August 2005 Archives

We have a loft-like room above our garage that, in the past few years, has been our junk cave. When the Cutlet became mobile, we blocked it off with a baby gate and kept putting things up there to get them out of sight, mind and harm's way.

That all came crashing down on us when the Cutlet, brute strength still beyond his comprehension, he-manned the gate from the wall and thumped his chest like a triumphant gorilla about a week ago. For a while, that was it. We had a gateless stairway, but he didn't venture far beyond the first few steps. We didn't bother to restore the gate because he has been initiated in other homes by the joys of stairs; he is old enough to navigate them safely the majority of times.

I bet you can see where this is going. Curiosity may have done grievous things to the cat, but in the end, it simply propelled the Cutlet up the straight flight and into our junk. We have since removed anything of value or things that could hurt him. The worst part is that the upstairs room was also where his old toys went to die. He rediscovered the most annoying ones and has brought them back downstairs. Yippee!

Now cleaning the room up and making it usable, something low on our list of priorities, has jumped up the list like a Kelly Clarkson song (that alone boggles my mind). I meant to snap a pic of the room this morning to give you a clearer picture of our problems. Really, your imagination can fill in the blanks. It has a wrought-iron railing up the stairs and facing the stairs ... there are three windows that are standard-size but sideways ... the walls are stark white ... the original, most hideous vintage 1964 light fixture swings from the ceiling ... there are nails popping out of the dry wall (so fun to fix!) ... and the carpet, oh the carpet, is lowpile made to resemble wood planks but with a cartoonish-looking aura. And it has a few pee stains of pets past. At least it's a big room, right?

With no closet, shelving or storage, the room may give us a reason to drive to the new Ikea store that's a bit more than an hour away. Like we needed an excuse.

I'll keep you posted.

I don't mean to be tacky, but there's something I need to get off my chest. It's still summertime (yea, summer!), and I as much as any man this side of Hugh Heffner appreciate the female form in all its glory. It's just that there seems to be a surplus of nipples popping out all over the place. And I don't necessarily mean bare ones ... just visible ones.

Some places I've seen nips: church, Wal-Mart, Home Depot, during jury duty, on TV, in traffic, in a Teva® footwear catalog. There's no place too sacred!

It's not like I'm seeking them out. They just happen to be front and center, I guess you could say. Don't women do a nipple check before they leave their homes? I admit, I don't regularly conduct a package check to see if there is some obscene or blatant bulging in my nether region – mainly because most of my pants fit well and not too tightly. But it's also a further look down to my pieces. Breasts are usually neatly framed in your typical average mirror and can't help but be seen.

I used to work with a woman who, as savvy and intelligent as she was, may have planned a nippular assault at opportune times. Usually it was when she, a merchandise buyer, was meeting with vendors. Rumor had it that she got some of the most lucrative deals for the company. Most of that was attributable to her business acumen, but at least 3 percent that put her on top could have (I didn't say definitely was) the tight white shirt and unpadded bra she only seemed to wear at said times. Call me sexist; I call it using everything you have.

But back to the topic at hand, or that which is abreast of us. I like nipples. I don't give a hooter if women choose (or maybe do so inadvertently) to show off their nips. If it isn't on purpose, maybe some fellow ladies need to show these unwitting infractors a few pointers (pun intended) on keeping their boob bullets under wraps. I'd ask my wife about the nipple check, but then she'd know that I notice such things (that is, at the times she isn't the one to point them out).

I considered drawing an illustration to accompany this post, but that would have been tacky. As if I didn't cross the line a few times anyway. Here I go again: this wasn't meant as any sort of complaint, either, just an observation. Once again proving that one not be old to be a dirty old man. Further, one not need be dirty or a man to be a dirty old man.

Back to your regularly scheduled wardrobe.

We're all feeling the pinch (at least those of us with cars), even those of us who have recently exchanged our SUVs for more fuel-efficient machines. It's not like the difference is so great now anyway, because in the past two weeks gasoline prices have shot up what seems like 20 or 25 cents per gallon. And I live in a state that produces a lot of gas (or hot air, at least).

I offer up to you 10 ways to use less gasoline.

1. Be like Martha! Get arrested, indicted and convicted of using insider trading information and be placed under house arrest.

2. Walk everywhere you have to go. You'll be able to cancel your gym membership (and about every other appointment you have) if, like me, you live 11 miles from your office.

3. Drive where you need to go, but just coast down hills. This is a problem for me because Texas – at least my corner of it – is 90 percent flat.

