Post hoc ergo propter hoc

"Where's her head."

That was the first thing the Elder Boy asked upon my return from Houston. He was in the bathtub, naked. His brown eyes, a testament to Mom, were wide with anticipation.

"With her body. At the morgue, er' funeral home..." I shuddered at that reality. Mom's physical body in some refrigerated drawer like I had seen on television. "She might already be cremated at this point. I'm not sure, to be honest."

Those brown eyes, a mirror of mine, still wide with wonder, "How?"

"How what?"

"How they cream aid her?"

"No. C - R - E - M - A - T - E. Granny wanted to be cremated."

To which, Wy Wy, in the same tub, with the same brown eyes added, "Granny died."

To write that this year has been life altering for Team Tinsley is a gross understatement. I think back to when it all started, which for me was on my throne of impotence with a bag of doritos in my lap and Entourage on HBO. As the clock struck midnight, and 2005 became 2006, I clearly remember wiping my nacho cheese crusted fingers off as I got up and went back to look in on the Boy(s), asleep in their beds.

I'm not sure if it is because I've seen The Mexican or that I'm naturally disquiet, but on December 31st I often worry about stray bullets coming through the roof and harming those I love. Reassured by their peaceful slumber, somewhat, I licked the cheese off of my thumbs as I walked back to my throne. That is when I was struck with a palpable sense of dread - when I thought to myself, will Mom live to see 2007. Dear Readers, as well as regular readers of this here BLOG know that sad answer. No. Mom died on October 18.

Looking back, as I look forward, I'm disheartened with myself. My Lovely Bride says that I'm being hard. She is probably correct. Still, it doesn't change how I feel, which to be honest, is like shit. The past two weeks have been especially hard. Starting with our trip to Houston to go through Mom's things, and then her Memorial. Followed by Christmas. Christmas was tough. I've always had mixed feelings about Christmas. I actual spent Christmas Eve in Church this year, which resolved a lot of my past demons. Still, I hurt, so much that I had self medicated at our annual white elephant family gathering earlier in the day and was border line drunk. That sucks. Not so much in a moral sense. If you know anything about Jesus, you know he was all about the sinners and loving everyone. I think it sucks because two months and some change since Mom died I'm still not right in the head. To quote Paul Gleason's Principal Vernon from The Breakfast Club (who, ironically enough died of a rare form of lung cancer in May 2006), "I expected a little more from a varsity letterman!" Funnily enough my high school letterman jacket is one of the things I found when we went through all of my Mom's stuff. Something she had saved.

I recently read a BLOG of a guy who is from my hometown. A fellow Sandite. His BLOG entry commemorated the 10 year anniversary of his father's death. His father was my bus driver for many years. But that isn't the point. In his BLOG entry he said:

"To those of you who like to cling to the old Nietzsche grind that "that which does not kill me makes me stronger", I tell you that's a load of horseshit. In that month, on that day, I was not made stronger by the things that happened to me. What I learned was to mistrust that the universe holds me any goodwill. The legacy of that day was to destroy all my certainties, and replace them with constant worries about everything."

Thinking about this year, and Mom's death, I agree with most of that. However, for me, personally, Brother Nietzsche's grind is somewhat correct. Not to say that all of this has made me stronger. I don't think that is true. I think of the experience more like a callus. Hardness has set in, and I need some protection, the thinner my skin

My Near Year's Resolution, if you can call it that, is to simply open up my heart, and live my life in a way that is befitting Mom's memory. I need to take something good from all the bad. I don't want to be be angry, or bitter. Not waste time. That all sounds like such a cliche. Unless of course you are me, faced with such a profound loss.

So, Merry New Year to all those that come to this here BLOG, whether I know you or not. While you are here, please join me in crossing your fingers in the hope that I don't fuck it up, and end up walking in my old footsteps once again.

Until I BLOG again... after this, therefore because of this.

There is no way to hide

Oh, irony, you sadistic mind fucker. How you love to push my buttons. How you must have loved seeing me sitting on that crappy exercise bike on the third floor of the Hampton Inn preparing to exercise in the hope of burning through some of my Mom's memorial morning anxiety. The look on my face must have been Mastercard priceless as I turned the television on and realized that not only was Four Weddings and a Funeral on TV, but that it was nearly time for the funeral scene. Seriously. Three hours before my Mom's Memorial. How do these things happen? It truly is stranger than fiction, in fact, I could never even make this up, I'm not that clever. The same way I'd never have thought to cue the irony and have the dog die this past September. Genius. Cruel, sure, but genius never the less. Just like having Field of Dreams on HBO upon my return from the Memorial trip, one movie that always makes me cry, hard.

I thought that might be the coup de grâce. As usual, I was wrong. That happened this morning. I was stuck at a light for nearly 30 minutes because of an accident. I was listening to my iPod. It was set to play my Houston Roadtrip mix on shuffle mode. There are 57 songs in this mix. This fine morning, stuck at the light, in the driving rain, Do You Realize?? was song 50. In My Life was 51. Back to back. The same order as in the slideshow I did for Mom's memorial. The same slideshow in which the Elder Boy, at a table in front of so many who were there to pay tribute to his Granny, became overcome with his grief. It was gut wrenching to see such pain.

