May 2003 Archives

//IT WAS SO HOT YESTERDAY ...//

How hot was it? It was hotter than 100 degrees on Friday, which is uncharacteristic even for Texas this time of year. It was so hot ...

1. That I got an instant booty burn/ass tan when I sat in my car after work.
2. Cows in the pasture were pre-cooked.
3. People with pools had to add ice to them so the water wouldn’t boil off.
4. Young children and the elderly were advised to wrap themselves in aluminum foil before playing outdoors or walking to the mailbox.
5. My neighbors were broiling chicken on their foreheads.

Stay cool this weekend!

//JUST ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL//

“There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ ”

– from “Mending Wall” by Robert Frost

//SIZE MATTERS//

We live in a world where size is deemed of utmost importance. In some cases, it’s all about being thin. More often, though, it’s girth, stature and mass that reign. You need not look any further than your e-mail inbox and see how “enlarging your breasts quickly and safely” or “make your manhood rise to new heights” is a hook baited for our self-consciousness to devour. Bigger. Longer. Richer. Faster. More, more, more.

I will acknowledge that size has its merits on occasion. However, there are instances when size is a liability rather than an asset:

1. OK, a big weiner might sound like something guys (and the ladies) would want. But you can have a big pencil and not have the writing skills to pull off a paragraph. Prowess, not necessarily size, can be the difference between “OH YES!” and “oh no”. A miniature-golf pencil doesn’t do the trick, but adequate size and proven penmanship does. Plus, a too-large lovestick would prove hard to walk around with all the time.

2. SUVs. Very few people need to seat 12 people in a rolling behemoth. Our country allows desire to rule your car choices if you have the means. But be aware, you’ll look awfully dumb trying to park that sucker at the mall. It will take gymnastics and luck to climb into it. You will pay heavy premiums to keep the beast fed and properly maintained. Don’t even think about washing it with a bucket of dish liquid and a garden hose. It will take a power washer and a ladder!

3. Houses. The large homes being a current fad with “great rooms” and soaring ceilings don’t do it for me. We bought cozy with just enough space for us. Be conservative and you’ll pay less for the house, less to heat and cool it, less to renovate it (if it’s older like ours) and have to buy less furniture to fill it. We subscribed to a renovation/decorator magazine that I knew wasn’t our speed when it described a 2000-square-foot cottage as “storybook small.” We are quite happy in our house, which is plenty for us with less square footage than that.

4. Body. Some days I’d love to be tall, dark and handsome. But most days I’m more than content with being short, dark and goofy. Really tall people have to pay more for their clothes and keep headache medicine on hand after bumping their heads on low ceilings and doorways all day. And don’t get me started on the “Supersizing of America.” Many of us face weight issues through no fault of our own, and larger meal portions only hinder our efforts.

5. Bank Account. I only want enough money to be comfortable. To me, stuff just gathers dust and takes up much-needed space in our “storybook small” home. I don’t have time for stuff. I grew up rebelling against my packrat parents, and I continue to combat clutter. I like being humble and having to earn a living. Sure, a bit more would really help our currently one-income family. But not a whole lot more. I like flying under the IRS’ radar (“Not much to audit here, guys, lets move on to the Trumps.”).

6. Big Cities. The thrill of a big city is somewhat overshadowed by heavy traffic, pollution and higher cost of living. If that’s your bag, revel in it! But for me, a small town fits better. Admittedly, I enjoy escaping to Metropolis every now and then. Just glad I don’t HAVE to go when I don’t want to.

I wish we could drive a Mini Cooper and live on a sailboat. That is probably a little extreme, though, because the Cutlet’s stroller would barely fit in the Mini, and our piano (which has too much sentimental value to part with) would eat up too much space on a floating abode. I’d need an Internet connection to read blogs all day, a harder prospect when your life is lived at sea. Sometimes, even big dreams fall short of reality.

It’s a small world after all.

//THE PARTY BENCHMARK//

There are a few parties I’ve attended that became the events by which all subsequent fiestas have been judged.

I wish I had more recent memories to share, but the fact is, the types of parties we are invited to nowadays are firmly planted in the slow lane. Most of our friends are married with at least one child. And they drive minivans! It’s no wonder we’ve retired the party animals within us. The Petite Filet and the Cutlet are invited to a 3-year-old’s birthday party next Saturday. I’m not planning to go because I don’t expect the beer selection to live up to the hype.

I wanted to share one party in particular that’s withstood the test of time with few worthy challengers.

The staff of my university’s daily student newspaper marked the end of each semester with a liquor-infused blowout bash. Cleverly named “The Daily’s Dead.” The greatest version happened after my last spring term. It was in a three-bedroom townhouse not far from campus. This was the last such party I attended sober, so the events are quite vivid. I was the “Keymaster” of the affair as well.

A breakdown:

1. Close to 200 people attended throughout the evening.

2. A margarita machine was rented. Twice the recommended amount of tequila was added to the mix.

3. A live band played (loudly) in the living room (before the nextdoor neighbor/police officer told them to tone it down).

4. People were smoking cigars while sitting on the roof. Recreational mushrooms were being consumed elsewhere on the premises.

5. Our editor, Miss Lefty McHamhock, decided we needed more liquor right before the stores were to close, and she made the 30-minute drive to the nearest oasis in 12 minutes.

6. Lefty, later in the evening, proclaimed that “The Daily was dead!” and punched a hole in the wall, breaking a few fingers in the process.

7. The backyard fence was knocked down flat.

8. The city/campus editor, Nita Drink, went missing. We found her on the trunk of her car, a few shades darker than Kermit. She was never one to hold her liquor. It never ceased to amaze me that we always blamed liquor-sickness on mixing different types of alcohol. I think the sheer volume we’d consume at one time was mostly to blame!

9. Buckets O’Jiggles, a managing editor and one of the residents of Party Central, broke her foot near her front door while leaving to look for Nita. At the time, we thought it was just a sprain.

10. Bucket’s younger (as in 19) roommate Tipsy and one of her friends, Turvey, were passed out on a bed. Some of the less scrupulous guys were peering up their skirts before Buckets and the Keymaster (getting an eyeful – hey, I’m male) shooed them away.

11. The other managing editor, Stella Tanline, was going to be editor for the summer semester. I agreed to be her managing editor, even though I knew it would be a Summer From Hell with her at the helm. And remember, I was sober, but suddenly I needed a drink.

12. A fight broke out among some of the non-journalists over something stupid, and the party began to turn ugly.

13. The police showed up again.

14. As the party was ending, every drop of alcohol except what was in the margarita machine was commandeered as partygoers left in droves. As was much of the food in the refrigerator and some of the shrubbery lining the front walk.

15. Lefty, fresh from the emergency room, fell asleep in one of the beds upstairs, already occupied by Slammin’ Sam’s friend, Dexter Drainpipe. Dexter told us the next day that Lefty had come on to him and started tongue-kissing him. He said the experience was like “kissing a shit Popsicle.”
***It may be worth noting here that Lefty is a lesbian. She and Stella (who was bisexual for a few weeks) “dated” briefly. The rest of us knew the fallout from the inevitable breakup would create a tenuous work environment. We were right.

16. Tender Vittles, the lady who had helped us cut-and-paste the paper together each day, was drunk out of her mind. In her 40s but still swinging, she hit on every guy at the party. She was too drunk to drive home, so Jasper Wiseacre drove with her in her car and I followed in his truck. She invited us into her frighteningly retro apartment, decorated with 70s album covers and vintage hats. We were finally able to extract ourselves and return to the dwindling festivities.

It’s been more than seven years, but occasionally a few people from the group reconvene. I wonder what happened to some of them, including Spastic Collin, Giggles McQueen, Tacquito Timmy, EZ Ryder, Burnt Umber, Madam Limpsalot, Shady Shutterbug, Copy Cabana, Jungle Jenny, Hasty Pudding, Milton Milktoast and Long Pole Cole. I know Freddie Flicker was in a car accident that nearly killed him. And Buddy McFratster is a stockbroker (surprise). Many others are just out there, doing their thangs.

There were other parties that came close to the debauchery ... The Night of the Yoo Hoo® Russian and The Daily’s Dead/Summer Edition, ones after graduation including the Lake Kiowa Fiasco, Lake Murray Drunken Camping, Amy’s Rave and Mac’s Farewell (first party attended with the eventual Petite Filet) ... but none overtook the Daily’s Dead’s glory.

The four fiestas thrown by yours truly at his rented West Texas Headquarters in Lubbock came closer – New Year’s 1997 being the party pinnacle. My house was THE place for a time ... many bottles were emptied, things were broken, my food completely eaten, girls peed in the back yard, fights broke out among friends, frantic sex was had in small spaces and good times were had by most. At least they kept coming back, and I dumbly let them in.

