A boob, that's what I am, a boob!

A few months in the rearview, I broke one of my front teeth. Not real bad. But, bad enough that you could see the chip if I smiled, or talked. Still, I put off getting it fixed for some time because I'm cheap and have been busy. A few weeks ago, I noted a business person staring at it during a meeting, and well, all my being an Okie, white trash, double wide stereotype thinking pushed me off center enough to open my wallet and get the damn thing fixed. I did this yesterday. That's not what is BLOG worthy though. What is BLOG worthy is another shiny example of my bad sense of humor. I think this is hilarious. Then again, I think buying the Elder Boy(s) teacher a six pack of beer along with a Bud Dry T-Shirt is funny. I'm sick.

As usual with me, you need a bit of back story for this story. My Dentist who I've only been seeing since this Summer is a good guy with a very family friendly practice. It is the kind of practice that has those little needle point things with Bible scripture on the walls. In his main office, where he was going to fix my broke tooth, he has a shrine to The Andy Griffith Show. You can tell by his paraphanelia that he really digs the family values of the show, etc. I have no problem with any of that, actually, and as I started, I think he is a good guy, I tell you it for context.

I was en fuego yesterday. I arrived at my appointment at the exact start time, so I had no wait. The little old lady knew me, and as she was telling me to go on back to the Mayberry Room, I told her I was sorry for being so tight on the appointment, blaming those 'damn' school zones. She gave me a wary, I can't believe that little punk said 'damn' smile, and returned to her work.

After pleasantries with the Dental Tech on my Thanksgiving, the Good Dentist came in and said hello, and promptly apologized for being hoarse. Hoarse my ass, I thought, you are sick! I'm germ phobic. This only stoked my flames making me mucho en fuego, thus as I was reclined back in the dental chair, peering up at the devotional and inspirational posters they have on their ceiling, my bad joke hit me.

Dentist: So, how did you do this Stuart?
Me: Beer bottle (which is true.)
Dentist: Oh, ok...that's good...means that the way you chew didn't cause the chip which means I can file it down a bit and then patch it with some (insert whatever the tooth cement is called.) It should be as good as new, cosmetically. It won't be as strong as before though, so you'll have to watch how you bite certain things, like carrots...and watch those beer bottles.
Me: I don't want that.
Dentist: Excuse me?
Me: I want a fang.
Dentist: A fang...?
Me: Yes.
Dentist and Dental Tech: (both laugh...)
Me: I'm serious. I want a fang. Can't you file it down so it is sharp and pointy, you know, like an animal, or a vampire.
Dentist: (nervous laughter as he looks over at the Dental Tech who has a blank look on her face.) You want a...
Me: (cutting him off...) How much will that cost me? A fang? Out of pocket I mean, I couldn't find anything in my insurance book about how much insurance would pay for something like that. They had something about cosmetic dental work, but I thought that was like, gold teeth with diamonds in them or something? You know, the bling.
Dentist: (looking very confused.) You are serious? You want a...

At that point, I couldn't continue, I pussed out, smiled and then flat out laughed which caused them to both laugh, so we all sat around in the Shrine to Andy and laughed, long and hard.

I think the Good Dentist might have the last laugh though. This morning, I woke up, with a sore throat. Bastard. I should have gargled with Purell when I left that place.

Until I BLOG again...I should have worn a cape to the appointment!

Help me.

Are we there yet? Is there a worse road trip cliche than this? Such a tried and true cliche, they made a movie with it as the title. The family road trip has been comic fodder for such a long time, I won't add to it - much. Just my brief little experience. Here goes, for those that care.

Set-Up: Me and the Boy(s) went to Houston for a few days to see my folks. I went by myself. Mr. Mom. We had been on the road, maybe, three minutes. For those that are familiar with the Messoplex, we got onto 75 (a.k.a. Central) at Beltline in Richardson. Near the Team's Casa. South bound and down, loaded up for Houston. We had yet to make it to the High Five (LBJ and Central interchange), close to Midpark when the Elder Boy, from the back-seat asked the question...Are we there yet. Four hours of road ahead, and not even 5 minutes into our trip and I get - Are we there yet.

The Elder Boy is an inquisitive lad. So much so, that at his recent parent/teacher conference we learned that he asks his teacher "WHY" so much, that she though he was being disrespectful. When I first learned this, from the Boy(s) agitated Mom, my Bride, I thought, what is so wrong about asking questions? I think it a good trait. I don't want the Boy to be disrespectful, but I also don't want him to be a sheep, and blindly follow the leader. It is a fine line. Still, after our 4 hour ride to Houston Town, I think, I can see the teacher's point. I don't think he's being disrespectful, but it can certainly be annoying (and I love the Boy, imagine the poor Teacher who gets paid to be with him.) Here are but a few highlights of those 240 harrowing minutes if you care to take a look see.

Ethan: Why is Houston far?
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Ethan: Why do Granny and Pops live in Houston?
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Ethan: Where is Houston?
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Wyatt: Help Me. (when he'd lose possession or drop the infernal plug which required me to reach around my seat and try and blindly grab and or find it, or replace the plug with one I had in the front of the car, which again, required me to blindly reach around my back and hand to Wy.)
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Ethan: (about 20 minutes into the ride.) Can we stop at the Mingo store now (Mingo is how he pronounces Convenience.)
Me: We'll stop in Buffalo (which is my unofficial half way point.)
<20 second pause>
Ethan: Where is Buffalo?
Ethan: Are we there yet (meaning Buffalo)?
<10 second pause>
Ethan: Are we there yet (meaning Houston)?
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Ethan: Why do we live in Dallas?
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Ethan: Why is Dallas close?
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Ethan: (When we stoped to let Ethan use the bathroom) Why can't I touch the urinal (pronounced Your-Nell)?
Me: People pee all over it.
Ethan: Why?
Ethan: What's that thing?
Me: A urinal cake.
Ethan: CAKE! I want some cake.
Me: Trust me, you don't want that kind of cake.
Ethan: Who's that (as a trucker walks into the bathroom, sees me down on me knees in front of a urinal pulling up Ethan's pants, with Wyatt between the two of us so he can't escape, and promptly turns around and walks back out the door.)
Ethan: Why did he leave?
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Wyatt: Help Me.
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Ethan: Are we there yet?
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Wyatt: Help me.
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Ethan: Why are there Mingo Stores?
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Ethan: What does that say (pointing to a sign)?
Me: That is a road sign, it tells the drivers information, that particular sign tells us that we're approaching an interchange where you can exit and go to this town that is East or this other Town that is West.
Ethan: Why?
Me: Why what?
Ethan: Why do you want to go West?
Me: What? Who?
Wyatt: Help me.
Ethan: Why?
Me: Why WHAT!
Ethan: Why do they have signs?
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Ethan: Are we there yet?
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Ethan: Why does it take so long!
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Ethan: Are we there yet?
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Wyatt: Help me.
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Me: I need a Bud Dry.
Ethan: Why?
Me: Why ask why.
Ethan: Why do you need a Bud Dry?
Wyatt: Help me.
Me: I liked their slogan.
Ethan: What is a slogan.
Me: Why ask why.
Ethan: Why ask why Dad?
Wyatt: Help me.
Me: Indeed.
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Until I BLOG again...This is probably inappropriate, especially since the Boy(s) go to a day school at the Methodist Church, still...does anyone have a Bud Dry T-Shirt they can send me - I think it would make a most excellent gift from Ethan to his teacher for the Holidays! Why ask why, Drink Bud Dry. We can give it to her along w/ a sixer for those especially trying days at school.

It's only 'cause you've got a hand to lend

Kitchen tongs or my hand? What a gloriously curious dilemma for Sunday morning coming down. I've typed it before, and I'll type it again, Easy my ass, Lionel Richie was full of shit. As was our toilet. You see, Dear Reader, the Elder Boy was perched over it, howling. Me. Well up until a few moments ago I had been enjoying my first cup of coffee for the day, and trying to make sense of my quarterly 401(k) statement. So engrossed was I, that I vaguely remember Ethan announcing that he had to go poop, and inviting Wyatt to join him. That's not uncommon at our pad. Wy Wy almost always goes to the bathroom with Ethan. Ethan poops and Wyatt sits on a little stool and watches and reads magazines.

The howling by the Elder Boy isn't common however, so off I ran with a cup of coffee in one hand and my 401(k) statement in the other. Super Dad storming into the shitter. Ethan was still howling, perched over the kid toilet seat (it has Sponge Bob on it) and raising an incredible ruckus. Clearly agitated, he was holding his body up off of the seat, as if he was trying to get off it, backwards. Screaming like some jungle monkey. Wy Wy was over at the sink, on the stool, completely oblivious, brushing his teeth. I gave the Younger Boy a curious look, figuring he might have something to do with this situation. Wy Wy simply gave me his gee aren't I cute smile and said, "Hi."

Considering that I was set to go to Church in less than an hour, I'm not proud to say, that the first thing out of my mouth was this: "What in the hell is going on in here!" Nothing. Ethan kept right on howling, as he continued his backwards dismount off of the seat, which was smearing feces all over said seat and his buttocks. Wy Wy. He kept right on brushing his teeth.

Right about now, you might be asking yourself, where was the Boy(s) Mom? My Lovely Bride? She was on strike. She had sequestered herself in our bedroom, after having a difficult moment with the Elder Boy in our kitchen over a cup of hot chocolate and an ice cube. I was on my own.

"What in the HELLis going on here." Again, nothing. Ethan was trying to get it together, but still having a difficult time, speaking in that crazy jagged crying speak. Wy Wy. Brushed his teeth.

"Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob)..." was all Ethan could say.
"What?!?"
"Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob)..."

Frustrated, confused, and, well being the tremendous dip shit that I am, I turned my probing over to my 22 month old Boy, who was busy brushing his teeth.
"Wy Wy...WHAT did you do to Bubba?"
"Hi." was all I got.

