August 2004 Archives

Note the lovely animal paintings created by yours truly (T-bone, 2002-03, acrylic on canvas). I paint. I sculpt (mostly Play-Doh). I cook. I mow the lawn. I installed the floor shown in this picture. Painted the walls. Assembled the bed. I do have limits, the biggest being the fact I find it hard to finish projects. There are three paintings in that "jungle room" series – the other's an elephant. But there are supposed to be four paintings! What's my deal?

Maybe I'm just too busy taking photographs.

I took some photos of the Cutlet climbing up into his new bed this morning, but of course the camera (from work) doesn't want to cooperate today as far as downloading them to my home computer. So I'll try to share those later this week.

The Cutlet's crib used to be my crib. Lemme tell you, safety regulations and crib construction has come a long way since 1973. We got around those with a judicious crib-bumper and new crib mattress, but it was still possible (didn't happen) to get a little head stuck between the crib bars. The sliding side never really did its duty, either. My sister, her son and then the Cutlet used it, but in between it was taken apart, moved to Texas, turned into a little daybed-like sofa, disassembled, trucked to our house over in Fort Worth and now is in many many pieces in our guest bedroom. If the need arises for a crib again, we're going to buy a new one that meets today's safety standards.

Here are the Top 10 things on my mind right now ...

Do you remember the old Mighty Mouse cartoons, where it shows the little family down on its luck? The three or four of them turn over a can of beans and one lonely bean hits the plate, and they proceed to slice it into thin little beanlets to share. Then a large rolled-up document with "mortage" written on it weighs heavily on the roof of their house. The whole scene is ramshackle and sad.

That's how I felt today as I put the last roll of toilet paper on the toilet-paper thingee. That is, until ...

The day's work done, French, Trent, Bob and Ned headed to their favorite watering hole for some brews and greasy food to salve their toils, sweat and callouses. As usual, after a day working their nets and being hit by random washes of salted spray, the conversation turned to women. Of all four, only Ned was married – happily for 20 years to his bride, Camilla.

"Did you see the trunk on that waitress?" French grunted. "Man, what I'd like to do to her for a few days." French was the sports fisherman of the group and preferred the catch-and-release method of securing companionship. It meant he had to work his rod and reel constantly because, as most women in the small town knew, French was not a good catch himself.

I ran my first 5K on Saturday. When you're thinking about it beforehand, you think, "Three miles isn't that far. I run that several times a week." But then during the actual running of the thing, with hundreds of feet pounding the pavement with you, somehow you run into a brick wall halfway through that leaves you overheated and gasping for air. Well, that is, that's what happens if you're me.

I'd registered for the event the day before at a grocery store, which proved to be valuable for a few reasons. Not only did I not have to show up early to the event and stand in line, but I earned an impromptu running buddy late in the race.

Blogging and bloggers seem to have cycles where they post and read a lot, and then go away. With it being a purely extracurricular activity – although some live and breathe by it – it's no wonder you don't ever really get a full sense of a person through his or her blog. It is by nature just a two-dimensional portrayal of whatever the author wants to present. More genuine writers may let the mask slip a bit more than others, but as many disclaimers appearing on blogs attest, being a reader of a blog doesn't mean you know the person. (Can I get a resounding "duh" from the peanut gallery?)

Even meeting, working with or knowing someone in real life doesn't guarantee you've got a handle on who they really are. We've got masks, clothing, attitudes and personas that we wear to conceal what's underneath. Maybe we even hide it from ourselves.

Enough seriousness, though. Here are a few scenarios for which my personal cast of characters could be amended for an altered blog reality:

Hey! I haven't done this in a long time. It's time for some stupid haikus! What's a haiku? It is a Japanese form of poetry with three lines, the first of five syllables, the second of seven and the third of five, usually about nature. Of course, there's nothing natural about most of what I write. In fact, the following verses are about dirty dirty, unnatural things. Apologies in advance, people.