After one of my parties, the Petite Filet stayed to help me clean up mi casa. It was before we were actually dating, but we were already hanging out quite a bit. As she was leaving, we had our first kiss – an electric liplock we both later described as making us tingle from head to toe.

And the rest, like my wild party past, is history.

//RECENTLY REALIZED://

1. When I have to work on a day nearly everyone else has off, I get a lot of work done because few people update their blogs.

2. Blogger is like an evil stepmother! We tolerate her because she lets us live in her house for free (or rather cheaply). Someday, though, we’re gonna break out and live on our own in Blogtopia. Anyone up for a self-hosting/cost-splitting adventure?

3. There are people in the world who would rather saw off their own limbs with a butter knife than be nice to others.

4. Most party invitations sent to the Petite Filet and me involve children’s birthdays, family picnics, non-alcoholic beverages and about a dozen minivans.

5. Nearly all Southern Baptist recipes begin with a pound of Velveeta® and a can of Ro-Tel®. Even desserts.

6. That novel that’s been rattling around inside me for the past six years really really wants to find a publisher and best-seller list to live on for a few months. But first it must be written, like, on paper and stuff.

7. A bathroom renovation, when done by a frazzled homeowner, can stretch for months and eventually years if not kept under control. Three months and counting ...

8. I can grow a full beard in about four days. However, with careful concentration, I’m able to suppress the urge to howl at the moon.

9. I miss the ocean. In about 24 days I’ll be visiting the Gulf of Mexico for a few days, and that’s better than nothing.

10. Because I’m addicted to writing, I’d like to think I would write even if nobody left comments. But really, every writer at least secretly wants to be read. So it burns my biscuits when my commenting service tanks (like temporarily on Tuesday). I don’t write to get comments, but your comments help keep me writing.

A pleasant day to all.

//THE SOUND OF MUZAK//

Music is a big part of life for many of us. It’s hard to imagine living without the richness that our favorite melodies provide.

When we became parents, the Petite Filet and I found ourselves using music to soothe our wee one in his times of tantrum or simply just because he likes it. Lately, we’ve found ourselves making up words to existing songs, or playing the part of composer as well with random ditties about diapers, drool or being small.

To wit:

1. The newest is a song I like to call “Little Man.” It has no definable melody, and is more like a chant. Here are the words:

Little man, little man, little man – little man, little man, little man.

It kind of does that for awhile. For variety, sometimes the second set of “little man’s” is “you like the ceiling fan” or “you’ve never been to Japan.” Both lines are true, anyhow. It’s hard to get this song out of our heads sometimes, which must be the mark of true genius.

2. The Petite Filet has modified and personalized “Edelweiss” from the Sound of Music, but I don’t know all the words to it. Gives me tingles when she sings it to the Cutlet.

3. Another favorite is sung to the tune of the ’50s classic “Mr. Sandman”. Normally we use it when trying to burp our boy after a feeding:

Mr. Cutlet, give some air!
Open your mouth and blow back my hair.
A little burp will make you feel better.
Just don’t spit up all over my clean sweater. (and so on).

4. Using the tune from the Beatles’ “Paperback Writer” is the toe-tapping “Got A Wet Diaper!” Am sure it will turn into “Piggyback Rider” once he’s old enough.

5. We reprise K.C. & The Sunshine Band’s “Shake Your Booty” sometimes when the Cutlet is laying on his back. We sing “shake, shake, shake” and move his legs a little. Then we get to “shake your booty!” and gently bob his bottom on the floor. He loves it!

There are others (think Jimi Hindrix’s “Purple Haze” when diapers turn deadly), and there’s sure to be more. We want the Cutlet to appreciate music as he grows up, despite the crazy things his parents sing to him now.

//A FITTING MEMORIAL//

No matter what you did this Memorial Day, you have honored the men and women who died serving the United States. After all, they died to protect our freedoms, right? So don’t feel bad if you didn’t visit a cemetery, stop by a war monument or attend a special event. Be free! There is no wrong way to celebrate the many patriotic holidays that dot the American calendar. I hope that no matter what you did, you had fun and were safe. That goes for you guys outside of the States as well. Hope your weekend was great!

Having to work today, I am destined merely to honor our capitalistic economy. The company I work for has no qualms about using “Memorial Day Sale” in its newspaper advertising, yet doesn’t give its employees the day off (my office was let go at 3 p.m.). Guess what’s more important? O Almighty Dollar, how we worship Thee!

The day made me think about what the price of freedom really is. Those who paid the ultimate price deserve our respect, despite any controversy surrounding the conflicts in which they died. Today is not about pro-war, it’s about pro-freedom, pro-sacrifice, pro-humanity.

We Americans have a built-in pride that sometimes manifests itself as arrogance. Many of us truly believe we live in one of the greatest nations on Earth. Half the world hates us for this, but the American blood that helped pay for freedom elsewhere certainly buys us some credit. Take that, France! You wine-swilling croissant eaters would be speaking German today had it not been for American meddle in World War II! Au revoir, Frenchy.

Freedom also has its lesser expenses. Here’s a generalized list of things we must face to “pay for” the privilege of living in a free country:

1. Telemarketers and door-to-door salespeople
2. Spam e-mails (today’s spam nugget is a mixed-metaphor: “Pound her love muffin with your huge joystick”)
3. A creeping McSameness of the American landscape
4. Hearing the opinions and living with the actions of incredibly stupid people
5. Politicians and political campaigns
6. Taxes and jury duty
7. Having so many food choices that it’s too easy to get fat
8. Pollution and traffic jams
9. Having to take our shoes off at airport security because one nut a couple of years ago hid explosives in his footwear
10. Losing our patented sense of security in general because there are those in the world who decide to take out their fierce dissent against the American way of life in the form of terrorist attacks. They have found the pit of hell is much worse than whatever offended them in the first place.

There are so many reasons why in the end, the costs are all worth it, though. I will grant you the freedom to ponder those reasons for yourselves, but here’s a list of a few things I hold dear:

1. Breathing free air
2. Worshipping the deity of my choice
3. The distinctly American landscape that comprises a variety of people and cultures
4. American Women
5. A diverse continent of natural and manmade beauty from sea to shining sea
6. Readily available health care and medicine
7. Rock and Roll
8. Family
9. Distance from family
10. Road trips
11. Libraries
12. Pet ownership
13. Kodak film
14. The Bill of Rights (hey, at least we have one)
15. Amusement parks
16. Supermarkets
17. Reaping the genius of really smart people
18. A diverse continent of natural and manmade beauty from sea to shining sea
19. Home ownership
20. The freedom to leave the country on occasion, too

God bless America!

//T-BONE’S FRIDAY FIVE aka THE STUPID NEWS ROUNDUP//

From staff and wire reports.

1. Archaeologists have uncovered the remains of six humans near the mystic Stonehenge structure in Amesbury, England, 75 miles southwest of London. The bodies appear to be of four adults and two children, and early tests suggest the group lived around 2300 B.C. So far, careful analysis by lead scientist Hanna Barbara indicates the remains are of Fred and Wilma Flintstone and their daughter Pebbles, and Barney and Betty Rubble and their son Bam-Bam. Prehistoric car parts, including a stone-roller wheel, were found near the site, as was a mysterious pet collar with the inscription “Dino” on it.

2. Ruben Studdard was crowned the newest “American Idol” after a two-hour season finale Wednesday. Clay “I loves me some North Carolina bacon” Aiken, runner-up in the hit pop singer-search contest, was awarded the title of Miss Congeniality. After a whirlwind multi-city tour featuring the Top 10 finalists in this season’s competition, Studdard will release an album, launch his clothing line emblazoned with Alabama’s “205” area code, and co-star with Aiken in a remake of the Jack Lemmon/Tony Curtis classic “Some Like It Hot.” Anna Nicole-Smith is likely to reprise Marilyn Monroe’s role in the film.

3. In other Reality TV news, the eighth season of Survivor slated for early 2004 will feature favorite castaways from past Survivor seasons. It will also combine players from The Real World, Road Rules, Big Brother, The Amazing Race, The Mole, The Surreal World, Temptation Island, The Bachelor, Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire, Joe Millionaire, Extreme Makeover, Fear Factor, Shipmates, Blind Date and Mr. Personality. Sleaze-show host Jerry Springer will moderate this slice of television history. Viewers of this show may experience permanent blindness, problematic brain flatulence or the occasional spontaneously combusting TV set. You’ve been warned. My eyes! My eyes! Aaaaaagh!

4. After two Utah death-row inmates were given the choice of listening to the Osmond’s Greatest Hits for the rest of their lives or facing death by firing squad, both chose the latter. All 32 of the two inmates’ wives are petitioning the governor for an appeal of the sentence.