4. Ride a bicycle everywhere you need to go. Hey, it's not like I'd have to pedal up too many hills, right?

5. Carpool. As in drive your car into a pool. Leave it there.

6. Trade your car in for a motorcycle, which can get tremendous gas mileage. Especially while it sits in your garage after you recover from a severe case of road rash after that guy in the Hummer cuts you off in rush-hour traffic.

7. This won't help you use less gas, but you will use less of your own: siphon! Be like Woody Woodpecker in the old cartoons and suck it out of your neighbor's tank and pour it into yours. Also cures bad breath, as in a nasty gassy smell will cover up any Hal O'Tosis you may have.***

8. Put anything other than gasoline in your tank. Result: you'll be walking or pedaling anywhere anyway because it will ruin your car.

9. Carry a jar of Grey Poupon, so when the guy in the Rolls Royce sees you at the corner while you're walking to work, he'll roll down the window and ask if you have any, to which you can exclaim, "Yes! But only if you give me a ride to work, dude."

10. Combine your trips. I don't mean run a bunch of errands at once. I mean refuel your car while you pay your credit card bills. You'll be tripping big time!

***Don't try this at home. Siphoning is a dangerous dangerous crime. If you suck some down you will regret it. Your 15 minutes of flame aren't worth it, even if you have a burning desire.

Happy motoring!

Many are called, few are chosen. I guess that's a good thing for most of us who receive jury summons. The bad thing is, my entire day was spent in and around the Tarrant County Justice Center. I was one of 50 "lucky" ones picked for a district court case – a murder, no less. On the questionaire I filled out in the courtroom, I made sure to include the words "media," "journalism," and "newspaper editor" as many times as possible to let the attorneys know I kept up with the news, often professionally.

But it wasn't until lots of waiting, enduring questions asked of other jurors (not me) and then more waiting, that we extras were allowed to leave. After 6 p.m. So I report there at 8:30 a.m., get a couple hours for lunch to reacquaint myself with downtown Fort Worth, then am tethered to the big stinky building all day? Yep. And I was proud to do my duty to the American Legal System. I kind of wish I was picked for service, although that really would have screwed up my ability to put out a newspaper on Wednesday. As it was, I had to scramble to fill the thing; all of it made worse because one of my reporters is on vacation; made ever worser by the large size of tomorrow's edition.

I was Juror No. 41 out of 50. The prosecution and defense each had 10 people they could strike from the jury. When it came down to pickin' time, I was counting to 12 in my head. The 11th person picked was sitting next to me on my right ... he was Juror No. 40. And the 12th person? The woman sitting next to me on my left ... Juror No. 42! Talk about dodging a bullet!

But wait, that's not all!

When I cook for guests, people talk about my chicken. That is, if I'm serving chicken.

We had some longtime friends over, and I cooked a dish from this site, which I guess technically means it wasn't my chicken. But after you've slaved over a hot stovetop for 20 or 30 minutes, I think you should be able to call it your chicken. They loved it, and in fact even talked to friends and family about how great my chicken was.

Someone told my lovely wife that fact, but it is indeed T-bone who cooks the chicken (while wearing pants) in the house. She won't touch raw chicken because it is gross and fleshy. I admit it's kinda gross, but I've touched much much worse in my lifetime. Her fear, my friends, is an opportunity for me to flex my culinary muscles and throw down the poultry like Old Man Sanders and his 11 secret herbs and spices. Except this has got dry white wine and button mushrooms in it, which puts it on a plain a tad higher than KFC.

So sure, I could share the recipe with you and you could make some really good chicken for yourself, family and friends. But I'll leave it up to you to find a great chicken recipe to make all your own. I've got to keep something for myself!

Today: Working myself silly trying to get as much done as possible.
Tomorrow: Jury duty!

I know it's an honor just to be nominated and all, but I was hoping it would be for something more pleasant than jury duty. This is my first forray into participating in my friendly neighborhood judicial system – despite the fact that I have been registered to vote for nearly 14 years and had a driver's license for nearly 16 years (the lists of names currently used for picking unsuspecting citizens). I was summoned to appear next Tuesday, and you can believe I'll be there.

I'm hoping the words "newspaper editor" get me outta there quick. However, if that doesn't work, I will proceed to one or more of the following:

• I'll announce in a loud voice that I like what they've done with the courthouse since the last time I was acquitted. Maybe even show up wearing handcuffs.

• I'll eat lots of garlic and breathe only through my mouth.

• Maybe I'll wear my underwear on the outside of my pants. Inside out to show the world!

• Speaking of pants, I'm thinking leopard print.

• Two words: whoopee cushion.

• Two more words that some people write as one word: stink bomb (or stinkbomb).

• Every four minutes, I'll start barking.

• I'll show up wearing a black robe and white wig and hit people with my gavel.

