RELATIONSHIP QUOTE OF THE DAY
Funniest thing someone else said about a woman I used to date:
"If she grew eyebrows and a personality, she wouldn't be half-bad."
July 2003 Archives
THE CUTLET UPDATE
Yes, I know you are all pining to know how the Cutlet is doing. Well, obviously he is great! He is 7 months old as of July 26 (which also means there's less than 5 months until Christmas). Happy, healthy and as cute as ever. There are some pictures here . I'll add more images later.
Here's a progress report:
1. He crawls! Well, he launches forward for a few feet and then reverts to rolling to get where he wants to go.
2. He pulls himself up! He has done this a few times now. That reminds me ... I need to lower the crib matress again.
3. He sits up on his own! His baby melon-head is still a bit much for him, so sometimes he'll fall over. Get that kid a helmet!
4. He claps! Well, he is starting to realize those weird things on the end of each arm can come together for something spectacular.
5. He waves! He's not sure what he's doing and we suspect he is merely mimicking others. But it's cute anyway!
6. He makes motorcycle noises! Um, sort of. They border on farty noises, but whatever they are, he isn't in control of his drool yet. Say it, don't spray it!
7. He has a tooth! OK, we can't see it yet, but we can feel it.
8. He is a real charmer, and already knows how to flirt with the ladies. He prefers older women, because there just seem to be more of those out walking around. Check out my crib, yo!
9. He is eating "real" food, although it kind of looks like astronaut food and smells like yesterday's special at Chez Nasty. The Petite Filet continues to nurse him, but for the past month his milk diet has been supplemented by fruit, vegetables and lately – meat. I'm talking carrots, beef & barley (all in one jar) and stuff like that.
10. He still looks like his daddy! At least that's what most people say. Because he is so incredibly cute, I choose to agree.
He is already becoming more of a challenge. But we're looking forward to every new frontier he crosses.
Have a splendid day. If you're lucky, you'll have to change fewer diapers than I will today.
THE GREAT "P" WORD
What's your passion?
NEW KID IN TOWN
So, contrary to Eelnahs said about iMacs being evil, we bought a new one. We had many good years with our old gray iMac, Granny Smith. And for the work we do at home, Apple just couldn't be beat. If only Steve Jobs would lower the price to $1.50 ... we would have bought three or four!
Without getting into the Great Mac/PC Debate (again), I'll just say "Can't we all just get along?" (and "They'll take my Mac when they pry it from my cold, dead fingers").
IMPACT
I was getting increasingly uncomfortable at the funeral.
Nearly the entire high school showed up, and the church sanctuary was getting a bit humid and confining. But that wasn’t why I was squirming. It was because Straw-hat and I were wondering if it was in the room. Yes, morbid, I know. But we’d heard about the force of impact during the car accident. Was that an empty coffin up there, or was her mangled body inside?
During the service, though, you couldn’t help but snap into a somber, honoring and humbled demeanor demanded by the gravity in the room. A 17-year-old girl had died. A girl you knew. A popular girl. A girl you had classes with. Hers was a life full of potential. Suddenly it was extinguished and the potential evaporated.
Like most Christian funerals, hers balanced the fine line between mourning our loss and celebrating heaven’s gain. Tearful declarations of “she’s in a better place” and “God called her home” are true enough, but echoed painfully against the reality and finality of that long wooden box. God has a divine plan, but you can’t help but wonder what it all means at times like that. Thankfully, we’re not granted the privilege or responsibility of knowing. We are charged with living the lives of our choosing, and facing the inevitable each day – either conscious or oblivious of what we cannot change or avoid.
H. was a passenger. The driver, C., survived, but would carry physical and emotional scars for a long time if not forever. The two were out buying decorations for a student council-sponsored Valentine’s dance.
Both girls were in one of my classes. The first school day after the accident, the teacher called roll and started to teach class. The two empty chairs at the table the girls shared was too much to bear, so he took us outside. The early spring sun was warm and inviting, and the grass had already started to turn green in spots. In another class, the teacher chose to believe we should move past the accident by having lots of homework. From that experience, I remember a normally calm and collected girl breaking down in tears under the workload and lambasting the teacher for her methods. We all handle grief in different ways, I guess.
One Friday night about a month from graduation, a bunch of us convened at somebody’s house, regrouped and then drove to Dallas to eat. C. had physically recovered enough to return to school, and she went with us. After a failed attempt at bowling (Friday night without a reservation is a fairy tale), we headed to S.’s house to watch a movie instead. J. was driving, and maybe she didn’t think about the shortest route home ... the one that took us through the intersection where the accident happened.
Those in the car fell quiet when we all realized where we were headed. Not sure why or how, but I started talking about something completely random to C., who sat next to me in the back seat. We chit-chatted before, up to, through and past the intersection. The conversation faded and silence once again prevailed. A mile down the road, C. reached over and squeezed my hand.
Why did I think of H. this morning? Today is no special anniversary for anything related to high school or the accident. To me, she was only a casual friend – a classmate and not much more. Had she lived, it’s unlikely I would have thought of her today. Her life was laid out before her as one destined for blissful normalcy: college, marriage, children, happiness. She might have shown up for our 10-year reunion in 2001, but I may not have sought her out (her husband and kids in tow) to say hi. She would just be one of many other girls from the WHS Class of ‘91 I barely knew and didn’t care about catching up with. What a happy thought that is, really.
Each milestone I reach in my life is one she only dreamed about. Any member of her family on any given day might be thinking about how she was or who she could have been now. Close friends, especially in the years immediately after high school, probably thought of and missed her often. She would be 30 this year (like me) – another unrequited milestone. But God called her home and she’s in a better place.
I occasionally drive through that very intersection on the way to my parents’ house. Sometimes I’ve breezed through it without a care in the world. Other times, I remember the accident and wonder how C. is doing. Then I think about H. Her impact, not necessarily constant, no doubt continues to affect the people who knew her well. Apparently, she also continues to impact those who knew her only a little.
PROGNOSIS: NEGATIVE
Granny Smith is not doing well. We called the Computer Hospital, and the geekdoctor told us it would cost about as much as a new computer to fix our old gray iMac. Lately, Granny has been acting up, taking a dump on our files and talking about World War II. It is time to put her out of our misery (as heartless as that sounds).
Bad news: we can't really afford a new computer, but the Petite Filet is performing freelance work that necessitates one.
Good news: shiny new computer in our near future. I'll keep you updated on the particulars. Oh goodie! An expensive toy!
On a side note, speaking of pulling the plug – another blogger has decided to hang it up (at least for now). Fuzzer Anne, we hardly knew ya! Keep in touch!
A CELEBRATION OF NOTHING
It’s the first weekend in a loooong time that we’ve had nothing to do. We planned it this way, and the prospect makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Considering our planlessness, I will probably skip shaving in the day’s honor and be fuzzy on the outside as well.
Sure, I’ll probably end up working on the house a little bit. Stemming the tide of home improvements is much like trying to collect water in a net, so I’ve got to make some progress or I’ll end up flooded. But then maybe we’ll pack ourselves up and go to a nice park. Maybe a rare family dinner out somewhere. Soak up a little sun, savor a pinch of relaxation, enjoy a few ounces of laziness.
It will be nice not being on anyone else’s schedule for a change. We don’t have to rely on someone else, meet up with so-and-so and whooze-it, or do anything in particular.
Of course, that will change next weekend. The Petite Filet and the Cutlet are flying up to Tulsa, then the dog and I will drive up there (they will be staying until Wednesday; I have to be back at my cluttered desk on Monday). It’s her grandma’s 83rd birthday, and family from all over will convene for family fellowship, fun and food. I’m part of that family now. As the clan’s newest addition, the Cutlet is the main attraction wherever he goes, at least until a new cousin is born.
