February 2005 Archives

Everybody we know is pregnant, at least married women under 40 (my sister included), and so the inquisition begins. "When are you going to have another one?" people ask. "As soon as you start minding your own business," we'd like to say, but we don't. It's also tempting to say we may never have another child. But then we're subjected to people who think it's horrific to raise an "only" child.

In our Sunday school class alone (about 26 people/13 couples), there are three pregnant women. There'd be more except that two others recently had babies. Some of the pregnancies weren't exactly planned, and the catchphrase is usually, "Well, that's just God telling you you're not in control, and that you need another kid." Why sure, God is the one in control. But maybe he's just telling you to start using more effective birth control. Or better yet, to get another hobby.

I've been blogging for nearly two years now, reading other blogs for longer than that, and realized something a little odd. I hardly ever say the word "blog" out loud. Usually I'm writing it or thinking it.

This struck me because one of the Petite Filet's co-workers asked my why the newspaper didn't have columnists, and I told him the main reason was we didn't have room for them. The other big factor was that most people who pitch a column idea don't have anything to write about. Our little weekly paper would require a column on local issues, not on what somebody had for lunch or what their cat is doing. That's when I said it. "Those people should have a blog online instead of in our paper," I told him.

Blog. What a weird word. Maybe it's a Web log, maybe it's a brain log. Either way, its kind of weird when spoken. Especially because this blogger is an island; I don't talk to other bloggers about blogging in person. Therefore, I don't use the word in conversation ...

"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." – Romans 3:23 (NLT)

In April last year, a 97-year-old woman was arrested here in Texas for having an unpaid traffic ticket. Just recently, I heard a story about an advanced-age woman being arrested on drug charges. Whenever an older person knocks over a bank the event is broadcast nationwide. Germany reportedly is planning a dedicated geriatric prison. For some reason, we think older people are incapable of doing bad things. Maybe we look to our sweet little grandparents, or even our aging parents, and see frail, innocent beings. What a crock.

Few parents actually teach their children to lie. Yet, at some point or another, they're going to do it, and it's usually at an early age. Knowing this, and knowing that practice can indeed make one more perfect at most things, it's no wonder that people who don't learn will just get better at lying, committing crimes and exhibiting evil as they get older.

Sometimes I think about this when some old dude greets me at the door at Wal-Mart.

I'm told this story was carried nationally – certainly our local media are all over it. The event hits closer to home because the boy was a student in the school district the Petite Filet works for, and her boss was a regular at the woman's bagel shop. Add that to the tragic circumstances, and it equals a heartache. There's not much comfort in knowing the crime wasn't random, because it is still horrendous ... three lives were taken. Is there ever justification to murder a child? No, there's not.

But on a lighter note, because a lighter note is definitely called for ...

I rarely am awakened by the alarm clock because usually I'm already awake. Not necessarily because of insomnia; no, I sleep just fine but wake just a few minutes before the ringing begins. My "internal" alarm clock just knows when it's time to get up, and for me, that means the pain of never really being able to "sleep in." I've had this problem ever since spending the night at friends' houses when I was much younger. I'd be the kid talking to the mom while she makes pancakes. The syndrome was more painful in college, whereupon I could be stopped by no hangover (except for The Night of The Yoo Hoo Russian, discussed here some time ago. That was bad. One of two times I felt ready to die). Now my life has changed, but my internal clock still ticks to the rhythm of life.

There are also, of course, external signals not related to the ticking of the clock. I can tell what time it is by:

• The amount of daylight poking through the window shade (which, even worse, faces east toward the sunrise).
• The sound of traffic on the road behind my house. Things pick up about 6 a.m. and get kind of hairy by 6:30.
• If and how much I have to pee (an internal signal, but whatever)
• How much the dog is rolling around on the floor.
• The slamming of a neighbor's car door before he trudges off to work.
• A wife who at times feels a little frisky in the morning (no complaints there).

And parents will be able to relate to this ...

Serious scientific studies have shown that seven out of eight lab rats injected with copious amounts of common sense lived longer, healthier and happier lives.

I'm always interested to hear what "recent scientific studies" proclaim is bad for us, or is something we need to ingest more of – now! hurry! quick! – because of its healthful effects. Heard one that several cups of coffee can help prevent liver cancer or something. Seems like only a few weeks ago, too much coffee could turn your toenails green.

Makes me want to stand up and shout the "M" word so that all can hear. Moderation is the key to most everything! Unless it's air, 'cause we need a lot of that; and, of course, common sense. But the latter is in such short supply there's not enough to go around.

Here are some things that have alternately been deemed evil and then elevated to must-have status and back again:

Or as the Cutlet likes to say, "App-bowl sooce." He hasn't quite mastered the words, but he does love to eat it. Same goes for anyone who enjoys a bit of foy grass or kaysoh dillahs. Food can be mispronounced and still taste pretty good.

I happen to be wearing a bit of app-bowl sooce on my sleeve. The Cutlet wanted some this morning before he went to childcare and I went to work. Fortunately, he was still in his PJs. Unfortunately, I was not. One more evening/morning of flying solo, and the Petite Filet will return for her trip. I know for sure it was harder on her than it was on me.

All in all, here's a few reasons it will be a good week for sure:

This blog post brought to you by The Napping Cutlet.