5. An explosion that rocked an empty classroom at Yale University’s law school on Wednesday is being blamed on a low-tech pipe bomb. No group has claimed responsibility for the shenanigans, but evidence at the scene suggests possible suspects. A partially burned sweatshirt was found, and a word or name on it is visible. Confidential sources nowhere near the investigation tell Texas T-Bone that the letters are H,A,R,V,A,R,D,L,A,W. Police are stumped as to what it all means.

This is Texas T-Bone signing off from Fort Worth, Texas. Have a rip-roaring weekend! All you suckers who have Monday off, remember the men and women who died fighting for freedom in our country. Say a prayer, light a candle, fly your American flags, get toasted, be safe. And remember me, because I’ve got to work! Bummer!

//AMERICAN IDLE BANTER//

How about that? Ruben edged Clay by a "slim" margin and is the new American Idol.

Is it just me, or did Kelly Clarkson's appearance on the show last night make you wonder how she won? Don't get me wrong, we voted for her during the previous competition. It's just that she's become a prepackaged visage of her former self. Of course, there are times my singing career is judged the same way. Bummer!

//EAT IT OR WEAR IT//

Secret fashion tip: Bibs are in.

Well, bibs are THE HOT FASHION ACCESSORY if you’re 2 years old or younger, or you’re eating at Red Lobster. The Cutlet (who is 5 months old Thursday!) has some great bibs, some that match outfits, some handmade ones (why on Earth?) and a few that have funny sayings. These are a few of my favorite bib phrases:

1. Messy Eater
2. Cool Dude
3. Natural Disaster
4. Hot Stuff
5. Mommy’s Little Alarm Clock

Really, though, I think baby bibs need to feature more creativity. Something like:

1. Daddy’s Little Tax Deduction
2. My parents got a $600 child credit, and all I got was this lousy bib
3. Tastes like chicken. What’s chicken?
4. Momma’s Mini-Me
5. Daddy’s Little Squirt
6. When I’m done growin’, the yard I’ll be mowin’
7. I’m with stupid
8. Baby food AGAIN?
9. My inner child feels like he wants to barf
10. Old Faithful
11. Bring on da funk
12. That was so funny, I just crapped my pants
13. Pull my finger
14. Don’t gag me with a spoon, man!
15. Let’s do lunch
16. Why don’t YOU eat it?
17. Pinch my cheeks again, Grandma, and I’ll sue
18. Yo dad, can I borrow the car?
19. Bring me a bottle of your finest (or Bring me something in a boob)
20. Baby’s got (poopy) back
21. Born to be mild
22. Eating this nasty food is mean to my end
23. I can’t believe it’s not butter!
24. I’m such a babe
25. Check out my crib, yo!
26. Has anyone seen my teeth?
27. I believe in whirrled peas
28. Yakkity yak, those mashed bananas are comin’ back!
29. What’s for dessert?
30. Hey ma! Who’s that weird-looking dude with the stinky feet?

Got any more?

//GUILTY PLEASURES//

They feel so good, and yet feel so bad:

1. TV show “Extreme Makeover”
Hate to see people risk their lives for the sake of appearance, but have you seen the “before” pictures? My word! Some cases just might be justified. Seeing the physical transformation, and how it helps transform a once downtrodden spirit ... well, it’s magic.

2. Singing along to Boston’s Greatest Hits
Yeah, cheesey guitar-driven arena rock at its pinnacle. Almost wish the Petite Filet’s name was “Amanda” (or that I knew any Amanda’s worth singing about) to make that song mean so much more while I’m belting it out on the drive home. Then I realized “Amanda” can be easily modified to be a song about potty training. It will come in handy in a few years with the Cutlet, I’m sure.

3. Cheap beer
Low-carb diet? Yeah, right! Normally such an infraction would necessitate doing it right. Something premium. Something microbrewed. Something exotic. A beer you can chew. But screw that! I want a Miller High Life with my (also guiltily consumed on occasion) hamburger. Gimme a Pabst with that pizza! How about a Busch with my taco? How about some Old Milwaukee with that ham sandwich? Touchdown! Goal! Swish! Boo-ya! (Saying the ever-annoying “boo-ya” every now and then is also a guilty pleasure).

4. Using the handicapped stall in the men’s room.
It’s freakin’ huge in there, almost as big as my office. If not for the environmental perils of hanging out in the restroom, I’d move in full-time. Got space for a big-screen TV and a comfy Barcalounger. Our cafeteria is right around the corner, so it’s but a short hop to pop popcorn in the microwave and grab a cold beverage. None of my male co-workers NEED the larger stall. And if there is a visitor who needs it, by all means, I’m willing to share. But he can’t have my remote!

5. Blogging.
It all started with Solitaire. Then I graduated to a low-res version of Pac-Man. Then it was Hoyle’s Boardgames. Finally, I was awarded Internet access at work, and my game-playing days ended. I surfed around, looking up cool stuff and actually got some work done using the Web. Don’t remember how it happened, but I stumbled into the blogging world by accident. Found myself on someone’s personal site, enjoyed it, left silly comments and clicked through the listed links. It was soon apparent that a living, breathing community had been built online, and its members span the globe. And I wanted in, baby!

What are some of your guilty pleasures? How did you first find the Blogisphere?

Have a great day! And try to get at least a little bit of work done.

//THE SISTER MARRIES HER MISTER//

My sister’s wedding on Saturday was fantastic. The ceremony itself was beautiful and moving – enough so that it overshadowed the inevitable snafus that always accompany family events. Of course, when two families collide, there are even more possible skirmishes. But we survived, and I live to tell about it. There are a few photos on my fotolog account (click on T’BONES PHOTOS in left column).

Memorable Moments:
1. After the minister read the oft-used “love scripture” from I Corinthians, the two lovebirds recited vows they had written. I’m sure the groom’s vows were great, but they were hard to decipher because he was choking back tears.

My sister’s were powerful, enough so that I remember this quote: “Over the course of our relationship, we’ve kissed thousands of times. But the next kiss will be different, because it is a promise.” Both of them said things about “giving all my heart” and “you are my world” etc. etc. Very sweet.

2. The church’s wedding coordinator, a nice old lady, was not much for organization. I had not made it to the rehearsal because on Friday I had picked up Uncle Spam and Aunt Jiffypop from the airport (more on this later). As an usher, my job wasn’t too hard. But she gave me instructions seconds before I was to do them. No big deal. I knew I was escorting my mom to her seat; did not know in advance that I would be lighting the unity candle, handing it to my parents, returning to the back with my dad and opening the doors for him and my sister, escorting my mom out, etc.

3. It was hard to light the unity candle. Someone had not trimmed the wick, and it took three misfires with a cheap lighter before it caught the flame (perhaps symbolic of the three boyfriends my sister had before meeting Mr. Right?).

4. My sister’s almost-4-year-old son was the “ring bearer” in a cute little tuxedo. His job was to follow the flower girls down the aisle, holding the pillow (which did not actually carry the rings). Poor guy. My nephew sulked down the aisle, dragging the pillow (as he apparently had done in rehearsal), and got upset when my mom pulled him to his seat (also rehearsed). Can’t blame the little guy. He saw mommy and her boyfriend dressed in funny clothes, saying funny things and crying surreal tears of joy.

5. The Mother of the Groom, I’ll call her Bertha, had stated early in the planning stages that she considered her son’s marriage her one chance to do the wedding thing (her daughter currently has three children, all from different fathers, some serious mental problems and no plan to settle down). As such, Bertha asserted her womanhood and threw her considerable weight around. The most blatant was her determination to make the groom’s cake (which she made herself) be just as large and fancy as the main white wedding cake.Traditionally, a groom’s cake is a small chocolate supplement for those who do not want white cake, or when the guests outnumber the capacity for the white cake’s yummy goodness.

Bertha’s groom cake was a series of rum bunt cakes. Rum was added to the batter, then the cooked cake was soaked in rum. A lot of rum. More rum than a Baptist church can normally stand. Funny moment came when a boy – probably 9 or 10 - smelled his piece of groom’s cake and said it smelled like graham crackers. I told him it was the rum in it. His eyes got really big. I saw that same kid later on, staggering around like a sailor on shore leave, singing sea chanteys and trying to pick up women his mom's age.

Bertha also made it perfectly clear to everyone that she did not eat the white cake, would not, could not! More for me, lady. It was delicious. I had another piece at my parent’s house after dinner, too. Take that, Big Bertha!

6. The guy who caught my sister’s garter, and the girl who caught my sister’s bouquet, are dating each other. How ironic and sweet! Wonder if they will be the “next ones” to get married.

