Greg and I aren’t really football fans. We aren’t sports fans in general, but if we’re going to watch a game, it’s usually basketball. Perhaps part of this has to do with our having gone to Illinois, where the basketball teams are often stellar, and the football teams are often, for lack of a better word, stinky. But now that we live in Texas, land of the football crazies, I feel compelled to at least check the score of the Illinois game each week because my co-workers always ask me how the team did (I bring this on myself by wearing a lot of Illinois gear). I try to just laugh about my losing team because I don’t want to be taunted by Texas football crazies. They are so proud and gloating. People here actually paint their vehicles burnt orange.
A week and a half ago, I saw that we had beaten Penn State. This was a big deal not only because Penn State was a ranked team, but also because I thought Greg might want to call his sister and brother-in-law (one is an alum and the other a PhD student there) and rub it in a bit.
Then, this past Saturday, while Greg and I were waiting for a table at a restaurant, we saw a bit of the Illinois game on the TV in the bar area. During the couple minutes that we saw, Wisconsin scored a touchdown. Now that looked more like the Illini we knew and loved. We decided it would be best to look the other way.
When I got to work, someone asked me about the game. I said I didn’t know the outcome but what I had seen had been pretty ugly. Well, someone else on the copy desk had paid attention and informed me that the Illini had won. Again! I looked up the game information and saw that Wisconsin had been ranked 5th. And as if that weren’t enough, Texas lost its second straight game.
So, for this one week, for this one brief, shining moment, the Illini are ranked 18th in the country. Texas has fallen to 23rd. I might just have to paint my car orange and blue.

I fear that Texas is beginning to change me. We’ve been here more than two years now, so I guess it was inevitable that my Lone Star resistance would wear down after awhile. And it’s nothing too obvious, no use of y’all or wearing of a 10-gallon hat. But I might be slowly sliding toward those things.
I have developed a taste for crushed red pepper. You know, the little red flakes? I never understood their purpose before, but a couple weeks ago I found myself shaking them onto my pizza. And though every ounce of my Midwestern self doesn’t want to admit this, the pepper improved the pizza.
More worrying than the pepper though, is my recent fondness for Lyle Lovett music. When I heard Lyle was playing in town, I actually suggested to Greg that we attend the concert. Greg responded by looking at me as though I had suggested we go sky-diving. Fun for him, but a clear indication that I had lost my mind. I scrapped the idea upon seeing the price of the tickets, but I still turn up the radio when I hear Lyle.
I always hated country music, but I don’t think one can appreciate it until she has lived in the South. It is just too darn hot to listen to rock or pop or anything that makes you want to dance. You need the type of music that can be listened to while sitting on the porch drinking a tall glass of lemonade and gently bobbing your head. I know the rest of the country thinks Texans are a bunch of lunatics, but they act the way they do for a reason. The heat is frying their brains, and they are just trying to slow the process down as best they can.