December 2005 Archives

My New Year's resolutions are the same vague get-organized, get-healthier and get-with-it crap I come up with every year. Why? Because the Everests I build cannot be surmounted with those vague promises. So instead of blathering on how 2006 Will Be Different, I turn over the blog to my 3-year-old son, The Cutlet, who will no doubt make some real changes in his life in the coming year. – Texas T-bone

Hi! I can't believe Daddy is letting me play with his computer. I also can't believe how well I know how to type and write simple, declarative sentences. Guess you'll have to suspend reality while you read my resolutions, even though I am a genius and the cutest 3-year-old boy this side of the Pecos. Uh, where's the Pecos?

My Top 10 Resolutions, by The Cutlet

1. I'll stop soiling my drawers and get on board with that whole Potty Thing.

2. I'll be less interested in videos about trains and start paying more attention to the ladies.

3. When I get frustrated, I'll think first before throwing Mr. Potato Head up against the wall.

4. I will learn to pick out my own clothes. They will match and I will look stylin'.

5. I will do my best to be sweet, loving and smart so Mommy and Daddy will be convinced to give me a little brother or sister. They keep mumbling things about needing "alone time," but I think this request is more important than that. I am 3, and it's about time I had someone of my own to boss around.

6. This will be the year I finally count up to 100.

7. I will not crash my new little yellow Jeep into a tree. I will not crash my new little yellow Jeep into a tree. I will not crash my little yellow Jeep into a tree.

8. Maybe I'll finally get up off my duff and get a job.

9. I'll try to convince Daddy to stop eating so much butter. I swear, one time I wandered into the kitchen and all he was eating was a tub of butter. That guy, you gotta watch him!

10. It's about time I organized my collection of 1,000 toys that have wheels. I was thinking of doing it by color, but really using the number of wheels may be the thing to do.

Happy New Year!

After an afternoon of rugged off-roading (in his back yard), the Cutlet decides to take a break on the swings.

So there are 150 versions of "Jingle Bells" on iTunes as of today, performed by everyone and in every style from the Chipmunks to the Three Tenors. My favorite, besides the barking dogs, might be the song "peformed" by Brazilian tree frogs. It's such a familiar song that the free 30-second preview of each is enough for a full dose of cheer. Out of all the Christmas songs out there, this has to be the "Happy Birthday" equivalent: overexposed and yet so fitting to the season. Except that it's supposed to be 70 degrees here on Dec. 25. So much for "seasons."

I also want to ask the question, "What does it mean to wish someone a 'Merry Christmas'?" With all the ballyhoo about the greeting itself being watered down by using "Happy Holidays" to not be offensive to others of different mind, I wonder if anyone's really stopped and thought about why we say it. What constitutes a "merry" Christmas? Is it getting all the stuff you want? Is it being able to spend time with people you love? Is it eating yourself silly with your favorite foods? Is it being filled with the joy of knowing Jesus Christ paid a price to save all of us? Or is it simply just another good day on the calendar? I don't know the answer, because it is different for everyone. And, if none of the above criteria is met, does that mean we have a Sucky Christmas?

Taking the holiday out of the equation, what does it really mean when we tell someone to "Have a nice day." Do we mean it? Do we care? And what on earth makes a "nice" day? Too many questions!

At any rate, have a Merry Christmas. Or at least a nice day.

For those of you with birthdays near Dec. 25 (like my poor son, who will turn 3 the day after), have a Happy Birthday. You deserve better. I can't speak for your parents, but I can say that while the Cutlet was most definitely a planned addition to our family, we had no idea he'd be conceived as soon as he was. We suck at math.

Don't let the fake hustle and bustle of everybody else celebrating whatever it is they're celebrating overshadow your special day.

The Top 10 reasons it’s cool to let your wife cut your hair:

1. It’s shows you don’t have any trust issues because she has sharp objects near your head and you’re not flinching a whole lot.

2. There’s a good chance you’ll look totally stylin’ because she’s the one who has to look at you all the time.

3. Not having to fight for a seat or read year-old magazines while waiting for a haircut at a pay-for-a-cut place ... priceless.

