Wyatt Carter Tinsley a.k.a. The Little Warrior is 1 year old today. I think I'm turning into Jerr (read: my dad), not in the Freaky Friday sense, in the "blink your eyes" and time passes sense. That's what he always said...and as usual, he was right. I can very well remember when Ethan was the same age as Wyatt. Now, he (read: Ethan) is fast approaching 3, and the Little Warrior is ONE YEAR OLD.
Blink your eyes with me. A year in the review. A cold sunday night. About 9pm. A fast approaching 2 Ethan is night night. My Lovely (but uptight) Bride is taking down our Christmas tree. Nesting as they say in the books. Having been there, done this, I got that, and decided to try and get a little sleep. In bed, unable to sleep, watching I Spy, a bad movie, but a memorable one because Carter's water broke while on a ladder in our front room. Gushed is how she stated it. So much so that she felt she needed to shower as we waited for Mimi and Papa (read: Linda and Buddy) to come over and stay with Ethan when we went to the hospital. I had heard, the second kid always comes FAST. Don't dick around. Go to the hospital. I tried to tell Carter to forget about the shower. She was about to have a baby, and well taking a shower before that is sort of like making your bed five minutes before you are going to go to sleep. Alas, she didn't listen and before she was OUT of the shower was having some MAJOR contractions. Worse than she ever experienced with Ethan. With the Elder Boy we went to the hospital around 8pm on January 16, and he arrived around 7am on January 17. The point: it took a LONG time. Wyatt. We rolled into the hospital at 10:45pm...hit the room around 11:30pm, and he was there by 2am. Carter went from a 3 to an 8 in 30 minutes. We'd always heard that if you got beyond an 8 you couldn't get the epidural. Don't believe the hype. Not true. Carter got one in time. Actually I shouldn't write that - she did go to an 8 before she had any drugs, so went through some pretty good labor. That all went down a year ago today. Blink your eyes again, please.
Today, we went to the Dallas Zoo. Team Tinsley in full force. Wyatt is walking. Talking (his own language of course.) And, ever the true little Warrior, doing his famous war cry. I wish you could have all seen him in the goat pen at the kiddy part of the zoo. No fear, walking around and up to the goats trying to wrestle them to the ground (like he would Suki, our cat) - screeching that one and only war cry. He's amazing.
Wyatt and Ethan are without a doubt, the best thing that has ever happened to me. We (me and My Lovely Bride, who is a close second in the best thing) are truly, doubly blessed.
So, as I started this here BLOG, and for those versed in CCR:
Bother me tomorrow, today, I'll buy no sorrows.
Until I BLOG again...Happy Birthday Wy, Daddy loves you.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Sunday, December 26, 2004
This is it
For all my rambling pontifications on this here BLOG, please realize Dear Reader, that most of the time I'm scratching my proverbial head on this parenting thing. It is hard. I try to be like Schneider and take it one day at a time. But, some days I feel more like Julie, or the actress that played her on TV, who as many know, had a horrible drug problem which forced her to leave that show. Not to say that I have a horrible drug problem. Strung out. That's what I'm driving at - because it (parenting) is hard, and sometimes I'm not sure what, if anything, is the right thing to do in regard to the Boy(s).
Before we became breeders, I did my dang dog best to not judge other parents. That whole don't throw stones when you live in a glass house coupled with walking a mile in someone elses shoes with a good dose of instant karma thing. I didn't want to be that guy who said, "Your kids do..." only to end up being a guy "who's kids did!" Mind you, I might have thought, Holy Crap their kids do X. But, I didn't judge because I didn't know what I'd do if and when I had kids of my own. How I would react. I had my assumptions. Thoughts on the subject. But, aside from my Lovely Bride I'd pretty much keep them to myself.
So, now that you know that, know this - The one thing I was certain of was corporal punishment. I would spank my kids if I felt they needed it. Corporal punishment is one of those polarizing subjects for parents. Want to get into a heated debate, bring it up at your next social outing with parents, even non-parents. Everyone has their thoughts on what is right - and most of the time, people don't agree. My point, I thought it was ok for me, as a choice, and that if need be, I'd spank my kids.
Now, faced with a nearly three year old who on occassion needs his ass busted, I'm not so sure it is the right choice (for me again, you do what you want/need.) Please don't misinterept my confusion as me not having the heart to do it...to be perfectly honest at times spanking Ethan would be the easiest thing in the world for me to do - since he can push me to the brink. That's the thing I never really got before becoming a breeder. How angry at your kids you can become. That whole two sided coin thing I ramble about at times...you love them so much, its also easy to go the other way at times, you have so much vested in them. Be that as it may, what trips me is this: the logic. I don't let him (or try to not let him) hit his brother. So, say he smacks Wyatt real good, to punish, I turn around and smack Ethan. Seems that I've reinforced that hitting is ok, and more to the point, that if you are bigger/stronger than another you can exert your force over them. Counter point to all of that, is this: he's three. Am I overthinkinking it?
Quite possibly. My Lovely Bride has no worries about spanking. She was never spanked. I think she feels she probaby could have used some corporal punishment in her youth. I on the other hand was spanked, on occassion, and harbor no animosity toward my spankers (read: Jerr and Joyce.) In fact, everytime that I was spanked, I deserved it. Without a doubt. Can't ever remember being spanked in anger which is a credit to my Mom and Dad, because now I know how hard it must have been when I especially showed my ass to not react out of anger but to discipline in a way that pointed me in the correct direction to be a happy, adjusted (you might disagree with the adjusted part) adult...who can make his own way in the world. That's what the ulimate goal of the whole thing is - to make these little Boy(s) into good, decent, and HAPPY, men. Easier said than done. Not sure what I'll end up doing - but I'm sure you'll be able to read about it right here. Speaking of which...I've been doing the TT BLOG thing for damn near a year. Since we're in year end / looking back mode...and for all those who wonder what in the heck I'm doing when I write what I write...posterity. Yes, I've wrote that before - but I actually stumbling across something that also explains it better than I ever could...comes from William Martin in The Parents Tao Te Ching.
My words are over.
I wrote them for myself,
that I might hear them often enough
to begin to understand them.
And as I begin to understand them,
may I begin to live them.
If looking over my shoulder
has brought you some pleasure,
I am content.
Until I BLOG again...Happy Kwanza.
Before we became breeders, I did my dang dog best to not judge other parents. That whole don't throw stones when you live in a glass house coupled with walking a mile in someone elses shoes with a good dose of instant karma thing. I didn't want to be that guy who said, "Your kids do..." only to end up being a guy "who's kids did!" Mind you, I might have thought, Holy Crap their kids do X. But, I didn't judge because I didn't know what I'd do if and when I had kids of my own. How I would react. I had my assumptions. Thoughts on the subject. But, aside from my Lovely Bride I'd pretty much keep them to myself.
So, now that you know that, know this - The one thing I was certain of was corporal punishment. I would spank my kids if I felt they needed it. Corporal punishment is one of those polarizing subjects for parents. Want to get into a heated debate, bring it up at your next social outing with parents, even non-parents. Everyone has their thoughts on what is right - and most of the time, people don't agree. My point, I thought it was ok for me, as a choice, and that if need be, I'd spank my kids.
Now, faced with a nearly three year old who on occassion needs his ass busted, I'm not so sure it is the right choice (for me again, you do what you want/need.) Please don't misinterept my confusion as me not having the heart to do it...to be perfectly honest at times spanking Ethan would be the easiest thing in the world for me to do - since he can push me to the brink. That's the thing I never really got before becoming a breeder. How angry at your kids you can become. That whole two sided coin thing I ramble about at times...you love them so much, its also easy to go the other way at times, you have so much vested in them. Be that as it may, what trips me is this: the logic. I don't let him (or try to not let him) hit his brother. So, say he smacks Wyatt real good, to punish, I turn around and smack Ethan. Seems that I've reinforced that hitting is ok, and more to the point, that if you are bigger/stronger than another you can exert your force over them. Counter point to all of that, is this: he's three. Am I overthinkinking it?
Quite possibly. My Lovely Bride has no worries about spanking. She was never spanked. I think she feels she probaby could have used some corporal punishment in her youth. I on the other hand was spanked, on occassion, and harbor no animosity toward my spankers (read: Jerr and Joyce.) In fact, everytime that I was spanked, I deserved it. Without a doubt. Can't ever remember being spanked in anger which is a credit to my Mom and Dad, because now I know how hard it must have been when I especially showed my ass to not react out of anger but to discipline in a way that pointed me in the correct direction to be a happy, adjusted (you might disagree with the adjusted part) adult...who can make his own way in the world. That's what the ulimate goal of the whole thing is - to make these little Boy(s) into good, decent, and HAPPY, men. Easier said than done. Not sure what I'll end up doing - but I'm sure you'll be able to read about it right here. Speaking of which...I've been doing the TT BLOG thing for damn near a year. Since we're in year end / looking back mode...and for all those who wonder what in the heck I'm doing when I write what I write...posterity. Yes, I've wrote that before - but I actually stumbling across something that also explains it better than I ever could...comes from William Martin in The Parents Tao Te Ching.
My words are over.
I wrote them for myself,
that I might hear them often enough
to begin to understand them.
And as I begin to understand them,
may I begin to live them.
If looking over my shoulder
has brought you some pleasure,
I am content.
Until I BLOG again...Happy Kwanza.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
I Want To Put On My My My My My
Saturday afternoon, My Lovely Bride needing some time to herself it was Dad and Lad(s) day. I was taking the Boy(s) to Steak n Shake, which is one of the Elder Boy's favorite places to eat. On the way there, I'm asking him what he wants to eat. We're in my ride, and on the CD player is one of my new mixes. I'm all about mixed cds. I'm a huge iTunes fanatic. Have over 2,000 songs on my iBook. Make mixed CDs all the time. The current one, playing was Ultimate Tape Mix #6. That's a Boogies Night thing. I'm a huge fan of that movie. One of my favorite parts is toward the end, when the drug deal goes bad for Dirk and his friends. The crazy Rahad cat listening to Sistern Christian and Jesse's Girl. His (Rahad's) tape is called Ultimate Tape Mix #6. Since I'm such a weirdo, I've also included a song from the soundtrack of Boogie Nights, on this mixed CD. KC and the Sunshine Band's Boogie Shoes. I figured Ethan would dig that song. His musical taste is developing, and he likes certain kinds of songs. I like to try and guess what songs he might like and put them on CDs. I figured he'd dig Boogie Shoes because of the horn part. He did.
SO - we're on our way to Steak n Shake, on about the fourth listen (in a row) of Boogie Shoes and...
ME: What do you want to eat at Steak n Shake.
Ethan: (Silience.)
ME: Do you want a strawberry shake?
Ethan: Yes.
ME: Do you want french fries?
Ethan: Yes, and crackers.
ME: Do you want chicken nuggets?
Ethan: No. I want...
ME: A hamburger?
Ethan: No I want...
ME: What?
Ethan: No I want...
ME: What!??!?!?
Ethan: to put on my my my my my boogie shoes.
I nearly had to pull over I was laughing so hard. Pretty damn funny for a nearly three year old.
Until I BLOG again...I want to it til the sun comes up.
SO - we're on our way to Steak n Shake, on about the fourth listen (in a row) of Boogie Shoes and...
ME: What do you want to eat at Steak n Shake.
Ethan: (Silience.)
ME: Do you want a strawberry shake?
Ethan: Yes.
ME: Do you want french fries?
Ethan: Yes, and crackers.
ME: Do you want chicken nuggets?
Ethan: No. I want...
ME: A hamburger?
Ethan: No I want...
ME: What?
Ethan: No I want...
ME: What!??!?!?
Ethan: to put on my my my my my boogie shoes.
I nearly had to pull over I was laughing so hard. Pretty damn funny for a nearly three year old.
Until I BLOG again...I want to it til the sun comes up.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Like Fonzie - Part III
I hope no one has been holding their breath for this, last installment on my epic, Like Fonzie. . For those that missed (or want/need a refresher) the first two installments are here. Part 2. Part 1.
Xana-freaking-du! We were in. First thought. Where are the women? The Patio (which is also the pool, a.k.a. Urban Oasis) was packed - with men. Men of all shapes and sizes. Young, old, hip, not so hip. I'd guestimate that 80% of Dragonfly's clientele on this Friday had a penis. The few females that were in attendance were of the younger variety. Looking for love and or money would be my guess. Many were balloon smugglers (if you dig that reference) - quintessential Dallas. Everyone was dressed to kill, mainly in black, which was sort of strange considering they were all around what is basically a pool. A cool pool, with big ass beach balls lazily floating about - but still, a pool. My lovely Bride and I walked over to the small Urban Oasis Bar and ordered up dos (literally) XX. The friendly barkeep informed us that it would be $10. Math ain't my strong suit, but I believe that would make them $5 buckaroos a pop which is pretty steep. If that price wasn't bad enough, he proceeded to pour our beers into plastic cups. Excuse me?
You Dear Reader, are probably quicker than I, and realize that the Dragonfly, in all of its Coolsville glory, is still just a bar, and the patio of it is around the ZaZa's Urban Oasis, which is Coolsville lingo for pool. Thus, universal pool rules apply (no running, no diving in the shallow end, no urinating, no open sores) meaning NO glass. It made sense. Still seemed pretty strange. But I could dig it. It was actually pretty funny the more I thought about it. All the Prada people drinking fancy ZaZa drinks - drinks that had to cost a lot more than my $5 beer. Fancy Martinis. Nice wine. ALL in plastic cups. In the spirit of things, I used one of my Oklahoma tricks to make the beer a bit better. I asked the bartender for some olives to make an Oklahoma martini. I'd care to wager that I might have been the first such person to do so at ZaZa based on the look he gave me. But, hey, Stu tip - Beer and green olives, especially if its swill beer, is damn dog good. Try it sometime. Libations in hand, we decided to find a standing room only (it was very crowded) spot on the side to watch the people. Alas, this proved to be quite boring. People were milling around, seeing and trying to be seen, simply put: being cool. None of which looked like that much fun. My Lovely Bride and I tried to get into the spirit of things, but, after our beers decided that we'd much rather retire for the evening. On the way out of Dragonfly we passed one of their big funky glass containers with complimentary candy. Care to guess the type of candy? Dum Dums. Based on what I saw, and in my humble opinion - indeed.
Saturday morning arrived el crudo. We both drank more than we usually do on Friday, and thus, didn't feel peachy keen. Starting your weekend on a hang over isn't smart, or fun. We both decided to stay in bed and rest. Carter read, and ate room service (crab cake eggs benedict or some such crazy designer food). I watched Master and Commander on my iBook. After we both were somewhat right, we decided to start our days.
What does any good couple do on a romantic weekend getaway? Getaway from each other! Carter spent the afternoon at the ZaSpa. I exercised and then did my one man version of a Pub Crawl around Uptown, watching College Football at the various stops. Pretty mundane, but VERY nice. We met back up around 3:00pm and went to the Urban Oasis, which lived up to the name on this fine Saturday. It was glorious. So glorious, I didn't mind paying $5 for a plastic cup of beer. The bartender loaded me up with olives like I was a regular. I listened to music while I drank my beer, and watched the beach balls float lazily around the pool. It was glorious.
After the Urban Oasis we retired to our room and chilled until some friends showed up for dinner. The most exciting part of this was me cutting myself shaving. Not sure if I'm mildly hemophiliac and or had drunk so much my blood was thin...but I bled like a stuck pig. I'm taking, buy me a cigarette and cauterize the cut kind of bleeding. There wasn't a styptic stick in the shag bag, so I had to make due with a piece of toilet paper in the affected area. Talk about looking cool!
After the friend arrived we headed out of Coolsville to hit an old haunt from back in the day, Toys Cafe. Our waiter, Ache (hooked on phonics spelling, as in my back aches...) was quite friendly and we soon had drinks and appetizers on our table. I love spicy food. Crazy for it. I've seen on FoodTV that being into spicy food is sort of like being a crack head. You eat something spicy, burns like hell, your body then releases endorphines, you feel good. Next time, you need a bit more spice to get the same effect, repeat, etc. My spice vice is as such: if it were crack, I'd have no teeth by now. I'm addicted. That being said, it is harder than you might think to get something ordered super fiery at most restaurants. When you ask them to make it really spicy, the server generally will nod and smile and then bring you a moderately spiced plate. More than likely they get a lot of people in their restaurant that cock of the walk it - talking smack, about how hot they like it, then cry it is to hot, and send the plate back. Over the years, I've tried many methods to get a super hot order - trying to prove that I truly do want my food insanely hot. Usually I say really hot, and then give them a verbal waiver that I won't send it back, and or complain. The point of telling you that, is this: When I did the above with Ache, he asked me if I wanted it Thai hot. That was a new one for me, but I figured that meant HOT, I was in like Flynn.
Sweet Mother of Goodness. It was the hottest thing I believe I've ever ingested. It was glorious. If you like spicy food, next time you are in a Thai restaurant order it Thai hot. You will be pleased. Another funny thing about ordering something fiercely hot, it that the server will watch you eat it from their wait station. I guess they are on stand by to dial 911? After a few bites, with no drink of water (water just spreads the burn), Ache gave me an approving smile and nod. I might not be like Fonzie in Coolsville, but by golly, I'd be one cool gringo in Bangkok! As he cleared our table, Ache told me he was impressed (being a white boy and all) with my ability to handle the spice. He went on to say that he eats every meal as such, even breakfast. Sweet mother of goodness, Ache must shit fire. As we bid Ache farewell, one of our dinner companions commented on my ability to remember Ache's name throughout the dinner. I just nodded, smiling on the inside, because the way I retained his name was be association. What did I associate it with? Dare to guess? Billy Ray Cyrus. You know, Achey Breaky Heart. As we exited the restaurant and prepared to return to Coolsville, I'd wager a case of my favorite Demon Malt that I was the only Cat in a 10 mile radius, and certainly all of Coolsville, who had thought of Billy Ray Cyrus that evening. I was most certainly the only one with a piece of TP stuck to his face.