7. My wife, the lovely Petite Filet, asked the best man (the groom’s 19-year-old brother) if he had the getaway car “taken care of.” The Best Man responded intelligently, “Huh?” She explained that the getaway car is traditionally decorated by members of the wedding party. These days it means toilet paper and shoe polish. We figured it wouldn’t happen and were right. After all, it was the best man’s car that was used as the escape pod! The groom had rendered his car undrivable in a wreck a few weeks earlier (a longstanding trend that needs to stop before he kills himself or someone else. ).

8. The Petite Filet was also Matron of Honor. All three women in the wedding party are married with children. All three men on the groom’s side (his brother and two friends) are single. An interesting contrast: stunning, married-mom goddesses vs. goony single dorks.

9. Uncle Spam and Aunt Jiffypop (my dad’s brother and sister) flew in from Virginia on Friday. Because I’m closer to DFW Airport than anyone else, and had but a small role in the ceremony, I was tagged to pick them up. Knowing the airport fairly well, I parked near their gate and waited at their assigned baggage claim for their arrival (meeting spot was arranged per e-mail earlier in the week). They never showed up. I rechecked the arrival screen. Sure enough, I was in the right spot.

I called my aunt’s cell phone and left messages. Called my dad to see if he’d heard from them. Walked the curbs, checked other areas (was restricted to baggage claim and ticket counters). Approached a ticket counter in desperation to see if I could ensure they were on their flight. Was informed “We cannot tell you that for security reasons.” Well, I figured that would be the answer. But I was getting a little stressed – it was more than an hour since the plane landed. Mumbled back, “Well, for transportation reasons, I won’t be able to find them!”

Finally, saw Aunt Jiffypop. We hugged, and she said they had been at the wrong baggage claim (the right one was a different number than their gate). So I shoe-horned them and their luggage into the Stang and we motored (at great speed) to the church. Caught the end of rehearsal then hoofed it to the dinner.

The dinner was in the same hotel as my junior prom many years ago. The food was better, but there was no dancing involved. At least in our room. There was some glitzy benefit in one of the large ballrooms nearby, from which a lot of noise came. I call those “Geezer Proms.”

10. The lovebirds changed clothes after the reception and emerged into a sea of bubbles. Being the dorky brother I am, I hollered at my sister and threw my bubble-bottle at her. She smirked and picked up the bottle, shaking her head. At least I did not aim right at her ... not like that time she was 4 and I was 9 and I tossed a rock and hit her right between the eyes. Oops! Those days are long gone. And now my sister’s all grown up.

***
For single attendees, a wedding can give them hope for finding a lifelong lovemate. For the already hitched, a wedding can be like a pep rally for marriage.

The Petite Filet and I discussed our own situation. She said how many times a gal will say the reason she married her man is “because I love him.” But she knows it takes more than just love. You have to be able to imagine growing old together and have a compatibility that may change over time, but never falter. You have to be a perfect fit from the beginning, you can’t really change someone to fit your mold. It takes patience. It takes understanding. It takes flexibility. It takes strength. It takes a foundation of friendship. Love must weather the storms and emerge stronger than before. If love exists only for its own sake, it won’t survive the tough times, much less the occasional argument. That Beatles song is a lie!

If you want true love, know it’s possible. If you’ve got it, hold on to it. And if you don’t believe in it or have been hurt before, I hope someone will come along to change your heart. And save me a piece of the white cake, won't you?

*** We interrupt this post to say .. thanks! Thanks for reading my blog! Thanks for being such great people! Thanks for having such interesting blogs yourselves! Group hug! OK, back to the nonsense.

//STUPID NEWS ROUNDUP – THE NEW FRIDAY FIVE//

1. The rumor that Microsoft was developing an Internet-equipped portable toilet for festival and concert venues was revealed first as a hoax, then as a real project that had been flushed. Apparently, the blokes at the British division have a great sense of humor or simply can’t make up their minds. Either way, we should have known because nobody wants to have Windows in the can!

In related news, Apple was working on a competitor, the iPotty, which promised to work faster, have a larger capacity and be less prone to crashes. But it required special toilet paper to use it. Also, Palm already had the PalmPooper in development, but the demand for such a thing never surfaced.

2. On Tuesday, in protest of a Republican measure that would redraw voting districts, Democrats in the Texas Legislature decided to take a road trip from the capital city of Austin to the border town of Ardmore, Okla. This would render the Dems legally out of reach from Texas state troopers. Plus, the Dems were that much closer to Choctaw Indian Bingo. They were expected to return Friday after the bill died on the floor of the statehouse. D-9! D-9!

3. Despite Keanu Reeves’ lack of acting ability, “The Matrix: Reloaded” is expected to be a top-grossing film of the Summer 2003 blockbuster season. The plot centers on an old, dot-matrix printer that experiences an unfortunate paper jam. Paper is refed onto the printing roller. Then, Reeves drives his Toyota Matrix to Wal-Mart to buy another printer ribbon. Hype, violence and special effects ensue.

4. Annika Sorenstam, the top female golfer in the WPGA, will make history next week when she walks onto the green at the Colonial Golf Tourney (right here in Texas). She will be the first woman to play in a tournament of the traditionally all-male PGA.

A famous PGA golfer was overheard saying, “First the coloreds, and now this.” Another golfer whose name sort of rhymes with Zyger Moods, overhearing this, beat that guy into a bloody pulp with his 9 iron and then drove away in his Buick Park Avenue®. Moods released a statement later in the day that said, “Let the beeyatch play. She’s got the golf bling-bling. I love white girls! Peace.”

5. NASA is shifting its focus from the beleaguered shuttle program to the search for intelligent life. Spokesman Nerf Twinklesky said the project might take years to complete. “We’re not sure where to start looking, really,” he said. “But we know it’s out there somewhere.” NASA’s first target will be planet Earth, but many scientists doubt the search will yield anything of value.

***And on an even lighter note:

//THE QUOTABLE T-BONE//

Dumb things I said around the office this week:

1. Nobody wins in a peeing contest because after it’s all over, the ground is covered in pee.

2. Slap another layer on the bean dip and let’s call it a day!
(in reference to the fact my company is making our jobs harder by adding more red tape).

3. You can’t argue with gravity. It always wins.

Have a pleasant and safe weekend! I will be eating wedding cake and trying to refrain from saying something ugly to my sister’s new in-laws. Violence and special effects may ensue. Or at least beer and corny knock-knock jokes. See you on the other side!

//WINDS OF CHANGE//

I’M PISSED!!! I’m gonna rip off heads and puke down necks! I will run headlong into brick walls and then bleed all over everybody! I will soil myself and not shower for ... years! Yeah! If you cross my wrath, you will suffer! Out of my way, stinky minions!

OK, that lame-o rant was for those who wanted to experience the joys of T-Bone Anger. I won’t really do any of those things because it’s not who I am. I’m even-keeled, laid-back, bordering on happy-go-lucky and occasionally afflicted with a fatal politeness. And I smell terrific. I get mad, but I get even in more subtle ways. Whatever!

Funkified as of late, things are getting better. Here’s why:

1. Stinko de Mayo. We found out May 5 that my wife’s part-time, work-from-home job is over. Finito. Close curtain. Basically, she was performing the duties of her former full-time job on a part-time, reduced-salary basis. Her boss, however, needed someone to wipe his butt for him during the day, so he was determined to let the arrangement fail. Just as we were getting used to living on my salary plus a third of her former take-home, that third is vanishing as well. We figured it was only a matter of time, but it was still a blow. But keep reading!

2. Everything will be OK. We've had setbacks before. The very same week nearly a year ago that we committed ourselves to the wife’s staying home with the Cutlet rather than working an outside job, the plumbing in our house revolted. The sewer line leading from our house to the city sewer was tilted toward the house, which means “it” never really left. Running the washer meant poop and whatnot would spew from our shower drain. Then it was discovered that we had a “slab leak,” which means a pipe was broken under our foundation. So we charged the nearly $3,000 to a credit card that was (sigh) almost paid off. We covered the new hole in our kitchen floor with a rug. And we stuck with our decision. Childcare would have negated her salary anyway. Plus, while still in her hospital room after Cutlet’s birth, she whispered to me how she couldn’t imagine leaving him with someone else for eight hours a day. We are still sure it’s the best situation for us. We are simply living in a dinero desert. The vultures are circling, but we’re giving them the finger and soldiering on.

3. I may finally be able to trade my overblown, expensive steel pony for a more suitable mode of transportation. As fun as it is to drive, our 2001 Mustang GT sucks money from us while it’s parked in the garage. The monthly payment, insurance and gas are all rather high. We tried to sell it months ago with online ads, newspaper ads and putting the thing on consignment for 6 months at a reputable car dealership. No dice! The deal we’re working on would ease the black hole in our bank account and award us the paid-offness of a junker. Won’t miss racing the riceboys because I can beat half of them on my bicycle. And because the junker has already been wrecked AND hailed on, I can laugh at building thunderstorms and shout “Bring it on, clouds of pain! Can’t touch this! Just don’t break any windows, please.”

