Posts in adventures
Austin and such.

“It’s time.” These two words upgraded my professional life from a cubicle (sans natural lighting) to a shared office space overlooking Charlotte’s SouthPark area. For this rural-gone-urban girl who dreams of winter wheat, black cattle and Oklahoma’s blue sky – this was a game changer. With this simple change, creativity has walked back into my life like a tall drink of water from west Texas.

I really missed you, creepers. I miss writing you of my adventures, and the fault is mine. It's a hard life as a social media manager - being "on" all day and writing a hobby blog at night. How does one make time for Rose, Sophia, Dorothy and Blanche?

Moving on.

view of SouthPark Mall

Thursday – new office. Friday – travel to Austin.

We (uhg. the married “we”) explored Austin this past weekend. Swoon. Austin encompasses everything I love in the world: music, minimal trees and all the Mexican food.

On Sunday, Mary married Joseph.

Mary Kate Scott, Kirby Smith, Brooke Haney

(insert all the jokes)

Photo Booth

New rule: all weddings must have photobooths.

BREAKING: I've decided it's time to post about our wedding. The invitations, flowers, details. In my own way, of course.

Over & Out.

P.S. Austin, I still love you.

The view from Death Valley.

If you haven’t figured it out by now the guy I’m attempting to lock it up with is a sportswriter: a handsome, southern sportswriter. Read as: he travels frequently. Football coincides with harvest so it’s not like a whole lot is changing in life. [rural vs urban – par.] A few weekends a year I’m the Robin to his Batman and tag along for Gameday. Sort of.

For a few weeks, T has been preparing me for my first southern game. Obviously, my knee-jerk reaction was, “I gave up season tickets for you, man. I get it.”


We rolled into Clemson (s, not z) Friday night. A land grant university sporting a dimmer shade of orange greeted us with grain silos, pickup trucks and excessive amount of camo. My heart reassures me we do not condone such atrocities in Stillwater, but I’m quite certain it’s wrong. I felt at home.

Tailgating combines everything I enjoy about life: camaraderie, barbecue, loud noises and old-fashioned fun. It’s astonishing to most that I cannot recite college football stats. It’s just, well, I enjoy the tailgating, folks. I enjoy “Here Comes Bullet,” Clowney hits and an occasional round of flip cup.

Here’s the deal. My tailgating escapades outside of Boone Pickens are limited to College Station, Lubbock, The Fiesta Bowl, The Cotton Bowl and Norman – and, you win, Clemson.

The sheer number of tailgaters who brought their A-game for such an exciting matchup was impressive. For comparison, Pokes, triple Bedlam and we might have a chance.

Death Valley is amazing. My seat in the west end zone gave me quite the view. Pre-game Opening ceremonies were impressive. [Watch: ESPN video - Clemson's Dramatic Stadium Entrance Will Give You CHILLS] The Hill, fireworks, band balloons. Initially, I assumed this was just for a big game. According to my source, this is just a typical pre-game.

ESPN's video didn't capture the Georgia flags. What's pomp and circumstance without a little flavor from the opposition?


This is my last sidekick game until November, folks. Anyone need a +1?

Now, if you'll excuse me I'm in dire need of a hot yoga class and a nap.

A few national sportswriters walk into a barbecue venue in South Carolina.

Clemson_BarbecueThe following is based on true events upon my arrival in South Carolina Friday evening. Note: It's not a secret I love the 'cue A few national sportswriters walk into a barbecue venue in South Carolina.

They order family style: brisket, pulled pork, ribs, fried okra, jalapeno grits, Brunswick stew, sweet potato crunch, cobbler and sweet tea by the gallon.

Fans approach the table asking for a few Johnny Manziels.

I am instructed by one barbecue-loving sportswriter to use the vinegar ‘cue on the pulled pork. Delightful.

Shake hands with Dwayne Allen. Whisper to the nice gentleman beside me, “Who is that?”

Ignore everything because the pulled-pork would knock the socks off of every pork aficionado in the history of such things.

Whisper words of thankfulness I’m wearing a stretchy sundress.

Continue eating fried okra.

Roll out of said barbecue venue similarly to Violet in Willy Wonka.

Live happily ever after.