It was only 10 in the PM and I was already fading fast. I was ready for bed. But, we had guests, so we took them 'around' the line into Coolsville and let them see for themselves Dragonfly. It wasn't as busy on Saturday, but still prety full. Same assortment of people as Friday night. We stood around for a few minutes, observing pretty much a carbon copy of the previous...before bugging out and hitting our room. As we sat around and contemplated what we should do, never deciding to do anything, I went to open our window to get some fresh air. As I looked down, I saw a young lady telling two guys that she would meet them somewhere. They had obviously just left Dragonfly, having parked off street vs. paying the $18 for valet. The Boys drove off and she ran around her car, and promptly squatted like a dog and started urinating. We're on the 2nd floor, and she's pretty much directly below me, ass exposed, river of urine trailing down the street. Lovely, and quite funny (to me anyway.) Since the window is open, I decide to let her know she's being watched by talking to her. She looks up, a bit embarrassed as she pulls up her panties, and says, "When you gotta go, you gotta go." I agreed with her, and then said, "What? No number 2?" (I actually didn't say that, but said it to the group in the room after the fact to great delight, if only I was quicker in real time.) Alas, that was the highlight of our Saturday night. Our friends soon split, and we were in bed, and asleep by 11:15. Saturday night - yeah Boy! PARTY.
Sunday morning coming down was pretty uneventful. We slept until nearly 8am (which is late by our standards,) and then just did our own things until check-out which was Gary Cooper time. I worked out, Carter read her book. Uneventful, yet, relaxing. Our departure from Coolsville was pretty smooth. Valet brought our car up (nearly $50 in parking fees), and gave us a bottle of ZaZa water (I'm guessing it was spring water, with a ZaZa logo, then again, they might have been filling it up at the taps inside,) and we were off, up McKinney Ave. out of Coolsville, back to our lives.
After the dust settled from the weekend, and the Amex bill arrived...I can say that it was a fun weekend. Nice to get away with my Lovely Bride for a few days. I might not be Like Fonzie in Coolsville, but, after seeing for myself, I'm confident that's not such a bad thing. Not to judge those that do that sort of thing - each is own, chase your own rainbow, I'm all about that. The point - I'm quite happy being who I am, where I am. Damn lucky in fact, which to me is pretty damn cool.
Until I BLOG again...Try an Oklahoma Martini
Xana-freaking-du! We were in. First thought. Where are the women? The Patio (which is also the pool, a.k.a. Urban Oasis) was packed - with men. Men of all shapes and sizes. Young, old, hip, not so hip. I'd guestimate that 80% of Dragonfly's clientele on this Friday had a penis. The few females that were in attendance were of the younger variety. Looking for love and or money would be my guess. Many were balloon smugglers (if you dig that reference) - quintessential Dallas. Everyone was dressed to kill, mainly in black, which was sort of strange considering they were all around what is basically a pool. A cool pool, with big ass beach balls lazily floating about - but still, a pool. My lovely Bride and I walked over to the small Urban Oasis Bar and ordered up dos (literally) XX. The friendly barkeep informed us that it would be $10. Math ain't my strong suit, but I believe that would make them $5 buckaroos a pop which is pretty steep. If that price wasn't bad enough, he proceeded to pour our beers into plastic cups. Excuse me?
You Dear Reader, are probably quicker than I, and realize that the Dragonfly, in all of its Coolsville glory, is still just a bar, and the patio of it is around the ZaZa's Urban Oasis, which is Coolsville lingo for pool. Thus, universal pool rules apply (no running, no diving in the shallow end, no urinating, no open sores) meaning NO glass. It made sense. Still seemed pretty strange. But I could dig it. It was actually pretty funny the more I thought about it. All the Prada people drinking fancy ZaZa drinks - drinks that had to cost a lot more than my $5 beer. Fancy Martinis. Nice wine. ALL in plastic cups. In the spirit of things, I used one of my Oklahoma tricks to make the beer a bit better. I asked the bartender for some olives to make an Oklahoma martini. I'd care to wager that I might have been the first such person to do so at ZaZa based on the look he gave me. But, hey, Stu tip - Beer and green olives, especially if its swill beer, is damn dog good. Try it sometime. Libations in hand, we decided to find a standing room only (it was very crowded) spot on the side to watch the people. Alas, this proved to be quite boring. People were milling around, seeing and trying to be seen, simply put: being cool. None of which looked like that much fun. My Lovely Bride and I tried to get into the spirit of things, but, after our beers decided that we'd much rather retire for the evening. On the way out of Dragonfly we passed one of their big funky glass containers with complimentary candy. Care to guess the type of candy? Dum Dums. Based on what I saw, and in my humble opinion - indeed.
Saturday morning arrived el crudo. We both drank more than we usually do on Friday, and thus, didn't feel peachy keen. Starting your weekend on a hang over isn't smart, or fun. We both decided to stay in bed and rest. Carter read, and ate room service (crab cake eggs benedict or some such crazy designer food). I watched Master and Commander on my iBook. After we both were somewhat right, we decided to start our days.
What does any good couple do on a romantic weekend getaway? Getaway from each other! Carter spent the afternoon at the ZaSpa. I exercised and then did my one man version of a Pub Crawl around Uptown, watching College Football at the various stops. Pretty mundane, but VERY nice. We met back up around 3:00pm and went to the Urban Oasis, which lived up to the name on this fine Saturday. It was glorious. So glorious, I didn't mind paying $5 for a plastic cup of beer. The bartender loaded me up with olives like I was a regular. I listened to music while I drank my beer, and watched the beach balls float lazily around the pool. It was glorious.
After the Urban Oasis we retired to our room and chilled until some friends showed up for dinner. The most exciting part of this was me cutting myself shaving. Not sure if I'm mildly hemophiliac and or had drunk so much my blood was thin...but I bled like a stuck pig. I'm taking, buy me a cigarette and cauterize the cut kind of bleeding. There wasn't a styptic stick in the shag bag, so I had to make due with a piece of toilet paper in the affected area. Talk about looking cool!
After the friend arrived we headed out of Coolsville to hit an old haunt from back in the day, Toys Cafe. Our waiter, Ache (hooked on phonics spelling, as in my back aches...) was quite friendly and we soon had drinks and appetizers on our table. I love spicy food. Crazy for it. I've seen on FoodTV that being into spicy food is sort of like being a crack head. You eat something spicy, burns like hell, your body then releases endorphines, you feel good. Next time, you need a bit more spice to get the same effect, repeat, etc. My spice vice is as such: if it were crack, I'd have no teeth by now. I'm addicted. That being said, it is harder than you might think to get something ordered super fiery at most restaurants. When you ask them to make it really spicy, the server generally will nod and smile and then bring you a moderately spiced plate. More than likely they get a lot of people in their restaurant that cock of the walk it - talking smack, about how hot they like it, then cry it is to hot, and send the plate back. Over the years, I've tried many methods to get a super hot order - trying to prove that I truly do want my food insanely hot. Usually I say really hot, and then give them a verbal waiver that I won't send it back, and or complain. The point of telling you that, is this: When I did the above with Ache, he asked me if I wanted it Thai hot. That was a new one for me, but I figured that meant HOT, I was in like Flynn.
Sweet Mother of Goodness. It was the hottest thing I believe I've ever ingested. It was glorious. If you like spicy food, next time you are in a Thai restaurant order it Thai hot. You will be pleased. Another funny thing about ordering something fiercely hot, it that the server will watch you eat it from their wait station. I guess they are on stand by to dial 911? After a few bites, with no drink of water (water just spreads the burn), Ache gave me an approving smile and nod. I might not be like Fonzie in Coolsville, but by golly, I'd be one cool gringo in Bangkok! As he cleared our table, Ache told me he was impressed (being a white boy and all) with my ability to handle the spice. He went on to say that he eats every meal as such, even breakfast. Sweet mother of goodness, Ache must shit fire. As we bid Ache farewell, one of our dinner companions commented on my ability to remember Ache's name throughout the dinner. I just nodded, smiling on the inside, because the way I retained his name was be association. What did I associate it with? Dare to guess? Billy Ray Cyrus. You know, Achey Breaky Heart. As we exited the restaurant and prepared to return to Coolsville, I'd wager a case of my favorite Demon Malt that I was the only Cat in a 10 mile radius, and certainly all of Coolsville, who had thought of Billy Ray Cyrus that evening. I was most certainly the only one with a piece of TP stuck to his face.
It was only 10 in the PM and I was already fading fast. I was ready for bed. But, we had guests, so we took them 'around' the line into Coolsville and let them see for themselves Dragonfly. It wasn't as busy on Saturday, but still prety full. Same assortment of people as Friday night. We stood around for a few minutes, observing pretty much a carbon copy of the previous...before bugging out and hitting our room. As we sat around and contemplated what we should do, never deciding to do anything, I went to open our window to get some fresh air. As I looked down, I saw a young lady telling two guys that she would meet them somewhere. They had obviously just left Dragonfly, having parked off street vs. paying the $18 for valet. The Boys drove off and she ran around her car, and promptly squatted like a dog and started urinating. We're on the 2nd floor, and she's pretty much directly below me, ass exposed, river of urine trailing down the street. Lovely, and quite funny (to me anyway.) Since the window is open, I decide to let her know she's being watched by talking to her. She looks up, a bit embarrassed as she pulls up her panties, and says, "When you gotta go, you gotta go." I agreed with her, and then said, "What? No number 2?" (I actually didn't say that, but said it to the group in the room after the fact to great delight, if only I was quicker in real time.) Alas, that was the highlight of our Saturday night. Our friends soon split, and we were in bed, and asleep by 11:15. Saturday night - yeah Boy! PARTY.
Sunday morning coming down was pretty uneventful. We slept until nearly 8am (which is late by our standards,) and then just did our own things until check-out which was Gary Cooper time. I worked out, Carter read her book. Uneventful, yet, relaxing. Our departure from Coolsville was pretty smooth. Valet brought our car up (nearly $50 in parking fees), and gave us a bottle of ZaZa water (I'm guessing it was spring water, with a ZaZa logo, then again, they might have been filling it up at the taps inside,) and we were off, up McKinney Ave. out of Coolsville, back to our lives.
After the dust settled from the weekend, and the Amex bill arrived...I can say that it was a fun weekend. Nice to get away with my Lovely Bride for a few days. I might not be Like Fonzie in Coolsville, but, after seeing for myself, I'm confident that's not such a bad thing. Not to judge those that do that sort of thing - each is own, chase your own rainbow, I'm all about that. The point - I'm quite happy being who I am, where I am. Damn lucky in fact, which to me is pretty damn cool.
Until I BLOG again...Try an Oklahoma Martini
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Team Tinsley November Shutterfly Action
If you want to see recent pics of your favorite Team of Tinsley - Then dust your mouse over here and take a look see.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Thank You India
Yet another reason to give thanks nearly a week after Thanksgiving. I don't have to attend the 800 block of Westwood's annual Christmas Party! Jerr's (my Pop, Pops to the Boy(s)) Birthday is on the same day, and the entire Team (except the cat, we're leaving her in charge) will be in Houston Town. I couldn't have made up a better excuse!
Isn't it ironic (you diggin' the whole Alanis Morissette chain gang of thought?) that the year I went GONZO on Holiday decorations, I won't be at the party to receive all my justly deserved kudos. A small price, trust me. These parties are brutal.
Our 800 Block has two events a year. This here Holiday one (always the first Sunday of December), and one every August, in conjunction with national Take A Bite Out of Crime neighborhood watch night. Another of my stock jokes is telling my Lovely Bride (who as you can imagine, gets quite sick of my goofy ass) that I'm going as McGruff...and taking a bite out of (I insert a neighbors name) ass.
Brutal. Did I mention that.
We've lived on the 800 block since 1997. We've been to over a dozen of these things, yet still get some of the older neighbors, who are original owners (most of the homes went up in the mid to late 50s,) asking if we're new. I'm not sure if they are senile or snobby, figuring if you haven't been there for a decade, you aren't in the same league.
Each party is a carbon copy of the previous, only at a different house. Generally the person who hosts the current party was conscripted into hosting at the previous. They are always BYOB or L or W or D - whatever you dig, and have the same BAD food. Covered dishes that range from cheese plates to hot wings. Smorgasboard from hell, especially if you're germ phobic like me. We all put on name tags, which obviously have our names, but also have our street number (we're 807.) The number, aside from weather is a major topic of conversation at these things. I can be sure, that at least three times, an older neighbor will corner me, and then have a lengthy discourse on which house is 807. Note, not which is your house. Which is 807. As if you don't even live there. This would be bad enough in and of itself, but it usually happens while the older neighbor is cramming food down their mouth. No wonder old people love Luby's and other cafeterias. They go apeshit for any buffet type concept. It is crazy to watch them chow down at these events.
BRUTAL. Did I mention that? And that I'm germ phobic, and don't like having a discussion on which house 807 is, while the other person is macking down on ambrosia salad, while talking.
The parties were bad enough before we were breeders. Now that we have the Boy(s), it is not only brutal, but hard. Most of the parties go down at homes that haven't had a kid under 6 in them for years. Add toddlers into this atmosphere, and well, danger on a stick. Little dohickeys that can break. Open outlets, and my personal favorite, lighted candles on LOW tables. At the X-Mas one, the hosts ususally have some cute little X-Mas display, say a North Pole Train set, that is within easy reach. You spend two hours trying to keep a small Boy away from such fun. It's like trying to keep Godzilla out of Tokyo, while listening to a geography lecture by a person with food in their mouth.
At this point, you're probably asking - Stu - why do you go to the party. Last you BLOGGED, you said your pet peeve is to do things you don't want to do, but feel obligated. Yes. You are correct. However, the answer is quite simple. Carter makes me. Rightly so, I might add. It is the thing to do, if we are in town. We should be thankful to have a tight knit block. People watching out for each other. Sense of community. I got the party line down, and can certainly dig it. Doesn't mean I have to like it. I also have my own selfish reasons for attending. I realize that the Tinsley Boy(s), sometime in the Buck Rogers future, if anything like me, will be, well, ornery. They're going to run amok on the 800 block. What if they toilet paper 823's house. Egg 812. Things will be a bit easier if we know these people.
Lest you think I'm a complete ass, let me share with you the one thing that I'm going to miss about the Holiday party. The one thing that I truly look forward to seeing every year. One of the West Enders, an original owner, always, ALWAYS wears red leather pants, and a white turtleneck sweater to the Holiday Party. Some years he adds a funky gold chain that he wears outside of the turtleneck. Other years, he doesn't. But always the red leather pants. One of our cooler neighbors told me she asked him, if it was his official Holiday party outfit. She said he simply gave her a befuddled look as if he didn't know what the hell she was talking about. The guy is 80. Maybe his Lovely Bride makes him go to the party, and lays the same thing out each year - and he doesn't remember? Who knows? The only thing I'm certain about is that I'm the one Getting Lucky this year by not attending, and our geriatric version of Mike Reno will have to soldier on without me.
Until I BLOG again...Happy Birthday to Jerr.
Isn't it ironic (you diggin' the whole Alanis Morissette chain gang of thought?) that the year I went GONZO on Holiday decorations, I won't be at the party to receive all my justly deserved kudos. A small price, trust me. These parties are brutal.
Our 800 Block has two events a year. This here Holiday one (always the first Sunday of December), and one every August, in conjunction with national Take A Bite Out of Crime neighborhood watch night. Another of my stock jokes is telling my Lovely Bride (who as you can imagine, gets quite sick of my goofy ass) that I'm going as McGruff...and taking a bite out of (I insert a neighbors name) ass.
Brutal. Did I mention that.
We've lived on the 800 block since 1997. We've been to over a dozen of these things, yet still get some of the older neighbors, who are original owners (most of the homes went up in the mid to late 50s,) asking if we're new. I'm not sure if they are senile or snobby, figuring if you haven't been there for a decade, you aren't in the same league.
Each party is a carbon copy of the previous, only at a different house. Generally the person who hosts the current party was conscripted into hosting at the previous. They are always BYOB or L or W or D - whatever you dig, and have the same BAD food. Covered dishes that range from cheese plates to hot wings. Smorgasboard from hell, especially if you're germ phobic like me. We all put on name tags, which obviously have our names, but also have our street number (we're 807.) The number, aside from weather is a major topic of conversation at these things. I can be sure, that at least three times, an older neighbor will corner me, and then have a lengthy discourse on which house is 807. Note, not which is your house. Which is 807. As if you don't even live there. This would be bad enough in and of itself, but it usually happens while the older neighbor is cramming food down their mouth. No wonder old people love Luby's and other cafeterias. They go apeshit for any buffet type concept. It is crazy to watch them chow down at these events.
BRUTAL. Did I mention that? And that I'm germ phobic, and don't like having a discussion on which house 807 is, while the other person is macking down on ambrosia salad, while talking.
The parties were bad enough before we were breeders. Now that we have the Boy(s), it is not only brutal, but hard. Most of the parties go down at homes that haven't had a kid under 6 in them for years. Add toddlers into this atmosphere, and well, danger on a stick. Little dohickeys that can break. Open outlets, and my personal favorite, lighted candles on LOW tables. At the X-Mas one, the hosts ususally have some cute little X-Mas display, say a North Pole Train set, that is within easy reach. You spend two hours trying to keep a small Boy away from such fun. It's like trying to keep Godzilla out of Tokyo, while listening to a geography lecture by a person with food in their mouth.
At this point, you're probably asking - Stu - why do you go to the party. Last you BLOGGED, you said your pet peeve is to do things you don't want to do, but feel obligated. Yes. You are correct. However, the answer is quite simple. Carter makes me. Rightly so, I might add. It is the thing to do, if we are in town. We should be thankful to have a tight knit block. People watching out for each other. Sense of community. I got the party line down, and can certainly dig it. Doesn't mean I have to like it. I also have my own selfish reasons for attending. I realize that the Tinsley Boy(s), sometime in the Buck Rogers future, if anything like me, will be, well, ornery. They're going to run amok on the 800 block. What if they toilet paper 823's house. Egg 812. Things will be a bit easier if we know these people.
Lest you think I'm a complete ass, let me share with you the one thing that I'm going to miss about the Holiday party. The one thing that I truly look forward to seeing every year. One of the West Enders, an original owner, always, ALWAYS wears red leather pants, and a white turtleneck sweater to the Holiday Party. Some years he adds a funky gold chain that he wears outside of the turtleneck. Other years, he doesn't. But always the red leather pants. One of our cooler neighbors told me she asked him, if it was his official Holiday party outfit. She said he simply gave her a befuddled look as if he didn't know what the hell she was talking about. The guy is 80. Maybe his Lovely Bride makes him go to the party, and lays the same thing out each year - and he doesn't remember? Who knows? The only thing I'm certain about is that I'm the one Getting Lucky this year by not attending, and our geriatric version of Mike Reno will have to soldier on without me.
Until I BLOG again...Happy Birthday to Jerr.
Monday, November 29, 2004
The hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny &#$*@&% Kaye
Bethany: Is your house on fire, Clark?