4. We’ve got ideas. Money-making ideas. Some of them are far-fetched, but we know a viable market exists for at least a few of them. With the extra money we’ll save from not making car payments, we are going to reduce our debt. Then, “extra” dough will go for seed money to start one of our ventures. These are not get-rich-quick schemes. More like get-poor-slower schemes. And they’d give the Petite Filet (aka W.O.T.) a deserved diversion from diapers and drool during the day.

5. I might have to get a second job. That doesn’t make me special, just another guy whose day job can’t quite support the fam. I see it as an opportunity to spread T-Bone Love to the corners of another workplace. Will be applying to every part-time gig in a 10-mile radius so that my drive-time will be short. Need to do it quick before the pimply, clog-wearing, cell-phone wielding, trust-fund teens get out of school. Must beat them to the punch! My cause is more noble ... food on the table, diapers and mortgage payments! I don’t care about having the latest looks from Abercrummy & Filch or getting new gold rims for the cherry-red Mitsubishi Eclipse my daddy bought me for my Sweet 16. Watch out, teeny boppers! I have pairs of socks older than you! And I’m not too proud to mop the floor!

Plus, I just heard about an exciting full-time job opening for which I am quite suitably qualified. Would take me out of retail advertising into a new forray of the journalism world. And I wouldn’t need to take a second job at Bonanza Burger. I’ll let you know what it is if this promising prospect proves to pan out.

In the meantime, would you like fries with that?

//CATHARSIS//

Today was the first time I was genuinely glad I can’t post to my blog at work (blogger being banned by the office Internet filter and all).

It allowed me to write some things offline that, once in written form, served their purpose. Actually posting it to Texas T-Bone would have been like beating a dead horse. Be glad, friends, you weren’t subject to them. I was in such a funk that I declared our current five-day period as Snarky Week and proceeded to list with venom some pet peeves I have. Went in to great, painful detail why May 5 was, for the occupants of Casa del T-Bone, more accurately called Stinko de Mayo. Some of the writing is funny, but as a whole the body of offline rantings are pretty unpleasant.

And that’s not me.

So you’ve been spared the unpleasant diatribe, yet I still got it all off my chest. Deep, cleansing breaths. Ahhhhhhh. Me feel much better now.

Just because I’m a sharing kind of guy, I pulled some of the less offensive things out and listed them below:

T-BONE’S (LAUGHABLE) PET PEEVES
1. Living so far from the beach.
2. Reruns.
3. Being in a funk.
4. Raw chicken.
5. Too many choices.
6. Not enough choices.
7. Ordering homestyle fries and getting curly fries.
8. Paying a lot for that muffler.
9. Evil twins.
10. Beating dead horses.

Hey, I’m not done yet! Posted below is a “25 Things” list about yours truly. Enjoy!

//TWENTY-FIVE THINGS//
Inspired by others who selfishly lure readers into their lair of personal attributes, idiosyncrasies, foot fungus and bizarre hobbies, Texas T-Bone has decided to do the same. Instead of 50 or 100 things, though, I’ve listed 25. That said, I hope it is either 1/2 or 1/4 as annoying as other people’s lists.

T-Bone is:
1. Ridiculously happy to be alive.
2. Husand.
3. Father.
4. Portable.
5. Journalism graduate.
6. Lover and a fighter.
7. King of Random Blog Comments (self-appointed).
8. Owner of two dogs.
9. Loyal.
10. Tattoo-less.
11. Unpierced.
12. Into rock ’n’ roll.
13. Flexible.
14. Very very very funny, intelligent and sexy.*
15. *Humble.
16. Probably shorter than you are.
17. A person who would like to sell all his family’s stuff and live on a sailboat.
18. Somewhat artistic.
19. Drinker of soy milk.
20. A vegetarian, except for all that meat I eat.
21. Trustworthy.
22. Punctual.
23. Pleasant-smelling half the time. OK, maybe a fourth of the time.
24. Friendly.
25. Connoisseur of very cheap beer.

Obviously there is more to me than this, but you’ll have to stay tuned to find out.

//A SISTER’S FIRST MARRIAGE//

WARNING: SARCASM AHEAD. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

My sister is getting married on Saturday afternoon. My wife is the Matron of Honor and me, the bride’s only sibling, well, I’m a lowly usher. This really doesn’t bother me; I’m not a fan of weddings. Sure, they’re necessary for marriage and all, but eloping is so “hot” right now. And then a few dozen people would be spared from wearing itchy clothes on a Saturday!

Some background on my sister: stubborn as a mule set in concrete, never lived anywhere else but our parents’ house, been engaged on two occasions, has a penchant for (my dad’s words) hooking up with under-educated mama’s boys, has a natural blonde streak in her otherwise brown hair that she’s always had, recovering bulimic, fired from her first job for stealing from her boss, was a waitress for a few years, has one son conceived from an ill-conceived date with fellow member of the wait staff, is in-and-out of college pursuing a degree in American Sign Language, works as a teacher at a religious elementary school, doesn’t realize that my parents won’t let her steal their food after she gets married, and she’s got a black cat with yellow eyes named Zorro who likes to leave pee and poop in a sweeping “Z” pattern.

All in all, I still love her, despite the dripping-with-snarkiness commentary above. She is a good mother and a caring person. Generally speaking. I’ll wait to dissect the groom until the next time he does something dumb, so expect a post tomorrow. Just kidding! Hey, I’m allowed to spew a little vinegar every now and then! I’m sure it will be Wednesday before the groom does something dumb.

Anyway, we haven’t bought our gift yet for the happy couple. Here’s a few things we are considering for the important purchase:

1. “Martha Stewart’s Illustrated Guide to Decorating with Empty Liquor Bottles, 3-D Puzzles and Balls of Aluminum Foil” book.

2. A toaster. Because marriage is all about browned bread.

3. A talking toilet-paper dispenser that quotes Aristotle, Plato and Oscar the Grouch. What better way to learn about life than from three of history’s greatest philosophers?

4. A mini carpet steamer. Zorro happens. And so do 4-year-old nephews.

5. “The Martial Art of Feng-Shui” by Jackie Chan.

6. “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” by Paul Simon.

7. The Game of “Life” for practice.

8. Box of extra-small condoms. *snicker*

9. One-way tickets to somewhere the groom’s mother won’t find them.

10. A clue.

I wish them the best. No, really, I do. I’m NOT going to do this again. And if you knew the whole story, you’d understand.

//THINKING INSIDE THE (COMMENTS) BOX//

Not only do I love it when people leave comments, I “make the rounds” as well. During the week, I try to hit all my regular reads at least once a day. Most times I’ll leave a comment meant to be funny, snide or encouraging. Then, I might branch out by scanning other people’s links. It’s all about reaching out and letting others know they are special, and that they struck some chord within you.

Some of you who read this site also frequent the ones I do, and I thought (hope) it would be hilarious to relive some of the comments I’ve left on other blogs. After all, that’s how I first became Texas T-Bone. I got a mini-rep for posting meaty nuggets of witty wisdom, and it helped push me to launch my own blog.

I find these little witticisms are even sillier when removed from the context of the blog posts that inspired them. Also, some are partial comments, because sometimes T-Bone is verbose in those little comment boxes. Hope you enjoy!

Comments dropped on other blogs by T-Bone:

1. You’re a good guy to be the protector of stray pussy. Happy hunting!

2. Have to admit I thought Mini Thins were a new kind of feminine hygiene product or something. Aren't they some kind of wheat cracker, too?

3. Wow. Taking a dump has certainly come a long way since my grandparents ripped out pages of the Sears catalog to clean up with.

4. That McDonald's thing still gives me nightmares. Having worked there as a teen, I didn't see much that looked like female genitalia (except my male boss's face).

5. Sounds like an excuse for Brewery Boy to give you a rub down.

6. Looks like we’ve found another Mr. Poop[y] pants.

7. Joe, no woman wants yeasty undies.

8. I think it’s OK to have a bird on your shoulder if you’re dressed like a pirate! Arrr, mind my myna, matie!

9. Do they call bags of meat “bags of meat” over there in England?

10. You know it’s time to switch beers when it starts tasting like medicine.

11. Hope you have the weekend off. Then you can go hunting for British women who dig tattoos.

12. Check the expiration date on that milk before drinking it that close to bedtime, deary!

13. The only time my toenails change color is when I drop something heavy on them. Like a clean bathtub. Tee hee!

14. I had a friend who got a big “yellow rose of Texas” just below her navel. ... If she ever has a kiddo, it will become the gigantic yellow rose that ate Texas.