Ethan was calming down enough by this point to get his point across.
"Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wyatt (sob sob sob)...Wyatt threw (sob sob) truck (sob sob sob) into (sob) toilet."
Wyatt, sensed the conversation was turning toward him, and turned around on the stool, and pointed his tooth brush at his accuser, and said, I shit you not, "Hi."

Ethan lost it. More mad than sad, he erupted into what can best by described as a Muad'Dib yell at his brother, if you dig that nerdy Dune reference. Wyatt returned the yell. Me. I stood in the middle, looking down between Ethan's legs into the toilet, which did in fact, have a fire truck in it. Right next to a turd. Thus, I asked myself this: Tongs or my hand.

Until I BLOG again...My hand.

They can feel it all over...

A very long time ago, in a place far far away, I was but a Boy named Stu, shuffling at Skate World to Sir Duke by Little Stevie Wonder. I'm not sure if he was still Little in 1976, but he'll always be little to me, but, as usual, I digress. Shuffling...do you know shuffling? It was sort of roller skate disco dance type thing, I was good at it. I was quite the skater. Preternatural. My ability that is. One of the two things in which I am quite gifted. Pardon my second digression, and lack of modesty, but would you care to know the second skill in which I excel? Typing. I can type my ass off - fast, accurate, without even looking at the keys.

Back to the BLOG, and my point. Sir Duke. Stevie Wonder. Shuffling. To quote Little Stevie, from that very song, music is a world within itself, for all to sing, dance and clap their hands. Amen. I've always been into music. I currently have 3,022 songs on my iPod. All flavors too. Eclectic. That is why one of my favorite things as a breeder is to see what kind of music the Boy(s) dig. What they gravitate too. You see, Sir Duke was the first song I remember liking. Really liking. All on my own. I wasn't exposed to that much music as a kid at home. Not like the Boy(s). Music music too. None of that kid fare. We don't do that. Why?

You see, Dear Reader, I have a very vivid memory of a friend of mine, an old and gold friend. He was road tripping with his young family from a far away state. A red state. Most are these days. Anyway. They stopped by to see us, with their small child, who must have been around 3 at the time. We to were breeders at this point in our journey, but still pretty new to the game. Wyatt wasn't even in My Lovely Brides womb yet. So, being a new, inexperienced parent at the time, I paid extra close attention to those that went before, us, as it were. Unsolicited guides if you will. That is why, I will never, ever forget the dead, vacant look in my friends eyes as he got out of his car. He looked like a pod person. Not wanting to be impolite, I put my Invasion of the Body Snatcher thoughts aside, and gave him a hug, said hi to his bride, and his child.

Later, over beer(s), somewhat by ourselves, I decided to ask him, what was up, if he was alright? Maybe they were having marital problems? Financial issues? My mind was cooking up all of these gloom and doom scenarios. I had to know, not only because I was his friend, and care about him, but also, truth be told I was curious. In that sicko, let's all turn our heads and look at the car wreck, sort of way.

I took a pull on my beer, a little liquid courage, and asked. You know what, he answered. It wasn't marital problems. Money. Sexual dysfunction. Nope. Everything was pretty damn blissful in his life. Boringly so actually. His problem was self created, and he decided then and there to be a good friend to me, and issue a warning. "Stu," he said, "don't be like me. Do yourself a favor and never, I mean NEVER, let your kid listen to kid music on the car stereo."

"Excuse me?"
Shaking his head, he said more to himself than me, "Barney"
Again, I had to say, "Excuse me?"
Still shaking his head, with a glazed over look, he continued, "Barney. We listened to Barney for 6 hours. Across two states."

Sweet mother of all that is good, Barney? Purple dinosaur Barney?
You got it. And if that wasn't horrible enough, he went on to tell me it wasn't even a full CD. Just one song. His kid wanted to listen to the SAME song over and over and over. Non-stop, across two states. I can't imagine the horror of driving over the hills and through the woods to grandma's house (an 8 1/2 hour round trip drive for Team Tinsley) listening non-stop to kid music. It sounds tortuous to me, and after seeing my friends dead eyes, I know I can NEVER go there. I must heed his warning. I won't listen to Barney Sing The Blues, or Elmo's Rocking Roll Revue, or sweet mother of all that is good, The Hi-5 Kids Greatest Hits in the car, EVER!

Now, you might be thinking, Stu, you butt, your poor kids are missing out on music. That's the great thing. Our (my Lovely Bride actually can share the blame here too, cause she feels the same as me) selfishness has produced some early, and very distinct musical preferences in the Boy(s).

Take Wy Wy. Headbanger. Turn on some AC/DC and he's in heaven. I first figured out that he was a hard rock guy while watching the movie, School of Rock. The part where Jack Black's character first learns the kids can play music. He teaches them Smoke On the Water by Deep Purple. A famous and influential rock song if ever there were. I'm sure you know it, or have heard it, even if you don't know the name. It has a very recognizable, crunching four-tone minor key blues progression (I looked that up) that is perhaps the single most famous riff in heavy metal music history. I'd hum it for you if I could. Anyway, the first time this song came on the TV, Wy Wy stopped what he was doing and walked up in front of the TV and stood, transfixed. Slowly, he started doing, what can best be described as a monster of rock stagger. Left leg to right leg, and back, sort of teetering, and picking up speed as the song progresses. He also sort of sung, more of hum actually, along with it too. When it gets good and cooking, he usually finishes it off with his famous War Cry. I hope the Boy never smokes, but I can so see him at some concert, bic lighter in hand, wanting MORE!!! ENCORE...as he erupts into his war cry!

Ethan on the other hand, is a punk rocker. Take School of Rock again. It is a classic, in our house at least. Ethan loves Pick Up the Pieces. Well, that's what he calls it. The actual song is Bonzo Goes to Bitburg by The Ramones. Ethan will listen to it over and over, singing along w the chorus, and doing his 3 1/2 year old version of a slam dance.

Watching them both, doing their thing, to the music they like, simply amazes me. Sitting on my throne of impotence, as they sing, dance and clap their hands, I'm reminded of the Boy version of me, shufflin' his ass of at a roller rink in Sand Springs, Oklahoma, a long, long, time ago. The circle of life or some such. More to the point, it makes me happy to see them happy, music in their heart, dancing, singing, clapping - even if it is to AC/DC's Highway to Hell.

Until I BLOG again...Music is a world within itself, With a language we all understand, With an equal opportunity, For all to sing, dance and clap their hands!

I'm wide awake

I have a bad sense of humor. You might agree. Hell, you probably do agree since my bad usage can go either way, including poor. Still, I use bad in the sick sense. I find certain things funny, that other do not. Some of things that I think are really funny, actually might horrify some people.

Take this as an example.

A week or so ago in the rearview at work, I got a call from My Lovely Bride who was at home with Ethan (Friday is her and E's special day, Wy goes to Mother's Day Out up at the Arapaho Methodist Church.) She told me, she was sick, and could I please go and pick up Wy from the school, and then bring him home and watch both Boy(s) for the afternoon.

My Lovely Bride and I have very defined jobs in our life. One of the things she always handles is school with the Boy(s). In fact, even though Ethan who is fast approaching 4 has been going to AMC since he was younger than Wy, I've never ever picked him or Wy up from school. I've actually never even taken them to school. I've been to their school. So, I know the layout and all that, but anything else was voodoo to me.

So, as promised I roll up to the Church at 1:45pm and head to the toddler room. No one is there. Hmmm. Confused, I back track to the front office area to find someone who might know where The Little Warrior is at, when I'm stopped by another Mom (Wy Wy is, how can I say, infamous up at the Church for his warrior like ways) who recognizes me and tells me they are in another room for rest time. Ok.

So I head back to this room, which is where I pick up the Elder Boy from Sunday School after church (yes, we've been going to church, but I'll save my thoughts on that for another BLOG entry, just note, most of these people know me or who I am.) The room has one of those strange daycare type half doors that always confuse me. Its like a childproof top for a bottle of pills. The door knob at least. I can never get those damn things open. You know the type, the top half opens, while the bottom stays shut, by design, which keeps the kids inside and allows the care givers to talk to whomever is wanting to come into the room, and again, it has that pull while you turn kind of knob that confuses my goofy ass.

Anyway...I walk up to this McChild like window waiting for the lady in front of me to collect her kid when I notice Wy's teacher, who I had just met the previous Sunday at Church services. Of course I can't remember her actual name so I just say Hi, when another much younger, helper lady who I recognize from Wy's daycare (during Church Services) also sees me and comes up to tell me that Wy has been saying "Daddy?" all day long. I think she is telling me this to make me feel 'good' about being a Daddy. I'm not sure. I didn't get to really think it through that far, because that is when I turn and actually look into this room, or look down upon the floor, and die laughing. I'm talking out loud, loud laughing. The two nice ladies who know my Boy(s), my poor Lovely Bride, and me (kind of because of the Church connection) give me an uneasy look, to which I can only continue laughing.

You see, what you can't see, was what I saw, and coupled with that bad sense of humor I was telling you about, I was laughing my ass off at what looked like a crack den for toddlers.

I'm serious. In 38 years on mother earth I've never seen anything like it. There were 12 to 15 toddlers, in various stages of consciousness, on these little bare toddler mattresses that were scattered all over the floor of this room. Each kid had what the younger lady later called a 'lovey' or 'loveys' with them. A favorite blanket, or toy. Most had been crying thus they were snot nosed and red eyed. All were asleep, but doing that active toddler kind of sleeping which is fitful, so they are moving around a bunch, thus half of their dirty little mattresses.

It was the strangest thing...and as I've typed, funny, to me at least.

I laughed hard and to long, until I finally came to my sense and realized that these two nice ladies who go to our church were freaking out that I was laughing, and would never get the joke if I explained. Not to mention the Moms in line behind me. I'm afraid Wy Wy got 86'd from a few bday party invite lists based on my sick sense of humor that fine Friday.

So, trying as hard as I can, I pulled myself together, to play Dad, and stopped laughing. I was doing so good too, until I finally saw Wy in this den of inequity, who saw me, half asleep, with his blanket, he popped up and started doing a very clumsy, zombie like stagger toward me, and well Dear Reader, I lost it again.

