February 2006 Archives

It is estimated that the average American across his or her lifespan spends a total of three years (not all at once) with their buns glued to a toilet. Before you say, “But T-bone, men get to stand up when they pee and that skews the estimate,” I say, hold on there, pahdnuh. See, some of us men like to get some readin’ done in the Thinking Room, prolonging our session. I bet it evens out pretty well in the, uh, end. For some reason, reading helps (but it can’t just be shampoo bottles; it has to be actual prose, preferably something interesting).

That is an awful lot of time spent on the can. Not nearly as much time as we spend in bed (heh), but still a loooooong time. I guess where I’m going with this is that, well, going is a part of life. And when the tough get going, make sure you’ve got some air freshener handy.

This is where it comes to the audience participation portion of our program. So, what’s your favorite or least favorite thing about your personal bathroom, and what do you like to find when you have to go public? Don’t disappoint me, people. I’m hoping to flush out some interesting comments here.

The clouds finally parted after dropping more than 3 inches of rain across two days (yay, rain!) and Sunday turned out to be a stunning, cloudless, crystal-blue sky day of warmth. After church, the Petite Filet and Cutlet turned in for some naptime, and I loaded up my bike and headed down to the Trinity River Trails that encircle the lower end of downtown Fort Worth.

I rode two distinct sections, the first of which was sparsely used Sunday afternoon and a little less urban. There were rickety wooden train trellises, rusty metal bridges and solitude aplenty. As the trail neared the shadow of downtown before curving away, I noticed the stately old homes high above the fray. Below one of them, which would be hidden with foliage-laden trees currently left bare by winter, was a small collective of tarps, boxes and junk that was the "address" of at least one homeless person.

So some dude in Michigan downloaded the 1 billionth song from iTunes. I don't know what is more unfair, the fact that he won a new 20-inch iMac, 10 60GB iPods (for friends and family, I guess), a $10,000 iTunes gift card and a scholarship established carrying his name at Julliard ... or the fact that he downloaded a Coldplay song ("Speed of Sound" – ironic because the name evokes the digital age of fast MP3 downloads). Coldplay? Really? I guess it could have been something more embarrassing (maybe). I'm sure the booty he won will overcome the sting of his friends ribbing him for having such awful taste in music.

How on earth, by the way, do you spend a $10,000 iTunes gift card? I've still got about 30 bucks left over from Christmas.

Haven't been able to walk Max with the Petite Filet gone, but when I had started to last week it was obvious that my fellow neighbors don't pick up their dogs' poo. I think some may think it's OK not to pick it up if it's on the street or on public rather than private property.

I admit, I used to think that way. But now I am armed with at least one bag so that when he goes – no matter where – I do my duty after he does his doodie. It's not pleasant, it's not fun, but it's the right thing to do. I'm now a committed scooper.

There are also some yards littered with dog poo. They stink and look terrible. Because of one too many shoe-in-poo incidents in the past at my house, I also do my best to keep the back yard clean.

None of this makes me truly happy. Neither does the fact the new flooring and furniture we've worked hard for is now covered in dog. Yes, we saved Max from near death at the shelter. I'm thinking maybe it was only to find him a better home (one that isn't ours). Much of my sentiment is coming from the fact I'm having to care for him along with everything else, and the dog wasn't my idea in the first place. Me and the PF will be discussing it after she gets back Friday afternoon.

At least if we lived in San Francisco, Max's poo would be worth something to someone else. They could pick it up instead of me. Or maybe, the company could come to Fort Worth and clean up the crap from my neighborhood. Then everybody would win!

When I was a cartoonist for my college newspaper, I never drew a caricature of the prophet Mohammad. I did, however, become the object of hate and disgust after drawing a cartoon on abortion. It was a simple drawing: an expectant mother is surrounded by angry, sign-wielding people; the fetus is shown in a "cutaway" view, and the caption is "The silent abortion protestor." Boy, did I pay dearly for that one.

The Petite Filet has a four-day work-related conference this week in Austin, so I’ll be left alone with the Cutlet and new dog Max. Should prove to be a “fun” test of my ability to juggle kid, pet and job while attempting to stay sane and somewhat presentable to the outside world.

I have utmost respect and admiration for single parents – most of whom do what they do not by choice, but by necessity. Whatever trials-by-fire I trip across in the next few days are nothing compared to the rigors of genuine single parenthood. I know that come Friday, the trial will end with the Petite Filet's return, I hope with reunion sex and a nice meal that someone else prepares.