But for now, at least on Saturday, the day is ours. And we are going to use it as wisely as we know how: doing nothing. We will revel in nothingness. We’ll roll around in it like pigs in mud. Nothingness will cling to us like stink on a skunk. We will owe nothing to anyone, but we’ll owe something to nothing. Nothing rocks.
I’m so excited that I wrote a nothing haiku:
Nothing can own you
When you’ve got nothing to do
Free as free can be
Here’s to hoping your weekend is full of nothing but whatever, whomever and wherever it takes to make you smile. Have a great one.
GRANNY SMITH
Thought I might clarify my post below and say I am so full of words that I could quite possibly continue to shock, amaze and bore you for years to come. Can't say that I will, but it's possible. And when it's time for Texas T-Bone The Blog to fade into the ether, I won't leave you hanging. I'll figure out how (probably in list form) on some T-Boney farewell.
But enough about that. Wanted to say that if I stop posting new stuff all of a sudden that it's most likely because of my home computer. Granny Smith (our old gray iMac) is getting on in years and just ain't what she used to be. Her memory is short and she's getting increasingly hard to turn her on (ewwwwww). Sometimes she goes to sleep and won't wake up (she's a real Coma Cameleon). At some point, when the Petite Filet is in between freelance work, we're gonna take Granny to the computer hospital for rehab and make her as good as almost-new.
As I've mentioned before, I cannot post from work because Blogger is blocked. So if it seems like I'm gone for a while, I'm not. Read my archives, or scroll through my Choice Cuts (why haven't you done that already??). There are some great people out there blogging their little hearts out.
A BLOG-GONE SHAME
A few of my regular reads, Roomie Nations and Lotus are hanging up their blogginess. Inevitably, we loyalists will leave comments about how we'll miss them and miss their blogs. These are true statements, indeed. These are two women who have their stuff together, and it provided me entertainment and the warm fuzzies from time to time.
But why mourn the loss? These gals are still alive and kicking, vibrant, saucey, sexy and out living their lives. They didn't die. They didn't leave people hanging, wondering what was going on. They both wrote honestly on why they are deciding to stop posting. I know at least on still does a little blog surfing every once in a while. This is also true about the self-discharged GI Jane, who continues to be out on the battlefield, she's simply not writing regular reports about it.
It's just a blog. And no matter how great someone's blog is, there is a seemingly infinite number of blogs waiting to take their places. Some good. Some better. Some pathetic. Some more in tune with the way you may think. Don't cry for them, Bloggin' Tina. (Who's Tina?)
Every time a blog dies, an angel gets its wings. And then you'll stumble upon another person's blog – different, individual, unique – that grabs your attention. And the world turns.
WHY T-BONE DOESN’T HONKY-TONK (ANYMORE)
Ever been to a real, out-in-the-country, surrounded-by-cow-pastures, Texas two-steppin’ dance floor where the Western-wearing guys are actual cowboys and the Rocky-Mountain-jean-wrapped gals are more country than biscuits and gravy with a side of grits? If not, you’re missing out on some serious culture. Texas style. That’s beef barbecue, mister. No holds barred. Yee haw, y’all!
Living in a small town for a few years after college, and being near to even smaller towns, I got the taste of genuine honky-tonkin’ in my mouth as real as a wad of chaw. I’m talking tomato juice in your beer. Dudes who have two pairs of boots: one for work and then fancy ones for Saturday nights. Chicks whose thick drawls add syllables to their words. Here are a few of my memories, transcribed in list form so as to make it easier for the uninitiated to take notes:
1. Don’t ever dance with another guy’s gal. That is, unless you want to be the bullseye in a game I like to call “Broken-Beer-Bottle Fight” ... also known as “Sucker Punch” and “Hidden-Knife Bar Brawl”.
2. Don’t insult another man’s pickup truck, 10-gallon hat, roping style or mother. See No. 1 for the consequences.
3. Be prepared to pay some outrageous cover price so that you can smell like stale cigarette smoke, drink overpriced domestic beer from longneck bottles, listen to canned country music and see some fantabulous line dancing. Notice how the alterna-rock clubs you frequented in your college days had only a few differences.
4. Keep an eye (and maybe a hand) on your longneck beer at all times. You never know what will be put in there. Examples: cigarette butts, tobacco juice, used napkins, urine.
5. Know in advance that you will be affected by a combination of beer goggles, hazy atmosphere and deceptively dark lighting. This means if you are not careful, you’ll wake up the next morning beside a woman old enough to be your grandmother, except she’s dyed her hair blonde and likes her men young and energetic.
6. Beer before liquor, you’ve never been sicker. Liquor before beer, you’ve never been sicker. This is not only a Honky Tonk phenomenon. Write it down for future reference.
7. Don’t fall in love with a country girl who’s trying to escape that small town and then tell her you don’t make a lot of money. Before you know it, she’ll treat you like a brother and there’ll be no more riding the baloney pony in her hidden valley ranch. However, she will continue to dance with you, flaunt her cleavage and give you further schoolin’ on the ways of women.
8. If you convene at a 24-hour restaurant after honky tonking, expect normally slow service made slower by your fellow customers. Whether it’s the guy who staggered out of the corner booth to pee and inadvertently tackled the waitress carrying an overloaded tray of pancakes, or it’s the loudmouth giving everyone else an earful of purple words and hard time, your order will take hours to fill. Now you know why the secret slogan of such places is “Where America sobers up.”
9. When driving behind a couple of drunk girls (at their request, to make sure they get home safely), don’t follow too closely. Your car may fall victim to the Honky Tonk Pinstripe, created when the drunkest girl hangs her head out of an open passenger window and lets loose all she has consumed that evening. (This is not to be confused with the Texas Pinstripe, usually spawned by wayward tobacco juice).
10. Try not to get nostalgic about the whole mess and think it would be “fun” to relive any of it with your wife. Honky tonkin’ is exactly how you remember it, and these days you’re just too citified (a real Suburban Cowboy) to be good at fightin’ anymore. You might as well put on yer boots and git yerself to the opera.
SEXUAL CHOCOLATE
The worst tip I ever gave a waiter (save for the few times I’ve left nothing) was a 1-cent gratuity. It was a few years ago at a popular chain’s downtown Fort Worth location, on a weekday, during dinner. There were couples on either side of me; I was on break from work and alone. The couples got great service. My food arrived late, my drink was never refilled and I felt like a second-class citizen. It’s not like I’d ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, was in any way rude to him or hadn’t showered in awhile.
The dude was wearing a peel-and-stick nametag with “Sexual Chocolate” written on it. Funny, but not in a family restaurant. Funny, but not when you are one of the worst waiters who has ever pretended to serve me. And yes, I am including that time at the Waffle Inn when the cranky middle-age matron rolled her eyes when my friends and I complained about paying $7 for a waffle and some runny eggs.
So that is why I left a penny for a tip. And that is why, on my receipt I wrote in large letters, “Very bad service.” Not that the manager saw it, but I bet Sexual Chocolate did. Kiss my Hershey’s, SC.
TEN WAYS TO TELL YOU ARE ALLERGIC TO TEXAS*
1. You can’t remember the last time you could breathe out of both nostrils at once.
2. On a clear day, you enjoy the clear blue sky overhead and the brownish haze on the horizon. That is, if your eyes aren’t too puffy and swollen from the pollution.
3. Every sentence you speak is punctuated by a bone-rattling sneeze.
4. It’s so hot outside that your skin is tougher than leather.
5. Your right foot goes numb when you merely think about rush-hour traffic.
6. No state income tax here, but you get the shakes when you realize that property and sales taxes more than make up for it. That and it costs about $40 to get your car’s annual inspection.
7. You can’t listen to country music for more than 10 minutes at a time.
8. Oklahoma starts looking like a good place to live.
9. You go deaf when someone starts talking in a Texas drawl.
10. You get an itchy rash when football season starts.
*”Texas” in this case refers to Metropolitan Texas. Small Texas towns are hypoallergenic and so far not shown to cause the heebeegeebees in mice.
