lady! How cool is that? We've got gay bars, and hipsters, and food from every place on earth. We've got high fashion shopping and thrifty nooks. We've got community gardens, independent bookstores, bars that have been around since my parents were in college, and something new to experience every day. We've got Chinatown, which also happens to be full of lovely Vietnamese, Korean, Thai, and Japanese restaurants (all of these kinds of cuisine can be found all over town, but are concentrated near Bellaire and Beltway 8). Houston also has the largest population of Nigerians outside of Nigeria. We are cosmopolitan and still know good Southern BBQ served with sweet iced tea.

Dallas has the money, but their boots aren't authentic, and it isn't a global city (also, Dallas is the WORST). San Antonio is a haven for Mexican culture and cuisine, but it doesn't have Houston's thriving art scene. Austin is swarming with young hip professionals and is very popular with tourists, but the whole feel of Austin becomes tiresome. All of these places are nice to visit (except Dallas, which is a little bit of hell on Earth), but I wouldn't want to live there. Houston has all of the benefits of the other Texan cities, without the drawbacks. The only difference is that Houston plays its cards close to the chest. You have to dig a little deeper, and not stay on the suburban outskirts.

So, when I heard about a video contest aimed at sharing what you love about Houston, sponsored through our local public radio station, I decided this would be the perfect project. I recently had a friend move back to Houston from New York City, and she's an expert at film production. So, without waiting around, we quickly got to work at capturing some of our favorite places on camera. We've still got a lot of work ahead of us (and I've had some set backs I will save for a later post) but so far it's been loads of fun. And, through the act of filming, I've fallen even more in love with my city.

How many times must I make the same mistakes, only to learn the same lessons again and again and again?

Lovely interwebs, before I begin my sad tale, allow me to preface with revealing a big, terrible, highly embarrassing secret:

I don't do multitasking.

And! As though that one admission wasn't enough to cast me out of modern society...

I have a very slow processing time.

It's true. Playing card games where you have to slap the matching sets quickly? I will never win. Speed reading? Can't do it. My sister could read an entire book by the time I get through three chapters. And while I realize that these faults will mean that I will never be able to live in New York City, or get through A Remberance of Things Past,  I do not actually mind them. Usually.

Most of the time, in fact, I enjoy setting my own pace. I like digging into what I'm doing with focus and thought. I enjoy the process: the slow steps that eventually, with considerable time, will lead to the finish line. This makes knitting a great hobby for me, because it doesn't get much slower than forming each and every tiny stitch yourself. There is a rhythm in knitting, but there is also much room. Room for meditation, room for breath. Your hands are busy, so you have an excuse for not folding towels or scrubbing the floor. You are being of use by making something sensible, such as a sock, while secretly being incredibly indulgent. Especially since just the yarn for handknit socks costs significantly more than storebought, not to include the time expense. I could go down to the mall and buy a whole bag of socks for the time and money it takes to just get into the cuff of a handknit socks. But this is neither here nor there, because knitted socks are worlds and worlds better than a storebought sock. (Nonknitters: see the difference between homemade chocolate chip cookies and chips ahoy. Also, find some sticks and yarn quickly. You NEED handknits in your life.)

Well, I have been carrying around a half-formed sock, as one does, in my bag. The sharp double pointed needles make me feel safer while wandering around the big city (even though I know I probably would do myself more harm if I ever attempted to use them as a weapon). This is also highly convenient because I am never bored in lines; I am knitting. To say that this does not attract stares from other twenty-somethings would be lying. But, having not been completely unscathed from teasing in junior high and high school, I have developed an immunity to iocane powder and the gaze of strangers. So, I knit. And often, while knitting, I am having coffee with friends, or waiting at the DMV, or watching Parks and Recreation (best show ever!).  And all of these are examples of acceptable knitting activities. The knitting keeps my hands from fidgeting the whole time I'm out, and, so long as the knitting is not super complicated, much of it is muscle memory. Now, you might be thinking "That sounds an awful lot like multitasking",  but it isn't. It's just happening to knit and be somewhere at the same time while listening and speaking.

But, there is an unacceptable place to knit. And while this might seem obvious, and while I have made this mistake many, many times before, last night I had to learn this lesson again.

Make that this morning...

Hangovers are bad enough when you don't have to wake up to sock gussets that look as though a snaggle-toothed goat decided to have a midnight snack. There were dropped stitches running down my sock like the tears of a Ranger's fan last night (they still beat the Astros, of course). There were decreases in places no decrease should ever be. And my stitch count...there are no words.

Interwebs, if you happen to be out at a dark bar with a group of friends and you've just had a Texas Tea: Do. Not. Knit. Even if you think this is a wonderful opportunity to get some work done on the foot of the second sock (so close you can smell how warm your feet will be), do. not. knit. Even if you know that you have got this stitch pattern down like the back of your hand, do. not. knit. Even if everyone at the table is admiring the pretty purple yarn and you happen to discover that one of your staight male friends can knit, do. not. knit. Even if you've been dying to knit all day and you finally get your chance to sit down and relax, do. not. knit. You will wake up next to something you can't recognize, and it won't be pretty.

So, instead of getting to the toe today, I am ripping back and reknitting the foot. =[

If I were the sort of person to get a proverb tatooed on my forearm, that proverb would be this:

Drunken bitches can't make stitches.

Be a baller instead.