Here are some of my petty challenges:

Customer service is more important these days than ever. In a country where creativity-challenged real estate developers build shopping centers and restaurants that look exactly like the shopping centers and restaurants five miles down the road, the employees' selling of themselves is the only way to stand out among the sameness. The menu at the Chili's here is the same as the menu of the Chili's over there, but you might pick one over the other because so-and-so never fills your drinks and the place reeks of b.o.

So when the Petite Filet narrowed our dog search to three potential pets, she was shocked that an employee at one of the shelters called a dog there "dumber than dirt." It was at a municipal shelter, and they do euthanize animals that cannot be placed after a certain time. The "dumber than dirt" dog had been there since Jan. 31, and so it was only a matter of time for him.

First, we visited Oreo (he's a a city-owned shelter with a no-kill policy unless an animal is ill or aggressive). He is a pretty dog, very loving – but painfully shy. In short, a dog with issues. We spent considerable time trying to draw him from his shell with no luck. Being optimists, we moved on to the next shelter without necessarily marking him off our short list.

That's where we met a no-name stray who, according to Mr. Personality, is "dumber than dirt." We noticed right away the energy ol' no-name has, and he was friendly and outgoing to me, the PF and the Cutlet (who warmed to him immediately). We spent nearly an hour playing fetch at the shelter's dog run, petting him, running around and sizing each other up. It was instantly clear that this dog, who looks to be a full-blooded Border collie, had a lot of intelligence over the ground he walked on.

It was only after he had charmed his way into our lives that we learned the dog was already on the shelter's list to be put down. We did not decide on this guy because of his impending death sentence. And we'll never tell him we saved him. He's really still just a pup, and shouldn't have to hear such heavy things so early in his life.

The Cutlet has become a little fearful around some dogs, so the Petite Filet thinks it's time we started looking for one of our own. I'm not so sure, and I have even waxed lately about how being dogless gives us some freedoms not usually found when a pet shares your home. I guess I'd have to move my raw meat collection from the kitchen floor, and we'll have to spring for the new vacuum cleaner we've been able to avoid buying because pet hair hasn't been an issue. We can – though we've not done it but twice since our dog died – hit the road with nary a care about boarding rates or portable kibble-keepers, or whether a motel allows pets.

But I also know the joys a special dog can bring, and I acknowledge there's a dog-shaped hole in our family. We may not need a dog to be happy, but having had one means we know the possibilities of enhancing our current bliss.

So I've agreed that looking can't hurt, and we've been scouring nearby animal shelters for worthy candidates to "interview." Most of the ones we are considering are strays, and most are Border collies or mixes thereof – we had the best possible experience with Gypsy, a full-blood Border collie who was a rescued stray. It will take a special dog to fill Gypsy's role as friend, comforter and psuedo guard dog (although Gypsy never met a stranger, and even fewer she didn't like).

We're hoping to visit this guy today:

I've read some things from time to time about it being so sweet and intimate to wake up and give your significant other a great big top o' the morning kiss. Yes, launching the day with a smooch is a wonderful experience. However, I cringe at the thought of bottom o' the morning breath being involved in said exchange.

The Petite Filet is of like mind on this; I'm sure we'd have some issues if one of us was all icked out by breath au naturale and the other simply threw caution to the (slightly stinky, moist) wind. There have been times in the past when the ol' itch for marital bliss has hit us mid-night or early morning, and to make our passion that much sweeter we've actually both gotten up and brushed our teeth. Yes friends, true love is being able to put "the mood" on hold while making one's mouth presentable. And then not missing a beat on the other side, of course.

So, I won't judge you (maybe a little) if you, your partner and Hal O. Tosis want to have a hairy tongue orgy to start your day. For me, minty fresh is where it's at. Your habits are mildy gross and wildly unsanitary, but they are your habits and ones I obviously won't be witnessing while I'm up flossing and gurgling Scope until the germies have scidaddled.

To further convince you that your habits are wrong, though, I'll take a note from nature. Although dogs don't really "kiss," there is a reason their mating ritual is positioned the way it is ... both of them have dog breath.

Have a mintry fresh Valentine's Day on the 14th.