Father of the year. That's me.
Until I BLOG again...Just say NO!

Dude looks like a lady....

Humpday a week a ago, I had to see a guy about a thing. This required that I look as presentable as I can look. That meant I needed to take clothes to the cleaners. Work and life conspired against me doing this myself, so my Lovely Bride stood up and took one for the home team x2. She dropped off the cleaning and picked it up on Tuesday. I played work golf on Tuesday, and arrived home, late and tired.

Cock-a-doodle-doo. Next morning I had a heck of a time getting up, running much late. As I was about to get dressed in my sartorial finest, the Elder Boy woke up and wanted for me to sit on his lap (which is his backwards way of saying he wanted to sit on my lap.) Having not seen him the night before, I quit getting dressed, and took 15 minutes to watch Higgly Town Heroes with the Boy. Now running VERY late, I went into our room to get dressed. Digging through the plastic of the cleaners, I extracted the freshly pressed black pants that I wanted to wear, as well as my shirt, did my hair, and proceeded to bust a move out of the casa. Again, I was running late. Only problem. My pants felt funny. I had once owned another pair of pants (khaki) like the black that I was wearing, those pants had got laundered vs. dry cleaned and shrunk on me. I thought maybe that was what had happened? Or, perhaps all the beer I had been drinking had added some additional girth to my middle section?

So, wanting to be a sharp dressed man, and not having much time, I did what most men, who are married do. I asked my Lovely Bride. "Honey," I said, "Do these pants look ok? They look short to me. Feel a bit tight." My Lovely Bride stood back, and gave me the once over, and pronounced, " You look fine." Sold!

Off to work, meetings all day, and that meeting with the guy about the thing, all added up to busy busy for this Boy named Stu. So much so that I never went to lunch and or to work-out. I just slaved away.

Home. Tired. Hot. Still feeling a bit fat in my fancy black pants, I decided to promptly go change into something more comfortable. As I peeled off the pants, I decided to check the waist size to see if I was in fact, getting fat. You see, for a lot of years I wore 32x32 pants, and then I lost some weight, and started wearing 31x32. I was thinking that these might be 31x32 pants and so as I was about to fold them, I opened them up and squinted to see (I wasn't wearing my glasses) what size they were.

10R is what it looked like. Wait. 10R? 10R! What the F bomb is 10R?

Then it hit me. Hard. Trying to be dressed to impress, I had, BY MISTAKE, worn Carter's pants the entire day. At work. In meetings. Meeting that guy about a thing. I was wearing my wife's clothing. Sweet mother of goodness.

Until I BLOG again...Lord, imagine my surprise.

P.S. Sadly, this wasn't me only sartorial slip up of the week. On Monday, prior to the Hump Day, a very hard Monday Monday, where I again didn't leave the office all day, even for lunch. Had a few meetings, saw people, etc. But never left. Imagine my surprise when I get home, say my Hellos to the Boy(s), and My Lovely Bride, who asks, "what is on your back?"

"Excuse me?" I had no idea what she meant. Coming closer, she turns me away from her and points to an area that is in the middle of my right shoulder. "There, right there, did you do something to your back..." at which point she sticks her hand under my shirt to see what it is.

What is was was a dryer sheet. I had went through my entire day with a balled up dryer sheet under my shirt looking like a half ass Quasimodo.

I don't wanna tame your animal style..

Thus far in this here BLOG, I've steered clear of second hand stories. Mainly because I get enough good stuff, BLOG worthy stuff, firsthand. But, this story, is the definition of BLOG worthy. It was witnessed by my better half, and it happend this past Saturday.

Dig if you will a Fountain Festival by the City of Richardson. The Fountain Festival is a big event, with all sorts of fun and free things to do with your kids. Each thing or activity is hosted by a Richardson area civic group or local business. You have things like, a bubble booth, wacky putt-putt, silly obstacle course race, fountain fishing, bounce house, giant inflatable slides (one that had a water pool at the bottom,) petting zoo/booth, and the biggest and best, a giant tent with a gargantuan sand pile (more like mountain) underneath.

Upon arriving at the Festival, and finding the fishing in the fountain line to long, The Team decided to hit the petting zoo on our way to the sand pile tent. Ethan was ALL about the sand pile. Somehow Ethan snaked his way in the front of the line for the petting zoo, and was admitted prior to Wy Wy. The petting zoo was pretty lame compared to most petting zoos. It was small, so small that the largest animal was a chicken or duck. A few turtles. A cute little bunny or two. That was about it. Ethan was so unimpressed that he walked in and turned around and walked out, pleading for me to take him to the sand pile vs. waiting for Wyatt to go in for his turn. This petting zoo was hosted by a civic group that consisted of older women. They mainly were counting kids at the gate to get in (only 10 at a time) and then instructed the kids to wash their hands when the exited. My point, there wasn't a lot of adult supervision in the small zoo. Mainly small kids and toddlers (older kids such as Ethan found the zoo lame and were off to bigger things like the sand pile or big inflatable slide) and a few small animals.

The petting zoo was surrounded by parents, all armed with their trusty sure shot camera. If you stumbled upon the scene, you would think that the paparazzi had caught Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn fornicating inside the booth. That's how photo crazy we're talking. These people were rabid in their quest to capture their kids with a cute bunny or duck. The kids on the other hand, were mainly freaked out and scared. Inside this booth and away from Mom and Dad with all these strange looking animals who were oblivious to them. I'm sure having sufferered through more than one petting zoo in their day.

Picture yourself amongst all these nice Mom and Dads outside the small booth/zoo trying to take pics of their little angels when our Little Warrior enters their picture and promptly bum rushes the first chicken that crosses his path. This chicken, who I'm sure had been rushed a few times before, does that quick turbo burst of speed thing to get away from Wy Wy. Only problem is, the Little Warrior is relentless, and he keeps on keeping on, after the poor chicken who now panics, and starts darting in and out of all the kids in the booth. Squawking. Now, all the kids in the booth are freaking out as their parents and the poor civic ladies watch in horror as Wyatt runs down the chicken, grabbing it by the tail feathers and hoisting it up about waist high. The chicken loses it at this point, so bad that it starts to flap its pointless wings, stirring up all sorts of dust and feathers as it cries out trying to get away from our Baby Boy, Wy Wy.

Needless to say, Wyatt and My Lovely Bride soon joined me and E at the sand pile.

Until I BLOG again...I bet you're not so civilized.

The freaks come out at night

STU WARNING: This entry, has little to do with Team Tinsley, and some might find it offensive. If you want a good Team Tinsley Team Tinsley story, go here. if not, well, read on...

You remember that song by Whodini, Freaks come out at night. I used to think they were singing the Flintstones come out at night. Then one day, someone said, Stu, you dumbass, the freaks come out at night. Oh, I said, I was never that well versed in the electric boogaloo.

However, I was and am still good a spotting a freak as easily as I could spot Fred Flintstone, and I spotted one rolling up to our Casa a few Saturday's in the rearview. I was across the street in my neighbors yard, giving him our house key. We were preparing to leave for a week, as we were having our hardwood floors redone. The freak I spotted, as I asked Eric to pick up our mail, and watch the casa, was the lady who worked for the floor company that was doing the job. She had come by last minute to finalize the price.

I knew this lady, let's call her Floory (you'll see why she needs an alias in a bit,) only from My Lovely Bride. She had done all the dealings with Floory on our floors, most recently the tile in our kitchen and den. I don't think my Bride had even met her face to face. So, watching her from across the street she didn't know who I was, yet, I knew who she was, and my freakar was going off, full tilt boogie. If that wasn't enough, Eric even asked, who is that, in a tone of voice that suggested he too, thought she looked a bit freakish. He didn't want to say to much though, as Floory could be a friend of the family. I doubt he thought she was family though, unless of course our family had a colorful history, with a strong emphasis on color. You see, Floory was an african american. For those that haven't seen our pics on the right side of this here BLOG, and even though we did send out a Happy Kwanza card last year, and fight the power every chance we get, Team Tinsley is white. Honky. Caucasian. Feel free to call it what you want in this PC world of ours. The point, I wasn't the only one picking up the freakar on Floory.

Fast forward, a few hours later, as I was preparing to move things out of our house (having your hardwood floors redone while you reside in the home is a tremendous beating,) I found a digital camera in MLB's closet. Strange. It wasn't our camera, and I had a pretty good idea that it wasn't one my wife had purchased on the down-low, so, playing an Okie version of Sherlock Holmes, sans the pipe, I deduced it must be Floory's. I walked into the Little Warrior's room where MLB was moving things out for the floor job and she confirmed, that Floory had in fact, had a camera with her. She promptly got on the horn and called Floory to let her know where she had left it. A few minutes later (Floory is worse than me, she never answers her phone, you have to leave a message and she then will call you back later) Floory told MLB to simply leave the camera on our bar/counter and that her crew would pick it up on Monday.

W.W.J.D.? Not sure, they didn't have digital cameras back in the day, but what I did, after a few beers, was to grab the camera off the bar and see what Floory had on her memory card. Boring stuff. She had about 10 successive pics of floors. Hardwood. Before, after, that sort of thing. At about the 11th picture, I got some cute kid pics. In front of a house, next to a truck. Then I'd get another pic of a floor. Kids. Floor. Co-worker (or so it appeared.) Floor. Kids. Floor. Kids. Kids. Kids. Floor. Kids. Floor. So on, etc. I was about to put the camera down, and head to the beer fridge (in our garage)and quit my invasion of Floory's privacy when I finally (about 20 pics in) hit the shit. In front of me, on the small preview screen was Floory, wearing some nighty type outfit. Very tasteful. No nudity. Posing seductively. I promptly forgot about the beer, and with anticipation scrolled to the next shot. Guess what. It was a floor. Hardwood. Before shot. I quickly scrolled to the next shot. Kids. Followed by Floor. Kids. Floor. Floor. Kids. Then, again, my efforts where rewarded with another seductive Floory pose, her on all fours on a bed, looking seductively over her left shoulder at the camera/photographer. Ruff. Next shot. Floor. Kids. Floor. Floor. Floory's in a new nighty, with her left breast hanging out of her bra, looking seductive again. I guess Floory fashions herself a Playmate? I guess I'll use that as my segue into describing more of Floory. Aside from her being a black woman, you don't know much about her appearance. Let's just say this, if Floory did fashion herself a Playmate and wanted the centerfold, Hugh would have to redesign Playboy to be the size of say, your city newsapaper. To the point. Floory wasn't fat, but she wasn't thin either. My Mom would say Big Boned. I'd say (MLB hates when I say this) she was thick.