4. It’s easier to make small talk with your better half than some stranger with cold fingers. (Although most people who have cut my hair over the years have been exceedingly nice).

5. Despite having to vacuum up your own hair afterward, the process helps keep the kitchen floor clean.

6. We can save the $15 we would have spent on a haircut and put it toward a Hawaiian vacation. By the time we have saved for the whole trip, I will probably have gone bald and we’ll qualify for AARP travel discounts.

7. The savings will double when she can also cut your child’s hair. Watch out, Cutlet!

8. She is learning skills that could save the family farm in a pinch, although she says she only has scissors for you.

9. She’s in a better mood when her hair looks good, and it’s easier to justify the whopping salon bill she’ll incur for her own head if it’s offset by Haircut: The Home Game on yours.

10. If she messes up and does something drastic, you have leverage to get stuff you want.*

*Basically, you can never use this one because for a healthy marriage you’ve gotta suck it up and say, “Don’t worry, babe. It’ll grow back.” Or, alternately, “That’s OK, I can wear a hat for three weeks.” Just be thankful she’s willing to do it at all!

For the ladies, I bet you’ll NEVER let your significant other touch your hair. Am I right? Discuss.

Alternately titled, "Confessions of a Parking-lot Pilferer"

So, I was buying some sour cream at the supermarket not far from our house a few days ago. I exited the store, pointed myself in the direction of my vehicle and ... lo and behold ... there was a CD case lying in a vacant parking space. Curious, I picked it up. I flipped through it to see if there was any ID (there wasn't) and took it home with me. I'm always curious what other people listen to.

This person – I hope they will see my notice at the Kroger bulletin board – has mainstream tastes. The collection ranges from the works of four different American Idol contestants to rap to rock to popular alternative. This person is missing their music right about now and might have resorted to listening to the (gasp!) radio.

He or she seems to rip songs from friends' CDs rather than download MP3s. This is a guess, of course, based on the fact that the homemade discs contained several songs off a particular album rather than a plethora of mismatched tunes (like my iTunes-generated compilations). I haven't bought a CD in ages because I haven't come across any that offer me an album full of listenability; just a few cool songs among the humdrum. Those types of records don't seem to be made much any more. Boo hoo.

We live in an iPod World, where most of us (at least I) don't have the patience to listen to one artist or group for an entire 45 minutes or longer. Or if I do, it's going to be a mishmash from several releases, my picks that I hold dear.

So anyway, I'm still waiting to hear from the CDs' rightful owner. I hope I do because I know what it's like to lose something. In the meantime, I admit to having popped a coupla discs in my car to see how the other half lives. There are some good songs and some I won't listen to again. If it takes long enough for the Silenced DJ to step forward, I might have to pilfer a few of the songs to freshen my Pod.

I was watching The Polar Express the other day with the Cutlet, and thought about how far Tom Hanks has come since Bosom Buddies.

On a side note, I'm having a hard time figuring out why Coldplay's music is still popular. A few of the songs are sort of catchy, but the group's newest CD is kind of a lifeless downer full of tunes that kind of all sound the same. Maybe I'm just getting old.

No, I'm not coming down with anything. Rather, the title refers to my momentary lapse of sanity that made me want to take a bicycle ride last week, days after an arctic blast reached my neck of the woods. It was 30 degrees that morning – not exactly frigid anymore – but it felt colder because of the wind chill I generated by my momentum.

There was still some scattered ice on the roads, where the shadows of trees had thwarted the melting powers of the sun. I wore a couple of layers, most notably a pullover face-mask thingee made out of some modern space-age material. It would keep the wind directly of my nose, mouth and ears – and fit nicely beneath my helmet. For anyone who wears glasses, or even just sunglasses, in such conditions – you know there's a fog problem. Especially if your face-mask thingee deflects your warm breath over your eyes.