Clark: No, Aunt Bethany, those are the Christmas lights.
All of the above is from the Holiday classic Christmas Vacation. Not only does it nail a lot of the goofy holiday things people do, it also has a lengthy scene involving a squirrel, and well, you know how I feel about squirrel(s).
I felt like the main character, Clark Griswold on Thanksgiving. I was stringing holiday lights for the first time in my adult life. I'm not very good at such things. There's also the fact that in the past I've not been a big fan of putting out our holiday lights. See, Our block does luminaires. You're not forced to put them out, but you know how it is, short of being Jewish or a Hindu, everyone expects you to put them up - Merry Merry. I usually put them up - begrudgingly, feeling forced to do anything is a major pet peeve of mine. I was further irked by the fact that around our Casa, the East end of the 800 block for those keeping score at home, that most of our neighbors didn't do it. To my left (that would be West) the neighbors are Jewish. Can't very well expect them to deck the halls. To my right (that would be East) Magaret is a senior citizen, and doesn't do the lights. She usually goes on a cruise over the Holidays. Across the street, it was the same, older neighbors who didn't feel very merry, and or weren't up to the task of stringing a bunch of luminaires (which is a bigger pain in the ass than you might think.)
This year all of that changed for me. We have a lot of young blood on the East end of our block, who now do lights, but more importantly, Ethan was excited about Christmas, and well, that energized me. Add in the Little Warrior, and I felt like the before mentioned Clark Griswold, stringing lights, your basic dork, and quite inept Dad, with his heart in the right place.
My first time at stringing lights (on the house) was pretty smooth (for me.) I only had to go to Wal-Mart three times to get what I actually needed to do the job. I didn't fall off the ladder. The lights actually WORKED. Same dealio for the Luminaires. I was pretty dang dog successful. Had a nice time doing it too, which I think is the point. Ethan helped me (for as long as a nearly three year old can help) and then played cars/trucks in the front yard while I worked my way around the front of our house on the ladder stringing the lights. Ethan would occassionally interupt by saying: "be careful daddy." Cart and the Little Warrior came out front from time to time to visit and enjoy the lovely, sunny, yet crisp Thanksgiving day. It was a Hallmark moment if there ever was one, and sitting around the Thanksgiving dinner (for about a second before the Little Warrior decided he didn't want to be there) that night, I was thankful for the day, and Team Tinsley. I was also thankful that the lights WORKED! By golly, you cruise by Team Tinsley's this Season you're going to need to be Cory Hart, Wearing your sunglasses at night for those not versed in 80s music trivia. My mind is so full of useless info.
The day after Thanksgiving, and my own thoughts about how I was Clark Griwold...one of our new blood neighbors told me that he felt like Clark Griswold. How is that for a big old serving of sychronicity! Why did he feel like Clark Griswold? Bringing home the family tree which was tied to the top of their family roadster, he attempted to pull into his garage...and well, he didn't have the clearance, clarence. Classic.
Good to know that I'm not the only dipshit on the 800 block of Westwood Drive.
Until I BLOG again...Merry Merry.
Clark: No, Aunt Bethany, those are the Christmas lights.
All of the above is from the Holiday classic Christmas Vacation. Not only does it nail a lot of the goofy holiday things people do, it also has a lengthy scene involving a squirrel, and well, you know how I feel about squirrel(s).
I felt like the main character, Clark Griswold on Thanksgiving. I was stringing holiday lights for the first time in my adult life. I'm not very good at such things. There's also the fact that in the past I've not been a big fan of putting out our holiday lights. See, Our block does luminaires. You're not forced to put them out, but you know how it is, short of being Jewish or a Hindu, everyone expects you to put them up - Merry Merry. I usually put them up - begrudgingly, feeling forced to do anything is a major pet peeve of mine. I was further irked by the fact that around our Casa, the East end of the 800 block for those keeping score at home, that most of our neighbors didn't do it. To my left (that would be West) the neighbors are Jewish. Can't very well expect them to deck the halls. To my right (that would be East) Magaret is a senior citizen, and doesn't do the lights. She usually goes on a cruise over the Holidays. Across the street, it was the same, older neighbors who didn't feel very merry, and or weren't up to the task of stringing a bunch of luminaires (which is a bigger pain in the ass than you might think.)
This year all of that changed for me. We have a lot of young blood on the East end of our block, who now do lights, but more importantly, Ethan was excited about Christmas, and well, that energized me. Add in the Little Warrior, and I felt like the before mentioned Clark Griswold, stringing lights, your basic dork, and quite inept Dad, with his heart in the right place.
My first time at stringing lights (on the house) was pretty smooth (for me.) I only had to go to Wal-Mart three times to get what I actually needed to do the job. I didn't fall off the ladder. The lights actually WORKED. Same dealio for the Luminaires. I was pretty dang dog successful. Had a nice time doing it too, which I think is the point. Ethan helped me (for as long as a nearly three year old can help) and then played cars/trucks in the front yard while I worked my way around the front of our house on the ladder stringing the lights. Ethan would occassionally interupt by saying: "be careful daddy." Cart and the Little Warrior came out front from time to time to visit and enjoy the lovely, sunny, yet crisp Thanksgiving day. It was a Hallmark moment if there ever was one, and sitting around the Thanksgiving dinner (for about a second before the Little Warrior decided he didn't want to be there) that night, I was thankful for the day, and Team Tinsley. I was also thankful that the lights WORKED! By golly, you cruise by Team Tinsley's this Season you're going to need to be Cory Hart, Wearing your sunglasses at night for those not versed in 80s music trivia. My mind is so full of useless info.
The day after Thanksgiving, and my own thoughts about how I was Clark Griwold...one of our new blood neighbors told me that he felt like Clark Griswold. How is that for a big old serving of sychronicity! Why did he feel like Clark Griswold? Bringing home the family tree which was tied to the top of their family roadster, he attempted to pull into his garage...and well, he didn't have the clearance, clarence. Classic.
Good to know that I'm not the only dipshit on the 800 block of Westwood Drive.
Until I BLOG again...Merry Merry.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Don't it make my brown eyes blue
The Little Warrior hit the 11th month mark today. He also graduated from baby to toddler (since he's walking.) Big changes at Casa Tinsley. Wyatt walking turns our crazy level to 11. Wyatt can freely roam the house - and does - getting into everything. He likes to disappear when the rest of the Team is in the family room, usually heading straight for Suki's (the cat) food bowl. He likes to play with the pieces, while eating a bite or two. With the Christmas tree now up ($5 bucks says it gets knocked over at least once before Santa comes to town,) well it is as I've said, crazy. This is especially true for my Lovely Bride who is on call 24/7. If you have Carter on your X-Mas list and need a gift idea. I got one word. Valium.
To quote Ferris Bueller.
"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it." Amen Brother Ferris. Dig this.
A week or so ago, Carter had a few of the ladies from her Bunco (read: Drunco) posse over to our house for a Friday night Pizza fiesta. Boy(s) gone wild. All the ladies have Boy(s). We had five Boy(s) ranging from 4 months to nearly 3 years running amok in our casa. A few of the Mommy's made the comment that the Little Warrior was looking a lot more like his Big Brother. We've (me and the Bride) have always thought they looked a lot alike. Others, have said the same, but I think for most, the eyes threw them. Ethan has dark brown eyes. Wyatt hazel. Windows to the soul - or some such shit, many couldn't get past the notable difference.
A day or so after the Pizza fiesta, I was doing something with the Little Warrior and noted that his hazel eyes were darker than normal. Curious, since he was wearing a blue top. The Little Warrior's eyes have been like a mood ring, changing with the color of his clothes. Carter's eyes are hazel. Her youngest brother, Wren also has the same eyes. Same deal for my Pop, the Boy(s) Pops...hazel. We assumed Wyatt's eyes would be hazel. Then I noticed that his eyes looked dark, almost brown another time and BAM - the comments from the Pizza fiesta hit me. Were Wyatt's eyes changing color? The instruction manual (What to Expect - The First Year) says that it could be up to a year for a baby's eye color to manifest. Ethan's were brown by six months. Thus, we had just assumed that Wyatt's eyes were hazel since that is what they were at six months.
Both Tinsley Boy(s) at the 11 Month mark. WT top. ET bottom.
It now seems that he might in fact be turning brown eyed, which is bittersweet for me. You see, I liked Wyatt having a different eye color than his Big Brother, and me for that matter. Different is good, not to mention the fact that they were the same as his Mom's (my Pops, Wren, etc.) eyes so we had more genes from the pool on the dance floor. The thing that is sweet about it all though - and on the 11 month mark none the less, the surprise.
Wyatt being the 2nd - you've seen the development stuff before. That doesn't diminish any of it. Same as you like a blue sky, sunny day the first, second, third, etc. time you see it. The stuff isn't as surprising the second time around is the point.
The Little Warrior threw me a curve ball with that this week. I actually got out the instruction manual for only the second time since since December 28, 2003. I had that damn book out weekly with Ethan. Silly as that may sound, or seem, I dug it real hard.
Until I BLOG again...Peace
To quote Ferris Bueller.
"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it." Amen Brother Ferris. Dig this.
A week or so ago, Carter had a few of the ladies from her Bunco (read: Drunco) posse over to our house for a Friday night Pizza fiesta. Boy(s) gone wild. All the ladies have Boy(s). We had five Boy(s) ranging from 4 months to nearly 3 years running amok in our casa. A few of the Mommy's made the comment that the Little Warrior was looking a lot more like his Big Brother. We've (me and the Bride) have always thought they looked a lot alike. Others, have said the same, but I think for most, the eyes threw them. Ethan has dark brown eyes. Wyatt hazel. Windows to the soul - or some such shit, many couldn't get past the notable difference.
A day or so after the Pizza fiesta, I was doing something with the Little Warrior and noted that his hazel eyes were darker than normal. Curious, since he was wearing a blue top. The Little Warrior's eyes have been like a mood ring, changing with the color of his clothes. Carter's eyes are hazel. Her youngest brother, Wren also has the same eyes. Same deal for my Pop, the Boy(s) Pops...hazel. We assumed Wyatt's eyes would be hazel. Then I noticed that his eyes looked dark, almost brown another time and BAM - the comments from the Pizza fiesta hit me. Were Wyatt's eyes changing color? The instruction manual (What to Expect - The First Year) says that it could be up to a year for a baby's eye color to manifest. Ethan's were brown by six months. Thus, we had just assumed that Wyatt's eyes were hazel since that is what they were at six months.
Both Tinsley Boy(s) at the 11 Month mark. WT top. ET bottom.
It now seems that he might in fact be turning brown eyed, which is bittersweet for me. You see, I liked Wyatt having a different eye color than his Big Brother, and me for that matter. Different is good, not to mention the fact that they were the same as his Mom's (my Pops, Wren, etc.) eyes so we had more genes from the pool on the dance floor. The thing that is sweet about it all though - and on the 11 month mark none the less, the surprise.
Wyatt being the 2nd - you've seen the development stuff before. That doesn't diminish any of it. Same as you like a blue sky, sunny day the first, second, third, etc. time you see it. The stuff isn't as surprising the second time around is the point.
The Little Warrior threw me a curve ball with that this week. I actually got out the instruction manual for only the second time since since December 28, 2003. I had that damn book out weekly with Ethan. Silly as that may sound, or seem, I dug it real hard.
Until I BLOG again...Peace
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Incredible(s)
The Elder Boy is 34 months today. I only know that because I got an automated email reminder from some baby/parenting website that has me on an email list. I try to be a good Dad, but I'm not such a great one that I always remember the day of's- I miss quite a few actually. So, don't get thinking I'm super Dad with some gargantuan advent calendar dedicated to the Boy(s) Bday(s). I do however, pay careful attention to certain things that I consider milestones on the safari of life. In fact, Team Tinsley has had two of note in recent days. Dig this.
The Little Warrior is walking. This very morning, he walked from our recliner in the Den all the way into the kitchen to get into the dish washer that his Mom was unloading (she wasn't pleased by the way.) So, the Little Warrior is ambulatory right at the 10.5 month mark (which happen to be the same time that Ethan started walking.) He reminds us of Clyde from Every Which Way But Loose (and, Any Which Way You Can) fame. His gait that is. He'll be 11 months a week from this Sunday. About to graduate from being a baby, to a toddler. Amazing that this little Guy was mashing down on his Mom's bladder (from the inside) a year ago this time. Incredible. (danger - heavy handed segue - danger) Speaking of incredible...
On Monday (I took the day off for those keeping score at home) I took Ethan to see The Incredibles. It was our first movie. My Lovely Bride had attempted to take him to see Shrek 2 this Summer, but it didn't work out for reasons I won're bore you with here. End result, they didn't make it through much. So, for all intents and purposes, and certainly for yours truly, this was his first movie at the movie theatre.
I was unsure on how he would do in a theatre, with me, etc. The movie is longer than most Pixar fare. Clocking in at 2 hours. Add 10 trailers to that, and, well, it is a long time to ask a 34 month old Boy to sit still, and be relatively quiet. Loaded up with nearly $15 dollars worth of Popcorn, Pop, and Candy, we hunkered down, and I'm proud to say, watched the entire thing. Ethan was exceptionally good for his age, as was the movie. I had a hard time watching it though, I was to stuck in the moment with my Elder Boy. Amazed actually, that in a blink of an eye (to me at least) he went from being this little guy, to this big kid sitting by me in a dark movie theatre. It was, if you'll pardon the pun, incredible. At a few points in the movie, when the Incredibles step up for their team, my eyes welled up with tears. I'm not sure if the movie is that emotional, or if it was more my being a sentimental Dad - Hell, it could very well have been sugar overload from the 40 ounces of coke, and a shitload of M&Ms, not to mention the fat laden popcorn. But, the point, it was a great experience. One that I always will remember. Add Wyatt walking into the mix, and, well, my cup runneth over. La dolce vita.
Until I BLOG again...Gobble Gobble.
The Little Warrior is walking. This very morning, he walked from our recliner in the Den all the way into the kitchen to get into the dish washer that his Mom was unloading (she wasn't pleased by the way.) So, the Little Warrior is ambulatory right at the 10.5 month mark (which happen to be the same time that Ethan started walking.) He reminds us of Clyde from Every Which Way But Loose (and, Any Which Way You Can) fame. His gait that is. He'll be 11 months a week from this Sunday. About to graduate from being a baby, to a toddler. Amazing that this little Guy was mashing down on his Mom's bladder (from the inside) a year ago this time. Incredible. (danger - heavy handed segue - danger) Speaking of incredible...
On Monday (I took the day off for those keeping score at home) I took Ethan to see The Incredibles. It was our first movie. My Lovely Bride had attempted to take him to see Shrek 2 this Summer, but it didn't work out for reasons I won're bore you with here. End result, they didn't make it through much. So, for all intents and purposes, and certainly for yours truly, this was his first movie at the movie theatre.
I was unsure on how he would do in a theatre, with me, etc. The movie is longer than most Pixar fare. Clocking in at 2 hours. Add 10 trailers to that, and, well, it is a long time to ask a 34 month old Boy to sit still, and be relatively quiet. Loaded up with nearly $15 dollars worth of Popcorn, Pop, and Candy, we hunkered down, and I'm proud to say, watched the entire thing. Ethan was exceptionally good for his age, as was the movie. I had a hard time watching it though, I was to stuck in the moment with my Elder Boy. Amazed actually, that in a blink of an eye (to me at least) he went from being this little guy, to this big kid sitting by me in a dark movie theatre. It was, if you'll pardon the pun, incredible. At a few points in the movie, when the Incredibles step up for their team, my eyes welled up with tears. I'm not sure if the movie is that emotional, or if it was more my being a sentimental Dad - Hell, it could very well have been sugar overload from the 40 ounces of coke, and a shitload of M&Ms, not to mention the fat laden popcorn. But, the point, it was a great experience. One that I always will remember. Add Wyatt walking into the mix, and, well, my cup runneth over. La dolce vita.
Until I BLOG again...Gobble Gobble.
Friday, November 05, 2004
They Say It's Your Birthday...
On my 10 year wedding anniversary BLOG entry I promised to tell the story of how Carter and I first met at some other time in the Buck Rogers future. That I would explain the meaning of real date, which is engraved on the inside of my wedding band. Well, Dear Reader, the future is now for such a BLOG. You see, Tuesday, November 9 is my Lovely Bride's birthday. It is also happens to be the same day I asked her to marry me. The timing is perfect. Dig this.
If you haven't realized by now, I'm a dork. I have goofy habits, one of which is trotting out what I call stock jokes. Example. If I hear talk about a hysterectomy, my stock joke is this: does that mean their rectum is history (insert laugh track.) If you see me, try it. I guarantee I'll say it to see if it gets a laugh. The reason I tell you that, is this - another stock joke is how I met my Lovely Bride. If someone bothers to ask me, my reply is this: (it is especially funny if the person asking doesn't know me very well) we met while she was giving me a table dance at The Million Dollar Saloon (read: infamous Dallas titty bar). Funny (to me at least), but not true. The truth is actually funnier (in more ways than you yet know.)
In late Fall 1991, on a cold November night, I was walking down Elm Street with two friends. Heading East as it were. The woman who would one day be my Lovely Bride was walking West with a friend. Happenstance, one of the guys I was with, knew the lady Cart was with - so we stopped on the sidewalk and talked. We did the usual, quick intros, etc. while the two that knew each other chatted. Since my friend was into Carter's friend we decided to all head back up Elm Street to a now defunct club called The Frig(erator). Since the guy and girl were interested in each other (they would soon date), that left me and another friend and Carter to talk, dance, drink, etc. I'd like to romanticize this first meeting. Say that our eyes met and we knew. Or we accidently brushed against each other and felt a jolt of electricity. Again, it would be pure (and bad) fiction.
The real deal was that, although friendly, Carter didn't seem interested in me. She was friendly and nice. At first she seemed into my other friend. This changed after we all left and went back to my friends (the two guys I was with lived together) apartment. She soon was equally disinterested in him too. Meanwhile the future lovebirds were in what was called the Love alcove (a strange ante room to the bathroom in their apartment) hooking up (as in kissy kissy, not fornicating) while we hung out in the living room.
Again, and even under the influence of demon malt, I got the vibe that Carter just didn't dig me, dig me. I found that curious, but what the hey, I'm not an overtly, "How you doin'" kind of a guy. Not my style. I wasn't Johnny Lee (read: looking for love in all the wrong places - for the Urban Cowboy fans in the audience.) I figured I wasn't her type. So be it. We could be friends. Which we became as the love birds took their romance out of the love alcove into the great wide open. They started dating, with an end result of Carter and I seeing more of each other through our mutual friends. It wasn't an everyday kind of a thing. Sporadic at best. But, I did continue to see Carter, usually going out - and the more I saw her, the more attracted to her I became. Still, she was not interested in me. I could just pick it up on my radar. Friends. That was us.