If I was as athletic as I wished I was, you'd see my face on a Wheaties box. Except that I don't know anybody who actually eats Wheaties any more. I'd be lost in a sea of toasted grains with dehydrated fruit, chocolate-chip corn flakes with marshmallows and the like.

I exercise regularly, if not smartly, and stay somewhat in shape. I've eaten some horrible stuff the past few months, and that's not helping matters. I almost can't stand to watch the Olympics because it reminds me I need to be out bicycling, jogging or lifting something heavy. And I feel the need to do crunches and push-ups during commercials.

Here are some of my athletic feats of late:

Have you ever been somewhere and heard other people having sex? Isn’t that weird? Maybe it’s worse if you know both of them exceed 400 pounds, or they are friends of yours or, worse, your parents.

Push all those thoughts aside, and pretend there are strangers on the other side of the wall. You’re alone. It’s dark. Are you disgusted at the noises? Do you try to ignore them? Do you try to get a better listen? Do you fantasize about them? Does it turn you on? Do you, um, touch yourself? And really, do I want to know your answers to those questions?

Here’s a few times I’ve heard the sounds of love, with my thoughts at the time in italics:

Not for the squeamish.

This will sound kind of lame, but the El Chico restaurant we have nearby our house is one of our favorite places for Mexican food. While we try to shy away from chains when it comes to dining out – because we don't do it often – this El Chico is a continual favorite. And it's not just because we usually have a coupon (buy one enchilada dinner, get one free!). The food and service is, 9 times out of 10, foodgasmic.

We don't normally turn to imbibing to while away our days, but the Petite Filet was craving a margarita after a particularly tough time at work. We also coincidentally didn't have an edible crumb of food in the house (thank goodness payday is Friday) and had another excuse.

There are at least two kinds of scars: those on the inside, and those on the outside. I dare say we've all got at least a few of each. That said, there are at least two ways to deal with scars: let them heal or let them fester. I think our attitudes, outlooks and spiritual guidance play a large part in how we wear our inevitable scars. We can decide to get over them, or they will eventually get all over us.

Face it, we're human and we bruise. How do you handle your scars?

On a much lighter note ...

The Cutlet eats a grilled cheese sandwich yesterday (after eating a few Cheetos, which are code-named "orange chips" so that he won't demand them every time we call them by their real name). I swear he does eat vegetables (as long as we call them Cheetos).

As I type (ouch) this, I'm (ouch) dealing (ouch) with a sore (ouch) finger from last night's (ouch) softball practice. As I was stopping a grounder in the outfield, the ball grew teeth and bit my right hand – obviously the one without the leather oven mitt on it to protect it. I've got a pretty little bruise, but it only hurts when I hit it on something (or type), which should make it a wonderful day at work. Half my job involves typing, and right now I'm touchtyping with my left hand and hunting/pecking with my right.

The only other softball-related injury I've had this season was a bruised toenail when I stopped a ball with my foot (maybe a brain injury because I thought it was soccer until the pain radiated up my leg to parts well known). Years ago, however, my sister was injured playing softball. Really, it was during warmups and someone's errant throw hit her right in the kisser.

I'm popular with the spammers ... 33 messages from the same source in one weekend!

We were led by Major Purchases in The Spending Army this weekend into the sales-tax-free battleground. The Cutlet got some much-needed new clothes, the Petite Filet got a few things. I need a bunch of stuff, but it can all wait. I mean, the extra holes in my undies provide better ventilation, so it's all good.

Coming out of church Sunday I noticed my truck was sorta leaning, and I knew exactly why. Fortunately, by way of Christian fellowship, I had some help putting the spare tire on (of course, I needed to go air up the spare as well). It provided me a good reason to go buy new tires, something I'd been putting off because of the expense. Bald may be beautiful, but not when that describes your tires.