Wasn't a problem if I was going at a good clip; the breeze I created was enough to defog my glasses. However, when I started huffing up a rather steep hill, I wasn't moving nearly as quickly but was breathing harder. So I decided to take off my glasses, which by blurring the passing landscape gave me a different kind of light-headed exhileration. Good thing I was riding in familiar territory ... the street signs looked like wordless, rectangular green blobs. I wish Santa was also a laser eye surgeon.

On that steep hill that prompted my spectacle-ditching (into my handy under-the-seat baglet), I was dealt another blow. Some old dude on a beater-bike cruised past me with nary a whimper. He was also wearing shorts and a tank top (OK, not really; but he wasn't wearing a hat or jacket). Nothing like a shaming like that to make me want to ride more often so as to blow away younglings puffing up similar hills in the future.

Besides getting back into shape, which of course is a constant battle that knows no end, I also realized my bike is way-past a tuneup. Hitting the brakes with a hammer, or spraying the entire gear assembly with WD-40, are kind of like using emergency Velveeta® during brain surgery. I should also retire the use of my knobby tires on the road. They provide too much rolling-resistance (like my body doesn't provide enough of that) and there are some better road tires that are not being entirely grandma-bike wimpy.

I am also hoping to get a bike attachment that will link to my car's factory rack. Maybe if I can more easily transport the thing, I'll be more apt to use it (in new and exciting places, no less). I certainly hope so. I'm at a point where appearances don't mean as much, so beefing up my Subaru's looks just to get a pound of "trail cred" isn't important. Function's the thing. On that note, why do so many people turn on their fog lights when there's no fog within thousands of miles? Is it cool to burn those lights unnecessarily? I can't say it works; I've seen minivans with add-on flamethrower lights that, at the end of the drive, are still minivans.

After my bike is professionally tuned up, I've got faster tires on it, I've beaten myself into bike shape and I figure out the whole foggy glasses thing, I'm sure I'll be ready for the upcoming Iditabike, which follows the path of the famous Alaskan dog-sled race. Or at least geezers will have to strain themselves to keep up with me around the neighborhood!

Wow, like I was hit with a stupid stick and decided to go to the mall yesterday to shop for some Christmas gifts. Because it was a beautiful, somewhat warm sunny day, thousands (or ka-thousands) of my neighbors decided to burrow their way to the mall as well. This always happens on nice days because I live among people who don't know nice weather means you're supposed to go outside and enjoy it. No wonder we're becoming so fat-a-delic.

I struck out a few places I stopped, but did manage to snag a couple things for the Petite Filet. We're done shopping for the Cutlet (here is when I remind you his birthday is Dec. 26) for Christmas and his birthday. Next June may be the kickoff of a long stretch of "Half Birthdays" for our boy so that a) he realizes that he is special separate from Christmas, b) we can enjoy that aforementioned nice weather that is in greater supply during the warm months, and c) we can spread out our shopping by putting six months between Yuletide and Cutlet Day.

Back to my shopping experience, there were a LOT of people out. I found a parking space and ran into one store (found something!). A woman whose son had lost a sock a few days before was parked next to me. I heard her relate this whole story to one of the managers, about how she called and was told a stocker found the sock and threw it in jest at one of the managers. Beyond that, the sock was missing. I wanted her to check the grassy knoll, but I could see she was stressed over her son being tube-sock-impaired. Well, she left about the same time I did (not having bought anything but having a cart to shuttle her one-socked offspring around). I got in my car first and waited for her to leave so as not to upset her while she strapped in the barefooted toddler. Guess what? SHE LEAVES HER EMPTY SHOPPING CART BEHIND MY CAR. Where is the justice in this? I got out, pushed it to the front of the store, and then wondered what humanity had become.

Next stop, I find a parking space and decide to hike to the actual mall. I strike out and yet find gold again, and head back to my car. A couple in a white Suburban Assault Vehicle is trying to back out of the space directly in front of me. They are growing increasingly frustrated at having to wait for a woman in a car behind them who is likewise waiting for traffic in front of her to move. The windows are down (Mine are, too; it was getting toasty!) and the guy behind the wheel is yelling for her to "Back up!" The woman in the other car calmly shakes her head incredously and says, "No." Now the woman in the SAV is getting steamed, and calls her some words that sound like "fat bitch." This paragraph is getting so long!