The Cutlet is going to start preschool in a few weeks. Really, we are ready now ... the school is ready now ... he is ready now. It just comes down to our willingness to give his current in-home daycare provider a minimum of two weeks' notice. They are longtime friends of ours. I just know the boy's going to thrive there. We visited it last week and were impressed. It is also right next door to the Petite Filet's office.

Also this month, the PF has an out-of-town work-related conference to go to. It's a recurring thing, and she's attended it every year she has worked in public relations. Her first year the conference included Valentine's Day. We're not big celebrants of the Hallmark-tainted, chocolate-covered, diamond-mine-sponsored fake holiday. Still, it kind of sucked because we hadn't been married that long. We don't need an excuse or special day to heat up the sheets or remind ourselves of our love. Any day will do.

This year her trip is after VD. I thought things after VD usually involved antibiotics and a lot of itchiness.

Anyhow, while she's gone me and the Cutlet will order a pizza or something, sit around and have contests to see who can make the loudest bodily noises and generally have as much fun as we can't without "mommy."

I've got a romantic overnight trip planned for our 7th wedding anniversary in April. I still won't tell her where we're going. Her mom has graciouslly agreed to care for the Cutlet that day. Then, she and her mom are off to Ohio for some basket thing.

We are in need of a family trip somewhere fun. But before that, I'm thinking of taking some sort of short trip somewhere by myself. Or with a friend, if I had a lot of friends. That may sound strange, I know. A trip by yourself? You're a family man, T-bone. Absolutely! But the fam doesn't like to go bicycling, or just sit on a beach, or go hiking. I'm sure the Cutlet will love those things when he is older because he's such an outdoorsy kid. I'm grooming him to be my camping buddy, seeing as the PF will never go with me again after we lost our keys in the lake that one time. In the meantime, some sort of outdoor adventure might be in order. Or maybe not. I can't decide.

I miss my dog. And because we're not ready to have another dog right now, we should take advantage of the freedom that being dogless affords us. The beach beckons.

The fact I have a job should be enough, shouldn't it? I get to write every day, I can galavant (how does one do that?) around and take some photos. I can go out and meet new people and see if they're doing anything interesting. I can look busy while not really doing much of anything because my computer faces away from the door.

It's not all happy fluffy bunnies, of course. In the past few months, I've written about a car wreck that claimed the lives of three out of four family members – only the 1-year-old survived. There was the double shooting (so far ruled a homocide) just a few weeks ago. There are enough sad sob stories in the police report we publish every week to make the leaders of renegade motorcycle gangs shake with weepy emotion. Even as a smalltown newspaper editor, stuff happens here like it happens everywhere else. Bad stuff. Good stuff. Mind-numbing stuff.

But we discovered that my last biweekly paycheck (directly deposited) was somewhat larger than before. When I got the stub in the mail I was a little shocked ... it's a $100-per-week raise. That may not seem like a lot in the Big City, but out here in Green Country that can make a person aspire to lofty things. I imagined wiping out our debt, giving gathousands to the Red Cross and buying the Petite Filet a new car. That's getting a little ahead of myself, of course. Maybe we'll finally be able to buy that loaf of bread we've had our eyes on for months now.

I didn't go into work Monday because the Cutlet had been sick on Sunday (Barfing! Now with Accurate Projectile Action!) and it was my turn for sick duty. Tuesday morning, I had a few pieces of hate mail and a long voice mail rambling on how we got some facts wrong in a story and if we didn't change the way we investigate things she was gonna cancel her "subscription." Uh, we mail you the paper for free every week. Wrap fish with it if you're offended. See? The good stuff balances out with the bad.

Fact is, I'd been dipping my toe in the job pool, looking for new adventures and challenges. Am I easily bought for $5,200 extra cabbage a year? Maybe for awhile. It's easier to go with the flow you're going with than find another. I'll still look, but I'm a cheap date I guess. And just a little bit loyal.

Made me think of my brother-in-law, who has few prospects and little ambition. He recently returned from National Guard Reserve duty in Iraq, which is commendable. Bad thing is, he made more money while there than he did running into things with a forklift like he does stateside (even after a whopping 75-cent hourly hike). He has applied to become a police officer – a noble but misguided tack in his case. He is looking at the money rather than the profession as a calling, and he lacks combat skills or street sense. From the way he tells it, he pretty much kept a hammock busy for most of the time in Iraq. I know this sounds judgmental, and in a way it is. Is it fair to my sister for him to pursue a job that could get him killed? And does he have what it takes? I kind of hope not.