A few months later, I learned that Carter thought that I was funny.
Not, ha ha funny. Queer funny.
From the get go, Carter thought that I was a card carrying homosexual. So much for my self image as a stud. Note to self: don't match! Kidding. As a favorite song goes, unbeknownst to fools like me, by the time I learned the above, she no longer thought that I was 100% gay, because I had, how shall I say, exhibited heterosexual tendencies with a friend of hers. She might have wondered if I was in the closet? Bi-sexual. I wasn't clear. The one thing I did know was that I was doing damn near everything I could do to keep Carter from ever wanting to like me, like me, while I was liking her more and more each time I saw her. Still we were just friends, so we still saw each other out and about, etc.
By Spring 92 we had become good enough friends that we would go out together - usually in a small groups - no longer just meeting because of mutual friends. Still, these 'dates' were anything but, just friends going out on the town.
After a few months of this, I started getting the vibe that she might actual like me a bit. Because of our history, I was a little worried, hell why lie, afraid to ask her out on a date. Carter was wonderfully tough (she's still pretty tough actually) back then. Big ass Leather coat. Boots. Wearing a F (bomb) You were from Texas Loco Gringos T-Shirt. She has those wonderful, smoky, hazel eyes (Wyatt has the same eyes.) Pale (in a good way) smooth skin, RED lipstick lips. As I said, I was smitten, but also a bit scared to ask her on a date. Hell, she thought I was gay! Why would she go out with me? Self doubt. Afraid of rejection. We stayed friends.
Then one night, at a party with Carter (as friends) I talked to someone that said I should ask Carter on a date. That we would make a great couple, and that she did like me. Never mind the fact that I was a 25 year old man acting like I was in 7th grade - I didn't give a shit. I had clearance that she probably wouldn't say No if I did ask her out on a date. Was it a set-up? I couldn't be sure. All I knew was that I had to ask her out, and soon. I decided then and there that I would ask when I took her home that very evening. As I drove her home, my biggest concern was that she wouldn't realize the difference of going out like we had tonight vs. a more romantic outing...a proper date. So, sitting in front of her house on Wycliff Ave. in my little Red Geo Storm (yes, I owned a Geo Storm - DORK!) I said this:
Do you wanna go out on a real date?
Thankfully, she did, and on May 21, 1992 we had our first real date. Fast forward to November 11, 1993, her 23rd lap around the Sun on Mother Earth. That was the day I asked her to marry me. She said "I do" on July 30, 1994.
It has been nearly 13 years since we met on the street in Deep Ellum. As you've just read, I remember it well. Much has happened since then. For instance, She no longer has her F (bomb) You were from Texas t-shirt (I'd love to see her wear that taking Ethan and Wyatt to their day school.) She sold that big black motorcycle coat in a garage sale. Begrudingly I might add. We've been married for 10 years. We have two wonderful Boy(s). So much has changed it would be impossible to write it all here. So I won't. Instead I'll leave you with two things that remain the same: I'm still smitten, and she thinks I'm gay.
Until I BLOG again..Happy birthday to you!
If you haven't realized by now, I'm a dork. I have goofy habits, one of which is trotting out what I call stock jokes. Example. If I hear talk about a hysterectomy, my stock joke is this: does that mean their rectum is history (insert laugh track.) If you see me, try it. I guarantee I'll say it to see if it gets a laugh. The reason I tell you that, is this - another stock joke is how I met my Lovely Bride. If someone bothers to ask me, my reply is this: (it is especially funny if the person asking doesn't know me very well) we met while she was giving me a table dance at The Million Dollar Saloon (read: infamous Dallas titty bar). Funny (to me at least), but not true. The truth is actually funnier (in more ways than you yet know.)
In late Fall 1991, on a cold November night, I was walking down Elm Street with two friends. Heading East as it were. The woman who would one day be my Lovely Bride was walking West with a friend. Happenstance, one of the guys I was with, knew the lady Cart was with - so we stopped on the sidewalk and talked. We did the usual, quick intros, etc. while the two that knew each other chatted. Since my friend was into Carter's friend we decided to all head back up Elm Street to a now defunct club called The Frig(erator). Since the guy and girl were interested in each other (they would soon date), that left me and another friend and Carter to talk, dance, drink, etc. I'd like to romanticize this first meeting. Say that our eyes met and we knew. Or we accidently brushed against each other and felt a jolt of electricity. Again, it would be pure (and bad) fiction.
The real deal was that, although friendly, Carter didn't seem interested in me. She was friendly and nice. At first she seemed into my other friend. This changed after we all left and went back to my friends (the two guys I was with lived together) apartment. She soon was equally disinterested in him too. Meanwhile the future lovebirds were in what was called the Love alcove (a strange ante room to the bathroom in their apartment) hooking up (as in kissy kissy, not fornicating) while we hung out in the living room.
Again, and even under the influence of demon malt, I got the vibe that Carter just didn't dig me, dig me. I found that curious, but what the hey, I'm not an overtly, "How you doin'" kind of a guy. Not my style. I wasn't Johnny Lee (read: looking for love in all the wrong places - for the Urban Cowboy fans in the audience.) I figured I wasn't her type. So be it. We could be friends. Which we became as the love birds took their romance out of the love alcove into the great wide open. They started dating, with an end result of Carter and I seeing more of each other through our mutual friends. It wasn't an everyday kind of a thing. Sporadic at best. But, I did continue to see Carter, usually going out - and the more I saw her, the more attracted to her I became. Still, she was not interested in me. I could just pick it up on my radar. Friends. That was us.
A few months later, I learned that Carter thought that I was funny.
Not, ha ha funny. Queer funny.
From the get go, Carter thought that I was a card carrying homosexual. So much for my self image as a stud. Note to self: don't match! Kidding. As a favorite song goes, unbeknownst to fools like me, by the time I learned the above, she no longer thought that I was 100% gay, because I had, how shall I say, exhibited heterosexual tendencies with a friend of hers. She might have wondered if I was in the closet? Bi-sexual. I wasn't clear. The one thing I did know was that I was doing damn near everything I could do to keep Carter from ever wanting to like me, like me, while I was liking her more and more each time I saw her. Still we were just friends, so we still saw each other out and about, etc.
By Spring 92 we had become good enough friends that we would go out together - usually in a small groups - no longer just meeting because of mutual friends. Still, these 'dates' were anything but, just friends going out on the town.
After a few months of this, I started getting the vibe that she might actual like me a bit. Because of our history, I was a little worried, hell why lie, afraid to ask her out on a date. Carter was wonderfully tough (she's still pretty tough actually) back then. Big ass Leather coat. Boots. Wearing a F (bomb) You were from Texas Loco Gringos T-Shirt. She has those wonderful, smoky, hazel eyes (Wyatt has the same eyes.) Pale (in a good way) smooth skin, RED lipstick lips. As I said, I was smitten, but also a bit scared to ask her on a date. Hell, she thought I was gay! Why would she go out with me? Self doubt. Afraid of rejection. We stayed friends.
Then one night, at a party with Carter (as friends) I talked to someone that said I should ask Carter on a date. That we would make a great couple, and that she did like me. Never mind the fact that I was a 25 year old man acting like I was in 7th grade - I didn't give a shit. I had clearance that she probably wouldn't say No if I did ask her out on a date. Was it a set-up? I couldn't be sure. All I knew was that I had to ask her out, and soon. I decided then and there that I would ask when I took her home that very evening. As I drove her home, my biggest concern was that she wouldn't realize the difference of going out like we had tonight vs. a more romantic outing...a proper date. So, sitting in front of her house on Wycliff Ave. in my little Red Geo Storm (yes, I owned a Geo Storm - DORK!) I said this:
Do you wanna go out on a real date?
Thankfully, she did, and on May 21, 1992 we had our first real date. Fast forward to November 11, 1993, her 23rd lap around the Sun on Mother Earth. That was the day I asked her to marry me. She said "I do" on July 30, 1994.
It has been nearly 13 years since we met on the street in Deep Ellum. As you've just read, I remember it well. Much has happened since then. For instance, She no longer has her F (bomb) You were from Texas t-shirt (I'd love to see her wear that taking Ethan and Wyatt to their day school.) She sold that big black motorcycle coat in a garage sale. Begrudingly I might add. We've been married for 10 years. We have two wonderful Boy(s). So much has changed it would be impossible to write it all here. So I won't. Instead I'll leave you with two things that remain the same: I'm still smitten, and she thinks I'm gay.
Until I BLOG again..Happy birthday to you!
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Team Tinsley Shutterfly Action
Uploaded a lot of photos on Shutterfly if you care to look see - click here.
Until I BLOG again...VOTE!
Until I BLOG again...VOTE!
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Like Fonzie - Part II
For those who haven't read my first installment, or want/need a refresher - point your finger (read: mouse) HERE and CLICK!
After a few minutes of collective silence while we unpacked, we decided to leave our pricey room in Coolsville and step out of ZaZa and up McKinney for a good old fashioned Friday afternoon Happy Hour.
To borrow a line from Prince - We went in through the out door as we entered the pool area, which is not called the pool area at ZaZa. No. At ZaZa the pool is an urban oasis. Hotel ZaZa is what they call a boutique hotel. It is small (I guess 250 rooms), eclectic, luxurious, etc. Again, extremely nice. Each room is different. No cookie cutter play here people. Some have an asian flair. Others are modern. The hallways are lined with striking photographs of famous people. Each floor has an area by the elevator that has coffee in the AM, newspapers, and a little chalk board with all the days info hand written (stocks, scores, weather, etc.) In the afternoon, they put out tea and candies. There's funky seating in the common areas, and pieces of art - all unique. All the rooms have what they call a shag bag - has a rubber, some fruit scented sliquid (read: motion lotion), etc. The suites have themes (shagadelic is one.) In the Lobby, you have expanded seating areas, complete with nice coffee table books. Trays, and other large glass devices are filled with candy.
The Hotel's restaurant at ZaZa is Dragonfly. Dragonfly is one of the hot places to go in Dallas. It serves as the Hotel's restaurant during the morning and day, and at night it becomes an ultra chic club that is standing room only, long lines to enter, etc. That is why we were given our 48 hour (the length of our stay) passport to Coolsville. The card, not to be confused with our key, this was an actual card, would get us into the hotel (bypassing any lines) at night, and preferential treatment in Dragonfly. At night the Urban Oasis (read: pool) becomes the outside patio area of Dragonfly. Again, we'd never been but in the ultra hip Dallas world, Dragonfly is the shit. All of the above is running through my head as we go in the out door to check out Dragonfly and the Urban Oasis. I have heard a lot about Dragonfly, but, being a 37 year old Husband/Father, I hadn't dusted my ass down to Uptown in months. All I knew about Dragonfly was hearsay. When I saw it with my very own eyes, I was shocked. It was small. The pool (damn! Urban Oasis - they'd shitcan me in day if I worked there for not getting that straight) was the size you might find in a friends backyard. Again, VERY nice, but not big. Funky and large beach balls floated in the hot tub, water fall. Smaller ones floated in the pool. Extremely nice lounge chairs and sofas surround the pool, which reminded me of Ozzy Osbourne's if you've ever seen that show on MTV. The restaurant was small too. Which again surprised me, based on all the stories I've heard about it - but made sense considering the size of the hotel. Normally in Dallas, bigger is better. Not at ZaZa. Better is better.
Curiously, after a few moments of gawking around the Urban Oasis like the touristas we were (are), and less than 30 minutes in Coolsville, we decided it was time for splitsville up McKinney Avenue. We went to the Idle Rich Pub, and sat on the patio. As we sat in the late afternoon sunshine, quaffing our pints and watching the denizens of Uptown scurry to and fro we started talking. Care to guess the subject? Survey says: Our Boy(s). Those nearby would only have to eavesdrop on our gripping conversations (toilet training, removal of the plug, discipline philosophy) to realize that we were in fact, tourists, on a two day pass from the 'burbs. Sitting with all the hipsters of Uptown, I felt, well, un-cool, and wondered if our in-town weekend at ZaZa would be a folly? My last lucid though before the beer kicked in was this: Can the Trendoid at the front desk of ZaZa revoke our passports to Coolsville?
A few pints later I didn't care, as the clock approached 7:00 - we decided to bug out of the Pub and walk back (some would say stumble) to Coolsville. The plan was to see what was shaking at ZaZa and then retire to our room and relax before we went to dinner. We were curious if ZaZa was hopping yet. We also both needed to bathe. We'd been to the Texas State Fair earlier that day, and well, the Fair is pretty damn dirty. As we rounded the hacks in front of ZaZa (The Hotel is on a small side street off of McKinney for those that are into directions, thus you have to walk off McKinney and down a long wall - where the cabs are lined up - and then you turn into the Courtyard, circular valet drive - you cannot park your own car at ZaZa - they charge you $18 a night for the pleasure), I immediately noticed that the place still looked like a fancy Hotel. Complete with goofy October decorations - and OU/Texas decorations from the previous weekend. No lines of people trying to get into the place. It was pretty subdued. Granted, it was only 7:00. Most of the Prada People, like vampires, only come out after dark. As we entered the front door, greeted by ZaZa's version of Carlton (if you dig that Rhoda reference) - I was a bit sad that no one wanted to see my passport.
After showers (note the "S" as in two - much to my chagrin) we dressed and decided to yet again, split Coolsville and head back up to McKinney Ave. We decided to hit S&D Oyster for dinner. After a very light dinner and with a plethora of bars, restaurants, clubs, etc at our disposal on McKinney Ave...we made the exciting choice of going back to the Idle Rich Pub. Living on the EDGE! Actually, it was nice. Again, we sat and drank some pints and had a little more food and talked. This time it wasn't all Boy(s) - but they still took up a good chunk of our conversation and thoughts. Not all of which were in the warm and fuzzy vein. For instance at the clock hit 8:15 - I made a mental note that I wasn't having to give the Elder Boy a BATH! Go ME! Chug a pint!!!!! Wow, we're actually NOT there...high five! It was nice having beers with just my Lovely Bride. I couldn't even remember the last time it was just us in such a carefree setting.
TO many pints later, we stumble back to Hotel ZaZa. The clock was fast approaching 11:00, and this time even before we get to the Hacks - still on McKinney Ave. - I could tell things had changed at Coolsville. The place was NUTS! Cars stacked deep trying to get into the circular driveway, and valet. People walking up from parking off street. FINALLY - the place was living up to its hype. As we rounded the corner into the Hotels driveway and Dragonfly's entrance - we were hit with a massive line. I'm talking Studio 54-esque line. People dressed to kill, waiting to get into this hallow place. Burly man at the velvet rope keeping the throng out, while letting a few people into the inter sanctum. Even in my likkered up state I was ready and quickly whipped out my Coolsville passport - and quickly and, by golly, cooly entered ZaZa. The others on line, left in my dust, must have wondered -who's that cat? probably not. But we were in, and about to see Dragonfly, in all its Friday night glory for ourselves.
Until next time...To be Continued - Part III
After a few minutes of collective silence while we unpacked, we decided to leave our pricey room in Coolsville and step out of ZaZa and up McKinney for a good old fashioned Friday afternoon Happy Hour.
To borrow a line from Prince - We went in through the out door as we entered the pool area, which is not called the pool area at ZaZa. No. At ZaZa the pool is an urban oasis. Hotel ZaZa is what they call a boutique hotel. It is small (I guess 250 rooms), eclectic, luxurious, etc. Again, extremely nice. Each room is different. No cookie cutter play here people. Some have an asian flair. Others are modern. The hallways are lined with striking photographs of famous people. Each floor has an area by the elevator that has coffee in the AM, newspapers, and a little chalk board with all the days info hand written (stocks, scores, weather, etc.) In the afternoon, they put out tea and candies. There's funky seating in the common areas, and pieces of art - all unique. All the rooms have what they call a shag bag - has a rubber, some fruit scented sliquid (read: motion lotion), etc. The suites have themes (shagadelic is one.) In the Lobby, you have expanded seating areas, complete with nice coffee table books. Trays, and other large glass devices are filled with candy.
The Hotel's restaurant at ZaZa is Dragonfly. Dragonfly is one of the hot places to go in Dallas. It serves as the Hotel's restaurant during the morning and day, and at night it becomes an ultra chic club that is standing room only, long lines to enter, etc. That is why we were given our 48 hour (the length of our stay) passport to Coolsville. The card, not to be confused with our key, this was an actual card, would get us into the hotel (bypassing any lines) at night, and preferential treatment in Dragonfly. At night the Urban Oasis (read: pool) becomes the outside patio area of Dragonfly. Again, we'd never been but in the ultra hip Dallas world, Dragonfly is the shit. All of the above is running through my head as we go in the out door to check out Dragonfly and the Urban Oasis. I have heard a lot about Dragonfly, but, being a 37 year old Husband/Father, I hadn't dusted my ass down to Uptown in months. All I knew about Dragonfly was hearsay. When I saw it with my very own eyes, I was shocked. It was small. The pool (damn! Urban Oasis - they'd shitcan me in day if I worked there for not getting that straight) was the size you might find in a friends backyard. Again, VERY nice, but not big. Funky and large beach balls floated in the hot tub, water fall. Smaller ones floated in the pool. Extremely nice lounge chairs and sofas surround the pool, which reminded me of Ozzy Osbourne's if you've ever seen that show on MTV. The restaurant was small too. Which again surprised me, based on all the stories I've heard about it - but made sense considering the size of the hotel. Normally in Dallas, bigger is better. Not at ZaZa. Better is better.
Curiously, after a few moments of gawking around the Urban Oasis like the touristas we were (are), and less than 30 minutes in Coolsville, we decided it was time for splitsville up McKinney Avenue. We went to the Idle Rich Pub, and sat on the patio. As we sat in the late afternoon sunshine, quaffing our pints and watching the denizens of Uptown scurry to and fro we started talking. Care to guess the subject? Survey says: Our Boy(s). Those nearby would only have to eavesdrop on our gripping conversations (toilet training, removal of the plug, discipline philosophy) to realize that we were in fact, tourists, on a two day pass from the 'burbs. Sitting with all the hipsters of Uptown, I felt, well, un-cool, and wondered if our in-town weekend at ZaZa would be a folly? My last lucid though before the beer kicked in was this: Can the Trendoid at the front desk of ZaZa revoke our passports to Coolsville?