Weekend at the beach | Wilmington

As an adult (!!!?!), sleeping in is like finding a unicorn. Even when I’m up too late, I’m up and at ‘em in the 8 o’clocks waiting for T to bid adieu to his lovely slumber so we can head to the beach. We’re in Wilmington – home to film site of One Tree Hill (Or Dawson's Creek for those of you who think Pacey > Lucas) – for the weekend to soak up some rays. Living this close to the beach has its perks!

As much as I don’t want to do or say anything that could end up on my favorite tumblr, My Friends Are Married, I have to say I have a good catch with this dude who answers to T.

During the past year I've become slowly acclimated to life closer to the coast. Read as: I like my steak medium-rare, and given the choice - that's what I want for dinner.

T has welcomed the challenge of transitioning me to seafood - with a few rules, of course. (I'll only eat seafood when I can see the water.) Last summer in Charleston we started with fried shrimp.

Last night. (dramatic pause.) I ate an oyster.


My contributions to this relationship are slim: clumsiness, awkwardness, horrible retention (my memory is shot)..... and humor. I take the latter very seriously.

At a little dive restaurant a stones throw away from the Cape Fear River, I cracked into a few crab legs mimicking Junior on his/her first birthday. A patron looked on with his "bless your heart" eyes as I failed again and again at cracking the legs. If you can't laugh at yourself, you're doing it wrong.

Last night I was a train wreck. Food everywhere. 


To some, these legs from the Atlantic look like dinner. To me, it looks like hard work.

I'm such a toddler. At first I was all "open it for me," then it became a game and I was all "don't touch this oyster. I will open it - or I will starve."

To be fair, eating dinner with me is probably similar to dining with a toddler.

"What do oysters eat?" "How long has it been dead." "What's in this sauce." "I'd google this if there wasn't crab juice on my hands."


Now if you'll excuse me it's 9:30 and sleeping beauty needs to take me to the beach!


So, we went to Seattle. T has quite the dream job covering college football and who am I to pass up the opportunity to meet him on the road to visit a new city? As a rule of thumb, never under any circumstances pass up the opportunity for a new adventure.

We had a lovely time. He's quite fun, that Dreamboat of mine. I'm not going to give you the play-by-play of the trip, but if I did it would look something like this:

"You're handsome." **crickets.**

Only partially joking.

I did get to go to two really fun games. One of which I wore my Oklahoma State jeans to witness Stanford lose. I still haven't forgiven their band from those shenanigans at the Fiesta Bowl.

T worked before, during  and after the games, obviously. It is why we were there. However, we did make time for amazing food, the Space Needle and the Pike Place Market.

Also, three random people told me they loved me. Three.

Seattle, I love you, too. We'll be back again.

My day at The Ocean Course

While standing on a sand dune overlooking the 12th hole on Kiawah’s Ocean Course, T. asked a question that sounded more like a statement, “You’re just a little spoiled aren’t you?” The answer is quite simply, “yes.” He's right, really. My first trip to a golf tournament happens to be the PGA Championship? A course where the final holes overlook the Atlantic Ocean and a salty breeze makes play difficult for golfers but quite nice for observers?

This isn’t a bragging post or a play-by-play of my weekend in the Carolinas, unless that’s what you would prefer? If so, I could whip one of those up for tomorrow. This is a post about my adventures in golf.

No, I’ve never tried my hand at golf; however, after a day at the final round of the PGA championship I sort of get what the hype is about.

T and I worked the back 9 for most of the day. Stumbling upon Dustin Johnson, who I later learned and then witnessed is one of the longest drivers in the PGA tour, we started our adventures. Looking back – what was T thinking? I’ve never even watched golf without a nap being a serious part of the equation. Did I say stumble? Literally. He hit into the wind and then the wind stopped blowing and his ball landed about 40 yards left of where it should have been. (Probably, I could be making this up. Or – T. said this. Either way… read with caution.)

It may have been 20 degrees cooler than it was in Oklahoma, but I am still trying to grasp this humidity thing. Why must it be so sticky? There was a lot of walking. For the first time in the history of our relationship I was really fortunate to have listened during the shoe conversation. Thank goodness I went with the sensible shoes.

