home is where the heart is

You know you're from Houston when...

You can leave your house, head out of town, and an hour later you still
haven't left the city limits. (During rush hour, you haven't even left your neighborhood.)

Spring is not the season, Katy is not a lady, and 1960 is not a year.

The "farm-to-market" roads have seven lanes.

If you want to be a snob about your grocery shopping, you can go to a
Randall's Flagship, Rice Epicurean Market, or a Kroger's Signature.

You have to turn on the air conditioning in January, two days after a low of 29 degrees.

You come to work in short-sleeves and walk out at noon to find that a cold front has blown through, and the temperature has dropped 40 degrees in a matter of minutes.

When you see your neighbor dancing around the front yard, you know he just stepped in a fire ant bed.

You know that the Astrodome will always be the Eighth Wonder of the World.

You wander into a section of town where you can't read the street signs
but you don't care, because you can get great prices on fake designer merchandise there.

You go to an art festival on Westheimer and you're almost run down by two cross-dressers on roller blades, holding hands.

You hear everything but English spoken when you go to the Galleria to window shop.

You've never seen I-45 in any condition other than under-construction --
and you've lived there for 20-30 years.

If the humidity is below 90 percent, it's a good hair day.

The only real Mexican food is Tex-Mex.

You know that while saving you money, "Mattress Mac" has amassed more than the U.S. Treasury has.

You see nothing unusual about an 80-something former sheriff's deputy who wears a white toupee and blue sunglasses, mispronounces names, allows televising of his frequent plastic surgeries, seems unnaturally obsessed with slime in the ice machine, and screams, "MAR-VIN ZIND-ler, EYE-witness news" into a television camera every night.

You actually get these jokes.