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...