July 2006 Archives

Lord, give me the strength not to kill any of them in the next hour.

The Petite Filet and I were charged with caring for seven 4-year-olds at church on Sunday. She – of the pregnant variety – and me – of the other-people's-kids-are-gross variety, reluctantly headed to their room after Sunday school. Happy heart. Happy heart. Happy heart. There were six girls and one boy. What some of you may have heard about girls (sugar, spice, etc.) is absolutely false. At least when they are 4.

Here's a breakdown of our experience:

There's something special about an Apple computer, at least for those whose loyalities lie with the Mac rather than the PC. They are not perfect. As recent as a few years ago it was hard to find common software. And like all machinery, eventually they die. My vintage 1999 iMac DV (digital video) died sometime ago, the victim of a flawed design (no cooling fan!) and careless placement (hot room over the garage!). The old gray mare was replaced with a faster, more modern (and internally cooled) iMac around 2003. That computer still works well, thank you.

Ah yes, but what to do with the dead iMac? It's not environmentally sound to place it at the curb for the garbage gypsies to take. Yet recycling it is kind of sad. It's so ... cute ... after all. But, alas, it's dead weight. Quite a clutter conundrum. One that must be solved only with a brilliant idea.

Just the other day I had developed a hankering for cheap furniture and, wah-lah, an Ikea catalog arrived in last Saturday's newspaper. The Petite Filet found an item in the catalog that she thought might work great in our kitchen. Our local store (only the second one in Texas) is in Frisco, about an hour's drive from Fort Worth.

I went online, got the measurements for the box the item would come in, and reconfigured my car so that it would fit. It was my first trip to the megastore, and it didn't really disappoint as megastores go. There are neat little rooms set up according to uses (bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room, Den of Love) and there's cheap Swedish crap as far as the eye can see. To get anywhere in the store, it's necessary to follow the white arrows on the big blue signs. Be assured to wear good walking shoes, because you're about to take the only route available – the scenic one.

I've been doing a crazy workout lately in an effort to knock off a few pounds (not all of it can be blamed on sympathy weight for my preggo wife), something I did a few years back with younger knees and a naturally higher metabolism. It begins with my riding my bicycle for two miles to the nearest high school stadium. There, I run around the track like a crazy person until I'm about to collapse. Then, it's a two-mile pedal home.

I do this to keep "track" (pun intendend) of how far I can run. Used to be able to run continuously (that's without stopping, by the way) for three miles or more. After I hit that mark, I began running on the streets for varied terrain and at least something to look at besides a decaying stadium. Somehow I got off track, possibly because my morning routine changed when I was the one taking the Cutlet to daycare. Now I've got few excuses, other than I have to exercise before the temperature hits 100 or I will melt.

I'm not a gym person, but this old track is just a notch or two above that. It's outdoors with fresh air, and the "up with people" dynamic is there because a dozen or so people typically get the same idea I have and use the free access to get back or stay in shape. I love the variety of the people – young, old, fat, skinny, wheezing (uh, that's me), black, white, brown, etc. etc. – and the ways they get themselves around the track:

• Some grab an accountability partner to get them to the track and make it more interesting once they are there. Often this is a spouse or chatty friend.

• Others use music. Though some have entered the 21st century with MP3 players, I've seen decades-old cassette Walkmans and a guy with a CD player literally strapped to his wrist.

• I've seen some people circling the track or climbing the stadium stairs with cell phones glued to their ears.

• There's one lady, who I'll call a regular because she's been there every time I have been lately, who rides her bike to the track and then circles the outside lane while reading a book.

Me? I get myself around the track the old-fashioned way: stubborn-ness (or, alternately, resolve). I might take my iPod to help break up the monotony, but then maybe I won't. It's nice to let my brain wander than be focused on the lyrics to whatever song is playing. Working so far. I'm back up to running a mile at a time now. We'll see if I become a winning loser in the coming months.

Getting a call on your cell phone from someone who's misdialed a number isn't uncommon. What I hope is rare – for everyone else's sake – is getting repeated calls from a stranger who won't take "I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number" for an answer.