The Petite Filet left this afternoon for her business conference in Austin. She was sad to leave me and the Cutlet home; it was her first time to take a solo trip since he was born. That means this is also the first time I'll be parenting solo for the next three days. Two-and-a-half, really. Yikes.

Loving's the thing, right? So why is it so cool to hate Valentine's Day? For some of us, to be against it for the mere commercialism is just an excuse (turn off the iPod and your laptop, put down the Starbucks on your Pottery Barn table, wipe the crumbs off your Banana Republic pants and get real). It's not only the single people among us, either. Attached, married and otherwise taken souls can also rage against the love machine that is the holiday de amor.

But there is some value in taking a day to reflect on our relationships. Sure, we can say we strive to live in an all-the-time lovefest, but that is neither realistic nor a worthwhile goal. The daily tedium takes precedence, from taking out the garbage to bathing the dog. Just as at Thanksgiving, which is becoming more commercial each year (where did those inflatable yard turkeys come from?), we should be thankful year-round, but pausing to recharge our thankfulness is a welcome respite from the ho-hum-drum of taking care of business. So should the celebration of St. Valentine.

No matter your situation in life, Feb. 14 can be special ...

Those of us who live where cars grow on trees know that such a mass of traffic produces a bumper crop of another sort: stickers adorning most vehicles proclaiming everything from political or religious affiliations to support of troops to messages degrading other car brands. And lots in between. The past few years have brought us magnetic displays (a lesser commitment than stuck-on stickers) such as U.S. flags, ribbons supporting military personnel, breast-cancer awareness, etc. What typically gets my attention these days is a car with nothing stuck to it – a rare sight indeed. Are such messages effective if everyone's doing it?

I remember right before my son was born that the doctor told me that any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a "daddy." Don't know if I've attained that status, but I'm trying. Anyone who doesn't try is really missing out on some of the best experiences that having offspring can bring. Rather than feeling anger toward the men who give fathers a bad name, I feel pity. Not only do their kids miss out, so do they.

After two years of trying to be involved, I've learned a few things ...

I had the opportunity to attend a "career day" event as a panelist today at a nearby school, talking specifically about being a newspaper photographer (just one part of my mutli-faceted job as editor). It was a lot of fun, and I was in the "liberal arts" room with a special-effects illustrator, a voice-over guy, a writer for a non-profit health-related organization, and a lawyer. The seventh-grade kids had some good questions, too.

This is a rundown of what I told them ...

It's going to happen today, I can feel it.

The Family Truckster is going to hit 140,000 miles on its odometer. I never thought it would last this long when I bought it as a single guy just 18 months out of college – when it was just my truck; the family wasn't even on the radar yet.

Though some of the trips it has taken are "spam" – grocery store voyages and the like – there have been adventures along the way. A wedding. A honeymoon. A trip home from the hospital with a new son. A 2,000-mile journey from Virginia to Texas with my grandfather's old wooden boat in tow. When it registered 100,000 miles, it was during a solo trip back to Virginia to visit family.

Few people keep cars for nearly as long (at least people we know; there are a few couples who've had at least four different vehicles each in the past five years). But the advantages of having your car paid off, and not having to keep full insurance on it, far outweigh the additional maintenance an older vehicle requires. That is, if you've bought the right car. Make sure it's one you like!

This is post number 500 for Texas T-bone, give or take a few. Seems like a nice round figure to celebrate, because nice round figures of all types are to be celebrated. It's a milestone, but not that staggering because it's almost been two years since I started blogging. There are those who post multiple times each day and have racked up double my amount in less than half the time. But then again it's quality, not quantity. And in that case I'm still in trouble. I have this sinking feeling that my blog was better a long time ago, and even then it wasn't all that it could be.

But there is only one Texas T-bone. Don't let the long list of Google results fool you. Look in the mirror; there's only one you, too.

I promised another milestone for today's post, but it won't really occur until tomorrow. No blog should be blogged before it's time. But some things can't wait ...

If you're ever in the desert on a camel with no name, and it starts to get a little thirsty, give it a 20-ounce bottle of Pepsi Wild Cherry. There is something magical about it, because I've had to pee 40 times since having one a couple of hours ago.

Coming tomorrow: two milestones with one bird (or, if I drink too much Pepsi, a kidney stone the size of a bird). See ya.

Trip through blogland long enough, and you see some recurring elements among authors. Many are struggling with something that rules their their thoughts, their hopes, dreams and waking moments. Often, it isn't something good.

Ever think about how one mistake you've made has changed your entire life? Is it something you think about, or something you live? The bright side is that for every gaffe or flub along life's path that causes us to stumble, there are good choices that can keep our direction somewhat positive.

Some struggle with addictions, depression, the cult of lonliness, the constant wonder of why we even exist – some brought on not by choices, but by nature. Still, there are stories of people born into a struggle who somehow overcome obstacles to lead productive, heart-warming lives. How do they do that? How do they reach for a new attitude, make it their own, and fight the good fight to shine light on all who see them? Is it within us, or something we find elsewhere?

Maybe it's the realization that we face divergent paths: one on which we are in control of our choices; the other on which we are controlled by our choices. There are varying demons we all face, some not spiritually crippling. But none of us are immune. We all have choices, and nobody can make them for us.

I have my answers to these delimmas, and the source of them brings me peace. Do you?