October 2005 Archives

Not being able to sleep at all Saturday night let me think of all sorts of ways to curse the reactionary idiots who now require certain over-the-counter medicines to be kept behind the counter. That in itself isn't an issue until you find out that pharmacists keep bankers' hours, and when the pharmacy is closed you can't get the medicines behind the counter. Ingenious. This means I was denied some allergy medicine that may have helped me sleep better. Sue me for coming down with cold symptoms after closing time!

Human nature is often reactionary. For example, instead of preparing for hurricane season, a lot of people just sit around waiting for the government to help them (you can tell I'm still bitter about the medicine thing, can't you?). Because one nut carried explosives onto an airplane in his shoes, a percentage of airline passengers must remove their shoes at the security checkpoints. Never mind that explosives could be hidden in other places! To react without common sense is ridiculous! All the shoe thing does is foster a perception of safety rather than actual safety.

Same thing with laws that restrict gun ownership. A law isn't going to stop a criminal from having one. I don't own a gun because I don't think I need one, but if it comes down to defending my family against the lawless, I want that right preserved. Feel-good weapons bans are merely a perception of safety and serve only one purpose (albeit worthwile): it reduces the number of legal firearms that could be stolen by criminals and used for evil.

But I guess America has reacted successfully sometimes, like when England taxed colonists here without representation. Those were fighting words, and the country's founders reacted with grit and muskets to give subsequent citizens the right to react in silly ways. So odd that when our country tries to set up democracy in some other country – and some people react naturally in not wanting it – we brand the "bad guys" as insurgents. Hey, why should we be surprised? We're in places oftentimes without being asked by the local population. A sort of taxation without representation, if you ask me.

Just because some people cook up illicit drugs using cold medicines, I was punished for getting sick by not being able to get the stuff that would have relieved some of my symptoms. Wouldn't it be nice if existing laws were enforced rather than ridiculous ones were heaped onto honest citizens?

(End rant). This post was brought to you by DayQuil® and taking the first half of the day off to relax after being sick all weekend before heading back to the grind. Have a nice day.

I hope I'm never as hard to buy a gift for as my dad is. Many older men I know are like this, although I'd say he's probably been in that state for longer than anyone I know. The first hitch is that if he sees something he wants, he usually just buys it for himself. The second, which is the trait I'd like to prevent in my own life, is he just doesn't do much anymore. No sports or hobbies, at least the kind that spawn gift ideas.

It's a delimma we face three times a year: Christmas, Father's Day, and his birthday (which was this month). One year we got so desperate that for both my father and hers, we sprung the news on them that the Petite Filet was pregnant. Their Father's Day cards contained copies of the first sonogram. Now, we were definitely ready to grow our little family, and the Cutlet was a long-planned addition. But part of the reason then was the time was so we wouldn't have to stress out over gifts. Um, sure.

Does anyone else have this problem, particularly with one person? Sure, it's the thought that counts. But thoughts are a little harder to wrap. We're not looking to bust the piggy bank, after all, so cheap and creative is a weapon we're willing to use. Just don't have any ammo left after years of cheap and creative, mixed in with expensive and semi-thoughtful. Any successful ideas would be more than entertained here.

There are bigger problems in the world, I know, but this problem has been around a long long time. It predates the hole in the ozone.

Oh, and if you were curious at all (you probably weren't), I like bicycling, kayaking, hiking, camping, collecting interesting pocketknives, traveling, reading things, photography and iTunes gift cards in any denomination. I'm also young enough that I don't have every conceivable tool I think I "need." Notwithstanding my previous entry, I also enjoy an occasional microbrew. Only 56 shopping days left to Christmas, y'all!

Before I talk about the subject at hand, let me say that when a business sends out a flier to promote itself, it seems most important that they check the phone number listed. Apparently, a landscaping company has sent out a mass mailing with my phone number on it. Five potential customers have left messages about pansies and the like, much to my amusement. I may let the Cutlet take the next call.

Ah, beer. Not everyone likes it, but we all know what it is. It's one of those things that needs no introduction, yet it is advertised ad nauseum in magazines and on TV. And besides the now-extinct cigarette ads of yesteryear, beer advertising has to be the most blatant pack of lies tossed out as mythical truth that ever was. Let me make it clear that I have been wooed by the sexy temptress that is beer, as a drunk college student, a semi-drunk recent graduate and now a mostly nondrinker who has an occasional brew one at a time. I am solidly in the beer camp as opposed, say, to wine. That beverage is a thinking person's beer, and when it comes to alcohol, it's better not to think too much about it. Just have your designated driver beforehand.