For the past two years, as long as I've had my current cell number, I've been getting calls from a number in south Florida. I answered early in the onslaught and explained to the caller that they had dialed my phone in error. Apparently, they didn't believe me. Ever since, I receive at least two calls a week from that number, and it's at all times of the day or night. Now, I know a few people who live in that area, but they probably either a) don't have my cell number or b) would have left a message. So what gives with this serial fumble-fingers? Or, who had my number before I did? Was it their daddy? Mommy? Long-lost sibling, child or spouse? Leave a message if it's that critical. Then I can at least hear your side of the story.

Lately, my strategy has been not to answer when that number pops up on my phone's screen. That's not working either, though. I've gotten two calls from the number this week. I am tempted to list the number here, letting my Internet friends dial it at all hours in a volley of "Take that!" wrong numbers. But restraint won't allow me to do that. The caller is really trying desperately to reach that person who isn't me; there must be a reason.

I got a call earlier this week from a woman named "Melody" who likewise mistook me for someone that which I am not. She asked me how we were doing, if we "were resting up." What did we do, climb a mountain? Compete in a triathlon? Cook for 47 people? Clean out the attic? I just kind of hung up on her, because there were other things going on in the house at the time that made it kind of circuslike. I meant to say, "Oh wait, I don't have any idea who you are," and then hang up. Nevertheless, she called back later and left a voice mail.

We still get inundated on our home phone with sales calls and misdirected callers. For a while there, we were getting sales leads for a landscaping company. I nearly changed the message on our machine to say, "We are not landscapers, but you can reach the owners of the company while they are on vacation in south Florida. Here's the number ..."

One of the oddities of downtown Fort Worth, Texas, is that it's a bustling center of commerce yet you can be strolling through its heart and have the sidewalk all to yourself. The quaint place is painfully easy to navigate as well, being just urban enough to feel like you're in another world but not feel lost. I'm in the fair city all this week doing some computer training (still can't figure out how to use one of these things) and found out that at high noon the "shade" of the tall buildings is quite elusive. My mind wandered as my feet shuffled over the hot concrete on an extended lunch break ...

This is a short-lived hobby because it has a deadline later this year. After that, it would be useless to continue in this hobby. What is it, you ask?

Nonparents will run screaming in horror, but they'll have to chase the parents who know because the topic can spurn them to dash 5-minute miles ... potty training. Here are some brief thoughts for the uninitiated and those who've been there, done that, had to wash pee out of the T-shirt.

Dear T-bone:
I'm having a problem with my girfriend. All she wants is sex sex sex. How do I tell her I'm not in the mood? She doesn't even want to cuddle afterward.
– Mr. Chips

Dear Chips: Get thee to a circus, you twisted freak! – T

Dear T-bone:
When I ask my 4-year-old if he wants to use the potty, he yells and screams at me and starts throwing things. All his friends are potty-trained. What should I do?
– Frustrated Mom

Dear Frustrated: At 4, it's most likely the process has become a discipline issue, so I suggest you make a little deal with your angry toddler. Tell him he's welcome to crap and piss his pants as often as he wants, but that he's too big to be cleaned off inside the house. After he goes, lead him to the back yard, strip him naked and rinse him off with a garden hose. Don't do it in anger; act like it's the most casual and normal thing in the world. If it doesn't work now, just wait until fall. – T

Dear T-bone:
Do you know the cure for world hunger?
– Peace Corps Queenie

Dear Queenie: Yes, the world needs to eat something. And I'd like to buy the world a Coke. – T

Dgkx T-dkje:
I ondk kno owe 2 tipe r spil vy will. weksfkd i kdfll >?
– X

Dear X: I know that you're a Spambot because I recognize your grammar from all those Vizzagra and pdjfkdjnis e-mails you've sent. I think you need to change your name to Hal, strap yourself to a rocket and be blasted into deep space. – T

Dear T-bone:
I'm having trouble coming up with blog entries. How do you do it?
– Postless in D.C.