TEN REDEEMING THINGS ABOUT TEXAS
1. Wide open spaces.
2. If you don’t like the scenery, drive for a few hours in any direction. Texas has it all.
3. If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes (except in the summer, when it’s hot 24 hours a day).
4. Rush-hour traffic in Dallas or Austin can prepare you for the Indy 500.
5. Rush-hour traffic in Houston can prepare you for ANY driving situation.
6. There is only one natural lake in the state, but there are a bagillion manmade swimmin’ holes that offer serene havens for nature and recreation.
7. All the world’s nationalities are represented by people, languages, communities and restaurants somewhere in Texas.
8. Texans are resilient. (See also 1900 Galveston Hurricane or any town ravaged by a tornado).
9. Texas is home to many world-class-company headquarters.
10. It’s not just a state, it’s a state of mind. There’s nowhere else quite like it.
BLAME EVANGELINA
So I guess the shortest route to being labeled sexist and racist is to say that I find short, slightly plump young Hispanic women somewhat attractive. Not all of them, but most.
Before stringing me up in the nearest tall tree, blame Evangelina.
She was not plump, but she was (and probably still is) a first-generation Mexican-American and was (and with luck still is) extremely attractive. Muy bonita. Short in stature with long, black hair. Flirtatious. Fun. Sexy. Hard-working. Highly intelligent. Caring. Trustworthy. Man, could she roll her R's. I fell for her hard. My feelings for her began as a rebound obsession and turned into a good friendship with occasional side trips into more. And the inevitable detours into much less as well.
We worked together, and our jobs helped marinate our friendship and make it more flavorful and relevant. When we had to work late at night, I’d drive Evangelina (who at the time didn’t have a car) home. She lived out near the lake, and sometimes, if we weren’t too tired, we’d take the scenic route and drive around for an hour. We’d talk, laugh and grow closer. I remember one time we got stuck inside a campground and couldn’t figure how to get back to the road.
“Which way should we go?” I asked her.
“Well, we can’t stay here. What would we do? Sit and stare at each other all night?”
Oh, I’m sure we’d have found something else to do. It would have involved putting our cultural/religious differences aside and other revealing things. But we found our way out and I took her home.
Evangelina and I were destined only to be good friends. And we were, with our jobs, having classes together, occasionally hanging out. I got up the nerve to ask her to our junior prom, but when she wouldn’t give me an answer a week later, I asked someone else who readily accepted. Evangelina had hoped a specific someone-else would ask her, but she ended up going alone. And still crushed by teen-age rejection, I wouldn’t even dance with her.
But our friendship remained fairly strong up through graduation. I stopped working my senior year to focus on academics. She was promoted to manager and her schoolwork suffered. She usually called me only when she needed homework, a missed assignment, or to borrow a book. I heard snippets about her through a mutual friend, but never saw her again. And then I stopped hearing about her, too.
Is this is story of unrequited love? Not really. Was just thinking about her the other day and hoping she was doing well. That, and I saw a short, slightly plump Hispanic woman at the grocery store. Was it forward of me to smile and wink?
FLIRT
Flirt, and the world flirts with you. Sulk, and you sulk alone.
I’ve read different things about flirting lately: flirting is hard; flirting is easy; flirting is healthy; flirting sends the wrong signals; flirting is for singles only; married people can join the fray.
To me, flirting is:
1. Fun.
2. Dangerous.
3. Harmless.
4. Healthy.
5. Contagious.
6. An innocent diversion.
7. A guilty pleasure.
8. A lost art.
9. Often misunderstood.
10. Sometimes a prelude to something else, but not always.
Some people flirt to find romance, friendship or sex. Others flirt to be friendly with no strings.
When you are (happily) married and not looking for trouble, flirting takes on a different tone. Flirting to at least one married woman is like ketchup. My intention is generally to flatter a woman while making it clear that 1) I am not available for more than banter 2) To me it’s just a way to be friendly 3) It makes life more fun and has the potential to make someone’s day (including my own).
The most important person to flirt with is your significant other (if you have one). It helps keep your relationship on its toes and adds some zest to “How was your day?” discussions.
Flirting is at its best like dancing. The steps include words, eye contact, smiling, gestures or merely words themselves. Flirting, like dancing, should not be forced. It should be easy and follow the rhythm of the conversation. It may not be well-received (it takes two to tango) and it’s no longer flirting if it becomes threatening or uncomfortable for either party. Stepping on toes does not a good dance/flirt session make.
Internet/blog flirting is a different animal. In a way it’s easier because you can choose words carefully without facing a killer silence that could end a real-world conversation. The response is, like the original message, written and therefore not the coy hair-tossing, arm-touching endeavor it can be in real life. Distance and its accompanying lack of human touch render it a bit less dangerous and less rewarding. But online flirting still promotes friendliness, can be encouraging and, at the right times and with the right tone, can still make someone’s day.
There are guidelines and etiquette, especially for married people who want to remain happily married (never cross certain lines, never lie and always wear your wedding ring). For the single ones, the rules can be rewritten with each encounter. Go with the flow. Keep it friendly and nonthreatening. Spread some love. Why are you still here? Flirt!
What does flirting mean to you? Do you flirt? If so, how and why? What do you hope to gain from flirting? Do you give a rip either way? How have people flirted with you? Don’t feel the need to answer any or all of these ... they’re just points for discussion.
Have a zippity-doo-dah day, oh flirtatious ones.
WEEKEND QUICKIE
You know you're a parent when someone in your office says ...
"Hey T, I've got some three's in the car for you."
... and you know instantly what that person means.
"That's great," said T. "He's still in two's. How old is yours now?"
"He'll be 1 year in a few weeks. He's already in five's."
"Wow, he's getting big! Have a great weekend."
Of course, it's not just the Diaper Talk that signals I've become part of the Parent Club. It's the fact that, despite the Cutlet being only about 7 months old, it's hard to imagine life without him. He adds a new dimension to our lives we never dreamed was possible. But then, being married had the same effect. We can't imagine not having each other bound so tightly in each other's lives. It's not always good, but it's hardly ever bad.
We're going to my parents' house this afternoon to have a belated birthday celebration for my sister (now 25) and our nephew (now 4). I'm sure there will be something to write about afterward (Lots of personalities about to become a multi-layer bean dip. Heartburn to follow).
Have a wonderful weekend!
This is one of those semi-automatic posts, where you let an Internet search do your work for you. Fear not, minions. This is more of a time-crunch thing rather than any sort of "writer's block." I am still fairly regular and not suffering much literary constipation at the moment.
Inspired by a long-ago post by Punkin, and a recent one by Rosa, I went here to see what Google thinks of me.
WHAT DOES 'T-BONE' MEAN TO YOU?