Wonder what my Lovely Bride would say? Well about this time, my laughter at the pics he got her attention, and she quit packing up The Little Warriors room and came into the kitchen/den area to see what I was doing. As soon as she rounded the corner into the kitchen from the hall and saw the camera, she knew. Shaking her head, she asked, "what are you doing", to which I promptly held up the camera's small preview window and showed her Floory flat on her back effecting a Playboy-esque pose, Floory could have well been Medusa, as MLB was frozen, aghast by what she saw, but unable to turn away. I kept on scrolling offering up the strangest juxtaposition of images. Floor. Floor. Truck. Kids. Kids. Floor. Floory Playboy-esque pose. Floory Playboy-esque pose. Floory's friend (it appears, at least based on her photography, that Floory had a proclivity toward the type of women who worshiped Sappho of the Island of Lesbos, if you dig that mythology reference) in a Playboy-esque pose, Floor. Floor. Kids. Floor. Kids. Floory in a Hustler-esque pose. Floory in a Playboy-esque pose. Floors. Kids. Floory in a Swank-esque, I don't really want to see you do that with your underwear type pose. Followed by the exact same pose but with a different color of underwear - wadrobe change. Followed by what else, Floor. Floor. Kids. Floor. Kids. Floor. On and on and on.

After 150+ pics, I grew bored and decided to turn off the camera. MLB was still fretting over my invasion of Floory's privacy, but I wasn't really listening to her complaints. I was wondering if I had the ability to download Floory's pics. Her camera was a different brand than mine. I was also wondering how big her memory card was because she had a lot of pics on her camera.

As you can see, I didn't download the pics, otherwise you would see Floory on the right side of this page doing her let me make me underwear disappear trick. Alas, I was busy trying to vacate the house so they could start the floor job, so I forget the camera and the pics, drank more beer, and packed up all of our stuff in our POD thing, and then we headed to Houston Town. That's when the story got interesting, for me at least. MLB who was aghast at my invasion of Floory's privacy, promptly told the story to Jerr and Joyce (my parents.) Horrified when it was going down, Floory has now become one of Cart's favorite go to stories, the one she'll trot out at parties, or when a good friend asks about our floors. She's even prompted me to tell it at one point.

Me. Well, I really haven't told the story to anyone, except the time Carter asked me too, and well, now. It was fun at the time, but, funny shit happens to me a lot, so it's not necessarily top of my pops, like say this story.

For those that wonder if have any regrets? For invading poor Floory's digital camera, and privacy. Yes. I do. You see, upon our return from Houston Town, our house was much dirtier than we were told it would be from the job. They came up short on cleaning up as promised. This caused us a tremendous amout of extra work. The floors did look good. We were pleased with them. Well, not the entire Team. Ethan had a hard time with them actually. But, it was more, the change, and not letting go sort of hard time. He actually fell on floors when he saw them for the first time (we changed the color of the finish dramatically) crying, "I want my yellow floors!" The rest of the weekend, he'd say, "I want to go home," which in Ethanese meant, he wanted his old floors back. Regret. My regret is this. I should have downloaded the pics and emailed one to Floory as I commented on her lack of follow through on clean up while asking for a significant discount on the job.

Until I BLOG again...Floor. Kids. Floor. Floor. Kids. Floory on all fours on her bed. Kids. Floory doing the undies trick. MYFloor! Kids. etc. I hope!

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

A few weeks in the rearview, I, Stuart Tinsley, husband of Carter, father of Wyatt and Ethan, turned 38 years old. Say it with me. Holy shit. Down hill to 40, gaining speed. I write that for this. Mr. Coffee = Joe DiMaggio for me. I know, he was one of the best baseball players ever. He was married to Marilyn Monroe. Doesn't matter. That's not how I remember Joe. I remember him mainly for being a shill for Mr. Coffee in my formative years (read: 1970s.) That's always the first thing I think of when I hear his name, read about him, etc. His legacy (with me at least.) My second thought re: Joe is usually his reference in Mrs. Robinson, you know the song from the movie by Simon and Garfunkle. When I was young I thought it odd that Paul and Art would put a guy that hawked coffee pots in a song in which they wonder where he has gone when it was clear that he was on TV selling coffee pots. That's probably just me though. Huh? That's what you are probably asking yourself right about now, funk show brother. What does this entry have to do with my favorite Team of Tinsleys. Everything. Dig this.

Back in 1991 I was shacking with a young lady whom I had dated for some time. We had a big ugly break-up, and I moved out, pretty quickly. I took the two cats (both now deceased, one recently) as well as a few pieces of furniture, but that was pretty much it. I didn't have plates, or utensils, cups, or a coffee maker. Being relatively new to Dallas, and a tremendous dipshit, I loaded up in my GEO Storm and drove south on I-35 to Wal-Mart in, rim shot please, Waxahachie. Considering that at the time I resided in the Oak Lawn area of Dallas (slightly North of downtown Dallas) this was a tremendously silly thing to do. For those not familiar with the lay of the Messoplex, imagine my Pad in Oak Lawn to be, well, New York City. Waxahachie can be played by Syracuse, NY. Way upstate. Hundreds of miles away. I drove from NYC to Syracuse to buy a coffee pot when I could have taken a ferry a few miles across the river to Newark, NJ and bought one. I was (and am) a dipshit.

On this trip, my epic journey to stock up my new bachelor pad in Oak Lawn I purchased many things, one of which was a Mr. Coffee coffee maker. Fast forward to now, well, actually last week, and said coffee pot died. Now, regular readers of this here BLOG know that I have certain issues and won't be surprised to read that my old coffee pot is still sitting on our counter, right next to the shiny new replacement. I can't throw the damn thing away. Silly. Yes. Stupid. Certainly. In fact, just the other day, My Lovely Bride asked me, why haven't you thrown the coffee pot away (It should be noted that My Lovely Bride doesn't drink coffee, she claims it gives her the shits, which is probably more than you wanted to know, but my point, most coffee related happenings in our casa are done by me.) My answer. I don't really know. We've had trash pick up three times since it died. It is just an old, and gross, coffee pot, that I'm holding onto. I'm so bad, that I've even contemplated trying to fix it. You see, it still kind of works. It takes an hour to brew a pot of coffee, but it still brews. I thought maybe I could open it up and fix it and bring it to work? Then I remember, I'm inept, Mr. Fix-It I'm not. No Honey Do's, more Honey DON'T.

All of this was running through my head as I sat down to pay bills this past Saturday. Freshly brewed mug of coffee in front of me (from the new machine,) I had just seen the fallen coffee pot silently (and again, so dirty) sitting on the counter next to the new machine. Spacing out in front of the computer I was abruptly brought back to, what was then, NOW, by the entry of The Tinsley Boy(s) into our Dining/Living area. The Boy(s) will often follow me into this room when I pay bills, generally making it so I can't accomplish my task. Didn't matter this time though, as I was lost in thought, thinking about the timeline of my life with a Mr. Coffee coffee pot as my guide, with Once In A Lifetime serving as my soundtrack.

How did I get here? I hadn't really figured that out when E, Boy #1, The Elder Boy, erupted into a fierce howling cry. First thought was Wy, Boy #2, the Younger, our Little Warrior had some how hurt his big brother. I quickly did the Daddy deduction thing, and determined that Wy, across the room, and engaged in playing with a truck couldn't have hurt Ethan. Ethan was crying about something else? Thankfully, Boy #1 has a good command of the language for a 3 1/2 year old, which comes in handy at such times, so I simply asked him, what's wrong? Nothing. He was so upset that he couldn't talk. He was doing that crazy wailing sort of cry where you can't even catch your breath. As he continued, I started to get a bit upset myself, worrying that something big was up, that he had in fact hurt himself bad. Maybe something internally. Again, and a bit more urgently, I asked him what was wrong. Nothing. Huff huff, cry cry. So, I picked him up and placed him in my arms and on my lap. I was sitting on the chair that we use for our computer. It sits in front of our computer / home-office armoire. This seemed to make him cry harder which I found very curious? Did my moving him cause him pain? I was about to sound the alarm, and get My Lovely Bride involved (its indicative of how crazy the house is that she didn't immediately come running when the Boy erupted into his wailing, then again, I guess she figured I was in charge and on top of it - wrong) - she is good at this sort of thing, when he stroked the chair, and wailed louder.

That's when it hit me. That Daddy deduction thing working like some sort of doppler radar. I knew what was up...

You see, Dear Reader, what you don't know is this...until recently, like the day before, the chair we were sitting in was red. We went to Houston a few weeks back and my Mom gave us a khaki slip cover for the chair which My Lovely Bride had put upon it. Ethan hadn't noticed the change, and when he did, well he went into the crying thing. He was freaking out over a slip cover. Holding onto what was, tight. As I typed at the beginning, I'm 38, and although I've shed no tears over the Mr. Coffee, I still can't throw the damn thing away. Holy shit. The Boy is a chip off the old block, and, I'm sad to say, that ain't necessarily good in this instance.

