Oh readers, you are in for such a treat. Taryn is one of my absolute favorite bloggers. The wit! The humor! The drama! I cannot get enough of A Peine For Your Thoughts. I hope all of you read this post and then go over and read as many of her old posts as you can handle in one day, and then I hope you all subscribe to her, and then I hope we all can get together for a giant blog sleepover. I have high hopes, you see? Well, it worked once before… but it did take the Pioneer Woman to bring us together.

Anyway, please enjoy the below picture & post from my girl Taryn. And whatever you do, don’t call her Toni.

xo,
LfT

{L-R: Taryn, yours truly, & 2 of my other favorites: Kapachino & Roots & Rings}

Hi readers of Lauren From Texas! I’m Taryn. I normally reside over at “A Peine For Your Thoughts” (that’s Peine: Pie + Knee) but I’m super excited to be here with you today while Lauren is in California, drinking wine and enjoying life. Lauren was gracious enough to allow me to come up with my own topic for you today, and being a former Brownie Girl Scout and general do-gooder, I wanted to write something that would help people. Specifically, Lauren. And what is Lauren doing right now that she needs help with? Moving. And since I was completely busy and also forgot her contact details and on top of all of that had car trouble on the days she needed help packing boxes, I decided to help in the best way I know how: by compiling a list of do’s and don’ts for a successful relocation experience. And so, without further ado, I give you my list. These items are in no particular order.

DO: State your name clearly to the new people you meet, carefully annunciating each syllable.

At the gangly, awkward age of 12, I moved from small-town Oklahoma, where the only Hispanic person in town owned the only Mexican food restaurant in town, to Houston, Texas, where no one spoke English. Culture shock? No, not at all. I was completely ready thanks to learning my numbers in Spanish on Sesame Street.

After two months of non-stop rollerblading with my little sister (because when you’re 12, nothing is dorkier than rollerblading all summer with your little sister) I finally conned some neighborhood girl my own age into inviting me to the pool with her and all her super-cool friends. In my brain, I was the “new girl” just like on “Saved by the Bell.” Everyone wants to date the new girl. On top of that, I was a Midwestern new girl, all long locks scented with waving wheat that sure smells sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain. I sauntered in, pool bag in hand, and a crowd of seven or eight 12-year-olds peered at me.

Me: “Hi! I’m Taryn!”

Them: “Hi Toni!”

Three years later, when I finally moved away:

Them: “Bye Toni!”

DON’T: Get too chummy with the first friend you make.

My mom has a saying: “The first friend you make is the one who needs friends the most.” I don’t think it applies in all situations, but it’s a good notion to keep in mind. When I moved to Houston from Oklahoma yet again to start my career, I knew nary a soul. (Are there more than two towns in America? I wasn’t aware.) So I should have been suspicious when, on my first work field trip to an offshore oil rig museum, a lanky man in white shorty shorts and a boat captain’s hat sat beside me on the bus and introduced himself as Vlad. From Romania. When I failed to look impressed, he reminded me that Vlad the Impaler, AKA Dracula, was also from Romania. However, this Vlad, the one in the boat captain’s hat, was not related to that Vlad. Too bad. I’d come all the way from Oklahoma really hoping that my first friend would be related to Dracula.

Unbeknownst to me, Vlad was the office pariah. Sure, I thought the whole shorty shorts and boat captain’s hat combo was a little odd. OK, so I felt like an accomplice when he told me he was only going to stay married until he got his green card. And yes, I didn’t enjoy it when he insisted on reading my relationship horoscope with my then-boyfriend and pronounced us an “unfit astrological match.” But when Vlad got called into HR and asked to stay out of my office because other co-workers had reported that he was sexually harassing me, suddenly my mom’s advice sounded like a prophecy.

DON’T: Try too hard to fit in.

Everyone else is writing “69” on the fogged up school bus windows and small-town yokel Taryn writes “70”? Check.

The annoying kid on the bus is harassing small-town yokel Taryn, so she hits him in the back with her trumpet case and subsequently gets kicked off the bus? Check.

Even though her lips are growing much faster than her face, Steven Tyler-look-alike Taryn secretly slathers on bright pink Avon lipstick the minute she gets to school every morning because all the other girls wear lipstick? Check.

Country music-loving Taryn learns all the words to Marilyn Manson’s songs even though he gives her nightmares? Check.

DO: Be yourself.

Finally, FINALLY, after years of trying to become the kind of cool that existed in whatever new zip code I’d just landed in, I have learned to be my own kind of cool. The kind that likes writing and knitting and quilting and sewing and baking and generally doing every single thing your grandmother does on a daily basis. The kind that comes from Oklahoma and likes the number 70 much better than the number 69 and loves old country music and knows that red lipstick looks much better on her than pink did. The kind that doesn’t care about society people or the new hot bar or club and would rather mix martinis for her friends at home where they can all be as loud as they want to be. The kind that thinks her couch, her husband, her dog, a St. Arnold’s seasonal brew and Netflix instant view are the best things in life.

And being my true self has made me a magnet for people who want to be around people like me. I wish I would have known that it worked like that when I was 12.

Also, my name’s not Toni.