So anyway, the guy decides to back up anyway, possibly seeking revenge in the form of soiled pants that he expects the woman in the other car will get when he nearly misses crushing her into paper-thick piles of holiday spirit. He has to do all kinds of maneuvering to get out, and then says something else I didn't really hear but that was exclamated with a certain finger. I pull out in the opposite direction, but manage to end up behind them waiting to exit the shopping center. Ah ha! I see one reason, other than being a Class A Jerk, for his frustration. His obnoxiously large vehicle has new-vehicle paper tags on it. The guy is not only prone to a hot temper, exacerbated by the traffic and holiday "cheer" around him, but he has not had enough drivetime to know the limits of his truck. So he took it out on everybody else. And so did the guy's (assumably) wife. Happy holiday heart attack, people! Watch that large vein popping out of your ear!

I lamented in my previous entry about (not the word necessarily) but the Christian meaning of Christmas being lost. Well, there I saw it has gotten worse. The manmade hustle-and-bustle we create in the name of gifted commerce means we've already lost the secular meanings of Christmas, that it is a time of love, sharing, good will toward men (and women in cars behind us). That's a generalization. There are tons of happy people left in the world, those of us who can summon joy even when it's cold outside or when one of your neighbors likes to blare Bing Crosby music 24/7. This is a time for reaching out to those who don't know joy, or peace, or have an inner sorrow that is only worsened by the real and imagined la la la that's going on around them.

Sometimes the greatest gift is simply a smile and saying "hello" to a stranger. You don't know whether that might be the only word spoken to them, or the only smile they've seen in decades. That gift is free to give, and warms our own hearts as well.

And by all means, take a freakin' deep breath while you're out shopping!

This is entry No. 600 for Texas T-bone, at least according to the blog itself. I would have hit this number a lot quicker had I posted as often as I did in the beginning (daily, or more). Such is life. Anyhow, on to the real topic.

The Curse of the Mindy Sweater

The Petite Filet teased me about a green sweater I have. It reminds her of ... in fact looks just exactly like a sweater ... one of her female friends has. The teasing started two years ago. I hadn't worn it again until Wednesday. That's when we had freezing rain, sleet and a few snow flurries. Just enough to make driving dangerous and miserable. Our Thursday-Friday low temperature here is supposed to be 14 degrees. For some of you, that's chump change in the pocket of winter. But for us here in Texas it is quite a shock. It was more than 80 degrees just a week ago on Saturday. I'm beginning to think it's the sweater. It will be in exile for a few years, or at least until the weather straightens out. Or the PF stops calling it the "Mindy sweater."

In other news, I've come to realize that cell phone companies launched a conspiracy about 15 years ago to make us all look like robots. First, many of us become addicted to cramming the little walkie-talkies against our ears from dawn to dusk. Many also wear them proudly as weapons of mass distraction on their hips, often in little holsters. For the most robotlike of them all, I've seen a plethora of wireless headsets ... those little Terminator-looking models that either rap around the ear or clip to glasses frames. Why do people succumb to this torture? I didn't have a cell phone of my own until 18 months ago, and often I forget it at home or leave it in my car. I, unlike most cell users, haven't suddenly been hit with a heck of a lot more to say. Maybe it's just that people are becoming more like robots, not just looking like them.

Toy drives for needy children are well-meaning, and we often contribute to at least one effort each Christmas season. It meets a need, albeit a fake, trivial one, to fit in with the spoiled brats who will open $5,000 worth of age-appropriate crap. It's kind of like giving blankets to the homeless; on the one hand, many of them get cold – that makes it a worthy gesture. But if they need more serious help, such as medical care or, just maybe, a place to live that isn't also used as a toilet by pigeons, then we're just putting a band-aid on the problem, aren't we? Or are we just making ourselves feel better out of some sort of guilt for having a normal, stable life? Forget about a toy. What that poor kid needs is some nice, warm clothing, maybe a T-shirt that says, "My daddy got laid off from the factory and all I got was this lousy T-shirt." Or even better, maybe he wants a cursed, green sweater.