Per our conversation, T. is better at me than most things. If they're weighted. (Note to readers: discussing National Championship totals in regards to wrestling and football with an expert is not for the light of heart, and don't come to the party without knowing your facts or without google search within reach. ) Given this, he's really good at helping me buy into something.

For starters, on the way to the course he suggested I download the app. The day before I decided I needed to claim a few golfers to follow to make it interesting. My choices: Bo Van Pelt (Oklahoma State alum), Bubba (He had me at the golf boys video), and Adam Scott (because Rickie wasn't playing on Sunday). The app let me know who was where and sent me updates of how they were doing.

Then, out of the blue he said, "Do you want to go down to 10 to watch Bubba?"

I'm 99 percent sure I didn't answer... just started walking.

As a fan of stories, I just swoon over Bubba's sweet story. His solid foundation of faith, his adorable adopted son (I'm assuming he's adorable - I've yet to confirm this via google search) and the importance of charity organizations to Bubba and his wife, Angie, are more than enough reasons to cheer for him on Sunday.

We followed him for three holes. It was sort of nice to just pick who we wanted to follow. Also, it should be known I used my golf voice to inform T we were standing next to Angie while watching Bubba on the 13th green.

Somewhere between the 6th and 7th stop for water, we found ourselves positioned on a sand dune overlooking the green on 12. From here we watched Poulter, McDowell and Donaldson play through; Tiger and his entourage of red shirt wearing fans; and Rory McIlroy clean house. And - I had a nice view of the marsh for solid alligator watching.

Apparently, Rory was quite impressive. Winning by eight shots, that sounds pretty legit to me. To those people standing three-deep at the rope. The view from the sand dune was better.

For a glorious 45 minutes the clouds graced the course with a little bit of overcast. To me, this meant a break from melting. It was almost cool, even.

I can't believe I just wrote a post about golf. It's truly baffling.

Here are my take aways: Golf can be interesting. I want to go to the Masters. I need the temps to drop below 70 so I can wear my new Kiawah jacket. T. is pretty amazing.


Darius in Dallas.

Last Tuesday, on my mini Dallas road trip, T and I saw Darius Rucker in concert. T, you see, has a love for all things concerts, which is completely fine by me. Picture with me, if you will, getting ready in 20 minutes. Imagine going from soaking wet hair, sans makeup and not an idea of what to wear to decent-at-best and out the door. Maybe I'm asking for a standing ovation, but I think it's worthy.

Here's the problem: I'm so good at getting ready quickly, it's expected now. Uhm? Yes, I realize this is a fail. To be fair, he's never complained once about how long it takes me to get ready. So, maybe I'm still in that false-advertising part of a relationship? Ha, doubtful.

I asked Darius if he'd tried a Bomb Pop Margarita. That's a lie, I didn't. I wanted to. I mean, we did talk about it once....

But, T. was too busy being more legit than I am.

I've quickly learned that I can't take T anywhere without running into someone he knows. Even at the House of Blues in downtown Dallas he will run into friends... it's a gift, really.

Darius was incredible. Even his random cover of Brad Paisley's 'Ticks' was decent. However, the jury is still out regarding my thoughts on his spin of 'Wagon Wheel."

My favorite line of the night was something like "this next song is for those who loved the 80s - not those who were made in the eighties, but those who remember it." Easy, Darius, I'm an '86 model but I can appreciate 'Purple Rain' as much as anyone else.

I've been trying to keep my T stories and pictures limited on the blog. I mean, creepers (and, I'm looking at you family....) wouldn't it be better to meet him in person first rather than through this silly little blog? Cropping him out of this photo just seemed rude, so we'll just pretend this post doesn't count. I mean, he did spoil me with the tickets...

*Thanks to P dub's actions, I managed to give our photo a little makeover. Hopefully, if we're really lucky you can't see that I'm melting in the triple digit Texas heat. 

Owning it.

I fully endorse dance parties. Dance parties where you're standing in your living room, firmly gripping a wooden spoon that happens to be doubling as a microphone, and singing so off-key your five pound farm dog looks at you like you're a crazy person.

Also, I fully endorse sentences that make you stop and gasp for air. You're welcome.

Because of my love for such dance parties, my eyes lit up like my birthday morning at a certain concert last week. What concert? Coldplay, of course.