Until I BLOG again...anyone want an old, dirty, sort of working Mr. Coffee coffee pot?

rivalidad del hermano

I'm an only child. I tell you that for this: most of the time I have no idea how to handle the Boy(s) sibling rivalry. It's voodoo. My go to move is generally to apply my own code to a situation. The problem with that approach though, I'm an adult. The Boy(s) are, well boys. Example. Wyatt is sitting in Ethan's room watching TV. Minding his own business. Ethan, in a bad mood for whatever reason, comes in and turns the TV off because he's annoyed that Wyatt is in his room, and well, he's in a bad mood and he wants to spread the joy. That's not cool. If someone did that to me, I'd tell them to F bomb off, or worse. But it ain't me, It happened to Wy, and he is in Ethan's room. So, what do I do? Be Wy's advocate. Let the natural pecking order happen? That's a rhetorical question. No need to email me. That's the kind of stuff that just baffles me. I actually cited Ethan in my example, truth be told, Wy is much more the instigator. Being smaller I guess, he likes to mess with E's mind. Example. Ethan is notoriously up tight about his stuff. Catalogs it. Has it in bags and boxes, all sorts of strange places. Sleeps with it. Curious. Very curious. Wy knowing this, will get close to an area of stuff and even touch it (not take it mind you, but touch it.) Ethan freaks out and then retaliates against Wy. Again, Wy started it? He knew his brother would freak. That's why he did it in the first place. What do you do?

These sort of situations are non-stop at our Casa. The end result is usually one of the Boy(s) ends up crying at which point me or my Lovely Bride get involved and have to deliver some sort of justice. It's tough, and as I said earlier, especially for me because of the only child thing.

All of that was typed to get to this...The other day, MLB is gone. Wyatt is watching The Incredibles in Ethan's room. Ethan leaves the front room, and me, to go to his room. Two minutes later, Wyatt erupts in a howling cry that sounds like he is genuinely hurt, vs. a fake cry, or mad cry. I jump from my throne of impotence, annoyed to be honest, to investigate, bum rushing into the room. Living up to the idiot that I am, I demand of Ethan, "What happened." Ethan stares at me with a mean smile, incriminating himself. Wy continues to howl. I fetch a plug and a blanket and pick him up for some comforting. Since he's still crying after the plug/blanket/pick-up he's been hurt hurt. Still I 'm not sure what happened. There are no marks? Again, I ask Ethan, "What happened to your brother." Again, Ethan gives me that smirky grin that leads me to believe he has done something to Wy. I decide to change my tack. "What did you do your Brother?" Nothing. Not counting to ten and getting mad myself, I again, demand, "What did you do to your Brother. You'd better tell me, NOW."

I'm an idiot. I mean, let's think about what I'm asking a 3 1/2 year old. Even if he did get the moral, right and wrong aspect of what I'm asking (all the instruction manuals say they don't get the moral, black and white thing at this age) is he actually going to step up and incriminate himself by telling me? Especially when I'm clearly pissed, holding his crying brother.

Still, he know he needs to give me something, so he looks at me, working up his I'm trying to get away with something let me work it cute smile, and said, "Dkadfad adfsalfsd iadfadf afdasfsdfd lafdafdadfa adfooadf." I type it like that because it was complete gibberish. Reminded me of some sort of Wy baby babble.

"What?!"

He then repeated himself, nearly exactly.

At this point, I'm more confused than mad. Wondering if he's really telling me something - that I'm not getting - and or if he is simply messing with me.

"What?"
"It's ok Dad." Placated by a 3 1/2 year old.
"What did you say Ethan. What happened to your brother?"
"Dkadfad adfsalfsd iadfadf afdasfsdfd lafdafdadfa adfooadf."
"What?!?! What are you saying?"

He then walked over to me, giving me that big fake I'm so cute you can't be mad at me smile, and gave me a big fake cute sweet leg hug (I'm standing holding his crying brother.) I wasn't buying it. I again, asked, sternly.

"What did you do to your brother Ethan. What are you saying?"

To which he replied (I shit you not.)
"It's spanish."

Until I BLOG again...Voy a azotar el behi del muchacho.

How do you do this?

Two Boy(s) with no school equal the summertime blues for my Lovely Bride. Last week, after a particularly arduous day she was nearing critical mass. A major melt down was imminent. Action was needed, as my MLB needed space, and fast. Supposedly there ain’t no cure for the summertime blues, but I thought, just maybe, an impromptu trip to Braum’s would do the trick.

The Boy(s) love Braum’s. I love Braum’s too. Not so much for the ice cream anymore (most of the time I don’t even get anything,) but in that there are places I remember in my life sort of way. Just like that song says, some are changed forever and not for better. Amen, my childhood Braum’s is long gone. It is actually a pool hall beer joint. Not that it matters much since I don’t live where I’m from anymore, in fact, from where I live there is a spot on replica of my childhood Braum’s. We’re talking an old Braum’s. No fancy super size store with a drive through for me. I like my Braum’s old school. Small and dirty, just like the one I frequented in my youth.

In fact, the moment I enter our local Braum’s and step onto that sticky brownish tile floor I’m transported back to another time and place. Hot summer nights and a Boy version of me monkeying around on that wonderful silver monkey like bar that some long ago Braum’s store designer decided should be the device they used to cordon the ice cream line.

That’s what I was thinking as we rolled into Braum’s in an effort to stop the melt show back at the Casa. I didn’t have much time for wistful recollections, my role as Dad quickly brought me back to the here and now as it was 2 on 1 with 1 of the 2 in my arms. A trip to Braum’s with two young Boy(s) isn’t real easy for this Mr. Mom. Thankfully Ethan likes to instruct me on what he wants (usually by pointing at one of the ice cream posters that adorn the walls of every Braum’s I’ve ever visited) and then go and stake out a booth. The Little Warrior living up to his billing has to be held during the ordering process. If I didn’t hold him he’d be at the nearest table trying to bum a bite (or flat out steal) of ice cream from a stranger, or worse, end up in the kitchen.

Trust me when I say it is not easy to navigate the order and payment process while holding Wy. I have to run constant interference while I move our order down the line to the payment area. If I let my guard down for an instant Wy will grab one of the treats and either try and cram it into his mouth or worse, plunge his hand into it and squeeze. I also have to be vigilant for the poor ignorant strangers next to us in line. They only see a cute 18 month old toddler, not the saavy Warrior who is luring them with his cuteness so he can grab their treats. It ain’t easy walking that line, and as hard as it is, it actually gets harder when I have to pay. Fishing my wallet while holding Wy and trying to collect my change and get our ice creams, spoons, and what amounts to a small tree worth of napkins is a bitch.

By the grace of all that is good, we make it back to the booth E has selected without dropping our ice cream selections or having Wy stick his hands in any of them. Once seated (Wy and I on one side, E on the other) both Boy(s) dive into their ice cream with complete abandon. This allows me a few moments of peace before I have to again play Dad by coordinating a bite exchange between the Boy(s). Once they are satisfied that the grass is in fact, not greener, Ethan continues to eat his selection and Wy goes for the salt and pepper. Since he always does this, you’d think I’d get smart and move the salt and pepper out of his reach when we sit down. Wrong. Wy almost always gets quite a few shakes off with the salt before I get it away from him. Meanwhile, Ethan continues to shovel in his ice cream as if we're not even at the same table.

After I take the salt away, Wyatt’s second go to move is to grab a wad of napkins and start cleaning. Have I mentioned Wy’s curious habit of cleaning? He loves it, sweeping, vacuuming, and dusting. In fact, with his napkins he begins to wipe up the salt he spilled earlier as well as the rest of our table (he pays careful attention not to get to close to Ethan fearing he might lose a finger as E is still shoveling in his ice cream.) After the table is clean enough in Wy's mind, he moves to the window ledge thing, then the window itself, then our booth, and finally me. He’ll actually wipe my pants down before he eventually gets bored and throws down the napkins. This is Wy’s way of saying, let’s go, I’m done. Problem is Ethan is not. So, I have to ask Ethan to hurry up and finish before Wy goes nuts. At this point, Ethan who only has the caramel sludge and melted ice cream liquid at the bottom of his cup (he most always gets a pecan caramel Sunday) picks up his Sunday and shoots the remains. When finished, he slams the cup back on the table which is his way of saying, I’m ready, let’s roll.

Roll we do. At least that is what has happened each and every time (with slight variations) that we’ve went to Braum’s the past few months. So, you can well imagine my shock when Ethan threw a big monkey wrench into the routine by saying this: “Daddy, I need to go to the bathroom.”

”What?”

Ethan is 99% potty trained. He can urinate inside or outside with the best of them. His only issue is crapping. He goes freestyle all day (sans diaper, wears underwear) long until he has the urge to shit, and then he requests a diaper because he’s afraid to poop on the toilet. (If anyone has any advice on this strange fear, please, give my your 2 cents. Let me say this, it is not constipation related which most every instruction manual says is the leading cause of fear to have a BM on the actual toilet.) Since he’s been going freestyle for a few months, Ethan and I have visited our fair share of public restrooms. Note the Ethan and I part of that statement. This was going to be my first venture into a public restroom with both Boy(s). Not just a public restroom, an old style Braum’s restroom. That meant two things to me. Small. Dirty. I must have spaced out stressing out about the prospect of our bathroom visit. Or was I simply hypnotized by that crazy purple bug zap light thing (why does Braum’s have those things?) Regardless, Ethan brought me back to the moment by saying, “Daddy, I need to pee pee - now.”

Ready, steady, GO!

Since this Braum’s was a replica of the one of my youth, I knew that the bathroom would be back by the grill order area behind a door next a water fountain. I put my hand around the back of Ethan’s neck to direct him toward the bathroom as I held (wrestled is more like it) Wy in my arms. Wy was not happy. He knew that the car was out the other door, and well, he wasn’t wanting to go behind this strange new door with me and his big brother.

Once behind the first door, I had to reposition our party, so I could open the men’s restroom door. Shoving it open I pushed Ethan into the small space by the back of his neck while holding onto a very agitated Wyatt who wanted no part in this bathroom venture. Once I had the door closed and locked (not sure why I locked it) I instructed Ethan to get busy doing number 1.

“Ok Ethan, pee pee.”