A few pints later I didn't care, as the clock approached 7:00 - we decided to bug out of the Pub and walk back (some would say stumble) to Coolsville. The plan was to see what was shaking at ZaZa and then retire to our room and relax before we went to dinner. We were curious if ZaZa was hopping yet. We also both needed to bathe. We'd been to the Texas State Fair earlier that day, and well, the Fair is pretty damn dirty. As we rounded the hacks in front of ZaZa (The Hotel is on a small side street off of McKinney for those that are into directions, thus you have to walk off McKinney and down a long wall - where the cabs are lined up - and then you turn into the Courtyard, circular valet drive - you cannot park your own car at ZaZa - they charge you $18 a night for the pleasure), I immediately noticed that the place still looked like a fancy Hotel. Complete with goofy October decorations - and OU/Texas decorations from the previous weekend. No lines of people trying to get into the place. It was pretty subdued. Granted, it was only 7:00. Most of the Prada People, like vampires, only come out after dark. As we entered the front door, greeted by ZaZa's version of Carlton (if you dig that Rhoda reference) - I was a bit sad that no one wanted to see my passport.
After showers (note the "S" as in two - much to my chagrin) we dressed and decided to yet again, split Coolsville and head back up to McKinney Ave. We decided to hit S&D Oyster for dinner. After a very light dinner and with a plethora of bars, restaurants, clubs, etc at our disposal on McKinney Ave...we made the exciting choice of going back to the Idle Rich Pub. Living on the EDGE! Actually, it was nice. Again, we sat and drank some pints and had a little more food and talked. This time it wasn't all Boy(s) - but they still took up a good chunk of our conversation and thoughts. Not all of which were in the warm and fuzzy vein. For instance at the clock hit 8:15 - I made a mental note that I wasn't having to give the Elder Boy a BATH! Go ME! Chug a pint!!!!! Wow, we're actually NOT there...high five! It was nice having beers with just my Lovely Bride. I couldn't even remember the last time it was just us in such a carefree setting.
TO many pints later, we stumble back to Hotel ZaZa. The clock was fast approaching 11:00, and this time even before we get to the Hacks - still on McKinney Ave. - I could tell things had changed at Coolsville. The place was NUTS! Cars stacked deep trying to get into the circular driveway, and valet. People walking up from parking off street. FINALLY - the place was living up to its hype. As we rounded the corner into the Hotels driveway and Dragonfly's entrance - we were hit with a massive line. I'm talking Studio 54-esque line. People dressed to kill, waiting to get into this hallow place. Burly man at the velvet rope keeping the throng out, while letting a few people into the inter sanctum. Even in my likkered up state I was ready and quickly whipped out my Coolsville passport - and quickly and, by golly, cooly entered ZaZa. The others on line, left in my dust, must have wondered -who's that cat? probably not. But we were in, and about to see Dragonfly, in all its Friday night glory for ourselves.
Until next time...To be Continued - Part III
Monday, October 25, 2004
Lionel Richie is full of Shit!
Easy, like Sunday morning? Our weekend was not ever close! For those keeping score at home, Team Tinsley had a crappy weekend. Figuratively. Literally. As I BLOGGED last time my Lovely Bride did not have the Taiwan Flu which she can catch from (D)runco. She had some sort of bug. I slept on sofa city Thursday night in an effort to not get infected. Didn't work. I got it too. Real hard. I had fever. Everyone else had diarrhea. Having the shits is bad enough for most anyone, add Boy(s) and diapers, and well its not real fun. But (knock on wood, pray, sacrifice a goat!) the Boy(s) seem to only have that affliction and not the fever, for that, my glass is half full. Enough of my pity party. Let's get to the good stuff. Funny - not necessarily like on TV - more in the when it rains it pours vein - thankfully I'm (read: You) reading about it, and its not happening to me.
Suki (our cat) is bulimic. She often comes inside in the AM, runs over to her food bowl, meows incessantly about the level of food (it can be full, and she'll still complain,) then gorges herself. After that she'll go get some water, and then hits the food bowl again (repeating the above, crying, etc.) and eats even more. Then, about 50% of the time, she'll start making her funky, "Oh shit, I'm going to puke" meow - and then, she pukes. Usually in the hall. Business as usual at Team Tinsley. I grab some Brawny and clean up the puke, curse Suki, who gives me an insolent look and goes back outside.
Coincidentally this past Friday AM, as Carter leaves the front of the house, the Little Warrior decides he wants his Mommy. He starts his head down robot crawl after her. Only trouble is, there is a huge mound of Suki puke between him and his Mommy. You can see where this is going Dear Reader, the Little Warrior blazed on through the puke, loses his traction, and, falls into it. Nice. Frustrated by his spin-out, he flails around a bit more, before being rescued by his Mommy. Friday morning fun.
Saturday. I'm zombie fever boy. Laying in bed. The Little Warrior starts stirring at 6am. This is normal behavior for him. We should get him a paper route he wakes up so early. Point. We let him play in his crib until he becomes bored, and annouces (by crying) that he's ready to get out of his bed. In my feverish haze, I reckon he played for another 30 minutes or so, before my Lovely Bride answered his call...problem was he has the shits...and shit everywhere. Complete diaper failure. Not knowing any better, he rolled around, played, painted, etc. in said shit for 30 minutes. Good morning sunshine.
We all seem to be doing better in time for the work-week of course. Which is good. I'd hate for the Boy(s) to get the funk and be sick over Halloween.
Until I BLOG again...Boo.
Suki (our cat) is bulimic. She often comes inside in the AM, runs over to her food bowl, meows incessantly about the level of food (it can be full, and she'll still complain,) then gorges herself. After that she'll go get some water, and then hits the food bowl again (repeating the above, crying, etc.) and eats even more. Then, about 50% of the time, she'll start making her funky, "Oh shit, I'm going to puke" meow - and then, she pukes. Usually in the hall. Business as usual at Team Tinsley. I grab some Brawny and clean up the puke, curse Suki, who gives me an insolent look and goes back outside.
Coincidentally this past Friday AM, as Carter leaves the front of the house, the Little Warrior decides he wants his Mommy. He starts his head down robot crawl after her. Only trouble is, there is a huge mound of Suki puke between him and his Mommy. You can see where this is going Dear Reader, the Little Warrior blazed on through the puke, loses his traction, and, falls into it. Nice. Frustrated by his spin-out, he flails around a bit more, before being rescued by his Mommy. Friday morning fun.
Saturday. I'm zombie fever boy. Laying in bed. The Little Warrior starts stirring at 6am. This is normal behavior for him. We should get him a paper route he wakes up so early. Point. We let him play in his crib until he becomes bored, and annouces (by crying) that he's ready to get out of his bed. In my feverish haze, I reckon he played for another 30 minutes or so, before my Lovely Bride answered his call...problem was he has the shits...and shit everywhere. Complete diaper failure. Not knowing any better, he rolled around, played, painted, etc. in said shit for 30 minutes. Good morning sunshine.
We all seem to be doing better in time for the work-week of course. Which is good. I'd hate for the Boy(s) to get the funk and be sick over Halloween.
Until I BLOG again...Boo.
Friday, October 22, 2004
M..... F.....!
For those few misguided souls out there that read this here BLOG and think I'm Father of the Year material (you obviously don't know me personally) I have a story for you on what a flawed human being I truly am. In Polly want a #@$%ing cracker? I BLOGGED about my quest to not curse in front of the Boy(s). I reported in that entry that I was doing a fine job. Well, Dear Readers, I failed miserably last night.
It was Thursday night, and I've had a tough week. Long work days, and on Wednesday My Lovely Bride had (D)runco which meant I had Boy(s) duty by my lonesome. Tired. Beat. That was me.
Back to Thursday - I was looking forward to Lap Sit. No, I wasn't hitting the Titty Bars. I'm talking me and the Elder Boy at the Richardson Public Library from 7-7:30pm for a reading program. A Dad and Lad thing. I really dig it. He does too. Anyway, come Thursday my Lovely Bride was not feeling well. At first I suspected the Taiwan Flu. She did have (D)runco the previous night. I was wrong. She truly was sick, and was having a tough time. Being a typical male bastard, my first thought was how this was going to impact my already grueling week at work. Would I have to stay home and help? What great timing. After I did the mental rubber band on the wrist (if you are interested in this curious habit, email me, I won't bore everyone else) and figured I'd take both Wyatt and Ethan to Lap Sit. My Lovely Bride did it x2. Why couldn't I. What I didn't factor into this equation was the fact that the Elder Boy liked the fact that it was just us. No Wyatt. Hmmm. We discussed (Lovely Bride and I) just laying low and not mentioning it, and seeing if she thought she could watch Wyatt and if not, Ethan wouldn't remember and we'd do something else and give her a break. Ethan not remember? Were we nuts? The kid has the memory of an elephant. Sure enough after dinner, unprovoked, he starts talkin about the Library and Toula (Toula is the star turtle - as in puppet - at this Lap Sit.) My Lovely Bride didn't want to deny her firstborn some alone time with yours truly - and like the great Mom she is, sucked it up and said she'd watch Wyatt. We should go. BUT, I needed to change Ethan's diaper before we left as it hadn't been changed for hours. Ok. No sweat. Except, Ethan was now outside playing and didn't want to extricate himself from that activity. Each time I asked him if he was ready, he'd give me his standard five more minutes. The kid can't tell time people. He doesn't own a watch. I've never seen him look at a clock. My point, 5 minutes can turn into 30 quick. It was 6:40 by this time and I had to change a diaper, and get shoes on him. Not as easy as it sounds...trust me. Each minute that passed, I'm getting more and more uptight about being late. I know. Uptight about Lap Sit what a dink! But that's me. I finally wrangle him into the house and get him on the chair to change his diaper. Tired. Beat. I strip off the diaper expecting to find just urine. Wrong. Poop. Poop that had been there long enough to have given him a wicked diaper rash. Which for those not used to changing shitty diapers, meant a BATTLE ROYAL to wipe the shit off of him as he screams and kicks (because it does hurt) - not fun for him, or me. Factor in the tired, the beat, the shit, the rash which upset me because I don't like to see my Boy(s) hurt, and the fact that nearing three years old he won't tell us when he's shit himself, no matter how often we tell him that keeping it there causes the rash - I was extremely frustrated and agitated and well, the first thing I said was this: Mother fucker.
I didn't yell or scream. I said it in my normal voice. Actually in more of a sad sack, dejected, beat sort of voice.
Ethan. Laying there. Naked. Shit all over him. Diaper rash. Smiles at me as the clock does the quarter to the hour (6:45 - remember my uptightness about getting there by 7pm) chime thing and says...Mother Fucker.
Until I BLOG again...Rubber band on the wrist x100 for saying MF in front of Ethan!
It was Thursday night, and I've had a tough week. Long work days, and on Wednesday My Lovely Bride had (D)runco which meant I had Boy(s) duty by my lonesome. Tired. Beat. That was me.
Back to Thursday - I was looking forward to Lap Sit. No, I wasn't hitting the Titty Bars. I'm talking me and the Elder Boy at the Richardson Public Library from 7-7:30pm for a reading program. A Dad and Lad thing. I really dig it. He does too. Anyway, come Thursday my Lovely Bride was not feeling well. At first I suspected the Taiwan Flu. She did have (D)runco the previous night. I was wrong. She truly was sick, and was having a tough time. Being a typical male bastard, my first thought was how this was going to impact my already grueling week at work. Would I have to stay home and help? What great timing. After I did the mental rubber band on the wrist (if you are interested in this curious habit, email me, I won't bore everyone else) and figured I'd take both Wyatt and Ethan to Lap Sit. My Lovely Bride did it x2. Why couldn't I. What I didn't factor into this equation was the fact that the Elder Boy liked the fact that it was just us. No Wyatt. Hmmm. We discussed (Lovely Bride and I) just laying low and not mentioning it, and seeing if she thought she could watch Wyatt and if not, Ethan wouldn't remember and we'd do something else and give her a break. Ethan not remember? Were we nuts? The kid has the memory of an elephant. Sure enough after dinner, unprovoked, he starts talkin about the Library and Toula (Toula is the star turtle - as in puppet - at this Lap Sit.) My Lovely Bride didn't want to deny her firstborn some alone time with yours truly - and like the great Mom she is, sucked it up and said she'd watch Wyatt. We should go. BUT, I needed to change Ethan's diaper before we left as it hadn't been changed for hours. Ok. No sweat. Except, Ethan was now outside playing and didn't want to extricate himself from that activity. Each time I asked him if he was ready, he'd give me his standard five more minutes. The kid can't tell time people. He doesn't own a watch. I've never seen him look at a clock. My point, 5 minutes can turn into 30 quick. It was 6:40 by this time and I had to change a diaper, and get shoes on him. Not as easy as it sounds...trust me. Each minute that passed, I'm getting more and more uptight about being late. I know. Uptight about Lap Sit what a dink! But that's me. I finally wrangle him into the house and get him on the chair to change his diaper. Tired. Beat. I strip off the diaper expecting to find just urine. Wrong. Poop. Poop that had been there long enough to have given him a wicked diaper rash. Which for those not used to changing shitty diapers, meant a BATTLE ROYAL to wipe the shit off of him as he screams and kicks (because it does hurt) - not fun for him, or me. Factor in the tired, the beat, the shit, the rash which upset me because I don't like to see my Boy(s) hurt, and the fact that nearing three years old he won't tell us when he's shit himself, no matter how often we tell him that keeping it there causes the rash - I was extremely frustrated and agitated and well, the first thing I said was this: Mother fucker.
I didn't yell or scream. I said it in my normal voice. Actually in more of a sad sack, dejected, beat sort of voice.
Ethan. Laying there. Naked. Shit all over him. Diaper rash. Smiles at me as the clock does the quarter to the hour (6:45 - remember my uptightness about getting there by 7pm) chime thing and says...Mother Fucker.
Until I BLOG again...Rubber band on the wrist x100 for saying MF in front of Ethan!
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Like Fonzie...
As most who read this here BLOG know, I'm 37. I don't feel 37. Don't think I look, or act, 37. Not that being 37 is bad. I think of 37 the way I did as a 21 year old - at 37 a person is heading down hill toward the big 40! Fast. Gaining speed. Middle age up ahead - Population me! Be that as it may, if you asked me if I was still cool (like Fonzie, not like Dazed and Confused) I felt the answer would be a resounding correctamundo. I thought myself fairly hip in a thirtysomething sort of way. Or so I thought until my lovely bride and I decided to check out of suburbia by checking into Hotel ZaZa in the tony Uptown area of Dallas. Granny and Pops (read: Jerr and Joyce Tinsley) came up to do Boy(s) Patrol - and we were off for two nights sans Boy(s). It wasn't a lot of time, and paled in comparison to our original plan (Northern California Wine Country Trip,) but two nights with no bath duty, diaper changing, kiddy spoons, bottles, etc. sounded pretty damn good.
We got off to a bumpy start by experiencing some typical Friday afternoon Dallas rush hour. I guess the traffic gods wanted us to think we were traveling farther than we actually were since the 15 minute drive turned into 60. By the time we hit Uptown, I was uptight.
First clue we were in coolsville happened at check in, when we got what I perceived as insouciance from the trendy front desk person. At first, dressed all in black, he was warm, and friendly - sunny.
"Hello Sir, Welcome to Hotel ZaZa".
I gave him our name and he did the rat-a-tat-tat on his computer. As our booking info came up on the screen his sunny disposition turned partly cloudy.
"Oh. You booked through Hotels.com."
I was still tense from the beating of a drive and had to fight the temptation to grab him by his perfectly coifed hair. Hell, If life were like the movies, I would have said, "Don't push me, I'm damn close to the edge!" Alas, it is not, and I just gave him a wordless nod and prayed that we wouldn't be in the custodian suite.
A few taps on his keyboard and he handed over our keys (which are now cards, but they still call them keys) and our 48 hour passport to Coolsville (more on that later.) Juan whisked over at the ready to take us upstairs. I soon realize that my custodian suite worry was, as usual, unfounded. I doubt there is a bad room in ZaZa. Juan led us into our room which looked stellar to me, and started unloading our bags when the wife took issue with the room. It only had a jungle shower, no bath. She wanted a full on bath. She got on the blower and called (I'm assuming trendoid) the front desk who quickly moved us to another room on the same floor that had a bath, shower, etc. Very nice. Make no mistake from my wiseass ramblings, Hotel ZaZa is NICE. I highly recommend it in spite of whatever fun I might make at its expense. Actually my expense, since it is EXPENSIVE! Trendoid can give me all the shit he like, I payed 50% less through Hotels.com than I would have if I had booked direct to ZaZa. Juan quickly hooked us up with the new room and even went downstairs to get our new cards (keys). As he handed them over, I had my usual, oh shit, what do I tip internal dialogue. I hate to tip. Not that I hate to let go of the money, its more about not knowing the appropriate amount to tip. I probably end up over tipping in an effort to look like I know what I'm doing, thus making it perfectly clear that I in fact don't. It is pretty messed up actually, the amount of stress I put myself through over something so silly as a tip for Juan the bellboy. I tipped him ($5) and Juan wished us a nice stay, and closed the door (temporarily) on our suburbian lifestyle. Vacation! We were both silent As we stood in the middle of Coolsville, taking in the nice room, and thinking of the long weekend that lay ahead. After a few moments of thoughtful reflection, still silent, I started to think (and I'd bet you a sixer my Lovely Bride was too):
Now what?
Until I BLOG again...Part II
We got off to a bumpy start by experiencing some typical Friday afternoon Dallas rush hour. I guess the traffic gods wanted us to think we were traveling farther than we actually were since the 15 minute drive turned into 60. By the time we hit Uptown, I was uptight.
First clue we were in coolsville happened at check in, when we got what I perceived as insouciance from the trendy front desk person. At first, dressed all in black, he was warm, and friendly - sunny.
"Hello Sir, Welcome to Hotel ZaZa".
I gave him our name and he did the rat-a-tat-tat on his computer. As our booking info came up on the screen his sunny disposition turned partly cloudy.
"Oh. You booked through Hotels.com."
I was still tense from the beating of a drive and had to fight the temptation to grab him by his perfectly coifed hair. Hell, If life were like the movies, I would have said, "Don't push me, I'm damn close to the edge!" Alas, it is not, and I just gave him a wordless nod and prayed that we wouldn't be in the custodian suite.