Goodness gracious I'm staring to sound like a spoiled brat with all these evenings at the beach and nights with really, really good concert tickets.

Someone is giving me every right to claim my title as a princess. And, I'm owning it.

New love. (of the ocean, obviously.)

I met a boy. Boy moved. I visit. Mostly for the tan.

I've been to the ocean 5 times in my life. Cross my heart and kiss my elbow. I understand this is strange to a lot of you. Sure, I've been to the Eiffel Tower, danced years off my life in Buenos Aires, fished like a boss in Ontario, consulted a local village about poultry in Nicaragua... but the ocean?

Work all day and lounge by the ocean in the evening? sold.

To be fair, the ocean is completely overwhelming. As a newbie, I've been told I'm quite entertaining as well as dreadfully awkward. It is what it is. I'll own that.

This is just a simple case of rural gone urban gone beach bum.

Please forgive me, Oklahoma.

My dearest Oklahoma - For fourteen years I've given you my loyalty. You've been the place of adoration and the keeper of milestone moments such as my first kiss, my first driving excursion and reckless mistakes turned to lessons learned.

I've fallen in love with the boys of fall, the perfect shades of winter wheat and even the ice storms closing my beloved Boone State campus.

I've mourned with you as we survived tornadoes, plane crashes and droughts.

Together, we've celebrated Made in Oklahoma products and Oklahoma businesses, specifically the hours of 2 -4 when I allow myself to rely heavily on my Sonic ice addiction.

So, Oklahoma, why must you punish me with this summer cold? Why must I long for the Golden Girls, a cold towel and enough meds to knock me into a peaceful slumber?

Is it because I dreamed of Groucho's 45 sauce and rooftop bars?  Weather flirting with perfection and my toes in the Atlantic Ocean?

Be honest. It's because I just returned from a perfect six day tour of the Carolinas - isn't it?

I may be asleep by the 6 o'clocks this evening while clutching to a box of tissues, but you won't get me down, Oklahoma. I'll always love you, but I don't like you right now.

What does a perfect night look like?

What exactly does a perfect evening look like? Last night it was enjoying a sangria while watching my friend Jeremy pitch his first game as a starter for the Mets while sitting next to Dreamboat who was watching the Gamecocks on the other screen.

If you're ever in Charlotte, consider this my official endorsement of the Whiskey Warehouse. For starters, the hostess complimented my shirt before I had fully made it through the door. It was as if she knew I paid way too much for it and needed reassurance in my purchase. Second, rooftop bar.

As a proponent of quality weather, we couldn't have asked for a better evening. And, if that wasn't enough - Dreamboat was patient as I asked ridiculous baseball questions.

Tailgating. I was warned. I was warned before I flew more than 1,000 miles to see Dreamboat that I should wear reasonable shoes.

I thought I was.

Cute, comfy (by my standards) and they happen to be my favorite. It does help that they - black BCBG sandals - were purchased during Stillwater Crazy Days.


Anyway. I'm in Charlotte. Last night I was spoiled by having pit tickets to the Dave Matthews Concert. I know, me - at Dave Matthews? I was surprised, too.

In my twenty-something years I've never tailgated for a concert. Clearly, I've been doing it wrong. I channeled my inner self from the Okstate vs. Arizona game and drank Cupcake wine out of my solo cup while watching various game of corn hole.


Although I didn't know many DMB songs, it was impossible not to enjoy the concert from our spot. Fifteen feet from the stage, I sang all of the four songs I knew while making friends. To the adorable couple from Columbia, I wouldn't mind being as adorable as you are when I grow up. (and there's no way you've had 3 tiny humans - I'm not buying it.)


This morning I admitted my feet were killing me. Literally, at one point I thought I was dying.

Pretty sure Dreamboat enjoyed being told he was right.

He will probably never happen again. Probably.

Anyway, hope you are all having a great week! I'll be busy trying to stay out of trouble in NC.

Sunday Excursion.

Every time I venture to the farm, I'm always surprised. Yesterday, I went home for Mother's day. You know, because I have a mom. Except my mother is into that refunking junk business and she was at a trade show selling her what-once-was-junk-but-is-now-refunked stuff.

