June 2005 Archives

The Petite Filet has a promising job interview today, for which she is on the verge of barfing because she really wants the job. She nearly blew a gasket trying to find something to wear for said interview, despite her three-quarters of our closet bursting with wearables. Yes, of course, I understand her delimma was actually that she couldn't find anything she wanted to wear. Still, her wardrobe could smartly dress a small army. There had to be something in there. And that's not counting the multitude of footwear that graces every available crook and nanny (book and fanny? rook and granny?) of the small space.

Add to that the possibility of a quickie road trip up to Tulsa this weekend, and ongoing plans for our late-July jaunt to Colorado, my utter need for a newer vehicle, our poor sick and arthritic dog, the myriad home projects I haven't yet even started (or come close to finishing), the occasional ( but not often) eruption of the Terrible Twos and just the daily stress of bills, debt and whatnot.

And I realize, I've got it really really good.

Dearest Internet,

You opened up a new world to me, especially at my previous job during which I had the time to explore your outermost corners and stumble upon blogging. Thanks for that, Internet. You're the greatest. And yet, you suck. Seems like I should be wasting time at the beach rather than staring into your void and rat-tat-tapping on this (albeit lovely) stupid keyboard. Here are some things I want you to remember, Internet, so that maybe I'll have better feelings about you:

Watching the Cutlet try to climb one of our trees earlier this week brought to mind that song about the ant and the rubber tree plant. You know the one, right? Good, because that's all I remember. No matter how hard it was, he kept trying. That, my friends, is determination ... the kind of determination only people under 10 seem to have. Do we outgrow it? Or do we just forget what it's like to focus so clearly on a goal? So many distractions, so little time.

What did we all do when there were no e-mails, cell phones and Internet sites to visit? I think we knew how to relax just a tad better. And maybe, just maybe, it was easier to imagine ourselves perched on the uppermost limbs of the trees we so very much wanted to climb.

I wonder why there is a day set aside to honor dads. Maybe it's for those who seek reconciliation, or to give a resounding "Thanks, Dad" for years of patience and support. With my son almost 2 and 1/2 years old, I haven't been doing the dad thing all that long. I love him very much, and he demonstrates myriad ways that he loves me, too. But it will take lots more time before I deserve a special day just because I'm a father.

There have been trying times, to be sure. But I imagine the "best" is yet to come on that front (I was a teen-age boy once). For now, the majority of days are as special or moreso than any Hallmark holiday could make them. It's like every day is Father's Day. I might not get a physical gift, but the daily gifts are much better anyway.

... "blurk" and you blurk alone.

I don't spend much time thinking about blogging much anymore. I'm beyond the novelty (way beyond) and think very little about the mechanics of getting it done. It's the words that matter. But then sometimes the words won't come.

Over the past coupla years, I've read with amusement posts about "blurkers," or "trolls," or simply "lurkers." These are the blog-reading souls who care not to add a comment or let themselves be known beyond the little cookies, e-footprints and computer-centric numbers we all leave behind without meaning to. I'm not against people just popping by to lurk or whatever. It's not like my underwear drawer is posted for all the world to see. Texas T-bone (the blog) is an open book. Read me, people, read me all night long if you want to.

Maybe I couldn't care less about blurkers because I never check the stats that tell me how many people merely visited vs. those who commented. I'm sure, with my less frequent steps beyond this text box and general lack of relevance or gude spelling practishes, few people stop by at all. And that's OK. It's always been about quality for me – if not writing, then quality readers. Quantity becomes a popularity race; I didn't care in high school, really don't care now.

So, here I am posting a post about blogging. Guess I'd better go do some lurking to glean some better posting ideas.

Ciao.

We're dedicating this weekend to getting nothing done, to relaxing and hitting the road less traveled – or never traveled by us – to seek some fleeting R&R before the workweek begins anew on Monday. I'm still not sure where we're going, but common sense and the need to relax dictate a mere 90-minute drive from the rigors of Cowtown and its clogged gray ribbons of stress. A small town? A peaceful lake? A rented canoe full of smiling faces? Gotta pick somewhere by Saturday afternoon, because Sunday beckons like a blank piece of paper, and here we are with a fresh box of Crayolas.

Friday night, we're going to soak up high culture by heading to the Fort Worth Botanic Gardens to hear an outdoor concert featuring the three medalists in the recent Cliburn piano competition. Here's to hoping our 2-year-old will stay awake long enough to dance like nobody's watching – something he does to all genres and rhythms and melodies – and here's to hoping T-bone and the Petite Filet won't be afraid to join him. Saturday will be spent working in the a.m., taking swim lessons and maybe trying to get a little bit of something done. Call us practical before we try to relax, dear hearts.

Whatever your next coupla days are filled with, I hope there is at least a measure of joy and peace and happiness and fun to be found. Isn't that what all of us want when we hit the open road?

Do you remember your first time?

I mean, uh, your first time blogging? It's unlikely you'd remember the first blog you read. It's sort of hazy for me, but I remember some of the first ones I came across before I knew what "blog" meant.

If you don't remember your blog's beginnings, there are always the archives (unless you've moved your blog around, which I've done once). My first post was the lame-o "T-bone now has his own blog" bit. Nobody started reading for a few weeks, but back in March 2003 and the ensuing months I posted at least once a day. That built up quite a load of baloney in short order.

Here is my second post, the first actual one:

Saturday was a long night! Two of the high school softball teams we cover advanced to the state tournament in Austin. The first school lost after 11 innings in the final, which pushed the second game to 9 p.m. That one was halted because of lightning, but resumed and went 15 innings – ending at 1:35 a.m. I got the photos and stories after 2 a.m., and it was 3:45 a.m. before I got home. Blasted!

So Sunday was a day of recovery rather than Godly worship, and on Monday the Petite Filet worked a half-day and we went to my parents' house to see my sister, her husband (back for two weeks from Iraq), our nephew and our new little nephew. It was a nice visit. Mr. Sister brought back a video he shot of his surroundings, including the service center where he and fellow reservists repaired humvees and tanks and whatnot. Part of the video was shot during a tour of one of Saddam Hussein's palaces and was quite amazing. It showed us a side of Iraq we hadn't seen before. He leaves for Baghdad on Saturday, and is supposed to return home (for good) by November or December.

Of course, I wouldn't leave you without a photo of the new baby ...

So it's been decided. What's been decided? The future. Yeah, right. Like it's up to you. No, this time I mean it. We'll see.

The problem with long-range plans is they tend to be diverted, deferred, deflated or forgotten. But when you're talking about something as lofty as career, family, life, home, hearth, heart, etc., such plans are harder to derail. Or at least that's the hope.

We've been looking at our surroundings, at our wonderful friends, at the tidy little life built up around us, and yet we dream. Wouldn't it be nice to live someplace we wanted to live, rather than just existing where we ended up? This is where the jobs were (and are), it isn't too far from extended family. But did we really choose this place, with its congested roads, sweltering summers, flat land and oozing suburban sprawl? Or did it choose us?

So here's the (long-range crossyourfingers) plan: find a better place to live, lift ourselves out of as much debt as possible, fix up the mandatory things in the house, sell it and start over. We don't want to be merely moving from here, but would rather be moving to there. We have designs on starting our own business eventually (a multi-faceted, diversified affair), so the place would have to support such a venture. And we need to find a place that supports our type of adventure.

We owe it to ourselves and the Cutlet. Look out wherever, here we come.