Nothing. He just stood staring at the wall opposite of the toilet. Frozen. He didn't even attempt to pull down his pants and underwear. Wy Wy is screaming by the way.

“Ethan, let’s go. Come on, Wyatt isn’t digging this, pee please.”

Nothing. I took his silence as a sign that he needed help with his shorts. E’s good at getting his pants or shorts down to pee if they have an elastic waist. But, if they have any kind of snap or button, he needs help, and that is what I thought was needed. That created a problem though. I was unsure if I would be able to stoop down to E’s level while holding Wyatt in such a small space. Then, even if I could pull that off, without dropping Wyatt in the shitter, how was I going to be able to unsnap or unbutton E’s pants one handed. There was no way, I’m simply not that coordinated. Exasperated, I again asked,

“Ethan – come on, let’s go to the bathroom.”

Nothing. Faced with Ethan’s complete silence - I was baffled, and forced to do something that I didn’t want to do. I had to put Wyatt down. Sweet mother of all that is good, this bathroom was gross. Dirty gross. I’m damn near Howard Hughes when it comes to germs. Let me put it another way. You know Leather Tuscadero? Sister of Pinky? Happy Days? The Leather who had the curious habit of greeting people by slapping her leg a few times and then pointing at them? You probably thought she was being cool in doing that, right? Not me. I thought she was smart - back in the day before Purell, she was smart to not shake hands because of GERMS! That's me, so you can well imagine how agitated the thought of putting Wyatt down in this filthy bathroom, and him touching everything was making me. Hell, I figured he’d probably try and clean the place. It was freaking me out, real hard. Still, I had to put him down, and do it in a way that would minimize him touching stuff, while I had two free hands to undo E’s pants.

That’s when the light bulb went off over my head. I quickly grabbed some paper towels and put them on the dirty floor for a place to rest my knees at which point I put Wyatt down in front of me as I went to my knees, reaching out for Ethan’s pants. The act of reaching out for Ethan extended my arms out around Wy who was corralled by my effort. Both hands were free so I could unsnap Ethan’s pants and pull down his underwear. Go Stu! I was still busy mentally congratulating myself, way to go to Stu, when I noticed that Ethan wasn’t going.

“Ethan, please pee pee so we can get out of this bathroom. Your brother (he’s screaming, pissed) is NOT happy. Come on man!”

Ethan finally turned from the wall, and looked at me in that inquisitive ‘why’ way of his, and asked, “How do you do this?”

Frustrated, on my knees in a dirty bathroom with a three year old standing in front of me with his pants down around his ankles, while his little brother wailed between my arms I said, more to myself than Ethan, “Exactly?”

I guess Ethan didn’t catch the sarcasm, because he again, asked, “How do you do this?” Confused to the point of becoming angry, I asked, “DO WHAT?!? Which was a bad move because my angry tone made Wy cry harder than before.

“It’s ok Dad.” Placated by a 3 year old.
“Thanks Ethan. Can you pee now, please”
“How do you do this?”
“DO WHat Son?
“This…” At which point Ethan grabbed both strands of toiler paper from the gargantuan toilet roll dispenser and started pulling - hard.

Slowly, with Wyatt screaming and Ethan pulling the toilet paper rolls, I realized what ‘this’ was. Becuase of his fear of the toilet, Ethan has never been in a public restroom stall. He had never seen a commercial sized TP dispenser with two jumbo rolls of TP. His limited experience with toilet paper has been with the home variety. Small. One roll. Faced with this commercial TP dispenser in what otherwise looked like a home bathroom, well Ethan was flat out mesmerized.

"Stop messing with the toilet paper please. I need you to pee pee now. That is a..." - As I explained about commercial sized toilet paper dispensers and why the two rolls were so large I thought back to the pre-breeder version of Stu. When I thought of being a "Dad" - I saw myself explaining certain things to my future kids. How to play golf. The birds and the bees. How you balance a checkbook. Those kind of things.

Trust me when I say, I never saw myself on my knees in a dirty bathroom explaining commercial grade toilet paper dispensers.

Until I BLOG again…Happy Birthday to me!

I'm dressed all in blue

Monday Monday. Three weeks in the rearview I found Suk, sans her head, on our front lawn. Three. That's how many times I had to run our sprinkler to wash away the bloody drag marks in the grass. I still can't look at my front yard without seeing my poor fat cat. It haunts me. Stu the realist tells himself, yes she was a part of the family, and yes, you had her for a long time, but she was just a cat. Get over it. Suck it up, man! I listen to that Stu, and try real hard, to walk the talk, and then something happens that brings me down, hard.

I'm smart enough to realize that I have what amounts to some sort of post traumatic stress over my poor dead cat. I get that. My problem is that I think that is pretty damn goofy. Internal struggle between how I feel, and how I think I should feel.

Mornings our hard. Ever since that Monday Monday, I have stopped getting up early. It doesn't take a nervous doctor to understand why. I used to always get up an hour or two before the rest of the Team to watch TV, DVD's or stuff I'd Digitally recorded. Stu time. Every morning, as soon as I hit the light in the kitchen to get coffee, Suki hit the back door, and started talking. She wanted to come inside, get some food, visit, etc. I wouldn't let her because she'd wake up the entire Team. So, she'd sit at the door and talk, as I sat on my throne of impotence watching TV. We could make eye contact across the room, and through the french door. I'd tell her to be quiet. She would ignore me and keep up her metronome like talking. Suk was so very persistent. She was a big part of my morning ritual, my quiet time. Only thing, now that she's gone, it is to damn quiet. So much so that on most mornings I stay in bed until one of the Boy(s) is ready to start their day. Our second is usually the first up-so I go and get Wy, fix him a milk, and we hit the recliner to watch Sesame Street.

That is what the pragmatic, realist Stu was doing this past Saturday. Sitting with The Little Warrior watching Sesame Street. I wasn't even watching it that close, that is, until one of those quintessential little Sesame Street cartoon learning tool segue things came on screen. What caught my attention was the cartoon of a cat on screen. It looked a lot like Suki to me. Sitting there, flicking it's tail, and talking. Above the cat was a chalk board where a little kid (which you couldn't see, only hear) is trying to spell out a statement.

So, with the fat little cartoon cat meowing and flicking it's tail, the little kid you can't see says as they are writing out on the chalk board.
My kat...
After they get cat wrong, the board erases, and the cat on screen meows, flicks the tail. The little kid says, that's wrong. They then starts over.
My cat iz
Same thing happens, that's wrong, cat meows, etc. At this point I'm thinking the final word is going to be fat. Something cute or funny like that. Wrong.
My cat is gone. Only this time there is no little kid voice. The little cat, gets up, meows and exits screen left at which point the little kid says, what is on screen.
My cat is gone.

Pragmatic Stu sitting there with Wy, tears welling up in my eyes, watching Sesame Street. Are you kidding me? Can I make this shit up? Talk about your synchronistic stick in the ass.

My cat is gone.
Indeed.

Until I BLOG again...F(Bomb) Jung!

If you smile through your fear and sorrow...

Considering recent events, I need a good laugh. This Stu misadventure always makes me do just that. As I always belabor, this BLOG is my labor of love for Team Tinsley. My goal is that in the Buck Rogers future this chronicle will be a present of the present to the Boy(s). That is the reason I dedicate so much time to the effort. Still, I must confess I find it titillating that so many people read my goofy BLOG. Actually, I’m shocked by how many read it. Still, more shocking to me is what those readers find interesting. For example, by far, the two most commented on (via email, usually anonymous email which I find interesting as well) have been, Fear Factor and Hope springs eternal. For whatever reason, my guess is because they are so personal, they struck a chord in those that stumbled across my little BLOG. For all those in the (e)Mail bag that asked in regard to Hope springs eternal, is that really real? Yes. My Lovely Bride can vouch for me. She also reads this here BLOG with what I’m sure is a sense of bewilderment. I can see her on the home machine, reading what I’ve wrote, shaking her head, and thinking, He’s mine. All mine. Poor woman.

The truth at times is indeed stranger than fiction for a Boy named Stu. I’m not sure if I am a lighting rod for goofy shit, or that I’m just more inclined to tell the stories? Do I simply wear my heart upon my sleeve in what is otherwise a muscle shirt world? I’m not sure. What I do know is that I told you all of that, for this: a (bad) set-up for this Stu misadventure. One that is funny. And as I said in the beginning, I need to laugh, even if it is at myself. What you are about to read is true. Funny. Twisted. Sick. But, all true.

On a nice spring day a few years in the rear view I decided to take a nice lunch time run vs. riding the bike at 24 Fitness. The club is in the heart of North Dallas/Addison. I’ve done the run a few times before. It is quite nice. I leave the club, run through the Addison town hall area, where I connect with a wooded trail that runs along White Rock Creek. The trail dumps me into a very posh North Dallas neighborhood. I run on this street, by multi-million dollar homes, up a very long hill (which is very rare in flat Dallas.) At the crest of the hill sits Celestial Park. After running through this small park, I hit a main road that takes me back to the parking lot of the Health Club. This routes takes me 25 to 30 minutes depending on how fast I run/jog.

So, picture if you will, me on my Gary Cooper time run. Chamber of commerce beautiful weather for the messoplex. We’re talking blue skies and sunny with little humidity, temp in the mid 60s. It was glorious. As I ran down past Houston’s (Read: popular Restaurant) in North Dallas, about to connect with White Rock Creek Trail, I felt a funny rumble in my stomach. Since I was only five minutes or so out, I figured it was simply a runner’s cramp and pushed through the pain. About ten minutes into the run in the middle of the White Rock Creek Trail, which is very secluded, I had another rumble that turned into a sharp pain. We’re talking sharp enough to stop me in my tracks, bend over pain. Strange. I normally don’t cramp when I run, but, it had been awhile since I had been on a run thus I figured, simple cramp. Suck it up. I did and was doing pretty fine until I neared the end of the White Rock Creek Trail were I was going to dump onto this very nice, and exclusive street. It was here that I had another sharp pain that again stopped me in my tracks and caused me to bend over. Only this time a menacing rumble followed that meant only one thing. I had to shit. Bad. I’m a fairly regular sort of guy, usually moving my bowels daily, in the AM, which I had done that very day. So, the thought that this was a poop call, the second one of the day, well, I couldn’t believe it. Surely, I could hold it until I got back to the club. Maybe it was a false alarm?