As I write this, mere hours, after I've returned to the City, I'm still giggling. My dad, Joe as I call him, is a workaholic and permanently attached to his phone. So, when he invested in a hobby.. oh, on Saturday.. it was a little surprising.

Yep, those are mules. A brother and sister pair. Their names are still up for discussion.

My denim-on-denim wearing father didn't appreciate the following suggestions for his "team":

Beyonce and JayZ (he just didn't understand this one.) Peanut Butter & Jelly (he rolled his eyes.) John & June (He ignored me.) Blake & Miranda (nothing...) Gus and Laurie Darlin' (... crickets...)

I hopped in the cart under the assumption we were just taking a little trip down the road and back. Clearly, I should ask more questions.

My phone died around the eighth mile. In turn, I offered Marshal and Kim up as a suggestion... I didn't even have the heart to explain that one.

If this is what makes Joe happy.. then, well, okay. Sure, I'll go on a few rides. I'll annoy you with my never-ending chatter about things you don't really care about.

But, next time, I draw the line at 8 miles. Twelve was just too much.

I thought maybe this whole excursion would get me one step closer to that mini pony I've been wanting for a while.

Also. Let's just imagine this. Eventually, I'm going to take Dreamboat home to meet the family. Uhm. How this could turn out is already hilarious.

Dreamboat thinks I went Princess Fishing.

Summer of '07, also known as back when I was old enough to vote but not old enough to drink, was the last time I went fishing (well, before yesterday). I'm a crafty one, you see. Caught that little baby fish and didn't even have to touch it.

My lovely family took a little excursion to Red Lake, Ontario where we went a week without internet, cell phones and television. Sometimes, I dream of a week like this. Could you imagine an entire week without technology? It seems magical.

A week where you paint rocks because you are so bored? Only my mother and aunt would bring random crafts on a family vacation. Next time, I'm petitioning for a beach vacation.

A lot has changed since '07. Sort of. Yesterday I went on a work trip to Lake Texoma. A guide took us around the lake to the best fishing spots, took the fish off the hook and cleaned the fish.

Observations, by Brooke.

Things I know for certain: I love road trips, boys are strange creatures, it's possible for me to not hate mornings, and traveling with boys is a lot better than traveling with girls. It should be stated, I really did think twice about hopping in a car with three boys before traveling from Oklahoma to Arizona. Let's get real here. Would I really want them to know how grumpy I can be in the mornings? Or, how awful I look without a few coats of mascara? (really, not a pretty sight.)

Sure, Sam pretended to lock the keys in the car in the middle of New Mexico giving me a slight heart attack. And, maybe I pretended to know what the boys were talking about when they determined the speed of a wind turbine by averaging the ..... well, does it really matter?

And, maybe they felt their stomachs drop when I took the wheel, but, I've never been around a group of guys who were so funny, yet polite; ornery, yet brilliantly respectful. Also, I hope they're reading this post and correcting my grammar.

Girls, only one of these boys is taken. They're a hot commodity, you should get them before someone else takes them off the market! Really. I'm being serious.

Thanks, guys, for an awesome weekend!

Road Trip:: Amazing-ness.

I made it home alive, from the most incredible road trip of my life. Honest. Cross my heart and kiss my elbow. I, along with three of the most intelligent/handsome/hilarious boys I know, traveled to the land of cacti, citrus, and fun to see in real life our Oklahoma State Cowboys take home the W at the Fiesta Bowl.

For the rest of my life I will smile thinking back to the second Jordan Williamson missed a field goal from the 30 yard line sending the game into OT.

More importantly, I will laugh at the timeless pranks, impromptu Journey ballads, and the day Dusty had to call me Princess - all day. 

TwentyDozen is going to be a wonderful year - and we definitely  started off on the right foot.


For some reason I can't stop smiling. Even when my body is completely exhausted from an adventurous Las Vegas weekend, it's physically impossible for me to go 5-8 minutes without giggling to myself. Yeah, I'm creepy.

I wish I could tell you about everything that went down over the weekend - but that would be against the rules, sorry.

I can tell you that I woke up Saturday morning and immediately googled the prettiest cowboy I'd ever seen in real life. He had moves like Jagger and a heart-peircing smile.

Me: Whoa. *spotting the prettiest cowboy ever* across the room. Hannah: yes. go. there. now. Me: Oh, uhm, no. Probably not.