I was watching the World Series (Game 2) and that new Miller High Life commercial comes on, the one with the girl in the moon (part of the logo). Makes it seem like history hinges on the frothy mugs placed before gaping maws. No, history happens anyway. Just another lie, just like drinking a certain beer will make large-breasted women want to rub up against you, will somehow park a nicer car in your driveway, make you happier, make you simultaneously cooler and now invited to all the best parties. If one should really care about those things, let them drink beer. If they want clear-headed success, let them drink water. Unfiltered. Preferably out of a garden hose.

I know what beer drinkers look like. The hardcore ones don't care about the amount of carbs per serving. Heck, they don't even care what the stuff tastes like. My great-Uncle Ed (my mother's father's younger brother) was a hardcore beer man. In his dwindling years, he looked like someone had made a wax statue of him at age 60, then turned up the heat so he started to melt. After years of trying to get help for him, which he refused on what I think was ignorance and indignation rather than not needing it, we saw him only in passing. He would walk from his home on one end of the island, past my grandmother's house, to the Grubstake convenience store. Because he moved slowly, was probably full of beer when he left his home, and was diabetic, the urge to pee overtook him about three-fourths of the way there. He'd shuffle off the sidewalk to the sanctity of my grandfather's old boat house and relieve himself. Then he'd go to the store, and ramble back home with his beer.

It wasn't him wanting to be popular with the chicks, but rather his need to have beer. It was practically all the guy had. Eventually, he was admitted to a nursing home to die. There he didn't even have beer, so it was a sad end to a sad life.

Now, beer didn't put him in that hole. Uncle Ed never had a steady job, mooched off his parents who mooched off my grandparents until they died. His lack of work ethic was a birthright.

I'd say beer was his enabler, a banana peel on the stairway that was his life. Could have been whiskey. Could have been wine. Could have been drugs. Could have been lemon cream pies, or those little packages of powdered donuts. Could have been unadulterated laziness. Uncle Ed was his own problem. And he would have slipped down a slippery slope without any substance abuse in his life.

Beer advertising would be more palatable if they showed the effect of hardcore beer drinking on consumers ... beer bellies, pregnant bellies, pathetic people whose bank accounts, libido and excuses have dried up. Same goes for fast food advertising. Those youngsters bee-bopping with their Big Macs are nothing like the fat man sitting in his Prius ordering five double-cheeseburgers and a small Diet Coke. Not because he's hungry, but because he needs it.

What's the solution? Changing the ads won't help entirely. I think just as we all know what beer is, we know smoking can summon us to early graves yet it remains a popular way to win friends, influence people and smell like crap. It's scary. Maybe there is no solution. But I guess the first step is admitting we have a problem. If we do.

I've been really busy lately, conducting a scientific study into why 4 out of 5 Toyota Prius drivers are morbidly obese. There seems to be no scientific reason for this, but there is a politico-economic undertone. I've found concrete evidence that the federal government is secretly offering subsidies to portly people to encourage them to drive the small hybrid automobiles. The reason?

To offset the emissions that the drivers themselves produce after consuming a diet almost solely composed of high fat and protein. I'm not pulling your leg, and please, don't pull any fingers!

That is all.

My problem these days isn't trying to come up with something to post here. If anything, infrequent updates leaves me with an avalanche of various thoughts and events from which to pick. Not all of them would make me happy to share (the ultimate goal of this blog), nor do many of them make good reads for you (I'd imagine that's what your goal is in surfing around).

I could talk about the fact I'm losing a good reporter to another job and need to find another good one pronto. I could tell you about a photo we had blown up to hang on one of our walls. I could expound on the plumbing issues we're having, but I've run that one into the ground. My in-laws are coming to visit this weekend; fodder enough but maybe better saved for after they leave. The Cutlet talks a lot, and now we can understand the majority of it. He also used his little potty for the first time last week. It was quite moving (and not just for his bowels). I could talk about bicycling escapades. Wanting to go to the beach. Wanting to pack up and move to Colorado. Wanting to stay here for a while but find a different line of work. In the end, I guess I just talked about all those things.

While cleaning up the kitchen this morning (ah, my blissful Thursday off with the Cutlet ... gives me lots of time to reflect on stuff), I was thinking how stupid I was in the past. Not just a dork, but a dense dork. I grew up a polite kid, but my social skills weren't firing on all cylinders until I hit my 20s. This means I lost the chance at many friendships, a few romances and that all-important popularity that would have bouyed my teen years beyond mere survival. This realization gives me lots of regrets for things I didn't do.