A few taps on his keyboard and he handed over our keys (which are now cards, but they still call them keys) and our 48 hour passport to Coolsville (more on that later.) Juan whisked over at the ready to take us upstairs. I soon realize that my custodian suite worry was, as usual, unfounded. I doubt there is a bad room in ZaZa. Juan led us into our room which looked stellar to me, and started unloading our bags when the wife took issue with the room. It only had a jungle shower, no bath. She wanted a full on bath. She got on the blower and called (I'm assuming trendoid) the front desk who quickly moved us to another room on the same floor that had a bath, shower, etc. Very nice. Make no mistake from my wiseass ramblings, Hotel ZaZa is NICE. I highly recommend it in spite of whatever fun I might make at its expense. Actually my expense, since it is EXPENSIVE! Trendoid can give me all the shit he like, I payed 50% less through Hotels.com than I would have if I had booked direct to ZaZa. Juan quickly hooked us up with the new room and even went downstairs to get our new cards (keys). As he handed them over, I had my usual, oh shit, what do I tip internal dialogue. I hate to tip. Not that I hate to let go of the money, its more about not knowing the appropriate amount to tip. I probably end up over tipping in an effort to look like I know what I'm doing, thus making it perfectly clear that I in fact don't. It is pretty messed up actually, the amount of stress I put myself through over something so silly as a tip for Juan the bellboy. I tipped him ($5) and Juan wished us a nice stay, and closed the door (temporarily) on our suburbian lifestyle. Vacation! We were both silent As we stood in the middle of Coolsville, taking in the nice room, and thinking of the long weekend that lay ahead. After a few moments of thoughtful reflection, still silent, I started to think (and I'd bet you a sixer my Lovely Bride was too):
Now what?
Until I BLOG again...Part II
Monday, October 11, 2004
Elvis is everywhere
Regular readers of this here BLOG might remember my entry about the second child conundrum. When you have the first kid, there's a ton of stuff you can read about parenthood, what to expect when expecting, etc. As far as the second (I'm sure its ever worse for the third, fourth - but - KNOCK ON WOOD - we don't want to go there) child, nothing. I retract that. There's a ton on sibling rivalry, but that's about it. No books (that I've seen.) Websites. Nothing!
You do get war stories from those that have gone before you. Parents with kid(s). They all say the same thing, for the most part. That it will be easier the second time around. You and your signifigant other will be more laid back. You don't worry as much. That sort of thing. They are right, too. It is true. However, what they fail to warn you about is the strange guilt you will experience as you graduated from Married with Child, to Children. No one I know ever mentioned this to me and my Lovely Bride. Perhaps, most choose not to admit it, fear that people will think them bad parents? Let me explain, and then you can make up your own mind. Pull up a chair. Let me pontificate.
Again, the advice about being more laid back with the second kid, is true. You don't wig out with every little cough, or bump, etc. You've been there before, know how fast it goes, are more mindful of the experiences. Don't confuse that with necessarily enjoying them. Anyone who tells you that they love the infant stage, complete with with three or four night time feedings, diaper changes, etc. is full of shit. That part is hard, the first, second, third, etc. time. The second time you just don't sweat it as much. You know it will come to pass, and have a frame of reference for what is next.
The thing that you aren't prepared for is the guilt you feel because you don't have the same amount of time, energy, etc. to give to the second kid as you did the first. You also have less time to give to the first now that the second is on the ground. Hell, if you want to get scary honest, some of the time you don't even have the desire. It doesn't mean that you don't love the #2 as much as #1 - you do. It just comes down to time. You have to divide it by two when the second kid comes along, and that is hard physically, emotionally, and mentally. Factor in the evil need to compare (not kids, the experience) and you have said guilt with a capital G,
Think I'm full of shit? I have an exercise for you. For parents with two kids, (those sans kids, contact your breeder friends so you can play along at home) gather up all the pictures you have for Kid #1 (#1 being a chronological distinction) from birth to 1 year. Do the same for Kid #2. I'd bet my beer money that you have a substantial stack in the Kid #1 pile. Kid #2 pile? Probably not so many.
I'm not trying to make anyone feel guilty, or more guilt. My heavy handed point is that it is one of those strange things that you never think of when you think of having kid(s). I never worried about it, and I worry about everything. The thing I worried about the most prior to the Little Warrior hitting the ground, turned out, to be a total non-issue.
My big fear was how could I love the new Baby as much as I loved Ethan. It was just unthinkable to me how I could have such an intense bond with another child. I think a big part of it, for me anyway, was that I was an only child. I had no frame of reference with siblings, etc. It was voodoo to me. Just couldn't get my head around it, until the Little Warrior graced us with his appearance on December 28, 2003.
I quickly discovered that I would love Wyatt as much as I love Ethan. All that worry (as usual) was a complete waste of time and energy. I love Ethan/Wyatt more than anything. Which, as I'm sure you realize is sort of contradictory. How can I love Wyatt more than anything if I love Ethan as much? This concept actually trips up the Elder Boy as he can't fathom that we (read: Parents) can love him as much as we do, and Wyatt too. He feels (or so all the instruction manuals say) there is only X amount of love to give and if you give it all on one, well there's none left for two. Funny (maybe sad, actually) that my previous worry was kind of grounded in the same thought process. If Ethan or anyone for that matter, asks how I can love them both more than anything, the only explanation I have is Elvis.
Elvis?
Yes, Elvis.
Dig this.
If you asked me to pick my favorite Elvis (much like the country did in 1992 when they had to vote which era Elvis would be on his stamp.) I couldn't.
I love the young Hillbilly Cat Elvis the same as I love the old White Jumpsuit Elvis. Elvis the Pelvis ripping through Mystery Train. Genius. Elvis a bit overweight, karate kicking his way through Kentucky Rain. Genius. I can't pick. I love the both equally - they are both so different, yet, the same. That Dear Reader, is how I feel about the Boy(s). I love them both to the nth degree - more than I could ever explain here, even with the help of the King.
Until I BLOG again...Man o man, What I want you to see, Is that the big E's, Inside of you and me!
You do get war stories from those that have gone before you. Parents with kid(s). They all say the same thing, for the most part. That it will be easier the second time around. You and your signifigant other will be more laid back. You don't worry as much. That sort of thing. They are right, too. It is true. However, what they fail to warn you about is the strange guilt you will experience as you graduated from Married with Child, to Children. No one I know ever mentioned this to me and my Lovely Bride. Perhaps, most choose not to admit it, fear that people will think them bad parents? Let me explain, and then you can make up your own mind. Pull up a chair. Let me pontificate.
Again, the advice about being more laid back with the second kid, is true. You don't wig out with every little cough, or bump, etc. You've been there before, know how fast it goes, are more mindful of the experiences. Don't confuse that with necessarily enjoying them. Anyone who tells you that they love the infant stage, complete with with three or four night time feedings, diaper changes, etc. is full of shit. That part is hard, the first, second, third, etc. time. The second time you just don't sweat it as much. You know it will come to pass, and have a frame of reference for what is next.
The thing that you aren't prepared for is the guilt you feel because you don't have the same amount of time, energy, etc. to give to the second kid as you did the first. You also have less time to give to the first now that the second is on the ground. Hell, if you want to get scary honest, some of the time you don't even have the desire. It doesn't mean that you don't love the #2 as much as #1 - you do. It just comes down to time. You have to divide it by two when the second kid comes along, and that is hard physically, emotionally, and mentally. Factor in the evil need to compare (not kids, the experience) and you have said guilt with a capital G,
Think I'm full of shit? I have an exercise for you. For parents with two kids, (those sans kids, contact your breeder friends so you can play along at home) gather up all the pictures you have for Kid #1 (#1 being a chronological distinction) from birth to 1 year. Do the same for Kid #2. I'd bet my beer money that you have a substantial stack in the Kid #1 pile. Kid #2 pile? Probably not so many.
I'm not trying to make anyone feel guilty, or more guilt. My heavy handed point is that it is one of those strange things that you never think of when you think of having kid(s). I never worried about it, and I worry about everything. The thing I worried about the most prior to the Little Warrior hitting the ground, turned out, to be a total non-issue.
My big fear was how could I love the new Baby as much as I loved Ethan. It was just unthinkable to me how I could have such an intense bond with another child. I think a big part of it, for me anyway, was that I was an only child. I had no frame of reference with siblings, etc. It was voodoo to me. Just couldn't get my head around it, until the Little Warrior graced us with his appearance on December 28, 2003.
I quickly discovered that I would love Wyatt as much as I love Ethan. All that worry (as usual) was a complete waste of time and energy. I love Ethan/Wyatt more than anything. Which, as I'm sure you realize is sort of contradictory. How can I love Wyatt more than anything if I love Ethan as much? This concept actually trips up the Elder Boy as he can't fathom that we (read: Parents) can love him as much as we do, and Wyatt too. He feels (or so all the instruction manuals say) there is only X amount of love to give and if you give it all on one, well there's none left for two. Funny (maybe sad, actually) that my previous worry was kind of grounded in the same thought process. If Ethan or anyone for that matter, asks how I can love them both more than anything, the only explanation I have is Elvis.
Elvis?
Yes, Elvis.
Dig this.
If you asked me to pick my favorite Elvis (much like the country did in 1992 when they had to vote which era Elvis would be on his stamp.) I couldn't.
I love the young Hillbilly Cat Elvis the same as I love the old White Jumpsuit Elvis. Elvis the Pelvis ripping through Mystery Train. Genius. Elvis a bit overweight, karate kicking his way through Kentucky Rain. Genius. I can't pick. I love the both equally - they are both so different, yet, the same. That Dear Reader, is how I feel about the Boy(s). I love them both to the nth degree - more than I could ever explain here, even with the help of the King.
Until I BLOG again...Man o man, What I want you to see, Is that the big E's, Inside of you and me!
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Do a little dance...
Pretty much since he has been able to walk, the Elder Boy has had the wonderful habit of dancing in front of the TV. Actually, he does it in front of the TV to certain theme songs. Lately, he's added singing to the mix. It is a classic.
We have a whole series of Hard Hat Harry tapes. Hard Hat Harry is a character in said videos, actually he's a (insert the theme) genie. For example, two little kids are coming home from school, walking around a construction site, and find a thermos. They open it - BAM, Hard Hat Harry the Construction Genie appears to grant them three wishes. They want to learn about construction sites, equipment, etc, and Hard Hat Harry knows all about that. We have HHH Videos on Police, Boats, Construction, and Trains. Each one has a snappy theme song that plays after the kids discover the genie. After we establish our two kids (its always two kids?), and the Genie, they always fade to the snappy theme song that plays much like a music video for that particular genre.
Take the train one. Kids are walking along a rail road track (great life lesson for young kids, walk along a train track!) and find an old signal man's light, rub it, BAM. Hard Hat Harry (but since it is trains, he's wearing a conductor's hat - which doesn't make sense to me, since he's supposed to be Hard Hat Harry - he should always have the Hard Hat.) Fade to the train theme song, two minutes of snappy song, with trains trains trains on screen. Ethan goes ape shit for this. Loves it. He'll sit and patiently watch the intro, but as soon as the song starts, he's up and dancing like a whirling dervish in front of the TV. It is, for me, pure joy to watch him do this. Funny too. As I wrote a few graphs back, he has now added singing to his act. He doesn't sing along to the whole song, he repeats the last line of a verse. Example.
TV/VIDEO:
We're riding on the rails...
ETHAN:
...rails...
TV/VIDEO:
In a big old steam locomotive..
ETHAN:
...locomotive...
You get the picture. He does it on all the videos, and dances non-stop. Often, when the song part ends, and it gets back to the gripping story line, Ethan will politely request to watch it again. Rewind. Repeat. Other times, one dance is sufficient and he gets sucked up in the story.
Again, it is pure joy to watch my Eldest Boy dance, because, well, the music moves him and he's firmly in the moment. One down note to the above, and the main reason I want to BLOG about this (posterity people - so we don't forget in the Buck Rogers future) is that lately he has become a bit self conscious when he dances and sings. At times he'll get upset if you watch him to intently. I'm sure it is just part of growing up, becoming more socially aware of what others think, and having reservations about yourself, etc. I know he's not yet 3 - I shouldn't be a dork and over think it. But, deep down I realizes that this singular habit of his, will more than likely fade as he gets older because of the self conscious thing. He might do it, but he won't do it in front of me is my point.
If Ethan or the Little Warrior ever solicit my advice on dancing..."Dad, how do we dance?" I have my answer ready and waiting. I'll tell the Boy(s) this..."with abandon!"
Until I BLOG again...Get down tonight.
We have a whole series of Hard Hat Harry tapes. Hard Hat Harry is a character in said videos, actually he's a (insert the theme) genie. For example, two little kids are coming home from school, walking around a construction site, and find a thermos. They open it - BAM, Hard Hat Harry the Construction Genie appears to grant them three wishes. They want to learn about construction sites, equipment, etc, and Hard Hat Harry knows all about that. We have HHH Videos on Police, Boats, Construction, and Trains. Each one has a snappy theme song that plays after the kids discover the genie. After we establish our two kids (its always two kids?), and the Genie, they always fade to the snappy theme song that plays much like a music video for that particular genre.
Take the train one. Kids are walking along a rail road track (great life lesson for young kids, walk along a train track!) and find an old signal man's light, rub it, BAM. Hard Hat Harry (but since it is trains, he's wearing a conductor's hat - which doesn't make sense to me, since he's supposed to be Hard Hat Harry - he should always have the Hard Hat.) Fade to the train theme song, two minutes of snappy song, with trains trains trains on screen. Ethan goes ape shit for this. Loves it. He'll sit and patiently watch the intro, but as soon as the song starts, he's up and dancing like a whirling dervish in front of the TV. It is, for me, pure joy to watch him do this. Funny too. As I wrote a few graphs back, he has now added singing to his act. He doesn't sing along to the whole song, he repeats the last line of a verse. Example.
TV/VIDEO:
We're riding on the rails...
ETHAN:
...rails...
TV/VIDEO:
In a big old steam locomotive..
ETHAN:
...locomotive...
You get the picture. He does it on all the videos, and dances non-stop. Often, when the song part ends, and it gets back to the gripping story line, Ethan will politely request to watch it again. Rewind. Repeat. Other times, one dance is sufficient and he gets sucked up in the story.
Again, it is pure joy to watch my Eldest Boy dance, because, well, the music moves him and he's firmly in the moment. One down note to the above, and the main reason I want to BLOG about this (posterity people - so we don't forget in the Buck Rogers future) is that lately he has become a bit self conscious when he dances and sings. At times he'll get upset if you watch him to intently. I'm sure it is just part of growing up, becoming more socially aware of what others think, and having reservations about yourself, etc. I know he's not yet 3 - I shouldn't be a dork and over think it. But, deep down I realizes that this singular habit of his, will more than likely fade as he gets older because of the self conscious thing. He might do it, but he won't do it in front of me is my point.
If Ethan or the Little Warrior ever solicit my advice on dancing..."Dad, how do we dance?" I have my answer ready and waiting. I'll tell the Boy(s) this..."with abandon!"
Until I BLOG again...Get down tonight.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
9+33+405+446=893
The Little Warrior is 9 months today. Funny, how we count months for the little guys, the first two years, and then it just goes away. I guess there are others out there as math challenged as me. Kind of hard to keep up after you pass the 24 month mark. That is the mason dixon line on the whole month vs. years as far as I can tell. But, what do I know??? Imagine if you asked me my age and I said, I'm 446 months on Tuesday! You'd think me queer (strange, not homosexual.) You'd probably think the same thing if you asked the Elder Boy's age and I said he is...(and quickly started to compute how many months he was by counting on my fingers and toes - an Okie abacus if you will)...33 months last Friday! We just say 2 1/2, which isn't actually the truth, he's closer to 3 years at this point. But I think your age is one of the few times you don't round up, if that makes sense. But, again, what do I know, I'm a dumbass in the math department. I flunked geometry. I can't even spell a-l-g-e-b-r-a without looking it up first. I do know this...for those playing along at home.
At the 9 month mark the Little Warrior is just a few ounces south of 21 pounds. He is 29" long (or tall now that he pulls up), and his head is 18". He ranges from the 75 percentile to the 50 percentile with those figures.
Until I BLOG again....AAAAAAAAAAA (do a War Cry in his honor!)
At the 9 month mark the Little Warrior is just a few ounces south of 21 pounds. He is 29" long (or tall now that he pulls up), and his head is 18". He ranges from the 75 percentile to the 50 percentile with those figures.
Until I BLOG again....AAAAAAAAAAA (do a War Cry in his honor!)
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Got a Photograph, picture of...
Shutterfly action for August/September for the Team.
Until I BLOG again...Oh, look what you’ve done to this rock ’n’ roll clown.
Until I BLOG again...Oh, look what you’ve done to this rock ’n’ roll clown.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Goodbye Papa please pray for me.
My Grandpa Gentry died 19 years ago today. I was 18. This is the flip year. A bigger anniversary than say, a 10 year or 20 year, for me at least. Its also Gordon Tipton's Bday (read: childhood friend.) Strange days indeed to be hit with those two memories as I drove to work this AM and heard the date. I don't want this to be a morbid BLOG. So, in my Grandpa's honor, I'll tell a funny story about him. Illustrates the kind of guy he was - and It also involves squirrel(s), and as you probably know if you read this here BLOG, I'm obsessed with the squirrel(s).
Mom and Pop went to Hot Springs, Arkansas most spring breaks when I was a young Boy. I stayed with my Grandpa and Grandma Gentry in the Hall Edition when I was to young to stay by myself. Since I was not in school - it was spring break, I dicked around outside most of the time. My Grandpa had an old BB Gun that he used to shoot sparrows mainly. He had a war against the sparrows, similar to mine with the squirrel(s). The sparrows got into his martin house. Martins were good (they ate bugs), sparrows bad. Anyway, I'd take this old BB Gun, that didn't have much power, and shoot it at shit. Mainly the fence. That fence still stands actually, and I'm always amazed to see the old BBs stuck in the wood. Like a time machine. Anyway, I was grab assing around with the BB Gun and across the yard in this HUGE tree in the neighbors yard - Steve's yard - was a squirrel. The squirrel was running down a big branch. Fast. Doing squirrel things. He had to be 300 yards or more, and then, 100 or so up in the tree. I whipped the BB gun around and did this John Wayne-esque hip shot. Blindly. Deadeye Dick. The squirrel (remember - it was running) dropped like a ton of bricks. The BB Gun wasn't powerful. From 300 yards away I doubt it would break skin on a person. But, for whatever reason, this freak shot hit the squirrel just perfectly in the head, or eye, who knows and killed him dead dead dead.