Dear Postless: I'd suggest you stop blogging and turn your attention more to your cats, or your personal hygiene so you can make more friends in the real world. The Internet can be a cold, dark place for people like you. I bet you thought MySpace would be your saving grace, but it just turned out to be a bad experience because your friends list was empty. That video you uploaded on YouTube was kind of frightening. I noticed the desperation in your jerky dance moves. Those gigantic pink sunglasses couldn't hide the pain in your eyes. Take a deep breath and remember tomorrow is a new day. Peace be with you, Mr. President. – T

Dear (edited) Head:
You are a freakin' idiot and your advice sucks! Everything is a joke to you, isn't it? I wish your (edited) blog would explode you (edited) (edited) (edited) piece of (edited). Go (edited) yourself!
– Demolition Man

Dear Demo: Thanks for your comments. I'm sure you'll calm down as soon as you're potty-trained. – T

Got any questions for T-bone? You know what to do ...

On any given weekend – including this past one – millions of people across the world will pack up their belongings and move to a new place. I can only speak on moving in the U.S., most specifically Texas, when I say we are a country lacking good taste when it comes to sofas. One startling fake statistic: Nine out of ten sofas moved are extremely ugly and probably not worth the effort.

And I've been there, too. To wit: My very first sofa was a hand-me-down from my parents. It was from the early 1960s, green and weighed five tons because it folded out into a full-size bed (with a cast-iron frame). I moved the dumb thing five times ... to my first apartment and then duplex at my first post-college job, then out to West Texas where I rented an apartment then a house, then to my then-girlfriend's house and finally donated it to charity. I tried to "dress it up," but that was futile because I used an old brown-black-checked bedspread that was my mom's when she was in high school. Take a look ...

Drove up to Tulsa to see the in-laws and pick up my fam on Thursday. We got back yesterday evening and are, of course, really really tired. My morning started with toast with strawberry preserves, and ended with the same meal as a snack a few hours before collapsing in bed.

We spent Friday at Lake Hudson, puttering around in the boat, doing a little swimming and riding Sea Doos. I'd never ridden a personal watercraft before; Thursday I tried out three of them. One was a supercharged model that I could get up to 60 mph (according to the speedo) before my eyes watered so much I couldn't see any more. I may have even peed my pants a little it felt so fast. Well, not really, but it was quite exhilerating. I have just the spot in my garage to park on of those things. Of course, with a baby on the way and many home projects to do, as well as buying a new car for the Petite Filet ... you can see where this is going. I'll be 80 years old before I get one. Then I definitely will be peeing in my pants whilst skimming the water at copious velocity. Watch out, grandkids!

It's always nice to be home. Going up there to visit is usually nice, too. The driving up and driving down would make a good stretch for the Tour de Boring. Not much to look at except for crazy drivers and road debris (lots of rubber from truck retreads; saw a car grill on the road and at least two victim-vehicles with flat tires because of it). We eat out a lot on the road. Thankfully, our stay there was marked by good home cooking. That made Arby's a little more palatable for dinner yesterday.

We may go back up to Oklahoma around my birthday (Labor Day weekend), or maybe we'll visit Shamu in San Antonio again. Or maybe I'll be stuck here renovating our abode in the crumbling suburbs. That will be a trip in itself.

Anybody been on any exciting road trips this summer?

Hey, this is post No. 700 for my buh-log. You'd think by now I would have honed my blogging skills to have something special in the can for such an occasion. Or maybe because Texas T-bone has dragged on for so long I'm just out of clever, interesting things to say. Is the blog half empty, or half full? I dunno. And T-bone, why haven't you posted more often? Dunno that either.