By typing in “texas t-bone” the results were:
texas t-bone is open from 4
texas t-bone is like an old
texas t-bone is an open barn of a place
texas t-bone is not a trademark
texas t-bone is located at 8981 e
texas t-bone is plunked down in front of him
texas t-bone is very adept at forming lists for things
Sadly, only one refers directly to me, although I’ll let you guess which one. A more fruitful list was garnered by typing in “t-bone”:
t-bone is in the video
t-bone is all about
t-bone is the same as our porterhouse
t-bone is a traditional favorite of serious steak fans
t-bone is the traditional favorite of serious steak fans
t-bone is the steak of choice for those special occasions when you want to
t-bone is one of the all time greats
t-bone is only a short drive by car for those members of your party who may be unable to ride a horse
t-bone is da' one who be known
t-bone is relieved that a drum kit is in front of him whenever cracker starts to take off his pants
t-bone is a gemini
t-bone is fast
t-bone is a high performance bike that is built for real roads
t-bone is known for his impeccable mixing skills as well as his programming ability
t-bone is saving his money for a more formal education
t-bone is smooth
t-bone is in some real trouble if he doesn't get his act together
t-bone is coming out to the ring
t-bone is around
t-bone is a name given to any
t-bone is not a good choice for a commuting bike
t-bone is seeing the children's smiles as they cross the finish line
t-bone is embracing the change
t-bone is learning
t-bone is known
t-bone is for those who enjoy a boneless steak but also like the flavor and texture of filet mignon
t-bone is a rapper who says sings the gospel of jesus christ
t-bone is a little embarrassed about his boat so i took the liberty of sharing his story with ya'll
t-bone is one very husky and formidable looking tabby
t-bone is moving
t-bone is played by kel mitchell
t-bone is moving away
t-bone is unable to talk
t-bone is and for the first time in months
t-bone is tough
t-bone is really starting to settle in
t-bone is great
t-bone is avalible for stud to approved female
t-bone is back how long blues
t-bone is not a one
t-bone is available as a solo act or with his band
t-bone is based on objectspace
t-bone is reputed to have plugged into a gibson eh
t-bone is on vacation or otherwise gone
t-bone is a specialist web development studio that leverages creative and professional solutions online
t-bone is a specialist web development and print studio
t-bone is planning a trip to norway
t-bone is planning a trip to hong kong
t-bone is like an old
t-bone is a way better bike
t-bone is two steaks in one
t-bone is a rescue bird
t-bone is one of those guys who just seems to be everywhere
t-bone is really two steaks in one
t-bone is a very private man
t-bone is your harp
t-bone is now living with 2 cats and 2 other dogs
t-bone is making it known that he has considered the cost
t-bone is a popular artist among some hip hop fans
t-bone is a perfect steak for the backyard bbq enthusiast
t-bone is dead
t-bone is the full brother to cheyenne
t-bone is considered by many to be their favorite steak
t-bone is a rather muscular tomcat
t-bone is the oldest of the swat kats
t-bone is very smart when it comes to finding cool dusty places under the house on hot summer days
t-bone is the host of the popular trinity broadcasting network program ?real videos? in which he plays an intricate and vital role mentoring other young
t-bone is probably a second or two or three slower per mile than the prologue
t-bone is the undisputed father of electric blues guitar
t-bone is made of tange prestige cro
t-bone is a slang version of his middle name
t-bone is in there somewhere maybe gettin a drink of water lol
t-bone is a women's fisherman
t-bone is a well
t-bone is een entrecôte met daaraan nog een stukje been en kalfshaas
t-bone is cut from the short loin
t-bone is ideal on the grill
t-bone is your idea of the perfect meal
t-bone is back
t-bone is only available in black
t-bone is a sure thing
t-bone is in the commercial world providing services to clients from airwalk to disney interactive
t-bone is chomping on the pencil tyring to get it away
The googlisms are much funnier than I probably could have made up. What does T-Bone mean to you? Better yet, go Google yourself!
Have a happy Friday, and a weekend that is so stupendous that you'll mark it on the calendar and have a special party every year to celebrate and remember it. OK, that was dumb. Just don't get hurt, OK?
Thank you for all your compliments yesterday. You made my day knowing sometimes I make a very small sliver of yours. :-) Flattery will get you everywhere! Now, on to today's nonsensical nuggets ...
BACKYARD BOATBUILDING 101
Let’s go build a boat, one that we know will float.
Let’s go build a boat and take it sailing.
Onto the ocean blue, sailing away with you!
Let’s go ... build a boat!
– to the tune of "Let’s Go Fly a Kite" from Mary Poppins
Things one needs to build a boat:
1. More ambition than sense.
2. A friend with fancy wood-working tools who is willing to help.
3. A place to build the boat, preferably indoors.
4. Proper materials with which to build it.
5. Simple, detailed plans that cater to idiots and ne’er-do-wells.
6. Some extra time and money.
7. The determination to get the job done.
8. A reason to have the boat once it’s finished (and a place to use it).
9. A personal flotation device (PFD) for every passenger.
10. A paddle or other means of moving it through the water.
My buddy with the power tools is almost as excited about building the thing as I am. Not sure I would be able to tackle this project myself as No. 5 describes me (twice).
Some details:
1. 16 feet in length. Just more than 2 feet at its widest. Think flat-bottom canoe.
2. Able to accommodate 2 adults and 1 child; or 1 adult and a gaggle of kiddos; or 1 adult (which I imagine will usually be the case, as my family will be more than content to wave and make funny faces. Or call for assistance when I drop the paddle).
3. Am thinking I’ll paint the outside of the hull (I’m using boatey terms now like “hull”) a deep red, and then varnish the inside and gunwales (trim pieces along the top of the hull) with a light stain.
4. I’d like to get a nice wooden double paddle (think kayak), but I’ll probably start out with a cheaper plastic/aluminum one.
5. When completed, it should be light enough to cartop. For short trips, I might be able to rig it up to fit in our soon-to-be-acquired full-size pickup truck.
Possible names:
1. Seabiscuit
2. The Waterboy
2. Boaty McLakeworthy
3. Uppa Creek
4. Little Red Wave-Rider
5. Little J
6. Wee Woody
7. Biggie Smalls
8. T-Boat
9. Tuna (Chicken of the Sea)
10. Scrappy
The Cutlet’s real name starts with J, and one of our nicknames for him (he has many if you haven’t guessed: Cutlet, Captain Cutie, Mini Me, Droolly O’Spittle) is Little J. Right now that is the front-runner.
This follows an often-used tradition of naming a boat (usually a workboat) after a son or daughter. Pleasurecraft are more aptly honored by carrying the name of the owner’s wife. My grandfather’s boat, The Margaret, will some day carry the Petite Filet’s “real” name in holding that tradition.
I’m currently looking for a suitable piece of marine plywood, the chosen starting point for the project. I am open to name suggestions if you guys have brilliant ideas. Contest, anyone?
Have a great day. Let hope keep you afloat when nothing else will.
I wrote a love letter to an old pair of running shoes, but in the end it was just weird. Maybe I’ll post it when I’m low on time or words.
However, in addition rather than response to a brilliantly true commentary by this guy, I’ll add my twisted two cents to the whole “Why Men Suck” dialogue. We do suck, but there is hope for you ladies seeking worthwhile male companionship.
THE SINGLE WOMAN’S 12-STEP GUIDE TO FINDING A GOOD MAN™
1. Moderation is the key to just about everything, except his love for you. He should be addicted to you without being obsessive. Don’t settle for less.
2. Sensitive men care about what you think. Overly sensitive men care about only what their mommies think. Unsensitive men don’t care about anything but themselves. See No. 1.
3. Never trust a man who has had more than 20 serious relationships. Also, never trust a man who makes sweeping generalizations and is willing to list specific numbers. See No. 1.
4. Never use sex as a weapon. It is not a toy. That means not too much and not too little. Must be the right amount, frequency and quality. You may think it is not important, but it is. You also may think it is too important, but it’s not. A healthy romantic relationship requires sex. Period. See No. 1.
5. Don’t be interested in his past. Don’t talk about yours. Your pasts have made you who you are, and that’s enough.
6. When looking for a serious boyfriend (or possibly a husband), make sure your intended is your best friend. Doesn’t necessarily have to happen before you fall in love, but it has to happen before you are committed. The alternative is an eventual, disastrous breakup. Again.
7. Never pursue someone seriously if the allure is created by looks, strength or money. Just as they do for you ladies, all fade over time and sometimes disappear. Then you’re left alone with a jerk.
8. Don’t look for lasting love in a bar. If it finds you there, great; let it come to you. If you look up the word “disappointment” in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of an empty beer mug (or other vessel for alcoholic beverage).