I freaked.
Steve (the neighbor) liked the squirrel(s). He actually fed them. If he had a problem with the squirrel(s) he'd be the kind of guy that would trap and then relocate them. He wasn't a tree hugger per se, hell there probably still isn't a Whole Foods in the entire state of Oklahoma. But, my point. He liked the squirrel(s).
Meanwhile, the squirrel is dead in his yard. There's no way I can risk getting him without doing some serious trespassing, and well Steve freaked me out for some reason. He was kind of like that Wilson character on Home Improvement. I don't think I ever saw his face, but I knew of him, and he was creepy to me for some reason that I can't even begin to remember. I just remember the fear.
So, I quickly put the gun back in my Grandpa's little tool house, shed thingy. And went inside to watch tv. This is before Cable liberated daytime television for kids. Soap Operas and some spare sitcom (probably Gomer Pyle) on one of the UHF channels that were always snowy at my Grandparents home. I went back out and dicked around, rode my bike, etc.
I come back later and I'm out in the breezeway of the carport when I hear the phone ring. Don't think much about it. My grandpa comes out the back door, and gives me a stern look, and says its Steve, from next door, wants to speak with me about a squirrel.
WHAT!?!?!!?!
I nearly shit my pants. Freaked me out - hard. I didn't know what to say. All I knew is that I didn't want to take the call. I stood there, deer in headlights, stammering for what felt like minutes, until my Grandpa Gentry (this is my Mom's Dad - the elder Boy, Ethan Gentry Tinsley, gets his middle name from my Mom's Surname - nod to her and my Grandpa) let down his facade and cracks a sly easy grin letting me know that it was just a joke.
Still pretty funny after all these years. He was a cool guy. I miss him. Wish he could have met my Lovely Bride, seen my Boy(s). Been around longer. He died just a few months shy of 70. Seemed old then, but not so old now.
I still 'till this day, don't know how he knew about the squirrel. I was so relieved at the time I didn't even think to ask him. I was just glad that creepy Steve wasn't on the phone for me. As a matter fo fact, other than the joke, nothing was ever said again about the squirrel incident.
Until I BLOG again...SQUIRRELS!!!
Mom and Pop went to Hot Springs, Arkansas most spring breaks when I was a young Boy. I stayed with my Grandpa and Grandma Gentry in the Hall Edition when I was to young to stay by myself. Since I was not in school - it was spring break, I dicked around outside most of the time. My Grandpa had an old BB Gun that he used to shoot sparrows mainly. He had a war against the sparrows, similar to mine with the squirrel(s). The sparrows got into his martin house. Martins were good (they ate bugs), sparrows bad. Anyway, I'd take this old BB Gun, that didn't have much power, and shoot it at shit. Mainly the fence. That fence still stands actually, and I'm always amazed to see the old BBs stuck in the wood. Like a time machine. Anyway, I was grab assing around with the BB Gun and across the yard in this HUGE tree in the neighbors yard - Steve's yard - was a squirrel. The squirrel was running down a big branch. Fast. Doing squirrel things. He had to be 300 yards or more, and then, 100 or so up in the tree. I whipped the BB gun around and did this John Wayne-esque hip shot. Blindly. Deadeye Dick. The squirrel (remember - it was running) dropped like a ton of bricks. The BB Gun wasn't powerful. From 300 yards away I doubt it would break skin on a person. But, for whatever reason, this freak shot hit the squirrel just perfectly in the head, or eye, who knows and killed him dead dead dead.
I freaked.
Steve (the neighbor) liked the squirrel(s). He actually fed them. If he had a problem with the squirrel(s) he'd be the kind of guy that would trap and then relocate them. He wasn't a tree hugger per se, hell there probably still isn't a Whole Foods in the entire state of Oklahoma. But, my point. He liked the squirrel(s).
Meanwhile, the squirrel is dead in his yard. There's no way I can risk getting him without doing some serious trespassing, and well Steve freaked me out for some reason. He was kind of like that Wilson character on Home Improvement. I don't think I ever saw his face, but I knew of him, and he was creepy to me for some reason that I can't even begin to remember. I just remember the fear.
So, I quickly put the gun back in my Grandpa's little tool house, shed thingy. And went inside to watch tv. This is before Cable liberated daytime television for kids. Soap Operas and some spare sitcom (probably Gomer Pyle) on one of the UHF channels that were always snowy at my Grandparents home. I went back out and dicked around, rode my bike, etc.
I come back later and I'm out in the breezeway of the carport when I hear the phone ring. Don't think much about it. My grandpa comes out the back door, and gives me a stern look, and says its Steve, from next door, wants to speak with me about a squirrel.
WHAT!?!?!!?!
I nearly shit my pants. Freaked me out - hard. I didn't know what to say. All I knew is that I didn't want to take the call. I stood there, deer in headlights, stammering for what felt like minutes, until my Grandpa Gentry (this is my Mom's Dad - the elder Boy, Ethan Gentry Tinsley, gets his middle name from my Mom's Surname - nod to her and my Grandpa) let down his facade and cracks a sly easy grin letting me know that it was just a joke.
Still pretty funny after all these years. He was a cool guy. I miss him. Wish he could have met my Lovely Bride, seen my Boy(s). Been around longer. He died just a few months shy of 70. Seemed old then, but not so old now.
I still 'till this day, don't know how he knew about the squirrel. I was so relieved at the time I didn't even think to ask him. I was just glad that creepy Steve wasn't on the phone for me. As a matter fo fact, other than the joke, nothing was ever said again about the squirrel incident.
Until I BLOG again...SQUIRRELS!!!
Thursday, September 16, 2004
sopa de ardilla
Let's pretend. I invite you over to Casa Tinsley. I'm cooking. Some ethnic looking soup. I don't cook that much, but when I do, its usually something ethnic. So, in this fantasy land you wouldn't be that surprised to find us eating something a bit different. Imagine, eating it, knowing me, it is rather spicy. I'd pair it with a nice hoppy beer to cut said spice. We're eating, enjoying, talking. You start wondering what we're eating...so you ask.
"Stu, what is this. It's pretty good. I just can't put my finger on what it is..."
I reply, "Sopa de ardilla."
In this pretend world - you didn't have the benefit, like yours truly, of Senorita Davis' 11th Grade Spanish class. So, I help you with the translation, "squirrel soup."
Pretend time is over. Now I ask - what would you do? Would you feel sick? Gag. Be pissed at me for feeding you squirrel meat in a spicy soup? Laugh? Not care? What would you do?
I drive my Lovely Bride nuts with these silly "what would you do" exercises. You probably think I'm nuts for posing such a goofy scenario. Why in the world would I feed someone squirrel? Where in the hell would I get squirrel? Last time I looked they didn't sell it at the Piggly Wiggly. Actually, the answer is quite simple. I'm from Oklahoma. Most Okies hunt, and most are taught that you only hunt (or kill) what you will eat. Some sort of code. Thus, if I kill a squirrel in my warped mind you should eat it. You're probably wondering what in the hell that has to do with me serving squirrel soup in some fantasy land dinner. Perhaps I should back up a bit.
I have a squirrel problem. I've decided to fight back - reclaim my back yard from the little bastards. If you've read my BLOG before, this is what I was referring to in the I been one poor correspondent BLOG. One of the reasons I haven't BLOGGED much lately. I've been fighting the good fight, and as promised, here is the whole sordid story.
George W. has his war against terrorism. I have mine against the squirrel(s). Not to get political, but I think they are both hopeless causes. Trying to win against an 'ism' is damn near impossible best I can figure. Same thing with the squirrel(s). I think the only way I can ultimately win is to cut down the majestic, old pecan tree in my back yard. That would be equivalent to cutting off my nose to spite my face, or however that saying goes. Sort of like trampling on the Constitution a la the Patriot Act. Shit, I guess I am getting political. A skinny Michael Moore. I'll quite that tangent. Let's talk about my enemy, the squirrel. I really don't care that much about George W. even though I'm from Texas.
As I've typed, we have a majestic, old pecan tree in our back yard. The neighbors just West of us have an even bigger one that partially hangs over our property. Squirrel(s) love pecans and spend a good deal of time in these trees. For the first six years that we've been at Casa Tinsley, I've been cool with the squirrel(s) doing squirrel things. Annoyed, yes. But, I've been tolerant. I'm not big on killing things. Never was a hunter. I went through my killing stage as a kid in Oklahoma. BB Gun, sparrows, blue jays, a few snakes. I massacred some giant frogs once. I have serious regret about those incidents. My blood lust. Probably on my Top 5 list of things I wish I could hop in the Time Machine and fix. Back to the point. About 15 years ago, I decided, I wasn't going to kill anything I didn't have to kill. I'm talking anything. I've been known to catch a bug and set it free. Now, before you get political on me while reading this - I'm not some tree hugging Whole Foods dirt eater. I eat meat. Fish. Someone is killing those things for me. I wear leather. I'm not on some moral crusade, just a personal decision to not harm anything if I don't have too. So even though I was greatly annoyed by the Squirrel(s) I decided on a live and let live policy.
That was until 2004 rolled around. Faced with a bumper crop of pecans, the Squirrel(s) descended on our property like a swarm of locusts. Bastards. They would spend the day eating the pecans, and throwing down their trash, all over the patio, yard, house, etc. That's something I didn't get until I had my very own pecan tree. The squirrel(s) like green pecans. In cartoons (where I get most of my info) they always have the mature nut. That ain't the way it is in the real world. Once they are ready to harvest, where a human would want to eat them, have to crack them, the squirrel(s) is off to something else. Probably wires in your attic. Bastards. I guess they can't get at the pecan as easily. The prefer the young, immature, green pecan. They live to munch on it from sun-up to sun-down, eating a small portion of it and then dropping the rest down. I have dents in my lawn chairs from their refuse. Shit, I've been Chicken Little, and bopped on the head. Stepped barefoot on a sliver. You name it. We could make our backyard a hard hat area from late July to October. It is that bad. So, after a particularly bad day I walked out and saw the crap all over my patio, backyard, etc. and decided, then and there, I was declaring war on the squirrel(s). I was done. Bastards.
Now - just because I was done, didn't necessarily mean I wanted to kill them. Disgusted, yes. Blood thirsty, not quite. I was more interested in convincing them to move onto greener pastures. Find a nice park. Another pecan tree. Relocate. First thought was that I could trap them. But, I decided this was to much work, and a little odd. Remember, I'm not a tree hugger. BB Gun? Nope, might actually kill one. Not sure if I'm ready for that discussion with Ethan if I was lucky enough to hit one of them. Probably would be injured and I'd end up nursing the damn thing back to health. Be like George from Seinfeld, squirrel strapped to me in a Baby Bjorn - if you dig that reference.
I'd been throwing things at the squirrel(s) for a few weeks, amusing them more than much else, not hitting them, when it hit me. Wrist rocket (read: sling shot)! I had one as a kid. Was pretty decent with it. I'd probably never kill anything, just annoy them. So - on one fine Sunday I loaded up the Little Warrior and we were off to Oshman's to purchase a wrist rocket. $7 later, I was in the backyard ready and waiting.
The squirrel(s) must have sensed something because they were gone. I waited. Patiently. Drank beer. Waited. Finally - one was up eating my pecans, I took aim (with a pecan I might add - I liked the karma of using it for my ammo) and fired away. Missed, bad, but I did get his attention. He was on the run. I was in business. This went on for about a week...slowly the squirrel(s) knew that they should scram when I was around. Out of 100s of shots, I actually hit 2 squirrels. And, as I had hoped, neither was hurt. Just annoyed. I came close a bunch, causing them to drop their contraband pecans which to me was better than actually hitting them. Side note, my neighbors probably think I'm crazy as I'm yelling "Squirrels" and or "Bastards" often when I'm on the hunt...when my blood is up, and I'm after the damn vermin like some pyscho Elmer Fudd. Ethan even helps me spot them. It is glorious backyard fun. Back to the story.
My war was going well - until about a week ago. I had the enemy spotted, low on a tree. Had him in my sight, loaded a fresh pebble (I'd pretty much exhausted my pecans on the ground supply by this point) and pulled back....snap. My wrist rocket broke. I was impotent again. Squirrels 1. Stu 0. My only weapon was my rage as I yelled "SQUIRRELS!!!" Out of commission.
The squirrel(s) are smart, they must have had a meeting the next morning because they were out in mass. Acting as if nothing had happened the past two weeks. Busy, it took me a few days to get another Wrist rocket (to be honest, I almost got a BB Gun in my anger at the squirrel(s) - but better judgment won in the end.) Back in business.
The next morning I was up and out waiting. I saw a fat little bastard running their squirrel Ho Chi Minh trail. Yes, my obsession had become so great I was thinking in Vietnam terms. The squirrels were Charlie, and the tree trail from my neighbors pecan, to mine, and then to a huge elm tree in my neighbor's yard to the East was their Ho Chi Minh trail - a regular squirrel highway. I've watched them so much, I could chart if for you. I'm obsessed. Ask my Lovely Bride. Anyway. From any of these trees, they can hop to the power lines that run the alley and hop over into the trees on the South Side of the Alley. Cambodia if you will, and yes, Like Tricky Dicky Nixon, I have no problem bombing the bastards on the other side. That's where they come from, hide. Everythings fair in love and war - right? They are crafty little bastards. The squirrel(s).
At any rate, the little fat bastard sees me, and starts up my tree. He has a big fat green pecan he's trying to eat. I get off my first shot nearly hitting him. This gets his attention, and he starts for the power lines trying to get across to the other side of the alley. He's not so freaked that he wants to lose his pecan though...so he's trying to take it with him. I reload and sight him as he's doing his high wire act. Another great shot that just misses his ass, and hits the wire causing it to move...which nearly knocks him off, but, being a squirrel, he catches himself easily, but not without losing his prized green pecan. Take that squirrel(s)!!!!!! This pisses him off. He stops, turns toward me. Staring me down in some sort of primal squirrel rage, flicks his tail around like his kind does, and starts barking at me. Probably "MAN!!!!!" in squirrel. I smile as I reload and take aim (missing of course) but he knows the war is back on - and hops across the border to fight another day. Squirrel(s). Bastards.
Until I BLOG again...SQUIRRELS!!!
"Stu, what is this. It's pretty good. I just can't put my finger on what it is..."
I reply, "Sopa de ardilla."
In this pretend world - you didn't have the benefit, like yours truly, of Senorita Davis' 11th Grade Spanish class. So, I help you with the translation, "squirrel soup."
Pretend time is over. Now I ask - what would you do? Would you feel sick? Gag. Be pissed at me for feeding you squirrel meat in a spicy soup? Laugh? Not care? What would you do?
I drive my Lovely Bride nuts with these silly "what would you do" exercises. You probably think I'm nuts for posing such a goofy scenario. Why in the world would I feed someone squirrel? Where in the hell would I get squirrel? Last time I looked they didn't sell it at the Piggly Wiggly. Actually, the answer is quite simple. I'm from Oklahoma. Most Okies hunt, and most are taught that you only hunt (or kill) what you will eat. Some sort of code. Thus, if I kill a squirrel in my warped mind you should eat it. You're probably wondering what in the hell that has to do with me serving squirrel soup in some fantasy land dinner. Perhaps I should back up a bit.
I have a squirrel problem. I've decided to fight back - reclaim my back yard from the little bastards. If you've read my BLOG before, this is what I was referring to in the I been one poor correspondent BLOG. One of the reasons I haven't BLOGGED much lately. I've been fighting the good fight, and as promised, here is the whole sordid story.
George W. has his war against terrorism. I have mine against the squirrel(s). Not to get political, but I think they are both hopeless causes. Trying to win against an 'ism' is damn near impossible best I can figure. Same thing with the squirrel(s). I think the only way I can ultimately win is to cut down the majestic, old pecan tree in my back yard. That would be equivalent to cutting off my nose to spite my face, or however that saying goes. Sort of like trampling on the Constitution a la the Patriot Act. Shit, I guess I am getting political. A skinny Michael Moore. I'll quite that tangent. Let's talk about my enemy, the squirrel. I really don't care that much about George W. even though I'm from Texas.
As I've typed, we have a majestic, old pecan tree in our back yard. The neighbors just West of us have an even bigger one that partially hangs over our property. Squirrel(s) love pecans and spend a good deal of time in these trees. For the first six years that we've been at Casa Tinsley, I've been cool with the squirrel(s) doing squirrel things. Annoyed, yes. But, I've been tolerant. I'm not big on killing things. Never was a hunter. I went through my killing stage as a kid in Oklahoma. BB Gun, sparrows, blue jays, a few snakes. I massacred some giant frogs once. I have serious regret about those incidents. My blood lust. Probably on my Top 5 list of things I wish I could hop in the Time Machine and fix. Back to the point. About 15 years ago, I decided, I wasn't going to kill anything I didn't have to kill. I'm talking anything. I've been known to catch a bug and set it free. Now, before you get political on me while reading this - I'm not some tree hugging Whole Foods dirt eater. I eat meat. Fish. Someone is killing those things for me. I wear leather. I'm not on some moral crusade, just a personal decision to not harm anything if I don't have too. So even though I was greatly annoyed by the Squirrel(s) I decided on a live and let live policy.
That was until 2004 rolled around. Faced with a bumper crop of pecans, the Squirrel(s) descended on our property like a swarm of locusts. Bastards. They would spend the day eating the pecans, and throwing down their trash, all over the patio, yard, house, etc. That's something I didn't get until I had my very own pecan tree. The squirrel(s) like green pecans. In cartoons (where I get most of my info) they always have the mature nut. That ain't the way it is in the real world. Once they are ready to harvest, where a human would want to eat them, have to crack them, the squirrel(s) is off to something else. Probably wires in your attic. Bastards. I guess they can't get at the pecan as easily. The prefer the young, immature, green pecan. They live to munch on it from sun-up to sun-down, eating a small portion of it and then dropping the rest down. I have dents in my lawn chairs from their refuse. Shit, I've been Chicken Little, and bopped on the head. Stepped barefoot on a sliver. You name it. We could make our backyard a hard hat area from late July to October. It is that bad. So, after a particularly bad day I walked out and saw the crap all over my patio, backyard, etc. and decided, then and there, I was declaring war on the squirrel(s). I was done. Bastards.