I'd like to see him succeed, but he wants what others have without the work. He has at times wanted to be a computer dude (too much work!), a meteorologist (too much science and college!), a jailer (he has a cousin who has said great things about it!) and now a police officer. Life is sometimes about paying dues; sometimes a person can luck into something, but that's rare these days.

I certainly won't say anything to him on the off chance he does make it and decides to pull me over every time I drive through his town (we live an hour away so it wouldn't be too much). It is also none of my business. And that's the kind of sense I shouldn't spend all in one place!

Image borrowed from the Missour School for the Deaf, mainly because it shows a so-retro-it's-ugly-but-cool microwave.

We bought a microwave this past weekend, which doesn't seem that significant until I tell you I had never bought a microwave before. I had a microwave, but the 12-year-old model was bought for me by my parents before I headed off to college. It was a nice Panasonic, and its little screen said, "Enjoy your meal" as it beeped in readiness. Of course, I might have been just boiling some water, but what did it know?

Well, the thing started shooting out sparks and was getting smoky on the inside (beyond what the coating of food bits normally created). We figured it was better to just buy a new one before we burned the house down.

We went to this store you may never have heard of to peruse their quality (but limited) selection of 'waves. We kind of wanted one fronted by stainless steel, because nothing says "I know how to cook" like stainless steel. I chose the one with the largest interior and the most power, which added $30 to the cost of the adequate one. It's now sitting on top of refrigerator, because our 1964 house wasn't built with a microwave in mind (or having a lot of usable counter space).

It does have more power, because I quite easily burned a few strips of bacon this morning. With the old microwave, it took a lot more effort to scorch anything.

I watched the Stupor Bowl last night along with millions of my closest friends. I've been disappointed the past few years with the game (lame!) and the overhyped commercials that attempted to capture our attention. I was glad that the Rolling Stones did not have any wardrobe malfunctions; would have been enough to make me stop watching the spectacle forever.

In honor of one of the commercials I consider a bright spot for its completely random nature, let's play a little game. Emerald Nuts has done a good thing by allowing fans of the food to submit ideas for slogans using the words that begin with the first letters of the company name. "Eagle-eyed Machete Enthusiasts Recognize A Little Druid Networking Under The Stairs" was funny the first time I read about it a week or so ago. So, why not use your own blog name (or mine if you are blogless), to come up with something just as nutty and random?

To wit:

I'm thinking Punsxutawney Phil is a total hack. The little guy sees his shadow, which apparently tells us we will have six more weeks of "mild" winter. Whatever! I'm stilling waiting to have two weeks of winter. Except for a piddly ice storm in early December, it's been shorts weather nearly every day. Of course, I cling to summer as long as I can anyhow, and wear shorts on days that turn most people's legs blue. In Texas, we take the advice of Prairie Dog Pete, who was too busy making predictions about Dancing with the Stars to even look for his shadow.

On a related note, my blog saw its shadow yesterday. That means six more weeks of lame posts. Of course, who is to say I'll stop at six weeks!

Have you ever eaten an Angry Sandwich? I don't mean, eat a sandwich angrily. No, the sandwich itself has to be angry, surly, taunting. It's what happens when you're angry while making a sandwich. Sometimes the sandwich turns out fine, like it did on Tuesday, but somehow I was reminded of the anger while I was eating it.

Fortunately for me (and possibly the sandwich, although its demise was predestined to a short lifespan in my tummy), the anger had subsided. Me and the Petite Filet don't always agree on things, and when a disagreement turns into a spat (Tuesday morning) it never lasts long. It's hard to stay mad at your best friend, moreso when you're in love with your best friend, and being married to your best friend means things will typically be fine-o and alrighty in a matter of hours if not minutes. In our nearly seven years of tied-knotness, a healthy heaping helping of figure-it-out-ness has been digested.

So, to recap: lunchtime, no anger; lunch, angry sandwich. It tasted kind of bitter. I wish it had been a Happy Pizza, Joyous Taco, Exhuberant Enchilada, Bubbly Burger or some other such Meal of Mirth. But Angry Sandwiches are a part of life, thankfully not often on my menu. Know what I mean?

On that note ... help! Submit your favorite breakfast in recipe form for my Breakfast Project cookbook!