9. Dating, like paying rent, is not a waste. It helps you find out what you want before you are ready to settle down. When the time is right, and you’ve found the right investment, start making mortgage payments on a joyful life. In the meantime, go out and have some fun! Go out. Kiss. Have sex (safely, children). Listen to loud music. Play the field. But always be true to yourself. Don’t play games. Be honest with everyone – especially yourself – that you’re not looking to buy just yet.
10. Don’t be afraid of being single. Embrace it as a time to do whatever you want. A committed relationship will force you to give a little of that up, although you will gladly do it with the right guy. You are woman! Let them hear you roar! See No. 9 if you get bored. But don’t be afraid of being single forever, if that’s the road you choose. You don’t need a man to be a complete woman.
11. It’s easy to say “all the good ones are taken.” However, that comment really only refers to the “good ones” you know about. Also, and I’ll say this carefully: to find a good man, you’ve got to be a good woman. Finding it hard to find a good man doesn’t necessarily mean you’re not a good one, though. You’re just in the wrong places at the wrong times. See No. 8.
12. Relax. Be yourself. It takes two people to play a game. Don’t let it come to that. See Nos. 4 and 10 (heck, just reread all of them). Don't settle. A good man would never settle.
Which brings us to this ...
FOR THE GUYS™
These are a few ways to be a good man who is worthy of a good woman:
1. Give her the respect she deserves. Not more. Not less.
2. Don’t ever compare your woman to anyone else in any way. Ever.
3. Important: talk to her. More important: shut up and listen.
4. If you keep secrets, make sure they are about little, stupid things she won’t care about when she finds out about them. And she will find out about them.
5. Don’t be afraid to be single or simply date for fun. Just be true to yourself and the ones you date. See No. 7 below.
6. If you want a good woman, give up some of your toys. If it is something that will burn, rust or rot, it has far less value than a good woman. It’s all about priorities. Juggling is not a viable option. Toys are for kids.
7. Don’t cheat. And furthermore: don’t cheat. If you want a good woman, you owe it to yourself and her to be a one-woman man. If you are playing the field, be honest about that. No stringing along. No lies. Don’t be a jerk.
8. Nobody has ever won an argument. Nobody.
9. Don’t expect oral pleasure if you aren’t willing to pay the piper. Trust me, it is fun and rewarding for all parties involved. This holds true for taking out the garbage and other assorted duties you and your penis are expected to endure. You get to pee standing up, so you get to do a few chores.
10. Don’t be an asshole. You suck, but you don’t have to suck and be an asshole, too. See Nos. 1-9.
DISCLAIMER: The items listed here are the sole opinions of Texas T-Bone and his subsidiaries Texas T-Bone, LLC, Inc., Co., Ltd., as published on texastbone.blogspot.com. No warranty or guaranteed results are implied. Individual results may vary. Money-back offer does not apply to this post. While this was written in seriousness, Texas T-Bone reserves the right to call it satire if you start sending him hate e-mails. THE 12-STEP GUIDE™ and FOR THE GUYS™ are unregistered trademarks, but look more official with that little “TM” behind them. Have a nice day.
Man, I’m finally someone’s Internet crush, but it’s a guy. Well, at least he’s funny, intelligent and hot. Sadly, I think he was only kidding, too. I get nothing!
Don’t fret, ladies. There’s plenty of T-Bone to go around. Here you’ll find a 24-hour buffet of useless information and juvenile humor. Eat up. Enjoy.
PICKUP LINES
I started out writing about how silly it is to own a large pickup truck in the city, but then I thought “Everybody writes things like that.” You know, there’s nothing wrong with trucks per se, it’s mostly the way such behemoths are driven haphazardly with little regard for pedestrian traffic or endangered wildlife.
That said, there are some reasons to laugh at the blatant machismo (or in the female case, feminismo) that is truck ownership:
1. Pickups are funny looking. They’ve got squatty fronts and long, low butts. Kind of like my great-Aunt Jean without the homemade muffins.
2. Some owners worship the makers of their trucks with great big “Ford” or “Chevy” or “Dodge” stickers. And how about the kid peeing on the logos of competing manufacturers? Really, American-made trucks are all pretty much the same. Yes, they are (except for the Chevy Avalanche, which is uglier than a mud fence). If I had my pick, it would be a Toyota Tundra. Blasphemy but true.
3. It’s even funnier when owners subtract from the utility of their trucks by lowering them. That is customization gone awry! Watch out for puddles, Gomer!
4. I guess the opposite is raising a truck higher with beefier suspension and crush-’em tires. Those guys thought finding a girlfriend was tough before, try asking a woman to climb up into the cab wearing heels and a skirt! Call the fire department to get her down!
5. Now that gun racks are no longer legal here, huntin’ truck owners stick their umbrellas in them. Hilarious!
Of course, just to be fair, there are a few times I’ve wanted a pickup truck:
1. Seven years ago when the unmarried & unattached T-Bone was trying to impress a hot cowgirl. I was driving an old red BMW sedan, which is so NOT Country Western.
2. Anytime I have moved, or helped someone else move.
3. When the cows are hungry or the hay needs bailing.
4. So I can invite some buddies over to stand in my driveway, lean against it, drink cheap beer and tell stories about hunting and fishing (much like the freaks across the street).
5. When we were in Tulsa visiting my in-laws and it snowed for days. Wanted to haul some real snow back to Texas so the neighborhood kiddos could see what it looked like.
6. After we’ve been frolicking on the beach or camping somewhere and our shoes/clothes/tent/etc. are all smelly and gross. Would be nice to have a place to put those things OUTSIDE our vehicle to dry out. Stinky!
7. Those times we’ve bought furniture or major appliances and had to have them delivered because they wouldn’t fit in our little SUV.
8. Countless trips to our favorite home-improvement stores and the items we need (or I want) won’t fit in the SUV, either.
9. So I won’t look as dumb wearing cowboy boots. I said “as” dumb.
10. Most big trucks won’t fit into the garage, so if I had one we can finally devote half of it to our growing collection of World War II aircraft and Cabbage Patch dolls.
Never owned a pickup truck, but chances are I’ll be getting one very soon (more on this little nugget later). I promise I’ll use it responsibly. I’ll park it at a honky tonk at least once a month and keep a fresh supply of hay to stick in the sure-to-grow gap between my teeth. Yee haw! Or Yahoo! Er, Google!
It won’t be so bad. You know, there are tons of songs written about trucks, but not that many written about Honda Civics. So I’ll try to embrace my quadcab fate with glee. And I’ll take that bite of a reality sandwich with a side order of machismo, please.
Keep on truckin’!
And remember, kids, feminismo is the word of the day.
THINGS REALIZED THIS WEEKEND
1. Even though the Petite Filet has never cut hair before, she can do a pretty good job.
2. Even though the Petite Filet has never cut hair before, Texas T-Bone can hold still and not break into a sweat when she holds buzzing clippers and sharp, pointy scissors near his head.
3. Combining a dozen kids with a pool renders the phrase "don't splash me" useless.
4. About five families we know are building houses "out in the country." However, when they finally look out their new windows, they'll see houses exactly like theirs. If we ever move "out in the country" there had better be some mountains or a lake outside our windows.
5. The prospect of building a boat excites others almost as much as it does me.
6. If you have to buy a case of motor oil and a pack of toilet paper, you will have to walk the entire span of a Wal-Mart Supercenter.
7. Had Noah lived today, God would have told him not to bother with an Ark. He would instuct Noah to build a floating Wal-Mart, because every race, creed, color, ethnicity, level of intelligence, age and species are already represented there. I was a bit startled at the elephants on aisle 12, but I guess everyone's buying microwaves these days.
8. People in Texas are REALLY proud of their pickup trucks. I'm sure I'll have more on this at some point.
9. Our remaining pet, a Border collie named Gypsy, is the smartest, sweetest dog we've ever seen.
10. We can turn off the TV for a few days and not miss it at all.
Happy Monday, people! Might as well kiss this one on the lips, because it's going to be with us at least 24 hours. Yeah, I don't know what that means, either. Mondays are like drunk uncles, they keep showing up week after week, demanding ridiculous things from us. OK, I'm done for now.