During our back-to-school season in Texas the past several years, the state has stopped collecting sales taxes on specified items voted "most likely to be worn by punk kids going back to school." This year, it's Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Me and the Petite Filet don't have a school-aged child yet, but clothing for us (each item must be less than $100; my entire wardrobe isn't worth that much) also applies.

Diapers are also sales-tax free those three days, and that's a sad necessity in our house right now. We'll be stocking up.

Here's a few things that ARE NOT tax-free in Texas this weekend, no matter how much you might need them to go back to school:

*with stupid bonus two-line poem at the end!

Among all the spam in my inbox, occasionally alumni Web site classmates.com will send me a notice that 112 new friends have joined! Check them out! See what they’ve been doing! Reconnect with old flames! Another one popped in there this week.

News Flash to classmates.com: I never had that many friends in high school. In fact, my graduating class was just slightly larger than 112 (we had 145 walk, but only 122 actually graduate). I’ve been ignoring them for years. I had signed up a year before my 10-year reunion (in Fall 2001) just to reconnect and make it known to others who cared that I was still breathing.

For you guys riding the Low-Carb Express, you may have missed the news that my favorite cereal in the world (which changes from week to week) has added three dried-fruit options. Yes, friends, Post’s Honey Bunches of Oats can now be bought with strawberries, bananas or peaches right in the box.

When I heard, I was pumped. When I tried a couple boxes (first strawberry, then peach), I was launched into orbit.

I showed a lot of blogging restraint in not mentioning the fact that the Petite Filet and Cutlet are out of town (again) until Wednesday. Usually that situation provides me with blogging fodder about just how much of a mess I’ve let the house get into. It looks like a laundromat exploded (before any clothes got clean) and smells like the bottom of a gym locker. But that should be rectified later on tonight.

The trip was planned before the PF was offered a job, so they are enjoying a soon-to-be rare trip to her parents’ house and was there for both her grandmothers’ birthday celebrations. They’re so old, every day is a celebration at this point. (Kidding). Maybe some thought it odd that I posted three times yesterday, but I was bored. Sue me!

I'm not a relationships expert, but I sometimes play one in Blogland. Because of that, here are some real fake letters sent to me a la Dear Abby format. Enjoy, but I don't recommend following any of the "advice."

Dear T-bone,
Does size matter?
– Shrinkage in Tuscaloosa

Dear Shrinkage:
The size of what? Really, I don't know; maybe you should ask a woman. I will say that just because you've got a big truck doesn't mean you know how to drive it. If you're worried that your pencil is short on lead, I suggest you learn some really neat parlor tricks to distract your lovers from your dangling participle.
– T

Dear T-bone,
My uncle's cousin's niece is really hot. Whenever we have family gatherings, we usually find a dark corner and make out. Is it OK if I sleep with her?
– Kissing Cousin in Billings, Montana

The Cutlet, ever a little monkey, has almost figured out how to climb out of his crib. I hope we can fix that situation before I'm forced to figure out how to rush to the hospital if he falls. I'd love some advice from experienced parents out there.

So far, the "advice" I've gotten ranges from just putting the crib mattress on the floor (the dog would sleep on it) to buying some freakish sort of tent to confine the little guy inside (yeah, that's a healthy lesson). Really, he's about ready for a big-boy bed, so we're looking around for something he can use for the next several years. Something with a safety rail that can be removed later. Here are the Top 5 things we're concerned about:

Some of my fellow parents have done grievous disservices to their children by naming them strange names that will forever be misspelled or mispronounced. Why do that? Does having a unique or special name make someone unique or special? No, it makes them regret their parents' decision to be silly. We came up with the Cutlet's name before he was born or we knew what he looked like (and it is a traditional name and spelling), but the name fits. I guess it fits only because we've always thought of him by that name.

Was reading the Sunday paper, and in it was a feature on the growing trend toward women taking their husbands' last names when tying the knot. The majority always has, but a few sources quoted in the article seemed to think the shrinking number of women who didn't signals a small defeat to the feminist movement.