I would wager most of us have events in our lives that weren't lived to the fullest. I think coming to the conclusion that some of that time was wasted redeems it somewhat. Life may be short, but there are all sorts of moments that don't really count (stopping at stoplights, waiting for water to boil, watching paint dry or pooping). That means time spent with loved ones counts double or triple. The upper joys and lowest sadnesses are also worth more, for better or for worse. On that note, the Cutlet wants to go outside and play. The sun is shining, it's going to be warm yet again. The time we spend today will be worth at the very least triple of normal time. Because I'm not going to waste it. Too soon those times will be gone.

Casa del T-bone is once again experiencing plumbing problems of biblical proportions. At least that's what it sounds like as the plumber tests out our new potty (kinda sounds like a submarine diving beneath the waves and then coming back up suddenly). Advice to anyone seeking to buy an older home: shell out the $200 to have a camera stuck up the home's hoo-hah to see if woe will behold you and your checkbook in the sewer department. We will forever be taking that precaution after living in the learning experience that is our current abode. Forty-year-old cast-iron pipes that look like a spelunker's dream. Good for cave exploring, not good for jetting poo down the tube.

But enough of that, I say! My family and I had a great day last week at the State Fair of Texas, just a few hops and jumps from us over in Dallas.

This year's theme is "Let Yourself Go!" Judging by fellow fairgoers we saw this past Thursday, many had heeded the slogan as a mission statement long before seeking the shadow of Big Tex. While we are not the pictures of lean-muscle-mass-health ourselves, we were smart in seeking out a bit of lunch before hitting Fair Park. Nothing fried passed our lips the entire time we were at the fair. I did have some ice cream, but: sue me. It was good and I rarely eat it. The Cutlet also had a chocolate ice cream cone, or maybe the shirt he was wearing bore the brunt of the dripping goodness. A good time was had by us, and I have the pictures (like the one below) to prove it.

Temporarily dodged a bullet with my in-laws not planning a visit until next weekend. Love 'em dearly, but the house is in no shape to welcome guests. Here's hoping the plumber can make the potty work. It's hard enough living on one working commode just me and the Petite Filet (good thing the Cutlet ain't prone to ridin' the throne yet). Much worse when gastric schedules must be coordinated and four sets of buns are planted in a revolving manner on one single potty. Yikes, just got a visual I will spend the rest of the day trying to forget.

Happy times, people! See ya later.

The wedding we went to this past Saturday was an eye-opener, or maybe a snoozer. I'm not sure which. To my Catholic friends out there, I don't say this to enter into a theological tug-of-war, but: weird (as an aside, I'll tell you that the Catholic priest who performed the ceremony is married and has three kids – an Episcopalean transfer). Through the pomp and circumspect, however, like all weddings seem to do, it was like a sort of pep rally for those already married. There were snippets of reminders about what we should be striving for.

Such words are lost on the newly christened love birds, I think, because the novelty of marriage often provides enough power to get through and beyond the honeymoon. I'm not much of a believer in renewing vows (once they're said once it should be enough), but after time passes, those vows are things we need to remember. The "work" that is marriage kicks in, as does the need to remain committed, loving and in love. Other things try to weasel in on time that was formerly spent blissfully and solely on romance. Though some dismiss the physical relationship as an afterthought, making love is a romance-refresher than resets the emotions and puts them on the straight and narrow path of togetherness. It all works together to keep a marriage fresh and on track. So does leaving the kid(s) with a sitter and having regular dates.

All these things are just words unless set into motion, however. And as I mentioned before, there's that ever-present weasel.

That's not the segueway I was shooting for when I turn my words to the Cutlet. He is anything but a weasel. He is a concrete manifestation of the love in my marriage, and serves as a constant reminder that life can be grand. He will be 3 the day after Christmas, which cliché as it is, just totally blows my mind. Why, just yesterday the nurse handed him to me – all 7 pounds of him – wrapped up like a chimichanga with a tiny knit cap on his head. Now he's more than 30 pounds, about 3 and 1/2 feet tall and doesn't sit still for long unless he's watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or one of the other movies he's seen at least 500 times. He is our most prized accomplishment, and if I was assured that a second child would be 98 percent wonderful as he is, we'd already be "working" on another one. Yeah, like that's actually work.

But for now, we're just content with our family. Three is a magic number. He is proof that an only child in this day and age can be well-adjusted, outgoing and polite. WARNING: Blatant kid-picture follows!