This is an unrelated companion piece to Virtual Soulmates, a previously published piece of fiction on Texas T-Bone.
VIRTUAL STRANGERS
[Fiction by Texas T-Bone]
“How many people do you expect to attend, Mrs. Roberts?”
“Pardon?”
“The service? How many people?”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” She blew her nose into a Kleenex. “Not many, I’d say. Harold hadn’t kept up with his old friends. We have only one child, and she’s not married. I’m not even sure she’ll make it to the funeral.” She paused, wadding up the spent tissue and reaching for another one. “Maybe a dozen at the most.” She figured maybe their neighbors and some church friends would show. But there was no one else.
“Fine. Now we’ve got just a few more quick things to wrap up, then that will be that.”
A tear started rolling down Linda Roberts’ face, which she caught with the clean tissue. She didn’t know why she was crying over the old salt. She and her husband had not gotten along well the past 10 years, sleeping in separate bedrooms, taking meals at different times, making their own trips to the grocery store, driving separate cars to church on Sunday. Besides the convenience of neither one having to move out of their house, and lacking the officialness of a divorce, the two lived in virtually two different worlds. Miles apart, mere feet away.
Linda woke up two days ago in her own world, as usual. Harold was usually out and about by then, having driven his car to the Dairy Queen for his morning cup of coffee. Linda knew this was his routine, because two years ago she followed him there to see what he was up to. When he left, she approached the girl working the counter.
“That old man who just left ... did he ever meet anyone here, or talk to anybody?” Linda asked.
“No. He usually sat alone, sometimes with a book, sometimes with a laptop computer.” The girl smiled. “He always left a good tip, but he’d never tell me his name.”
“It’s Harold,” Linda had hissed back. It bugged her to no end how reluctant he was to give out his name. She smiled to herself as she strolled back to her car, knowing she had taken his ridiculous anonymity from him. “Rat bastard! Looking at dirty pictures all day on that damned computer!”
Two days ago, Harold was still in bed at 8. She almost checked on him at noon, when he had not yet emerged from his room. Linda knew something was wrong about 2 p.m. She’d returned from her errands, threw her keys onto the kitchen table, and realized nothing had been moved since she’d left.
“Harold? Harold?” She gently pressed on his door, hinges creaking sharply. “Harold? Are you there?”
He looked asleep, but she walked slowly to his bedside and watched him. There was no detectable life stirring within him. His chest did not rise and fall with the ins and outs of breathing. She knew he was gone. She sighed. This would mean she’d have to cancel her card game that night. And then she’d have to plan a funeral. “Harold, you annoy me even after you die,” she muttered. Then, matter-of-factly, she picked up the phone on his bedside table and called for an ambulance.
On her way out of his room, she eyed his laptop computer. He had saved for a year to buy the stupid thing, and it immediately became his mistress. The horrible thing was still on. She yanked the plug from the wall and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
Now she was planning the idiot's funeral, crying for no real reason. Secretly, she was glad he was gone.
After choosing the cheapest casket the director would sell her, and deciding against any flowers whatsoever for the service, Linda went back to her empty house. She had spent all of yesterday boxing up Harold’s clothes, books and assorted flotsam of his 78 years on the planet. She would call Goodwill to come pick it all up in a few days. Everything except for Harold’s computer, which she figured their daughter Susan could use.
The next day, an hour before the funeral, Linda was wearing a black dress that only saw daylight upon someone’s death. As the years passed, the dress got more and more use. She studied herself in the mirror and noted that maybe her husband’s funeral would be the last time it was worn. Time to get a new one. Maybe a really expensive one.
Someone knocked at her door about 10:30. It was her best friend Chancey McDougal, who had agreed to drive her to the funeral home.
“Ready to go?”
“Yes. Let’s get this over with.”
They chit-chatted about Linda’s plans for her house, about friends who had died over the last decade, about how sad and yet cathartic it is to bury a husband. Chancey’s Billy died five years ago, and while theirs was a good marraige until the end, Chancey was freed to live her own life on her own terms for the first time in her life. Linda was looking forward to the same rebirth.
As they neared the funeral home, they noticed cars being parked along both sides of the street. People wearing somber faces and black clothing were strolling briskly toward the chapel.
“Maybe there is another funeral before Harold’s,” Chancey offered.
“I don’t know, it’s already 10:45. The service starts at 11. Why are all these people here?” Linda was sure it wasn’t for Harold. “He doesn't have any friends anymore. Look at these people. Most of them are young, some have children. Must be something else going on.”
Chancey parked the car near the chapel door. The old ladies got in line behind what appeared to be about a hundred people.
“What’s going on here?” Linda asked a young man in a black suit.
“I’m here for the funeral.”
“Whose funeral?”
“Harold Roberts. Did you know him?”
“He was my husband.”
“Linda? You’re Linda? Wow, his description did not do you justice. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Roberts. I am so sorry about your loss.” He grasped her hand sympathetically.
“Um, yeah.” She was too flustered to ask how he knew Harold. She just nodded.
“Hey, you shouldn’t have to wait in line. Go in and sit down.” The young man smiled.
Linda kept nodding, grabbed Chancey by the arm and weaved their way to the door. The funeral director greeted them and showed them their seats up front. The rest of the chapel was nearly full, and one of the assistants was putting out more chairs.
“What the hell is going on here?” Linda whispered hoarsely. “Who are all these people?”
Chancey shook her head. “I have no idea. Maybe it’s a different Harold Roberts these people know, and they’re here by mistake.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Roberts?” It was another young man, in a gray suit, with a woman beside him. “My name is Tom Davis and this is my wife, Stacey. I’ve known your husband for a few years and was wondering –” he nervously swallowed. “I was wondering if you’d let me say a few words during the service?”
“If you’ve got something to say, go right ahead,” Linda said, still fazed by the growing horde. The humanity was heating up the chapel and making her nervous.
“Thank you so much! I am honored.” He and his wife walked away to find seats across the room.
“Mom!”
Linda turned to see Susan walking up the aisle. “Susan!” She stood and hugged her daughter. “I didn’t think you could come.”
“I couldn’t miss Dad’s funeral.”
“Sit down with me,” Linda said. “Susan, do you know why these people are here? Who they are?”
“Of course, Mom. They’re here to say goodbye to Dad.”
“But why? How does he know so many people? He wouldn’t even tell most people his name!”
“It’s all because of this,” Susan said, reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out a piece of paper. She unfolded it and handed it to her mother. “It was his blog.”
Linda looked up suddenly, eyes narrowed. “What’s a blog?”
“It’s like a diary, but it’s on the Internet for others to read. ‘Blog’ stands for brain-log or web-log, depending on who you ask. Daddy has had a blog for a few years now.”
“What? And you knew about it and didn’t tell me?”
“He didn’t want you to know. Besides, I didn’t find out until last year, when I visited him after he broke his foot.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Just read it. I printed this out last night. It’s from Dad’s blog.”
Linda began to read the printed computer page.
“Harry’s Corner” was the title across the top in big red letters. Smaller, it said "Tales of a cranky old man." A single entry followed:
“Greetings and goodbye, fellow bloggers.
If you are reading this message, it means I am dead. You all know very little could keep me from blogging, so I figured I’d set up an automatic post in the event I was gone for more than three days. Guess I croaked three days ago! :-P
Don’t cry for me, though. I’ve lived a full life of ups and downs. The last few years have been wonderful. I have gotten to know you through your blogs, and through comments you’ve left for me here. You have made what was left of my life worth living. I thank you from the bottom of my no-longer-beating heart.