Hey, our Christmas tree is up and now fully decorated. Doesn't look half bad. It's in a corner, so we only had to decorate half of it!

There is a growing campaign each year to put the "Christ" back in Christmas, rather than allow retailers to say "Happy Holidays" or some other generic greeting. It's a half-baked effort, because it's not the word Christmas that needs to be emphasized, but what the Christian Christmas celebrates. It is the birth of Jesus Christ, the son of God. The thing is, Jesus' birth only sort of fits the definition of Christmas. While God sent us the gift then, it wasn't unwrapped until Jesus lived a sinless life and died on a cross in our place, for our sins. He rose from the dead to show that death can be defeated, and lives today at the right hand of God. I am more thankful for what is celebrated in the Christian Easter, because that's where the rubber met the road. By accepting Jesus' sacrifice, and making him Lord of my life (which is a work in progress, for sure), my unworthiness is stripped away by that pain and suffering on the cross. It's not just about the nonrefundable promise of heaven, but also being able to live life more abundantly here – with real joy rather than fleeting happiness. This is something available to everyone, no matter your past. You just have to ask. E-mail me if you want more information. I'm no biblical scholar, but it's all there in big letters and I'd love to share more about it. Ha! You didn't know this would turn evangelical, did you?

Finally, let me wish you a wonderful weekend – no matter what the weather is doing outside, no matter what you believe in or don't, and even if, by some chance, you happen to put on a green sweater.

I promise you I will not turn my blog into one of those lyric-quoting mish-mashes. You know the ones because a) you either have one or b) you've virtually tripped over the dripping teen-age angst that so commonly exhibits itself as quoting song lyrics. I have nothing against the practice per se; it's just not who I usually am.

Just thought this was interesting. The album that originally featured this song was released two years before I was born (and T-bone's no spring chicken). It was the last album of original material released by the band (Let It Be), which you may have heard of before (The Beatles). After not having heard it for years, it struck me as being a perfect description of blogging (at least the diary-type of blog). Maybe even more, it kind of describes the Internet in general. To wit, some excerpts (as reported by this site):

Dear self,

We haven't talked much lately, what with you being so charitable and only thinking of others (snort!). So I figured now was as good a time as any. With the Christmas season at hand, you're only bound to become more giving (snort!) and less self-centered (snort! snort!). So here we go ...

1. Visit your wife's family more often. The Saturday after Thanksgiving, when you played dominos until 11:30 p.m. with the PF's grandparents, her sister and her husband, it was like you had your own grandparents again. That's a feeling that can't be bought. While you're at it, visit your own family more often, Chief.

2. Eat more pizza. It's good enough, it's cheap enough, and dog-gone it, you really like it.

3. Lose weight. This may seem incongruent with No. 2, but it's really not. If all you ate was pizza, you'd get sick and not want to eat at all for a month. Wah-lah! Reduced poundage. OK, so this isn't the best plan. Guess we'll stick to making better choices and exercising vigorously more often.

4. Exercise "vigorously" more often. Heh, heh. This depends on the wife's mood, of course.

5. Don't ever wear that yellow and blue shirt again. It makes you look like a 7th-grader who couldn't get a date to the dance. Sound familiar?

6. Smell more roses. You do a pretty good job of spending lots of time and "quality" time with your better half (the wife) and your better third (the kiddo). Remember to have more fun in general and not take things so seriously.

7. Get serious. Once again, an apparent contradiction (this time to No. 6). But you know what I'm talking about. Find that new job you know you want, fix up the house, chase the dream that your mind (well, OK, so it is my fault) won't let you. Be serious, but maybe not so practical. Be serious about taking a few risks there, Spanky.

8. Stop using words like "incongruent."

9. As an addendum to No. 7, with hints of No. 6: Build that stupid boat already! You've talked about it for years.

10. Stop talking to yourself. People will begin to wonder.

Later,
T-bone