“But I thought everyone was leaving California for Texas,” is a phrase I have read and heard many times since returning home to the Golden State. But about half the Californians who move out of state, especially to Texas, end up moving back.
But that headline isn’t as sexy, especially to Texans who need a coping mechanism for choosing to live in a state with all the aesthetic appeal of a twice burnt pancake.
I never loved Texas. Can you tell? It was not on my top ten list of states. Nor was it on my top twenty. Or top forty. The first time I landed there and saw the landscape — or perhaps that’s “landscape” with the littlest of L’s — my face looked something like this:
Lemme make this even more offensive. Texas is the mediocre man of the nation: it has all the confidence in the world but no justification for it.
Okay but if it sucks so bad, then why Texas at all?
I’m so glad you asked. For the work.
I’d traveled to and from Texas four years before moving for what was supposed to be my job. Nay, career. In a previous draft of this Substack, I went granular about the goings-on of my work life. But it distracted from the true problem I had with second largest land mass state of America.
So let me distill the career aspect down to its most basic elements.
I’d been made an offer to be the big kahuna of the company I had poured my life into. Taking on a leadership role was something I had to try, fearing I’d always wonder if I didn’t give it a go. I’d had an inkling the job wasn’t going to work out, a nagging in the back of my mind that I fought as I headed into escrow.
Kind of like watching a scary movie and the idiot character walks into a dark room asking “Hello, is anywhere there?” Bitch, yes. Usian Bolt right out of there, oh my god.
Never ignore the little voice, she knows everything
I quit the same week I was to move to my new house. Because the little voice was right. She always is. A fact which is making her more smug. You would think I’d have learned that by now, or that at least she’d make good use of a megaphone.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever disclose the details of the why I left the company. Ultimately I just realized what I wanted and what the owner wanted to do were not aligned.
Poo-pooing my little voice was a trend which followed me for the next four years: forcing me down a path I was never meant to tread, ignoring the little voice that insisted something wasn’t right.
To be fair, I loved my place in Texas. I had 21 beautiful acres in what Texas calls “hill country.” It reminded me somewhat of where I had grown up in California. Though what Texas considers “hills,” California considers flat.
I tried to love Texas. I tried to acclimate and make myself a Texan.
I bought cowboy boots. Got a chestnut quarter horse. Let the country music wash over me in my truck as I drove to the feed store.
And yet…
I thought it was because I was too isolated. Or that I’d bit off more than I could chew, taking on too many animals on too much land with far too much upkeep.
Yes. Yes, that was also true.
What I didn’t realize about Texas land-ownership was the amount of vegetation that would consume my life. The vines. The trees. The cedars. The grass getting too high. The bugs. THE BUGS. The high humidity. The intense storms that might include golf-ball size hail. Or might include a tornado. The weather guessers didn’t know, they would just salivate as they hoped for the worst.
The landscape was done no favors by what I called “radical protestantism” in its architecture: flat metal buildings, flat fulfillment centers, no care or charm applied to any building of any kind. No cohesion. No themes. Buildings served functions, not forms. And then the McMansions here there and everywhere. Trash of all kind on all roads.
Incidentally, “Don’t mess with Texas” was an anti-littering campaign slogan. Did you know? I didn’t. Because littering is the real pandemic of the one-star review state.
There are certain species of plants that cannot germinate without fire. They’re called “pyrophytes.” They need to be destroyed, burned in order to seed and begin again.
Don’t even get me started on the traffic. Which lane is the fast lane? Whatever lane you decide it is. Which lane is the slow lane? Whichever lane you decide it is. Where is the exit, on the left or the right? Yes.
Dallas North Tollway North. That is a real tollway. It implies the existence of a Dallas South Tollway South. But you’d be wrong. The mindfuckery of the naming conventions of their roadways are truly silly. Even Google Maps would be like:
One time I got to the studio 15 minutes early. The studio was wedged in the corner of a strip mall. It was damn near windowless. No, this doesn’t give it away. Strip malls in Texas are like snowflakes in Greenland. Anyway, there was no coffee shop in the strip mall. I looked up the nearest Starbucks. It was a couple miles away. I crap you not, there were five to seven lights between them. I was no longer early when I finally returned with coffee.