Cautiously, I started to jog up the long hill toward Celestial Park, fearing another pain in my gut, I was really speed walking more than jogging. Didn’t matter, less than a minute later, another sharp pain hit me and another rumble. Thunder in my gut. It was so bad that I sat on the curb in front of a million dollar home and tried to let the urge to defecate in my shorts pass. It wasn’t easy. I broke a cold sweat. Finally, the feeling subsided, somewhat, and I decided to walk, not run up the hill toward Celestial Park. I figured, fast walking, I’d be back at the club in 15 to 20 minutes (if I was running it would be more like 10, but I couldn’t risk that at this point.)

Blue skies overhead, million dollar homes to my right and left, all I could see was each foot step up what is probably the only hill in North Dallas, sweating, not from the exercise but the struggle to keep from shitting all over myself. I had to stop three times to sit on the curb, legs crossed before I even made it to the top of the hill and Celestial Park where I noticed that I wasn't the only one enjoying the nice weather. Celestial Park's parking lot was full.

Celestial Park is small. There are no facilities. Not even a water fountain. Just a bowl shaped park with a walking trail and a raised area that has a wall and sundial thing. People were all over the bowl area, sitting on the benches that lined the trail, having romantic lunches. I watched many of them eating their Subway take out, and paper sack lunches, as I sat on a small ledge trying to make my poop stay inside.

Considering I never made Webelos is it any wonder that I didn’t know that the Boy Scouts motto is be prepared. More to the point, I had NO idea what to do in this situation. I was at a loss. I was still 10 minutes (running) from the Club. So, after resting on the wall for a few moments, I decided to suck it up, and in, and try to make it back. This time, I only made it a few feet before the pain struck. That is when I realized I needed a back up plan, because there was no way I was going to be able to walk and hold my poop all the way back to the club.

I considered knocking on the door of one of the million dollar homes, to see if I could use their bathroom. Most had gates though, and even if I could get in, and wasn’t shot by a rent-a-cop, I had to ask myself, would they really let a strange man into their home to shit? Probably not.

My next thought was that I could walk back down the hill to White Rock Creek Trail and shit in the woods. It was very secluded. That sounded like a good plan. Only problem was, my body wasn’t going to cooperate. There was no way I was going to make it down the hill. I was about to shit, right then and there. If I didn’t do something fast, I was going to shit myself, standing on the sidewalk in front of Celestial Park which I also considered. I mean, it would be bad, and all, but there were showers at 24 Fitness. I could clean up when I got back. Then again, I would have to walk into the busy club, and all the way through it to get to the bathroom, with shit in my pants. It was a typical health club shower too, I wouldn't have much privacy to clean up during the lunch time rush. Nope. In the end, I couldn’t shit in my jogging shorts, so I decided to do the only thing I felt was possible. I was going to shit in Celestial Park.

Since I was about to explode, I didn’t have a lot of time to case the park. I did a quick look and saw that there were 8 people in the park. Thankfully they were all in the lower part, either on benches or on the grassy center lawn, eating lunch, enjoying the day. I decided I to go to the top tier of the park, to the sundial thingy area where I’d have a better vantage point over the surrounding ground.

I tried to innocently walk past the people (which was hard, because I had to shit - bad) up the stairs to an area that has a funky sundial. Each step was painful. Based on my walk, the people probably thought I was physcially challenged, that is how bad I had to poop. The stairs were really hard. Sweating. I was afraid I was going to lose control of my bowels on the steps, right in front of a young couple eating their Subway sandwiches.

At the top, I decided to sit on the wall for a minutes to try and regain my composure and figure out where I could do my business. Looking around, I decided to hop the wall I was sitting on, and go behind a small copse of trees. I wouldn’t be covered, but no one would see me unless they happened to look up that way which was out of their way. The street was no that far to my South, but again, a person in a car would have to look for me to see me. This was my best option. Still, much to my horror, I was very much in the wide open, and could easily be spotted by people in the park, not to mention from the second floors of many of the homes that lined the West side of the park. This was causing me to have second thoughts when the final pain shot through me, causing me to damn near unclench my butt and shit then and there. It was all I could do to half way bend over and pull down my pants and poop. Hard.

Finished. The reality of the situation returned and I again became paranoid. Here I was, standing in the middle of the park, sort of squatting, watching people eat lunch, while I hovered naked from the waist down, over my pile of waste. You can well imagine that I was freaked. I’m sure there are laws against this sort of thing.

Still, I did feel a lot better having relieved myself, until I realized that I still had a problem. I had to wipe. Even though I wasn’t a Boy Scout, I did know a few things about this problem. As a kid, I’ve shit in the woods. I think most kids have at one time. Back in the day, I always used my socks. But being that my day was the mid to late 1970s, that meant gargantuan tube socks. We’re talking over the knees long. Two of these bad boys and hell, it was like having a roll of Charmin with you at all times. Tube socks might not have been the most fashion forward item, but by golly, they were excellent for wiping your ass in the wilderness.

The problem with today was, I was wearing those little runner ankle socks. Not much material to wipe with in my opinion. I would also have to take my shoes off which would leave me exposed in the open longer. So, I made the executive decision to use my underwear. I don’t even wear underwear half the time, so no big loss. It was a good plan, or so I thought, until I realized I would have to completely take off my shorts to remove my underwear. Since I didn't want to take my shoes off, I would also have to navigate my shorts and underwear over my shoes while they were still on my feet. Considering I would be doing this over a pile of shit, without a net, it sounded more like some freaky challenge on a Reality TV show than real life. Worse, doing this would leave me, ever so briefly, while retrieving my briefs, nude from the waist down in the middle of a public park. I know there are laws against this.

If only one person in the park decided to casually look up my way, or a passing car looked over my way, and they saw me, a thirtysomething man with no pants on in a little stand of trees overlooking a park, well what would you think? Hell, if I did get caught my only defense against being a pervert would be that I was taking a shit in the park. Still, I had to do something, so working as quickly as possible, I shucked my jogging shorts, pulled off my underwear, wiped my ass as best I could, and put my shorts back on. Done. No one had seen me. Victory. Well, not quite. I was still a few feet from the finish line which was going to take me right back by those folks eating their lunch. They were next to the nearest trash can. I couldn’t walk out of the trees in front of these people eating their nice lunch with a pair of shit stained briefs in my hand. And there was no way I was going to put the filthy undies under my shirt or in my shorts either. I figured, since I was on a roll, why not go for a social deviance trifecta, and break another law and litter in this fine park. So, that's what I did. I left my shit stained undies next to my pile of excrement. Walked back down the steps, past the couple eating their lunch (who gave me a wary eye), and back to 24 Hour Fitness. Citizen of the year. That's me.

Later that day, sitting at my desk, at my real job, thinking about what had happened at lunch I nearly shit myself again. Only this time it was from laughing. I kept thinking of the poor city employee, or jogger, or nature enthusiast who stumbled upon my pile of crud. At first they might think it was an animal? A large dog perhaps. Then, they'd notice the shit stained underwear laying near the pile, and slowly they would realize what had went down at this most tony of Parks in North Dallas.

Until I BLOG again…smile and maybe tomorrow...

If never I met you...

As strange as this is going to sound, in many ways our little fat cat, Suki, had a hand (or should I say paw) in creating what I call Team Tinsley. My family. But before we get there, picture if you will a scrawny little kitten sitting on the 2nd floor landing of an apartment buidling in Norman, Oklahoma.

You see, best as I can remember, Suki came into my life in the Summer of 1988. Mom and Dad having left my home town of Sand Springs, I was living for the first time, full time in Norman, Oklahoma where I was attending the University. My girlfriend at the time had a pretty, fluffy, white and orange cat named Ashli. Ashli (who later became my cat) liked to hang out at the window that faced the 2nd floor stoop of this apartment. Suki, who I'd guess to be 4 or 5 months old at the time, liked to come and visit Ashli at the window. She'd walk around and do what I've always called talk. Meow. That cat meowed more than any cat I've ever met. I'd talk to her as I came and went from the apartment. She'd talk back, and follow me down the stairs if I was leaving, or come down them to greet me upon my return. She seemed to like me. Being an animal lover, I liked her. I considered us friends, but felt since she had a collar, she belonged to someone in the complex. A few weeks later, noticing that she was becoming sickly (she would meow, but nothing would come out, just an open mouth, like someone had hit the mute button) and that her collar was dangerously tight, I came to the conclusion that she had been abandoned by some piece of shit college student who got a kitten in the spring and then when summer came, well they split and left her. Then again, they might have got tired of her incessant talking and dumped her. Regardless, she was on her own, and sick. I had to do something for this little cat that had attached herself to me.

So, in an act that shows just how soft hearted I am when it comes to animals, I paid (I'm cheap and don't like to part with money) for Suki to go to the vet to get well, and boarded her for an entire week, since I was going to visit my folks in El Paso. Upon my return I had every intention of giving Suki away to a good home. Only problem with that, no one wanted her. Admittedly, Suki was an ugly duckling kitten. Plus she talked all the time. Two traits most people don't want in their cat I guess. People would come over to the apartment and see Suki, then see Ashli, and well they wanted Ashli, not Suki. More than one person said, "I don't want that cat (pointing at Suki who would be talking to them), but I'll take that pretty fluffy one (pointed to Ashli who could care less about this visitor.) This went on for about a week or so, until I couldn't take it any longer and decided Suki (I got the name from Michelle Pfeiffer's character in the Witches of Eastwick) was going to be my cat. Thinking back on it, I believe Suki knew from the get go that I was her master. I just took me awhile to realize that she was going to be my cat. Maybe no one else wanted her, but, I did.