15. I like "sultry" because it's a slut of the English language. It's like a succulent, ripe peach. Juicy. Dangerous. Sexy. Hot. Burning. Desirable. Frantic. Available. Dirty. The girl next door who doesn't realize that tight T-shirt drives all the boys crazy. Or maybe she does.

16. As a guy, I urge all other males out there who don't “go south” to try it. Kind of fun, huh? Plus, done right it’s intense for your lady. And that, my friends, pays off when it’s your turn.

17. Is the patron saint of blogging St. Commenticus? Or St. Uploadabull? I’ll have to munch on that one awhile.

18. Too much wine is a real pain in the glass. Wine’s fine and liquor’s quicker, but beer is warm and fuzzy, like a friendly dog. Beer. It’s not just for breakfast anymore.

19. You really have a fascination with all things pot, but in a funny way (insert the way-too-obvious “commodian” pun here).

20. Reflective tape makes me all warm and fuzzy on the inside.

21. I’ll join the revolution if you provide the sunscreen and a big straw hat. I’m too whitebread to be a Jamaican Revolutionary. I burn easy and tend to freckle.

22. I'd love to see a Silly Spooge Sponge from Whammo® that you can throw like a boomerang (it always cums back!).

23. Wish I could make chairs, because then I wouldn’t get yelled at for sitting on a project.

24. The Quiet Party sounds like fun. Just make sure your gastro probs have quieted down. Wouldn’t want to be accused of talking out of your ass, would you? My boss does that all day long.

25. The first time a guy plays tug of war with his own rope is definitely a strange, awkward experience. Strange to think there was a time when we didn’t really know how to whack off! (“whack off” is so junior high!).

26. I like putting fresh berries in whatever cereal I'm eating. I especially like Nuts N’Twigs with real grasshopper chunks. Makes me feel like I’m on “Survivor” while sticking to a high-fiber diet.

27. After you've been the lead singer for Van Halen, your career can do nothing but start to spiral. Poor Sammy.

28. Darn you for making me look up the word, too. Now you'll be subject to this paragraph containing words on the same page: A cadre of cairds from Caelian carried cadmium-covered caducei to the Caicos Islands, where Caesar, wearing his caftan, drank caffeine-free café au lait, patted his cairn terrier on the head, shot cadgy glances at his man servant who was in cahoots with the cairds, and decided it was time to ship his caisson to Cairo. He noted the transfer in his cahier and realized he was a cafard.

29. My wife nearly shot me the last time I did dishes. She was yelling blah blah blah something about her grandma's fine china, but I couldn't hear her over the sound of the garden hose.

30. When I was 13, I could have outrun anybody while I was barefoot. Now, I need superfast shoes just to keep up.

//THE RETURN OF T-BONE’S FRIDAY FIVE//

I’m planning to answer the Filthy Friday Five here.

OK, so I was trying to think of brilliant questions for my Fiver this week. No dice, peeps. I came up with five really dumb questions. The fifth, however, I thought was good enough to stand on its own. It isn’t completely original, but the bulk of it is purely T-Bone.

Which U.S. president best describes your sex life?

Some possible answers:
a. Abe Lincoln, because your last four scores were seven years ago.
b. Richard Nixon, because you are resigned to having it only occasionally.
c. Ronald Reagan, because you can’t remember the last time you had it.
d. George Washington, because you cannot tell a lie: you’re a virgin.
e. Jimmy Carter: because it can be summed up in a nutshell: it stinks ,or it’s great.
f. Bill Clinton: because you realize love can really suck (or blow, depending).
g. JFK: because you get it on the side.
h. Thomas Jefferson: because you’ve made a declaration of independence.
i. Howard Taft: because it’s big and round.
j. Herbert Hoover: because thinking about it leads to depression.
k. Franklin Roosevelt: because thinking about it leads you out of depression.
l. Theodore Roosevelt: because you talk softly and carry a big stick.
m. None of the above because it’s not anyone’s business but yours, or you think this question is stupid and does not deserve an answer.

You are welcome to answer the question using any of our U.S. Presidents. Just don’t forget to explain why you chose him!

//LAST WEEKEND VS. THIS WEEKEND//

Here was me this past weekend:
1. With allergies acting up, didn’t really feel like doing squat.
2. Mother-in-law in town, but she, the wife and Cutlet were out shopping most of the time.
3. Did a little bit of work on our bathroom, but while replacing the closet light, managed to render three electrical outlets and our bedroom overhead light dead.
4. Mother-in-law gave me the green light to drive her Mercedes SLK 230 convertible (supercharged!). Despite allergies, managed to drive it, top-down, and not get bugs stuck in my grin-exposed teeth. 80 mph. Handles greeeaaat. Must get one of these someday.
5. Before all of this, had to move the contents of our closet from the guest bedroom to our upstairs over-the-garage loft/junk room. Hated that I made no progress on the renovation. I miss having clothes close at hand.

Here are my plans this weekend:
1. Wife is Matron of Honor in my sister’s wedding (May 17). Saturday is the bridesmaids’ brunch and personal shower for my sister. Wife and Cutlet will again, sadly, be gone all day.
2. I’ll miss them, but it’s another chance to renovate, renovate, renovate. Plan to use toxic chemicals (while wearing a respirator) to remove 40-year-old floor adhesive from the floor. Fun! If survive the fumes, will move on to re-insulating the bare walls. On Wednesday, I managed to fix the electrical problems we were having. Everything works now! Yippee!
3. Will make a trip to the always-fun home improvement store for supplies and tool envy.
4. Will be forced to drive the Mustang to run errands. Not complaining; it’s a fast, fun car. I’m the envy of 15-year-old boys everywhere. But the fake hood scoop is a little much. Note to self: next time, get more grownup car that gets better gas mileage (like an SLK 230).
5. Feeling fantastic! No excuses for not exercising and getting things done. Might even post a blog entry! Post some pics to my fotolog.net account! Woo hoo! Maybe make the wife her very first Mother’s Day card. Continue prepping our junk for the upcoming Garbage (uh, garage) Sale.

What are your weekend plans? Whatever they are, I wish you a peaceful time during which you can become recharged, refreshed and fulfilled. See ya later!

//DADDY DEAREST//

A few things I miss since becoming a parent:

1. Sleeping through the night.
2. The ability to leave the house without making 12 trips to the car to load baby gear.
3. Morning sex. For that matter, evening sex. Oh, and lunchtime sex. Heck, sex.*
4. While we’re on the subject, touching my wife’s breasts (she’s nursing the Cutlet).
5. Quiet time with the wife.
6. Eating together at the table.
7. Not having to change diapers or empty the Diaper Genie.
8. Living a relatively drool-free life.
9. Not needing a baby-sitter to go see a movie.
10. Never being the same again.

A few things I enjoy about being a parent:

1. When the Cutlet falls asleep in my arms.
2. How the Cutlet smells after a bath.
3. Quiet time with my family.
4. Having a family “picnic” in the living room each night.
5. Having a built-in excuse to read Dr. Seuss books.
6. Coming home and having two people greet me.
7. Feeling closer to my wife than ever.
8. Seeing my wife’s breasts all the time.
9. Gently whacking the Cutlet on the back and getting a manly belch in return.
10. Hearing the purest, most precious laugh in the world.
11. Watching a little miracle grow.
12. One day having a built-in buddy to take fishing, boating and camping.
13. Aspiring to be a man worth looking up to.
14. Having more reasons to take lots of photos.
15. Although the Earth is bulging with billions of people, knowing that we have the chance to send someone special out there.
16. Adding an extra occasion to eat birthday cake during the year.
17. After the Cutlet comes of age, not having to mow the grass again until he leaves home.
18. Looking at him and seeing pieces of my wife and me made more perfect in him.
19. Eventually being able to go to those lame-o father/son picnics.
20. Never being the same again.

*Almost considered removing this after last night. Hubba, hubba!

//THE GREAT OUTDOORSMAN//

I love camping. But lately it’s been hard convincing the wife that it’s a worthwhile experience. I think this is due to our last adventure.

Almost two years ago, in the middle of the summer, we both took off from work to spend a few days at a nearby lake. This would be a waterborne adventure, as we had borrowed my father-in-law’s old ski/fishing boat. We’d zoom around the lake. Swim. Relax. Breathe clean air. Sleep in a tent. Make love beneath the stars. Leave the world behind.

Our adventure started off almost like a honeymoon, but ended almost like a funeral.

We were lone campers in that branch of the park. The view was spectacular. We launched the boat and were able to pull it up to the shoreline near our tent. The parking lot was about 20 yards from the site, which meant we could keep the bulk of our supplies in our truck and still have them close at hand.

The first day was breezy and sunny. Both being total whitebread, we loaded up on sunscreen and rode around in the boat for awhile. We packed a lunch and enjoyed floating aimlessly around the large lake. We got tired of that and pulled up to the shore at our campsite.