Now - just because I was done, didn't necessarily mean I wanted to kill them. Disgusted, yes. Blood thirsty, not quite. I was more interested in convincing them to move onto greener pastures. Find a nice park. Another pecan tree. Relocate. First thought was that I could trap them. But, I decided this was to much work, and a little odd. Remember, I'm not a tree hugger. BB Gun? Nope, might actually kill one. Not sure if I'm ready for that discussion with Ethan if I was lucky enough to hit one of them. Probably would be injured and I'd end up nursing the damn thing back to health. Be like George from Seinfeld, squirrel strapped to me in a Baby Bjorn - if you dig that reference.
I'd been throwing things at the squirrel(s) for a few weeks, amusing them more than much else, not hitting them, when it hit me. Wrist rocket (read: sling shot)! I had one as a kid. Was pretty decent with it. I'd probably never kill anything, just annoy them. So - on one fine Sunday I loaded up the Little Warrior and we were off to Oshman's to purchase a wrist rocket. $7 later, I was in the backyard ready and waiting.
The squirrel(s) must have sensed something because they were gone. I waited. Patiently. Drank beer. Waited. Finally - one was up eating my pecans, I took aim (with a pecan I might add - I liked the karma of using it for my ammo) and fired away. Missed, bad, but I did get his attention. He was on the run. I was in business. This went on for about a week...slowly the squirrel(s) knew that they should scram when I was around. Out of 100s of shots, I actually hit 2 squirrels. And, as I had hoped, neither was hurt. Just annoyed. I came close a bunch, causing them to drop their contraband pecans which to me was better than actually hitting them. Side note, my neighbors probably think I'm crazy as I'm yelling "Squirrels" and or "Bastards" often when I'm on the hunt...when my blood is up, and I'm after the damn vermin like some pyscho Elmer Fudd. Ethan even helps me spot them. It is glorious backyard fun. Back to the story.
My war was going well - until about a week ago. I had the enemy spotted, low on a tree. Had him in my sight, loaded a fresh pebble (I'd pretty much exhausted my pecans on the ground supply by this point) and pulled back....snap. My wrist rocket broke. I was impotent again. Squirrels 1. Stu 0. My only weapon was my rage as I yelled "SQUIRRELS!!!" Out of commission.
The squirrel(s) are smart, they must have had a meeting the next morning because they were out in mass. Acting as if nothing had happened the past two weeks. Busy, it took me a few days to get another Wrist rocket (to be honest, I almost got a BB Gun in my anger at the squirrel(s) - but better judgment won in the end.) Back in business.
The next morning I was up and out waiting. I saw a fat little bastard running their squirrel Ho Chi Minh trail. Yes, my obsession had become so great I was thinking in Vietnam terms. The squirrels were Charlie, and the tree trail from my neighbors pecan, to mine, and then to a huge elm tree in my neighbor's yard to the East was their Ho Chi Minh trail - a regular squirrel highway. I've watched them so much, I could chart if for you. I'm obsessed. Ask my Lovely Bride. Anyway. From any of these trees, they can hop to the power lines that run the alley and hop over into the trees on the South Side of the Alley. Cambodia if you will, and yes, Like Tricky Dicky Nixon, I have no problem bombing the bastards on the other side. That's where they come from, hide. Everythings fair in love and war - right? They are crafty little bastards. The squirrel(s).
At any rate, the little fat bastard sees me, and starts up my tree. He has a big fat green pecan he's trying to eat. I get off my first shot nearly hitting him. This gets his attention, and he starts for the power lines trying to get across to the other side of the alley. He's not so freaked that he wants to lose his pecan though...so he's trying to take it with him. I reload and sight him as he's doing his high wire act. Another great shot that just misses his ass, and hits the wire causing it to move...which nearly knocks him off, but, being a squirrel, he catches himself easily, but not without losing his prized green pecan. Take that squirrel(s)!!!!!! This pisses him off. He stops, turns toward me. Staring me down in some sort of primal squirrel rage, flicks his tail around like his kind does, and starts barking at me. Probably "MAN!!!!!" in squirrel. I smile as I reload and take aim (missing of course) but he knows the war is back on - and hops across the border to fight another day. Squirrel(s). Bastards.
Until I BLOG again...SQUIRRELS!!!
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
I been one poor correspondent, and I been too, too hard to find, But it doesn’t mean you ain’t been on my mind
Long time no BLOG from this here Boy named Stu. I do believe it is the longest span between posts since I started this here BLOG. No excuse other than the usual - work - home - squirrels (I'll BLOG about that later.) Not necessarily in that order either. Speaking of work, damn near a week ago, I was sitting in the Closet of Love (that's what I've named my Office) when my cell phone Boomer Sooner'd (I'm a nerd, I have Boomer Sooner as my ring tone on my phone.) It was my lovely Bride per the caller I.D. I answered with my customary, "What's up?" I should note that its not unusual for Cart to call me during the work-a-world day, but we don't make a big habit of it. Thus, when she calls its usually has a point.
"What's up?"
"Ethan has had a dental emergency."
"Excuse me?"
Sickness. Starting with a lump in my throat and ending up in the pit of my stomach, as she explained that Ethan had fallen in the Jungle Gym thingy at McDonald's and knocked out one of his teeth. She was taking him to a Dentist. My mind was so rattled by he news, I had to have her repeat the address x3.
"I'm on my way."
So, off I rushed out of the Closest of Love to a Dentist by our house where they were going to address my Elder Boys busted tooth/teeth.
Not knowing what to expect, little info really, my mind raced as I negotiated the beating that is Dallas traffic. My thoughts were all over the place. I imagined horrible scenarios, Ethan missing multiple teeth, black and blue, and then my mind swung round and I thought, Shit, my shirt is going to get ruined because he's probably bleeding like a stuck pig. That soon switched to what Wyatt was doing during all of this - I can only imagine the car ride to the dentist from McDonald's - Ethan crying/screaming. Carter upset, trying to keep it together. Little WT - who knew?
15 minutes later, mind still racing, I took a deep breath and prepared to walk into Dr. Train's office (funny that the Doc's name is Train - Ethan is crazy about trains - not as funny as the fact that back in the day when we couldn't procreate, I went to male fertility Doctor named...drum roll...Bush) wanting to be calm and collected for the Team. I was obviously nervous at what I was going to find - but - in one of those real life - not funny like it is on tv, or smart like it is in books moments, I slowed down, put on a happy face, and tried to exude a calm - things will be coolio - facade.
I walked into the big office finding my Team on the floor in front of one of those Leggo tables. Carter dressed in a white t-shirt looked like she worked in a slaughter house, Ethan had his back to me, sort of playing, and Wyatt was in his car seat, oblivious to the proceedings. Ethan (who wasn't crying when I walked into the office) immediately turned and saw me and started crying - hard. Funny, I can remember crying like that with my Parents. Seems like yestreday. I guess it was a month ago - kidding - something happened, and you see them and BAM, waterworks. I scooped up my Elder Boy, and held him, and started walking the floor. As he cried and I walked around the office with him (stopping to do the instant karma head shake thing to the Little Warrior in his car seat, who smiled, and did it back), I remembered all the times I'd walked the floor with Ethan when he was little, infant/baby little. He's not necessarily big yet, not 3 until January 17th - but he seems like such a big kid to me, and his Mom, and well, all this raced through my head as we walked the floor.
The sickness in my stomach was gone. I started talking about the balloon posters on the wall, and the train poster, etc. He started asking "What that train doing Daddy?" type questions. I knew he'd be ok, that's we'd all by ok. His tooth wasn't gone gone. It was loose, but should tighten up in a week or so. No root damage. The plug (read: infernal pacifier) had actually had a point, all the sucking had made his teeth point in a way that they weren't knocked into each other, requiring dental work. He had a pretty good bruise, some swelling, and pain. Lot of blood (all of which was on his Mom's shirt.) But, all in all he's no worse for the wear. Breathe out.
We made it through our first mad dash to the Doctor event. In hindsight I think we handled it pretty well - again, its one of those surreal life moments you find yourself - and it seems to be going on to someone else. You just try to keep your shit together and do right by your Team. Most of what I know about such things, to be honest, I learned from my Dad, who was nearly always calm, reassuring, and strong. Not, don't cry you pussy strong. Strong enough to make you feel that everything is going to be, cool. But soft enough to feel ok about crying, or being upset, scared, etc. That's how I hoped I was - and will continue to be for my Boy(s).
Until I BLOG Again...F (BOMB) Ronald McDonald!
"What's up?"
"Ethan has had a dental emergency."
"Excuse me?"
Sickness. Starting with a lump in my throat and ending up in the pit of my stomach, as she explained that Ethan had fallen in the Jungle Gym thingy at McDonald's and knocked out one of his teeth. She was taking him to a Dentist. My mind was so rattled by he news, I had to have her repeat the address x3.
"I'm on my way."
So, off I rushed out of the Closest of Love to a Dentist by our house where they were going to address my Elder Boys busted tooth/teeth.
Not knowing what to expect, little info really, my mind raced as I negotiated the beating that is Dallas traffic. My thoughts were all over the place. I imagined horrible scenarios, Ethan missing multiple teeth, black and blue, and then my mind swung round and I thought, Shit, my shirt is going to get ruined because he's probably bleeding like a stuck pig. That soon switched to what Wyatt was doing during all of this - I can only imagine the car ride to the dentist from McDonald's - Ethan crying/screaming. Carter upset, trying to keep it together. Little WT - who knew?
15 minutes later, mind still racing, I took a deep breath and prepared to walk into Dr. Train's office (funny that the Doc's name is Train - Ethan is crazy about trains - not as funny as the fact that back in the day when we couldn't procreate, I went to male fertility Doctor named...drum roll...Bush) wanting to be calm and collected for the Team. I was obviously nervous at what I was going to find - but - in one of those real life - not funny like it is on tv, or smart like it is in books moments, I slowed down, put on a happy face, and tried to exude a calm - things will be coolio - facade.
I walked into the big office finding my Team on the floor in front of one of those Leggo tables. Carter dressed in a white t-shirt looked like she worked in a slaughter house, Ethan had his back to me, sort of playing, and Wyatt was in his car seat, oblivious to the proceedings. Ethan (who wasn't crying when I walked into the office) immediately turned and saw me and started crying - hard. Funny, I can remember crying like that with my Parents. Seems like yestreday. I guess it was a month ago - kidding - something happened, and you see them and BAM, waterworks. I scooped up my Elder Boy, and held him, and started walking the floor. As he cried and I walked around the office with him (stopping to do the instant karma head shake thing to the Little Warrior in his car seat, who smiled, and did it back), I remembered all the times I'd walked the floor with Ethan when he was little, infant/baby little. He's not necessarily big yet, not 3 until January 17th - but he seems like such a big kid to me, and his Mom, and well, all this raced through my head as we walked the floor.
The sickness in my stomach was gone. I started talking about the balloon posters on the wall, and the train poster, etc. He started asking "What that train doing Daddy?" type questions. I knew he'd be ok, that's we'd all by ok. His tooth wasn't gone gone. It was loose, but should tighten up in a week or so. No root damage. The plug (read: infernal pacifier) had actually had a point, all the sucking had made his teeth point in a way that they weren't knocked into each other, requiring dental work. He had a pretty good bruise, some swelling, and pain. Lot of blood (all of which was on his Mom's shirt.) But, all in all he's no worse for the wear. Breathe out.
We made it through our first mad dash to the Doctor event. In hindsight I think we handled it pretty well - again, its one of those surreal life moments you find yourself - and it seems to be going on to someone else. You just try to keep your shit together and do right by your Team. Most of what I know about such things, to be honest, I learned from my Dad, who was nearly always calm, reassuring, and strong. Not, don't cry you pussy strong. Strong enough to make you feel that everything is going to be, cool. But soft enough to feel ok about crying, or being upset, scared, etc. That's how I hoped I was - and will continue to be for my Boy(s).
Until I BLOG Again...F (BOMB) Ronald McDonald!
Friday, September 03, 2004
with a rebel yell...
The Little Warrior hit the 8 month mark this past Saturday. He took his first tentative crawl yesterday. I'm sure before long he'll be scurrying across the floor like a true Rug Rat, chasing after his Big Brother, Suki, and whatever else catches his fancy.
Help us...
Seriously, it will be a new stage for all of us, and I'm sure things around Casa de Tinsley will move up a few notches on the crazy meter.
So, with that WT update, and look forward, let's stop and look back. I've often wrote about Wyatt's war cry. He has been doing it for months, and still does it actually. I finally got off my lazy ass and captured some video of it.
Fingers crossed, this will work, and everyone who has never had the pleasure of seeing the Little Warrior's war cry can see it now. If it don't work (I'm a MacDaddy in a PC world) someone give me a shout out in the comments, or something something and I'll try another file type posting. Hopefully it will work, it being a QuickTime file and all.
Until I BLOG again...RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Help us...
Seriously, it will be a new stage for all of us, and I'm sure things around Casa de Tinsley will move up a few notches on the crazy meter.
So, with that WT update, and look forward, let's stop and look back. I've often wrote about Wyatt's war cry. He has been doing it for months, and still does it actually. I finally got off my lazy ass and captured some video of it.
Fingers crossed, this will work, and everyone who has never had the pleasure of seeing the Little Warrior's war cry can see it now. If it don't work (I'm a MacDaddy in a PC world) someone give me a shout out in the comments, or something something and I'll try another file type posting. Hopefully it will work, it being a QuickTime file and all.
Until I BLOG again...RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Friday, August 27, 2004
And you say, just be here now...
Laughing like a mad man by myself in the dark at 6:30 in the am. Why? Only moments before I'd been crying. Well, not really crying crying, tears in the eyes, wipe them away, touched in an emotional way crying. Laughter and tears are opposite sides of the same coin, to me anyway, if that even makes sense. Still, I felt oddly self conscious, even though no one (until now) knew what I was up to at that early hour. You would probably laugh too. Hell, you have my permission to laugh now. Go ahead, out loud in front of your computer. Shit, I laughed myself, and I'm talking about at myself, not with myself, laughter. Why? I was brought to tears by "Who's The Boss?"
One of my curious habits, since we got our DVR, is to Tivo (it's not really Tivo, Comcast's bastard version - which as far as I can tell isn't as good - but that's another BLOG entry - Tivo = DVR in my lexicon) Northern Exposure every night (it airs on Hallmark from 12-1am) as well as "Who's The Boss?" on Nick@Nite (airs from 2-2:30am) Then, the next morning, at the crick of the crack, 5:30am to be exact, I get up and watch these programs by my lonesome as I drink coffee.
The rest of Team Tinsley usually get up after I've finished watching "Who's The Boss?" which is around 7am if you're keeping score at home.
This is my alone time. I enjoy it. Look forward to it. Savor it. This is why I was in the dark crying and then laughing. I had finished Northern Exposure and was midway through "Who's The Boss?", We're talking third season "WTB?", the episode was #62, first aired in 1987, Marie's Secret (you might be laughing at me now with all this "WTB?" minutia.) Anyway, in this particular episode, Tony suspects his late wife might have cheated on him. This being the most saccharine of sitcoms (anyone think it weird that I watch these two divergent shows - says something about my contradictory nature I guess), she didn't cheat on him. But, he did learn that there were things he didn't know about her. Missed. He was feeling low.
But, that's not what made me cry/laugh.
Toward the end, as our pulpy little story was coming full circle to a neat closure, Sam (Tony's daughter for those not familiar with the show) tells him that her Mom used to tell her, how lucky they were to have him. He was a good Dad, husband, and man. Sitting there drinking coffee, watching all of this, I felt low too. Because we had lowered Wyatt's crib the night before. The Little Warrior was starting to pull-up, and My Lovely Bride thought (and by the way, was correct, less than a week later, he did in fact pull up) feared he would soon pull up in his crib and fall out if we didn't lower it a few notches. So, with that in my head, watching the syrupy lovefest of "WTB?" it all hit me, and, well I cried. Bittersweet tears, as our baby is growing up, and, since it is our plan to stop procreating, the milestones such as pulling up, and everything else are hitting me a bit harder than they did with Ethan. I'm paying more attention to them, or, I'm trying to pay more attention. But that is hard at times, in our crazy ass, two under three, Team Tinsley hacienda. It is hard to slow down, when we're constantly on go, which is why I was sitting by myself in the early morning crying (and later laughing) while watching "Who's The Boss?"
Until I BLOG again...There’s a time for love and a time for living.
One of my curious habits, since we got our DVR, is to Tivo (it's not really Tivo, Comcast's bastard version - which as far as I can tell isn't as good - but that's another BLOG entry - Tivo = DVR in my lexicon) Northern Exposure every night (it airs on Hallmark from 12-1am) as well as "Who's The Boss?" on Nick@Nite (airs from 2-2:30am) Then, the next morning, at the crick of the crack, 5:30am to be exact, I get up and watch these programs by my lonesome as I drink coffee.
The rest of Team Tinsley usually get up after I've finished watching "Who's The Boss?" which is around 7am if you're keeping score at home.
This is my alone time. I enjoy it. Look forward to it. Savor it. This is why I was in the dark crying and then laughing. I had finished Northern Exposure and was midway through "Who's The Boss?", We're talking third season "WTB?", the episode was #62, first aired in 1987, Marie's Secret (you might be laughing at me now with all this "WTB?" minutia.) Anyway, in this particular episode, Tony suspects his late wife might have cheated on him. This being the most saccharine of sitcoms (anyone think it weird that I watch these two divergent shows - says something about my contradictory nature I guess), she didn't cheat on him. But, he did learn that there were things he didn't know about her. Missed. He was feeling low.
But, that's not what made me cry/laugh.
Toward the end, as our pulpy little story was coming full circle to a neat closure, Sam (Tony's daughter for those not familiar with the show) tells him that her Mom used to tell her, how lucky they were to have him. He was a good Dad, husband, and man. Sitting there drinking coffee, watching all of this, I felt low too. Because we had lowered Wyatt's crib the night before. The Little Warrior was starting to pull-up, and My Lovely Bride thought (and by the way, was correct, less than a week later, he did in fact pull up) feared he would soon pull up in his crib and fall out if we didn't lower it a few notches. So, with that in my head, watching the syrupy lovefest of "WTB?" it all hit me, and, well I cried. Bittersweet tears, as our baby is growing up, and, since it is our plan to stop procreating, the milestones such as pulling up, and everything else are hitting me a bit harder than they did with Ethan. I'm paying more attention to them, or, I'm trying to pay more attention. But that is hard at times, in our crazy ass, two under three, Team Tinsley hacienda. It is hard to slow down, when we're constantly on go, which is why I was sitting by myself in the early morning crying (and later laughing) while watching "Who's The Boss?"
Until I BLOG again...There’s a time for love and a time for living.
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