Hannah, walking across the room: Oh, hey, I like your boots. Me, whispering to Mary, who just walked up:  Lucchese

Mary: Are those Lucchese? Hannah, you owe me five dollars.

And, then the dance party began. For some reason the straight-outta-Compton dancing genes skipped a generation because I got the moves from please-stop-that-weird-thing-you're-doing. Thanks for that, mom.

Within hours of being on Las Vegas Boulevard, I knew this weekend was going to be fabulous.

How could it not with girls like Mary and Hannah, mimosas for breakfast, and a town that refuses to sleep?

Hey Mom, I'm in Vegas.

I flew in last night, I'm probably asleep right now (thank goodness for scheduled posts.) Don't worry, I'll be fine.

I packed 5 pair of shoes - more than enough to keep my feet warm.

Hannah is here to make sure I make reasonable decisions and Mary is here to make sure I don't.

Also, I brought my insurance card, just in case.

Oh, and I hear tigers don't like cinnamon - I brought some of that, too.

Happy birthday to me!




NashVegas | Social Media Conference | Sight Seeing

Tennessee's Capitol city is known for it's rich history in country music and an abundance of education institutions, and, for the past two days, host city of the Ag Chat Foundation Conference 2.0. By day attendees engaged in discussions regarding nerd topics like: search engine optimization, online strategies, community engagement. By night, those nerds used apps such as Nashville Live Music Guide to seek out [and conquer] local dives.

I flew into Nash[Vegas] a few days early because the lovely Kirby Smith (Twitter) [college friend turned Nashville local] graciously volunteered to give me a tour of the city.

A quick stop to the 12th street area had our hearts puttering through the rooms of Katy K's boutique

The rooms of this house-turned-store are lined with Betsy Johnson throw backs, pearl snap originals and tiny-human onsies that are only appropriate because the TH have yet to develop the ability to read.

My return flight leaves for Oklahoma City today, and instead of bombarding you with the details of my trip I've made a must see list for you!

Nashville must [Top 2] list:

1. Ryman Auditorium The stage lingers of performances by Bob Hope, Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash while the architectural genius rings true to the tenor of the community. Although Nashville is home to a plethora of industries, one cannot deny the significance of the country music community.

2. Tootsies Everyone who has stumbled down Broadway will confirm this is a priority. Lady Haze refers to Toosies in the their parody Biscuits and Gravy. The similarities to Stillwater, Okla. bars are abundants, however, the plexi-glass protected sharpie clad walls give a slight edge of 'street cred.' I highly recommend taking a seat at the bar in this establishment. Ten years from now you might say, "I saw {insert big name star in 2021} at Tootsies in Nashville!"

Come back tomorrow for more!

Strippers and Babies !?!

Yes, you read that correctly. I'm in New Orleans, or "Nawlins," depending on your dialect. I'm here at the Ag Media Summit and luckily our hotel is only a few blocks away from Bourbon Street.

As a college student I attened AMS because that's what I was suppose to do. I was an overachiever and my adrenaline rush was meeting the best of the best and knowing who was who among the agiculture community.

However, when the chance to attend again arose - I jumped on it for an entirely different reason.

Because it's the place where between catching up with old friends (Ahem, Katie Allen) you learn to think like a reader while writing for your audience, strategic tweeting (reinforcing why I love Social Media so much), and how to make your copy more creative.

It's the place where your 5-year-old heart jumps in excitment at Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots that toured the streets of NOLA during Mardi Gras.

It's the place where you keep a straight face when the tour guide neither confirms nor denies the existence of vampires - but leaves you not being able to completely rule out the idea.

Ag Media Summit is the place where you sit in one session learning how to build pages faster in InDesign (design software) while checking twitter (#AgMS) to see what people are learning from AdFarm's Brandon Souza regarding networking.

It's the place you feel a sigh of relieve knowing your smart phone is fully charged - so you can capture the lady in the table.

It's the place you fall head-over-heels in love with Adobe Lightroom and question why strippers are lining the same streets where  families push baby strollers.

Mostly, Ag Media Summit is the place where you confirm your career choice. Your lovely career choice that allows you to embrace your abstract-random way of thinking that is so delicately intertwined in the agricultural community.