After swimming and frolicking a while at one of the fake-sand beaches, we lazed around the campsite, talking about whatever came to mind. We were sitting in the boat when the “mood” struck us.

“I bet it would be cool to ‘do it’ in the boat,” I said, in my usual, romantic way.

The wife smiled. “Get down here.”

And I of course obliged. Bumping and grinding in the boat, however, soon proved to be difficult. Dare I say it was painful. The split console barely left enough room to grind, so we bumped a bit. It was after one of the sheriff’s deputies did a routine drive-by that we decided to take the proceedings into our tent.

And it was hot, hot loving in all kinds of ways. We stripped down to nothing and enjoyed the gift of raw, physical marital bliss. After such heated, frantic, sweaty and absolutely awesome love-making, we were feeling fantastic and very close to each other.

But after said tryst, our outdoorsy escapade started to go downhill.

It was near dinner time, so we headed to the surprisingly clean and well-appointed shower facilities. Only strange thing that happened here was that the wife’s shower was interrupted by a little girl who barged into her stall. Hello? Kids!

After an uneventful dinner and *burp!* a cold, fermented tallboy, the sun started to dip into the lake. Beautiful! Our whitebread skin, though we thought it had been protected by the oft-reapplied sunscreen, was starting to ache with the all-day sun exposure. In a few hours, we’d feel like we were on fire (and not like the good way we had earlier). The breezy day had turned into a sticky, gusty evening – one that would find us barely sleeping as the tent flaps scraped against the poles all night long. Plus, our sunburn was getting worse.

The next morning, groggy, windblown and feeling really really toasted, we considered packing it in a day early. It seemed like a great idea, because we’d done about all we wanted to do the day before.

Our tent wasn’t quite empty when a gust knocked it down, it started to rain and we were feeling increasingly miserable. The rain subsided, we finished packing up and then turned to getting the boat to the nearest loading ramp.

I’d put our lawn chairs in the boat and upon walking back to the controls tripped over them and nearly broke a leg. Great! Strike One!

The wind was unrelenting and thus the current proved hard to navigate. While the wife tried to push me out, I started the engine and wound up churning up mud. Finally, after much yelling, pointing, flying mud and goosing the throttle, I broke free from the shoreline. The plan was for her to meet me at the ramp with the truck and trailer, we’d load up the boat and head home to relax the rest of the week.

This was not to be. And at this point we learned a hard lesson about keys, gravity and mud.

She had the truck keys in her pocket, but amid wrestling the boat from the mud ... they slipped into the water. She did not notice this until I was heading for the ramp, which was around a bend.

“I lost the keys! I lost the keys! You’ll have to help me find them!” She started to cry and started hunting for the shiny keys in the murky water. Strike Two!

Oh no! Floaty thing! Floaty thing! Sure, we’d put a floaty thing on the BOAT KEYS. We neglected to do the same for the truck keys. Stupid! Stupid!

I drove the boat to the ramp and pulled up to the shore, securing the line on a large rock. I hauled it back to the campsite, which was not as short a distance as I would have liked, and breathlessly reached the shore.

“Don’t be mad at me!” she cried. And I wasn’t. I was heartbroken that we’d lost the keys, but I hugged her tightly, kissed her, and joined the search. Not sure where my cooler head came from, but it prevailed.

Fortunately, the truck was unlocked. That gave us access our cell phone, and we called the park ranger to see if he had a magnet or something. Of course, he didn’t. He bounced over to us in this park pickup, but could only shrug his shoulders and squint into the water. He left us soon after, and we resumed our probe.

Hands and knees. Cool water. Strong current. Intermittent clouds and dim sun. Reflected clouds. Mud. No luck. For about an hour. Prayers. Not giving up. More prayers. More mud.

And as we were considering calling someone closer to the house (we were 90 minutes from home) to break into it and get our spare keys ... she looked down ... and found them a few feet from shore.

Thank you, sweet Jesus!

We rejoiced. We hugged. We kissed. We did a happy dance. We let go of held breaths.

It was such a miracle, we decided to chill for a bit. We even took the boat out for another spin in calmer water and had another pleasant onboard lunch. We looked at more wind-protected campsites nearby. We found the perfect spot in its own little lagoon, which offered a shaded, sheltered tent area and a quiet place for parking the boat. Considered for an oh-so-brief instant staying another night.

In the end, though, we were red as raspberries and now more worn out than ever. It was time to go. Strike Three! We’re out!

This time I had no trouble maneuvering the boat from its protected berth. She met me at the ramp with the truck. The current was even stronger between the two piers, but we wrestled the boat back onto its trailer. I secured it with the tie-downs, we took a deep breaths, and pointed toward home.

That was the last time we went camping and the last time we took the boat out. Our traumatic experience, coupled with an eventual pregnancy, meant bouncing around in the boat was not a viable option. Her dad towed it back up to Oklahoma soon after.

Sometimes I think how nice it would be to reserve that safe, protected campsite and spend a few days absorbing some nature. Maybe next time we’ll take a kayak or a canoe rather than a motorboat. Maybe the bikes. There will be floaty things attached to every valuable thing we take with us. Still, I have a feeling it will be a bit longer before we get the urge to actually camp again.

And I have a feeling the wife, my strong, intelligent, sweet, beautiful, vivacious, sexy, sometimes-outdoorsy wife, will want only to hear all about what fun the Cutlet and I had camping without her.

//FOOD FOR THOUGHT TO CHOO-CHOO ON//

All the places I’ve lived have owed their existence or early prosperity to the railroad. This was true in my native city in Virginia, and is the case for the places I’ve lived in Texas. In fact, there are a couple of towns north of Fort Worth named after railroad engineers from the Pioneer Days.

I cross two sets of tracks just to get to work. Used to annoy me when the flashing lights and “don’t cross” arms blocked my passage. But now I realize it’s my chance to enjoy one of the original forms of blogging: Boxcar Graffiti. I enjoyed just such an art show while on my way back to work from lunch on Monday afternoon.

Purely illegal, the defacing of train cars is an old art form that grew right along with the spray-painting of water towers, highway overpasses and the sides of barns. It echoes prehistoric cave paintings (the first blog-like form of expression), differing only in method of application and the fact that train-painters don’t necessarily live on the trains. But I digress.

Boxcar Graffiti is like blogging because:
1. Painting trains arguably requires some creative thought (at least in the design sense).
2. Spelling is not important in getting your point across.
3. In some cases, hundreds of people will see the fruit of a painter’s labor.
4. If you don’t like what you read on one car, another will come along right behind it.
5. Self-expression in the public domain adds an element of danger and can leave the artist exposed.

If I ever learn to play the guitar well enough, I’ll set some of my “poetry” to music. My first full-length album will be called “Boxcar Graffiti” as an homage to the spray-can-wielding gang members, dropouts, escaped convicts, homeboys/girls and artistes who display their creative wares on the rolling, clickity-clacking Nationwide Web also known as the railroad.

But for all the impressionable young kiddos out there, true Internet blogging is more worthwhile than committing a crime of self expression. Say it, don’t spray it!

***SIDE NOTE: The first time I noticed graffiti was at age 6 or 7, shopping with my mom at Leggett’s. Written on the wall of a ladies dressing room was “Last night, me and Joe f*cked. It was good.” For some reason, Mom got real mad when I asked her what f*cked meant, and she told me not to say that word again. It was bad. But the girl said it was good. So confused. Now I understand the dichotomy! Even when it’s bad, it’s good.

***
Hope all who cared to had a wonderful Cinco de Mayo. Ours was more like Stinko De Mayo, for reasons unrelated to the colorful Mexican celebration of whipping France’s whiney butt back in the 1860s. But tomorrow is another day (Or today is another day, depending on when you read this). And that, friends, is a reason to celebrate all in itself. Hasta mañana, compadrés!

//HERE WE GO AGAIN!//

I promise, this time when I say you can see a photo of me, you actually can. And I'm not talking about that blurry one at the post office. Clink on T-Bone's Photos link at left. I'll be adding more photos to the pile, but I'm not sure there's a way to create albums on this service. Might have to switch to another or (gasp!) actually pay for something. Figured taking a pic of myself with the Cutlet would at least insure something in the frame would be cute!

*Ahem* People do actually say the Cutlet "looks just like his daddy." And that would be me. I'm cute by association. Woo hoo! Snores!

//THE PROJECT BANDWAGON//

Having proven to myself that I have the perserverance to update a blog on a regular basis, my T-Bone brain is reeling with the possibilities of launching a side project. Certainly, I think the Mirror Project has spawned a host of photography-related sites (such as pictureyourself.org). There are what I call the "Hello" projects, led by individual bloggers who seek photos or graphics with "Hello WHOEVER" in them. The Julie/Julia Project is the product of a NYC woman named Julie cooking up recipes from a Julia Child cookbook. There is a site with a sideline of Parking Spots, for which readers are encouraged to send in photos of toy cars blended into the real-world traffic environment.