Please don’t fault me for my silly, morbid jokes. Know that I am in a better place, where Internet service never fails, comments never disappear and there’s nothing to be sorry for anymore. I will miss you and save each of you a seat in Heaven’s Internet Cafe. :-)
You have enriched my spirit beyond what I thought was possible. You helped turn an old cranky man into something of a World Wide Web wizard. I smiled a lot. I cried some. We shared so much. The self-imposed lonliness I was living in was broken through by your kindness.
To my daughter Susan, an e-mail should have been sent to your home account with, among other things, my login and password to this blog. You may close it down or start using it yourself, whatever you like.
To my wife Linda, if you ever read this, please understand I never stopped loving you. It just seems we grew apart like two trees seeking the sun. I am forever hoping you continue to seek the light. Sorry for being a lousy husband for the past several years. I love you, babe.
Oh, and I never was looking at dirty pictures on my computer! You were the only woman I ever needed.
To everyone else, keep blogging. It will help keep you young. Be good to each other. I’ll see you on the other side.
With much love,
H.”
Linda handed the page back to Susan. “I don’t understand. All this time, he was telling everyone about his thoughts? Strangers who never met him? And he never shared them with me?”
“No, Mom. That’s not true. In most of the things he posted to his blog, he began them with ‘Dear Linda’ and ended them with ‘Love, H.’ Mom, he still needed you but you weren’t there for him.”
“Well, that’s easy for you to say. You moved halfway across the country. You don’t know what it’s like to .. to ... Oh, just forget it. I have to go.” Linda stood frowining, gathered her purse and walked quickly out the door, not looking back. Chancey gave Susan a hug and followed Linda outside.
The funeral service did not miss them. Bloggers from around the world had flown in on short notice to attend Harry’s “Goodbye Party” as he would have called it. Several people gave their own eulogies about how Harold’s advice had helped through tough times, or how some of his posts had brightened their days in the most simple ways. He was a father to many whose real-life fathers didn't live up to the role.
About a week later, Susan signed on to her Dad’s former blog. She left the title “Harry’s Corner” but changed the subtitle to “With guest-blogger Susan, his daughter.” Here is an except of her first post, in case you missed it:
“Hello, sweet sweet Blogging World! It’s me, Susan. I know Dad wrote about me from time to time. I will be subbing for him at this same blog address. Please keep coming, as I know my father was a comment whore and obsessive about his site meter. He would have been pleased that more than 400 comments were left on his final post.
Thank you to those who came to his funeral, and equal thanks to those who could not, but sent condolences. Both were appreciated. You guys rock!”
You can see the whole post, along with the others she has written almost daily since then, on Harold’s blog.
He will be missed.
LAND-LOCKED IN THE LONE STAR STATE
I miss the bright sun throwing its rays onto the sand and ocean. I miss the sand and ocean. The putrid but pleasantly familiar smell of the muddy salt marshes at low tide. The air’s salty taste on my tongue and its overpowering scent. The obnoxious cries of the gulls overhead. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. My grandmother’s house on Chincoteague Island, Virginia. The seafood smells and sounds of it cooking in her kitchen. The fishy smell of the water in my cup as I sit in the backyard swing among the grapes and raspberries. Playing freeze tag with the kids across the street. My first boat ride of the summer. My last boat ride of the summer. Fishing for small fish and harmless trouble. Stolen kisses behind the shed with the girl across the street. Sunburn that keeps you up at night. Having to hose yourself with bugspray every time you set foot outside to avoid becoming an all-they-can-eat mosquito buffet. Crossing the bridge on the way home, watching the island disappear, and then realizing, sadly, that the marsh smell has faded as well.
I’m 2,000 miles from a place I never lived, but upon visiting always felt at home. I’m surrounded by some beautiful lakes here, which is not nearly the same. They're enough to keep in check my nonsense notions of chucking it all and moving to a coast.
At the onset of spring, I get the itch. Not just the one that drives my soul to the ocean, but one that stirs the unbirthed boatbuilder in me. I get the fever to build something that floats. Other projects press for my time and resources, and my lack of woodworking skills soundly kicks my daydreams to reality’s curb. But the itch is back, strong as ever.
I open up my shed and gaze at my grandfather’s boat. It would take too much work and too much skill and too much money to fix properly. I can’t see it happening now, mainly because I get soaked simply wading through all my excuses. It will take a professional repair job, one we cannot afford at this time. Someday ... it ... WILL ... happen.
So my itch manifests itself by my pondering what small craft I can build cheaply. I used to subscribe to a magazine called WoodenBoat. A brilliantly written and photographed publication that leads me to believe I, too, can take to the water in my very own little vessel. I flip through my old copies and look at ads selling PLANS! KITS! COMPLETED BOATS! for the backyard builder and amateur yachtsman. But money and lack of building know-how become objects even in these cases.
Another trap I fall into is the classified ads. Sure, there are tons of fabulous boats for sale. But what gets me excited are the ones listed in the “Boats for Free” section. Most are in sorry states, but some have been partially restored. Many are given away when the owner becomes ill or too fed up with the intricacies and expense of wooden boat repair. I’ve long dreamt about procuring a big, free boat and living in it. Since I’ve been married, though, that dream has been rendered ridiculous and, well, contrary to a pleasant marital relationship.
Lingering over an article about a supposedly affordable and “easy-to-build” canoe, the itch gets worse. I see myself paddling my way to better fitness, teaching the Cutlet about waterborne adventure, spending quiet times with the Petite Filet on a nearby pond, whiling away the hours far from traffic and asphalt. We’ll transport our craft atop the Family Truckster and drive up to my in-laws’ lake house in Oklahoma. We’ll float, paddle and fish our cares away for days.
The ever-circling sharks of time can keep me at bay for only so long. I must build a boat! I must build it THIS year. The Texas boating season can stretch into November, so if I can muster the sawdust, I still have time to enjoy my handiwork!
I’m going to recruit a friend (with woodworking skills and a fancy table saw) into helping me out. Then, all I need to do is find the money and buy the supplies (the article claims the materials should cost less than $200). Sounds like a great way to spend a little of the garage sale profits we're going to rake in soon.
In 56 days, I turn 30. What better way to say bon voyage to my 20s than sitting comfortably in a boat of my own making? Nothing says “Happy Birthday! You’re old!” more pleasantly than a self-built canoe.
Am I the only one who thinks that?
Nothing to see here, weirdos seeking nasty pictures. Please disperse.
WHAT’S NEW IN PORN?
Like most of you, my e-mail inbox is often filled with promises of provocative pictures, just a click away. Some of the subject lines are quite outrageous, and I’m wondering if the authors of such filth-e things believe they are on the cutting edge.
Are the originators of these spam e-mails awash in the belief they’ve reached some new pinnacle or stunning breakthrough in pornography?
If you think about it, sex has been around a long time (at least 100 years). Modern devices to record it have also existed for decades. Cinematography (for those oh-so-important “money shots”) hasn’t evolved much in a long time. Sure, the Internet is a relatively new and willing medium to deliver the sin to you. But it’s not giving anyone something that couldn’t be found elsewhere with only slightly less inconvenience.
Porn is an addictive drug that preys on our most basic, natural interests. The fact that it does not foster intimacy with another human, but rather is a sorry substitute, ensures pornography always falls short of the real thing. But that doesn’t matter.
There’s nothing really new to see in porn. It’s the fact our interest in it is continually renewed (because in a way it is natural) that keeps people in business. There’s always the chance that someone else will see the lure for the first time and take the bait. Or someone will be hooked and need a daily fix.
The excitement it can create. The rush. The release. Is porn worth it? That’s up to you to decide. The little I dabbled in left me feeling hollow and lonely.
And for me, the slippery slope it creates is not worth stepping on to. Besides, if you’ve seen one nasty teen-age cheerleader farm girl being humped by a horse, you’ve pretty much seen them all.
