Lately, my mother has been campaigning — in the quiet, round-about-way that mothers do — for us to move down to Texas where she lives. For the past 20 years of my life, we’ve lived so far apart that seeing each other requires plenty of calendar-comparing, not to mention the financial planning that higher fuel costs require these days. My oldest brother, who lives all of 15 minutes from her, thinks it would be a ducky idea if I moved down there, too: no doubt he’d enjoy a break from being the go-to child.

There’s a lot that I love about Texas, not the least of which is the people. I get Texans, having been raised by one of their proudest, and I do love how easy it is to fit in among them if you’re used to using and deciphering Texas-speak. It’s a language all to itself.

Take “bless your heart”, for instance. When uttered by a Northerner it means pretty much what it says: that you’ve done something nice and they want to say something nice in response. When a Texan says it, though, watch out: what it really means is “well, aren’t you a hoot?” And calling someone a hoot really means you’re too polite to admit they’re a pain in the ass. I know this because most of my family members used to bless my heart and tell me I’m a hoot regularly until I figured it out.

Distance is different in Texas-speak, too. “Down the road a ways” means a drive of 200 miles or so. “Up the road a piece” means less than 200 miles, but not much. And to say that something’s “a stone’s throw away” refers to a distance sufficient enough to require emptying one’s bladder before setting out, but you won’t quite need sandwiches for the journey.

I get confused about mealtimes in Texas, though. There’s breakfast, but since I’m a big Tex-Mex fan that meal usually involves corn tortillas — something I ordinarily associate with eating lunch. Except you don’t eat “lunch” in Texas: you eat dinner around noontime, and later you eat supper. (Or is it the other way around? Like I said, I get confused.)

Ultimately, as I keep explaining to my mother, there’s one immutable fact about Texas that keeps VH and I from sitting down to craft Dallas resumes or to do much exploring of the job market anywhere down that way: it’s freaking hot. All the time. Even when they say it’s not hot.

I recently explained this to my mother after her most recent round of covert nagging. “Sorry, Mom,” I said. “I can handle a few hot weeks in the summer, but that 90-degrees at Christmas time thing you had going on last year? That’s too hot for my well-padded self to deal with. Why don’t you move up here? I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

To which she responded: “Oh, isn’t that nice of you to suggest? Bless your heart, you’re such a hoot.”

Like I said, I get Texans. I just don’t have plans to become one again anytime soon.