There are, I can be certain, oodles of similar goings on out there that I can't even guess about.

So, here is a list of ones I am considering. If I do pursue such a project, it may not be on this list because, frankly, these are totally lame-o:

1. The Dinner Project. Readers would send in favorite recipes that they have actually tried, with bonus points for e-mailing a photo of your kitchen's bounty as well.

2. The Tee Hee Project. This one would be rather simple, but possibly hard to track. Participants would, for a set amount of time (week or month?), when commenting on blogs they read always end a post with "Tee hee!" Even at the end of serious comments, you'd add "Tee hee!" Then there would have to be a place to log where the "Tee Hee's" were scattered. Tee hee!

3. The Answering Machine Project. This one could prove cost-prohibitive. I would (gulp) post my home or work phone number, and participants would call and leave a message. If the idea caught on, however, there'd be no easy way to stop it. If the idea failed, it would be more lame-o than the idea itself.

Maybe I'll just stick to blogging for a while longer. I've got enough Honey-Do Projects here at home (although anyone who wants to come over and help is welcome!). Need some down time during which I'm not staring at the computer.

P.S. So glad my comments are back. Was a problem with the service, as I checked other blogs that use the same company. I, like many of my Web Brothers and Sisters, am a comment whore. Tee hee!

//GOING GENTLY INTO THE NIGHT//

Rarely will you find something profound written here – I tend to walk on the lighter side. If you want to read about genuine human emotions on a daily basis, I'd normally point you to a few of my links.

However, one of these links is no longer going to be a spirited,enlightened monologue of what it's like to be a young, single woman in our time. The author has decided to stop blogging via her current forum. My mind-reading skills not being up to speed, I couldn't tell you if she'll start another. But she will be missed. Her departure is handled in the most classy way I could imagine. It is simple, deliberate and sweet. Check it out, especially if you had read the site before, but hadn't visited recently.

Ending a blog is not a reason to mourn. This person is still a living, breathing, vital being. The blog is what is dying. And while no one can be replaced entirely, if you need your daily fix of such musings, there are others similar in circumstance and somewhat similar in style.

Farewell, Jane!

//WHY I (HEART) MY JOB//

To make room for my rambling story below, my Friday Five this week is a short list of reasons I like my job. I still casually check the classifieds for other employment, but the current economic climate is not brimming with prospects. So, why not be happy about merely having a job? Here’s why I am:

1. Young, hot models from a local agency can sometimes be seen cavorting in their underwear in our photo studio. Female and male, whichever flavor you prefer.

2. The ladies accessories buyers have pet beta fish on their desks named after vendor reps. Cracks me up!

3. My office: no windows, but it’s big enough to park my bicycle if I ride it to work. I’ve got toys in here, lots of photos of the family and such and a beautiful Macintosh G4 (connected to the Internet via T-1 line) with a 22'' monitor . Oh yeah! Wish I had a door so I could take naps and watch DVDs on my computer, but that’s another story.

4. I make a decent living. It’s not a ton, but for perspective: it pays more than three times as much as my first job out of college; more than twice my starting pay at my second.

5. I am trusted, respected, sought for answers to a variety of questions and have as much job security as anyone else in my department (more than many). Plus, the work peeps sometimes guffaw at my attempts at humor.

There are other things I could list (my 5-minute commute), and yes, there are things I don’t particularly like. But that’s why they call it work.

What are some positive things about your job?

//THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD HOME//

On my way to fulfilling one of my mid-year resolutions to cut clutter, I’m going to try to sell my stereo. The CD player works only part of the time, both cassette decks eat tapes, and it’s just too big for where we want to put it. I paid $200 for it, but will part with it for less than $20 if I can find a willing victim at our upcoming garage sale. That thing’s got to go.

I bought the stereo 12 years ago, but I remember the day vividly. I was about to graduate from high school and was planning the purchase with monetary graduation gifts.

It turned out to be the longest day of my then-17-year-old life.

Our family motorhome was in the shop, so the plan that Saturday was for my dad and I to go stereo shopping, then I’d drop him off at the mechanic’s and drive his car home. The plan worked flawlessly until I was heading back to the house alone.

Was stopped at a red light in the center of a three-lane road, be-bopping to whatever horrid music I fancied at the time. I checked the rearview mirror. To my frozen horror, a Ford Bronco was approaching way too fast. Time stopped for an instant, I tensed up, and I watched it come until it smacked the back bumper. BAM! Metal crunched, plastic shattered and the impact sent me rolling into the car ahead of me.

The driver of the Bronco scrambled out of his truck to see if I was OK. I told him I thought I was fine. He said his wife was yelling at him and he didn’t see the red light. How nice. So it’s your wife’s fault? Good to know. Whatever.

There was another wreck on the opposite side of the intersection, so police were on the scene in minutes. There wasn’t much left of the trunk, and the right rear wheelwell was pushed solidly onto the wheel. I wouldn’t be able to drive it home. I guess the bright side was I’d put my new stereo, still in its rather bulky box, in the back seat. It sat at my feet as the tow truck hauled off my dad’s now-abbreviated 1987 Nissan Maxima. The idiot who hit me was able to drive home. Later we’d find out he didn’t even have insurance.

The police officer could not drive me home because it was outside his jurisdiction. He could, however, drop me and my stereo at the police station. There I could use the phone to call for a ride. Remember, friends, this was 1991 – cell phones weren’t as prevalent and the teen-age me certainly didn’t have one.

Things only slightly improved in the police station’s waiting room. There was one phone against the wall, and a bank of permanently anchored plastic chairs in the middle. My first attempt to call home yielded the answering machine – my mom and sister were out running errands, and my dad was making a few more stops in the motorhome before going home. The second and third calls, spaced about 15 minutes apart, ended the same way. During the third attempt, I called my friend Banana Man and got his answering machine, too. Where is everybody?

I hung up and, like I had during each calling attempt, pushed my big box back over to the chairs. The desk officer had been watching me. “Did you just get out of jail? You know, you only get one phone call.” Um, no, I was in a car accident. And I haven’t gotten anyone to answer at my house, Officer Jerk, sir. Leave me alone. Go back to sharpening pencils.

A woman in her late 30s witnessed this exchange and asked me about the accident. I told her what happened and that my ride was undrivable. I lived in ____, so the police couldn’t drive me home. Turns out she had a friend she could visit who owned a donut shop in my town, and she offered a ride. There were four little kids yo-yoing from her to all points of the room, so I figured the drive would be like hitching with a carload of sugar-shocked monkeys.

The reason she was at the station broke my heart and made my situation seem trivial. Her 5-year-old niece was in a back room talking to a female officer about how her teen-age uncle had raped her. The scars that precious little girl probably still has to this day weren’t visible when she happily skipped back to her aunt’s chair, pigtails flying behind her. The woman and the officer spoke a few hushed sentences, and then we left.

The five little kids piled into the backseat of the boat-like old Lincoln. I crammed my box in the trunk and rode shotgun. “I need to get some gas,” she told me as the engine sputtered to life. I told her all I had was $5, but it was hers. We stopped at a nearby station and put exactly 5 bucks’ worth in the tank. After the behemoth was fed, we noticed one of the tires was going flat. The car hobbled over to the free air hose, one of the boys karate-chopped the hub cap until it clanged onto the ground, and then I refilled the tire.

The chit-chat and intermittent kiddy chatter made the ride go quickly in a noisy kind of way. So glad the hyper youngsters wouldn’t be popping donuts until after I was out of the car.

Home at last, three hours after the ill-fated fender bender. I thanked the woman profusely as she helped me unload my stereo. She drove off, gaggle of kiddos whooping it up and waving at me. My house was the best thing I’d seen all day, even though it was sadly empty when I arrived.

I unpacked my stereo and played one of the few CDs I had. My dad was the first one to get home, and I related the story. After my mom and sister returned, we went to the impound lot. A few hard pulls with a crowbar rendered the crumpled car able to limp home.

Banana Man and Straw Hat came over that evening to check out the beatup car and see how I was doing. Straw Hat handed me a stack of CDs, which were rejects from the CD-imprinting factory where his dad worked. They played fine then, and they still do.

The stereo has been a fairly good one. I dragged it to college and the seven places I’ve lived since leaving home. It has survived loud, angry breakup music, alcohol-soaked parties and my frequently misguided taste in music. The CD-player’s laser needed realigning once and both tape-decks have needed new belt drives. With those things failing again, it’s time to say goodbye. Someday we’ll upgrade to something smaller and more powerful, with a remote.

And this time, I think I’ll buy my new stereo online.