Oh but there’s traffic in California! Yes, and there’s also the beach. Mountains. Avocado trees. My will to live. Minor things.
That doesn’t even scratch the surface of the Texas Cult.
California is insane. I can say with my outside voice. “I can’t believe we do it this way,” and forty people would agree. I just saw a reel where a woman is buying plastic bags like it’s a drug deal.
We joke here.
They hate us because… they ain’t us?
If I said anything negative about Texas, in Texas, the Texans would go full whack-a-doodle-do. Likely labeling me a suppressive person and punishing me with scowly faces. There’s not much else they could do. They’re actually not as tough as they think they are. If it pleases the court, I’d like to submit anytime it gets cold and their failure to plan ahead as evidence. How, HOW, is Texas going to secede from the union if they can’t even stock up on bottled water before a storm?
To the Texans, everything bad that happens in Texas is not the fault of Texas. Somehow it’s the Californians’ fault.
Yes, it’s the Californians that said “nah” to city planning. It’s the Californians who exported humidity. It’s the Californians who mandated all buildings look like ugly Ikea boxes. It’s the Californians who made it impossible to buy alcohol before noon on a Sunday.
I shit you not, the fist time I tried buying wine on Sunday the checker said “you can’t, it’s Sunday” and I thought he was joking.
He wasn’t joking.
The Texans love to hate Californians just as much (if not more) as they love to love their state. Right up until they want to sell their house for far more than it’s worth. Then suddenly it’s “Where are the Californians?” Rumor has it they have group prayers for “Gavin Newscum” and the “libtards” to pass another silly law in order for more Californians to move to Texas to buy they’re big brick houses.
All hail the glorious gas station
The highlight of Texas, as far as I could tell, was Buc-ees. Texans think Buc-ees is Mecca. I resisted going for years. Three years. People would ask if I’d been to Buc-ees and would act scandalized when I said no. I finally caved, went into a Bu-cees in Amarillo on my way through.
I admit the bathrooms are nice and it is a cool gas station. But it is a gas station. A gas station.
Meanwhile, California:
Enjoy your dollar cheaper gas, Texas. You’ll need it to put in your generator to power your giant house in a state with a failing power grid and Ted Cruz.
Best of luck to you.
Insanity > “freedom in a red state”
I said goodbye gleefully. Twice, as it turned out. While I was of course saddened to leave my first house, I was ready to leave the state behind. For good. Forever.
I don’t care that California is insane. I already know it is. California also knows. Texas was insane, too, just a different kind of crazy. A delusional kind. But you can’t mention that without being pinned into a divider by a wannabe cowboy waving his “don’t tread on me” flag as he goes to worship a politico who says things that make him tingly in his too-tight Wranglers.
I don’t care that California is expensive. You’ll pay one way or another. Besides, I ran numbers. Texas isn’t that much cheaper, but it’s a hell of a lot uglier. I’ll divert money I would’ve spent in running my air conditioner 9 months out of the year and funnel it into the higher gas prices.
At least here I have destinations.
Give me In-N-Out or give me death
We have to make compromises wherever we are. But we’ll pay one way or another. Be that monetarily, emotionally, spiritually, logistically and whatever other “-ally” I’ve missed.
Southern California called to me in a way that no other place has. I don’t care that I have to remember my grocery bags before sashaying into a Target. I don’t care that gas is a dollar a gallon more. I already know the state is run by idiots. But at least I can look outside my window and sigh in relief to live in complete paradise. At least I can enjoy it gosh darn near every day of the year. At least I can be happy where I am, even if there’s a little less money jangling in my bank account.
If you enjoyed this post, even though wow it’s so long, consider buying me a coffee. It’ll help me stay somewhat sane knowing there are real people who like my work.