• I'll wear an OJ Simpson mask and ask people if they've seen my leather glove (kidding, gosh!).

• I'll wear a Michael Jackson mask and ask people if they've seen any 10-year-old boys (it's just a bad bad joke, people!).

• I'll wear a nice suit and try to look really smart so they won't pick me.

• I'll make sure the bailiff knows that when I get home, "I'm so gonna write about this on my blog!"

We bought a new-to-us car yesterday, and the process reminded me why we keep our cars until the wheels nearly fall off: buying a car stinks. The vehicle we took home is nice and I like it a lot. I enjoy researching cars, even test-driving them. But when it comes down to a decision, this is the first vehicle the Petite Filet and I have actually bought for our family. The one I'm replacing, a 1995 Isuzu Rodeo (144,000 miles, sorta-working a/c, loves long walks on the beach and dribbling oil on the driveway) was a purchase I made as a bachelor. The Dodge Pickup was an emergency trade to rid ourselves of the wrongly purchased 2001 Mustang GT (that probably hastened the birth of our son; it was cosmic or something). Before that, the PF and I both had "single person" cars.

We narrowed our choices to two: a black 2004 Toyota Tacoma doublecab pickup with four-wheel-drive, or a gold 2005 Subaru Outback wagon. Both used vehicles were at a Dallas Subaru dealership, to which we had gone originally to take a look at the Tacoma (a truck we had admired for years). In the end, we went with the Subaru because it is more economical, much more comfortable and much much safer. Between it and the used Taco, the Soobie was also in much better condition. It was apples and oranges, really, and we just had to pick the one that would best fit our daily needs.

Never mind who wrote it, will anyone ever translate it into easily understandable passages and logically divided chapters? Probably not. Love will forever remain a many splendored – and often many splintered – thing. There are lots of different kinds of love, and most of the romantic languages have several words for it. We English speakers have lots of words we can substitute for love, but really "love" is the only word that can describe the heart-mushing kathumpa thump that only true love can instigate. The best love is unconditional, and that type is possible with lots of work and tons of practice. It is most easily exemplified by the ever-loyal love of a pet, but just thinking about that gets me teary-eyed. So in true Texas T-bone fashion, I'll turn to humor to blast through the subject:

We did too much to mention here during our lovely, wonderful and mostly relaxing sojourn last week to Colorado Springs, Colo. We saw mountains, blue sky, large rocks, burbling brooks, whooshing waterfalls, some wildlife and a lot of Subarus. Maybe I noticed the cars because that's one of the brands I'm looking at in replacing the aging Family Truckster. Anyway, it was a relaxing trip. Our gracious hosts, my sister-in-law and her husband, tried to make us fall in love with the place so we'd move out there soon (like packing a real estate guide in our bags when we weren't looking). It didn't take much to make us like it a lot, and it is on our list of places to relocate when the time comes. Anyone out there with Colorado knowledge – especially bad stuff – let me know. Take me to school, I want to learn.

Below is but one of many photos I could share (maybe some other time; half of them are on film anyway) and a few observations about the trip:

We humans hate to let go. Whether it's a romantic relationship turned sour, a favorite sweater turned holey or a pet on its last legs, we make those sorts of attachments and hate to give them up. Unless the time is right.

Often, life gets us ready for the big goodbye. Maybe our significant other starts to be a real pain in the keister, that sweater doesn't really fit right anymore, or that dog isn't the same one you've known for eight years. In the case of our dog Gypsy, her eroding condition prepared us for the end. It wasn't a sudden thing, as her health began fading weeks ago. When we boarded her at the vet's office for our trip to Colorado, she wasn't suffering, but her back legs didn't want to work. We knew a 12-hour car ride wouldn't help.

We arrived home from our vacation yesterday, and when I picked up Gypsy at the vet I knew something was different. She didn't seem to recognize me and was having trouble breathing. I took her home knowing that soon we'd have to make one of those difficult decisions about letting go.

The Petite Filet was zonked after the long drive (we split it into two days for ours and the Cutlet's sake), so after delivering Gypsy I zipped to the store to pick up some essentials. When I got back, the PF met me outside and said that Gypsy was gone. She heard her take her last breath, and saw her body relax in the bliss of a briefly painful life evaporating. We wrapped her gently in an old blanket and placed her in an old laundry basket. She hung on long enough for us to bring her home, shower her with love, and – the hard part – say goodbye. There is some comfort in having her die in relative comfort, not in some kennel.

It was a sad relief that she died on her own, of "natural" causes. It let us off the hook, although we still ache about the loss. Kind of like her final gift to us. It is especially hard for the PF because she watched Gypsy die, and had also been the one to find the lifeless body of her parents' dog last year while visiting them.