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.
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