Suki got that. At some instinctual level, she realized no one else wanted her, and that I took her in, took care of her. Then again, maybe I just fed her, and she liked that (Suki always liked to eat.) Regardless, our relationship went beyond the typical animal/owner bond. I'm not sure if Suki thought I was her mother, or dad, hell maybe boyfriend. All I know is that she loved me real hard. She was crazy for me, and I was crazy for Suk.

In fact, so much so that Suki served as a litmus test for women in my life. If Suki didn't like them, well, I figured something was wrong. I can still see Suki, in my minds eye, approaching the sofa where I sat with a date. She'd of course, talk the whole way to the sofa, hop up, and wedge herself between me and the date. Then she'd lay on her side, and push her legs toward said date, trying to literally push them away from me. She'd then cock her head, look at me and start talking. I'm sure in cat she was telling me all the reasons I needed to get away from this particular women. Why they were no good for me.

Then one fine day, something magical happened. I met the woman who would one day become my Lovely Bride, and when she eventually had the pleasure of coming to my pad, Suki didn't do her go to move, and try to keep her away from me. In fact, Suki liked Carter from the get go which didn't go unnoticed by me. I took the paw up as a symbol that this lady had something special. That this might be the one. You know what. She was. Ob-La-De, Ob-La-Da, Life goes on. Carter and I got married. We had Boy(s).

Suki was there for all of it. In fact, I was quite concerned when Carter was pregnant with Ethan that Suki was going to freak out when we had the baby. I imagined her in the crib trying to smother the infant. Or probably more realistic, going on a pee and poop rampage in the house.

Suki did none of that. From the get go, she was accepting of the Boy(s). Since the early days, Ethan has been all over her. Cat wrestling is what I called it. Wy too, loved to lay all over her, liking the way her fur felt against his face. Suki graciously put up with all of this, never once hurting one of the Boy(s) even though at times they hurt her by accident.

For the past month I've had what can only be described as a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach. I'm uptight and superstitious. I know that. I kept trying to tell myself to shake it off, that it was in my head. Let go. Easier said than done for me. That is what makes Monday, June 27th all the more strange. I woke up around 5am so I could watch the last Alias on a DVD. To be honest, I didn't noticed, which is unusual, that Suki wasn't at the door talking to get in from our backyard. Normally she will stand at the door and talk for over an hour, until everyone is up, and then we let her in (otherwise she would wake up the entire house.) I'm normally quite annoyed by her early morning talking which usually starts as soon as I turn on the kitchen light. But, all was quiet on this morning. As I got up to get a refill on my coffee and to put the DVD in the mail back to Netflix, I was struck with that feeling of dread. I was trying to shake it off as I opened our front door and saw, what was once Suki on our front lawn. No more than 7 steps from my front door. It was horrible. Gruesome. Helter Skelter bad. So much so that we called both the police and animal services because we feared it might be some sicko freak who did it to our cat. It was that bad. They both said it looked like a Coyote kill. I won't go into the details just that I'm thankful that Ethan didn't see it. It was hard enough telling him that Suki died, but to tell him what actually happened, and to see the results for himself, well, how would a 3 1/2 year old Boy understand that. I'm nearly 38, and I'm having trouble undestanding it.

The fact that it went down on what I thought was my safe little neighborhood, on my front yard, has shaken me. We often play in the front yard. Run around. The thought that Suki was brutally killed on that yard, drug and torn apart where we've all run around as a family is eating me up in ways I didn't think were possible.

I've had that damn cat for 17 years. She has been with me all the way back to my college days. She was with me (talking the entire trip I might add) when I made the big move to Dallas. She was with me when I broke up with a long time girlfriend. She was with me when I met Carter. When I got married. When we had the Boy(s). Countless apartments, and a few homes. Suki was with me. When I was sick or sad. When I was happy. Suki was with me. She is so interwoven into the fabric of my life, that I'm having an extremely hard time with the reality that I will never hear her talk again. That I will never see her sweet little face again. That I didn't have the chance to say good-bye, and to pet her one last time. That not only did she die, but she died in a cruel and savage manner. I only hope that it happened quick. I'll never know of course, and that is one of the things that wakes me up laste at night, her last moments. Laying in bed, in the dark, my heart aches for my cat. So much so that I have to get up and move around. I end up walking around the house in the dark. Checking in on the Boy(s) in their golden slumber. I look outside to our front yard, and, remember the horror of what I saw on Monday morning.

Things often come full circle...In Suki's later years, she spent a lot of her time out in our backyard. She had a spot, more of a wallow really, near the garage, where she would hang out, lay her head on a railroad tie. She was almost always in this spot, when I came home from work. She would greet me, talking the entire time, and follow me to the door, just like so long ago in Norman. When I came home on Tuesday, some part of me expected to see her in her usual spot. To be able to reach down and half way pick her up by her tail (which sounds mean, but she liked it when I did it to her.) To say, Hello Suk, how are you doing. To give her a few pats. For her to talk back. Her spot was still there. But no Suki. Instead of saying Hello and picking her up, I cried. I still cry for my cat. I lover her. I hurt. Bad.

I've heard it said, that when you die and go to heaven all the dogs and cats you've ever had in your life come running to meet you. Considering my shaky history with organized religion I'm not sure where I stand on that..but thinking about Suki, how I feel about her, and how her life was ended, sweet mother of all that is good, I pray that if I'm worthy of heaven, she does greet me me at the stairs, talking the entire way to the door or gate. She deserved a better death. She was a good cat. She was my cat. I miss her.

Until I BLOG again...Suki had her own theme song. Because of her talking, I made this song up, and would sing it to her, and she would sing it with me. So, one last time with meaning...

There once was a cat named Suki
And everyone thought she was kooky...but me, BUT ME!
People would come from miles...to see Suki smile
And dance...and Sing!!!! (at which point Suki would start talking on cue...)

F (bomb) me. I need a hug.

Like Henry Dad!

If you’ll pardon a bad analogy, Henry and his trusty companion Teddy serve as our sherpas on the trek up the Mount Everest that is potty training.

Henry is the protagonist in our go to propaganda tome on potty training, aptly titled The Potty Training Book (for Boys). I find the for Boys distinction funny, even though I dig the fact that it is required, since girl do it differently. Number 1 at least.

The Elder Boy is very close to being potty trained, whether he likes it or not. Regular readers of this here BLOG are well aware of my feelings on the infernal diaper . I for one can’t wait for Ethan to be potty trained. My Lovely Bride being a stay-at-home Mom changes far more diapers than me. I'd go so far as to classify it as a shitload of diapers on a daily basis, thus she is certainly ready to jettison #5 diapers in Casa Tinsley. For those playing along at home, #5 is the Elder Boy’s diaper size. The Little Warrior recently graduated to #4.

My Lovely Bride is so ready in fact, that she has declared that the current stash of #5’s is the last we’ll purchase at Sam’s for the Elder Boy. When they are done, we're done. I love my wife for many reasons, one of which is her ability to draw a line in the sand in regard to making a big decision. She last employed this strategy with Dog-Dog, another major change we kept procrastinating. Same deal with Ethan and potty training. We haven't been adamant enough about it even though he is ready. He can actually urinate quite well on his own. Poop is the hard one. But, he's done it (in the toilet) before. At any rate, Ready, Steady, GO!

Unlike Henry, I’m not the best role model for potty protocol. You see, like Dog-Dog, I urinate in the backyard. Truth be told as much as I urinate indoors. It is a curious habit of mine. Could I be a closet tree hugger on a quest to save water? Perhaps I’m just cheap and I want to save on my water bill? Or could it be that I’m lazy and would rather walk the few steps from the den out our back door (we have a privacy fence by the way) versus walking all the way to the back of the house? Whatever the reason, I pee outside all the time, all over the yard.

I tell you all that, for this.

A few weeks in the rearview, the Elder Boy is running amok in the den sans pants. This is part of our potty training strategy. We strip him from the waist down so he is aware of his pee pee and poo poo areas. That way if he has to pee and does, well it gets all over him and the floor. Then next time, he’ll think, Hey, I got to pee, I better stop what I’m doing and take care of business.

My Lovely Bride, being uptight in regard to the condition of our floors and not wanting to create more work, always tells the Boy to remember that he’s not wearing a diaper. If he needs to pee or poop, let her know, or take care of business. Although not uptight about the floors, I’m all for not causing myself more work, so I do the same thing with one exception. I tell him he can also go out back to take care of business, like me.

So, on a fine Saturday at Casa Tinsley, me on my Throne of impotence while Ethan and Wyatt played and watched Hi-5. The Elder Boy (who was sans pants) got an urgent look on his face, and quickly hopped off the coffee table (both Boy(s) can often be found on top of our coffee table) and opened the back door. He then took two steps, just enough to position him at the edge of our one and only back step, and proceeded to urinate. Right smack dab in the middle of the patio. Right in a spot that you’d have to walk through if you were going to enter our house from the back, which is the way we gain access to Casa Tinsley 99% of the time.

When he was done (sans a shake I might add for those playing along at home with a penis,) he came hopping back into the house quite pleased with himself and climbed back onto the coffee table to watch Hi-5.

Counting to 5, as they suggest, I gathered my wits and asked, “Ethan, did you just pee on the patio?”

He gave me a sheepish grin that suggested, of course, didn’t I do good.

Counting to 5 again, I fought the impulse to react negatively. He did take care of his business. He could have urinated all over the coffee table, which would have been far worse than the patio. The more I thought about it, How could I be mad? If anyone was to blame, it was me. I figured he knew what I meant by go out back. That whole Ass/u/me thing. He was doing what he thought I did. To be clear, I don’t urinate on the patio. I always make it to the yard. But still, Ethan did what I told him to do, and was quite pleased with himself in doing it. Good job Ethan.

On further thought, I better explain to the Boy that Daddy only does Number 1 in the backyard. Last thing I need is him taking a shit on the back step.

Until I BLOG again…