SHREDS OF EVIDENCE
We’re planning to sell our stupid filing cabinet (the lower drawer sometimes gets stuck open) in our upcoming garage sale. To prepare, we dumped the contents onto the floor and combed them for what’s important and what’s not.
Figured we didn’t need to keep electricity bills from three years ago, along with many many other strange pieces of paper. I had quite a pile to run through our shredder.
(By the way, if you don’t have a paper shredder, why not? It’s a simple step toward protecting your identity. We shred anything with our names on it. I would caution you, however, not to try shredding slices of American cheese or tortillas ... no matter how thin you think they are. Trust me.)
Anyway, we had paycheck stubs going back four years. It’s funny to look and see how little we lived on back then. Then it’s sad to look at how much more I make now and how we seem to have even less “extra” money. Guess it’s that old human nature kicking in and that most of us spend to the level of dough that rolls in. Our savings account is getting mighty lonely.
Even funnier than the numbers on our old paystubs are the “safety slogans” printed on ones from the last newspaper that employed me. Employees could submit ideas for them, and the winner got some kind of award (special parking spot for a month or a bundt cake; ‘twas an honor never bestowed on the T-Bone). Keep in mind that these are a few years old:
1. Safety begins between your ears
2. Yo quiero safety!
3. Safety is Y2K compliant
4. Safety doesn’t hurt
5. Safety ... you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone
I think the paper got some sort of insurance discount with the slogans on our paychecks. A newsroom is a dangerous place, what with all the senior editors running around with scissors and pencils.
Stay safe out there! Anyone need some confetti?
TYING LOOSE ENDS
Heart-wrenching. Heavy-hearted. And yet somehow relieved. Our long-haired chihuahua (recently written about on Texas T-Bone), bless his heart, has a new home.
We’d do nearly anything to help make our home safer for the Cutlet. The dog’s volatile behavior at times was enough to make us consider letting him go. We thought about it for a year, and lived the situation 6 months to test how he’d respond to our baby son. Deep down, we knew we couldn’t keep Bear.
It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
It was the first time the Petite Filet saw me cry (and she told me to never, never do that again because it’s hard to see a man cry, especially one you love. Yeah, well, no promises from me on that one).
*Deep sigh*
On the lighter side ...
Intrepid readers of Texas T-Bone may remember that we’re the not-too-proud owners of a 2001 Mustang GT. I mentioned at one point that a potential deal was struck whereupon we would be relinquishing the gas-guzzling anti-family car for a hail-damaged sedan. I was happy at the prospect because it meant more money in our pockets and two cars we could put a baby seat in. Unfortunately, hat deal fell through with a resounding thud. Or splat.
However, another way to jettison the modern muscle car is on the horizon. We did all we could to rid ourselves of the thing (ads in newspapers, online, put on consignment at a reputable dealership for four months), but the car's value dropped much faster than we could pay for it. I won’t divulge the details until this new deal is final, but it looks like it will stick this time.
Valuable lesson learned: if you are a young married couple who wants to have children but has had trouble getting pregnant, buy a sports car. You’ll have a kiddo before you know it. Plus, don’t buy a car that has a history of losing value quickly because, while it is a sexy car, nobody wants to pay what it is worth or near what you owe. Especially when its manufacturer is practically giving away brand-new ones.
Finally, many of you may remember I was considering an additional job to keep us afloat. Stinko de Mayo signaled the end of the Petite Filet’s work-from-home gig. The Cutlet is 6 months old now, and the P.F. is ready to get out of the house and work part-time, if she can spend time with our boy, too. How would that work, you ask?
Divine direction pointed us to childcare centers at gyms. There’s an opening at her former gym – a place she loved – and it looks promising. She would get a free membership as well. She has applied at two gyms and we know that if it’s meant to happen, it will.
I’ve put in applications at a few places, but lately my full-time job has been wearing me thin. I am reluctant to work another job, but I know the time for me to buckle down is here. I’ll be hitting a few places on Monday (I have the day off, yahoo!) to submit applications. Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. And I do.
One last set of loose ends is my list of Choice Cuts. There are some new ones, and more to be added. If you want to be linked, let me know (via comments or an e-mail). I’ll get around to it soon!
Have a great weekend and a superbo day at work Monday! I'll be thinking of you (*snicker*).
I write something about Blogfame Whores and get a bunch of comments. Is that irony or what?
WISHING AMERICA A HAPPY BIRTHDAY
In honor of Friday's July 4th holiday, I started to think what I could buy the United States of America for its 227th birthday. The old gal is still kicking after all these years and is worthy of something special. Unfortunately, I am on a rather tight budget, so it won't be anything extravagant. Here's my America's Gift List for 2003:
1. A harmonica. America can always use more harmony.
2. A hamburger. It symbolizes the American way of life with all its different ingredients coming together to make something great.
3. A day pass to an amusement park. Life's rollercoaster is best sequestered by a jaunt on a real one.
4. A cup of coffee. America sometimes just needs to wake up.
5. A dozen red roses. Once America is awakened, it' would be nice for her to stop and smell the flowers.
6. Someone else's shoes. America should take a walk in unfamiliar footwear to gain more compassion for those in other lands.
7. Eyeglasses. Sometimes America is near-sighted. Sometimes she is far-sighted. Either way, having clearer vision could only help.
8. An airline ticket. America should venture beyond her comfort zone, for relaxation and a little more perspective than the shoes can offer.
9. A can of air freshener. This is mainly for America's fellow world citizens. Sometimes America does something that really stinks and she could use some help clearing the air.
10. A mirror. This would let America reflect on her past, facing her beauty and scars all at once. It would also let America prepare for the future. With a little primping, America can be a total knockout (although she's not everyone's type).
Have a fun, safe Fourth of July Weekend! If you are an American, celebrate this great country of ours, flaws and all. If you live in another great country, have a fun, safe weekend anyway!
Yes, yes. I know I need to update my links. However, for me it's not simply a matter of adding new blogs. It's a matter of deleting the ones I don't frequent much anymore. My "Choice Cuts" are not merely reciprocal kudos to those who link to Texas T-Bone. It is the roadmap for my almost daily romp through Blogland. That said, I'm making a list and checking it twice. Please stand by.
THE A-LIST OF BLOGS
Much as been said about the Most Influential Blogs, or Top Blogs or whatever. Without fail, I've never heard of anyone on the list. And that is only one reason to make fun of any popularity contests in the Blogisphere. I think when keystrokes are made for mere ego strokes, it's time to hang it up. A couple of my regular reads, Candy Genius and Pippa have said it better in the recent past.
However, in true Texas T-Bone fashion, I’ve made a list of how to become an A-list Blogger:
1. Brag about how long you’ve been blogging and what types of archaic systems you’ve had to use. Likewise, tell the world how much better whatever system you are using now is tons better than what everyone else is using.
2. Make sure you are as boring as possible.
3. Only link to other A-list blogs.
4. Set up a Pay Pal account just so people can throw money at your coolness.
5. Never branch out to read newer blogs or leave encouraging comments.
6. If you do happen to stumble on a lesser blog, leave snide comments about how much the new blogger sucks.
7. Get really offended if someone uses a blogging name similar to yours. Doesn’t matter if the two blogs are worlds apart. That’s identity theft, man!
8. Send tons of e-mails to people who make lists of influential blogs to ensure your name will appear on the list.
9. Write tons of posts about how cool you are.
10. Lead geekfest seminars on how to be an A-list blogger.
There are more, I’m sure, but they are secret to you and me. The purpose of this blog, as has been stated many times, is to serve as a creative outlet for yours truly. The fact that people have responded fuels the fire and brings me joy. I hope Texas T-Bone has brought a smile to your face on occasion. I’m not even striving for the A-list. I’m with you guys in the trenches!
Happy Blogging! The only hope of overthrowing Big Brother is with us proles. Keep the faith and stick together!