A larger number, but one that is less impressive because of how it got there, is my number of comments (since moving to this Redeaglespirit-hosted locale; I lost some comments when jumping from Blogspot). I've surpassed the 5,000 mark. I am grateful that you have stopped by – some of you for years now – to leave a little nugget of wisdom via the comments here. I read every comment, and it's not just because they are set up to be directly e-mailed to me as well as published here. Nope. If you cared enough to type something, anything, I return the favor by reading it. Doesn't that make you feel warm and fuzzy? Yeah, well ... I tried. Often, if it's something that strikes me, I try to respond with a l'il e-mail of my own. Hope that's OK.

Sadly, my number of comments isn't as special as the personal comments themselves because of the Spambots that add little nuggets of crap to the compost pile. Without fail, after a post goes a little moldy for a few days it suddenly draws all kinds of modern, automated snake-oil salespeople. Other spam comments defy categorization, kind of a mix between a master's thesis, wisdom found in fortune cookies and locker-room dialogue. But why not thank the Spammers? After all, I'm sure they have been beacons of hope to those paying too much for their mortgages, women with little breasts, men with cocktail weenies, those looking for foreign prescriptions and, occasionally, the dope who puts too much faith in royal family members from other countries who want you to "help" them by them getting your bank account number.

I'm not sure this is a positive wish, but here's to 700 more posts. Lordy.

I'm going to free myself from this computer in a few minutes (to do laundry and get ready to drive up to Tulsa to retrieve my fam from the in-laws'), but thought I'd just say how great it is to live in the United States of America. Our country isn't perfect, has problems of its own, tries to solve others' problems. Still, it's a beacon to many living under oppression without hope that there is a place on Earth where hearts beat freely. It's a reality that not everyone can live here; there are millions who don't want to. Does our birthright give us the latitude to slam the door shut to everyone? Is that realistic? Is it arrogant? Is it what God wants for our nation?

Questions, questions. On our nation's 230th birthday, may all the questions you face today be along the lines of "hotdog" or "hamburger." But don't forget what it took for us to get here. There has and continues to be sacrifices in this amazing experiment. Let us learn from our failures and look forward to continued success. Amen.

I promise I won't continue to write only about my neighborhood sojourns with Max. But in the meantime, we were at the same point in our walk as when the biker-dachshunds charged us last night and there were three cattens (too old to be kittens, too young to be just "cats"). Max got a little hyper when we neared them, and the black catten arched its back and hissed at us. Excuse me? We passed without retaliation, though, because me and Max are better than that.

Then the wild part ...

On our evening walk around the neighborhood, Max and I were attacked by a pair of rabid dachshunds. Well, they may not have been rabid. Just really annoying. I was distracted by a driveway full of shiny motorcycles just before the barking started. Some biker dudes and chicks were in an unfenced back yard just hanging when the two minidogs sprung forth and "attacked." Max, in his innate sweetness, turned into a 50-pound quivering, defenseless mass. A lady emerged from the biker party and chased the offending ankle nippers in a futile effort to catch them, and I said something to the effect, "You need to keep them on a leash; that's the regulation around here." I even used a grumpy-man voice and looked irritated. She only tried to call the dogs, one of which was named "Harley" (such a cliche for motorcycle lovers). No apology. No nothing. She didn't even call me out for gently kicking one of her yippers away from my much larger but apparently defenseless Border collie. I was already a little ticked by my fellow canine owners in the 'hood because many apparently seem to think it's OK to let their dogs crap in a) my yard and b) the middle of the street. It's like I'm living in a third-world country. Except we have air conditioning.

On a totally unrelated note, a little while back the Texas governor's race got officially more interesting. Two independents, Richard "Kinky" Friedman and Carole Keeton "One Tough Grandma" Strayhorn were officially added to the November ballot. Strayhorn was a little upset because the state wouldn't let her put "Grandma" as part of her name (they considered it part of a political slogan she has used ever since entering politics; she's now our state comptroller). Kinky, a nickname, will be part of his name on the ballot. I just wonder if Kinky's past will haunt him. Some of his writings and music lays out more than most politicians ever care to (except for President Clinton). In particular, Kinky's anti-feminism song, "Get Your Buns in the Oven and Your Buns in Bed" probably won't be used in support of his campaign.