I'm not sure how this all works. How it happens. If I'm looking for meaning in coincidence? Or is it something more and I'm such a dumbass I don't get the bigger picture because I'm unable to let go of all the junk in my head and heart? Like two of the character in the movie Raising Arizona say:

"It's a crazy world."
"Someone oughta sell tickets."
"I'd buy one."

Indeed.

Until I BLOG again...Don't let it beat you, say 'nice to meet you' and bye

Do you realize??

Until I BLOG again...that everyone you know someday will die

Waiting for an invitation to arrive

Turn, Turn, Turn my ass, I think the Byrds are full of shit. I know they didn't write that song, but they did take it to number one in 1965, so I'm holding them accountable. Plus, that is a much better choice than the actual songwriter who cribbed most of the lyrics from the Book of Ecclesiastes. I'm uncomfortable calling that book full of shit, since, stop, drop and roll doesn't work in hell. But, as always, I digress.

Turn! Turn! Turn! (to Everything There Is A Season) my ass - try losing a loved one to cancer two weeks before Halloween. It is jacked up, hard. How strange it is to drive by homes that have ghastly decorations in their yard. Thinking about those zombies coming up from their faux graves while you are sitting next to a real life skin and bone zombie who is your Mom. At the end she even moaned like a zombie.

I realize that I shouldn't bring up, what I can't put down, because nearly two months since Mom's death, I'm clearly still haunted by it all.

I get that. What I didn't get is how people could decorate their yards with the faux dead and stay up late into the night watching horror films and not be able to look me in the eye when they learned that my Mom had died. How many couldn't even acknowledge her death.

I didn't understand that so many embrace Halloween in all its macabre, ghoulish glory because they are scared to death, of death. You know what? I was one of those many. I can think back on times when I didn't know what to say to someone when they had lost a loved one. How I had dodged them or simply said nothing.

If I've learned anything from this, it is the fact that you should keep your eyes open when you walk past the proverbially graveyard rather than whistling past in a state of denial.

Until I BLOG again...Goin' to a party where no one's still alive

Filled with imperfect thought

I first heard about the purported Five Stages of Grief in March, while watching Scrubs. It was a good episode. John Boy's Mom, who was a patient at Sacred Heart Hospital, was dying. It wasn't really John Boy's Mom, just the actress that played her. I have a hard time thinking of Michael Learned as anyone other than Olivia 'Livie' Walton. I guess I'm in denial, which is the first stage of grief.

As for the other stages, I think for the past six months I've been engaged in what could best be described as a circle jerk with stages two and three. Anger and bargaining if you believe in the Five Stages of Grief. Not to be a contrarian, but I'm not sure that I do. Perhaps because I'm hung up on their chronology? In my head one turns into two, two into three, three into four, four into five. That is not what has happened with me. In fact, when Mom died I coudn't pass GO, instead I went back to stage one. Denial.

I didn't realize I was in denial though, which is why for my money denial is top of the pops in the five stages of grief hit parade? It rocks. You are oblivious.

A week or so ago, my Lovely Bride and I were talking in the kitchen when she told me that she didn't think that I had got the fact that Mom had died. That it hadn't fully hit me yet. Excuse me? I didn't get the fact that Mom had died. Was she nuts? How could I not get that Mom had died. I had been with her those final days. I had seen such terrible things. I had held her hand when she died. I had seen them do all the shit they to a dead body after she died. Hell, I even followed Mom out of the house, and watched them load her into the van that took her body to the funeral home. It was raining. Isn't that a nice touch? Imagine me, standing in the rain, at the edge of my parents driveway, watching my Mom being driven away forever, in the back of a Dodge Caravan. Seriously. A Dodge Caravan. Fuck me.

Then after Mom died, I feel as if I've done nothing but deal with her death in my attempt to try and help those around me. My Dad. Grandma. Boy(s.) Even my Lovely Bride who had the audacity to tell me that I had yet to fully get that Mom had died.

There lies the greatness of stage one. My denial had me denying that I was in denial.

I finally passed GO, on Tuesday, November 7th. Election day. That Monday, November 6th was my parents 47th wedding anniversary. We had seen Dad that weekend. Mom too. Dad was taking her cremated remains with him to Oklahoma.

I was thinking about all of that as I drove back to work from voting that Tuesday afternoon when my iPod shuffled to a song that proved once and for all, that my Lovely Bride had been correct. I had been in denial. I didn't fully get the fact that Mom had died.

Listening to that song in my car, I left stage one, skipping past stage two and three landing smack dab in stage four. Depression.

How do I know? Why else would I cry while listening to what has to be the sappiest song ever recorded. I think it is safe to say, you are depressed when The Living Years by Mike + The Mechanics makes you sob.

Until I BLOG again...It's to late when we die.

When the day is long

When E was a toddler, he had the curious habit of watching movies that were not appropriate to his age. Not to imply the Boy was sitting around in diapers watching porn, or even hard R movies. Nothing like that. There were just a handful of movies that would stop him in his tracks enough that he would sit and watch them. In fact, he would watch them for a long time, considering his age, and attention span. It was odd.

Fast forward to now, or what was now a few days ago. I have been trying to recall something that I felt, or sensed would help us help E with his grief. I felt this memory, which I couldn't quite grasp, would help us better understand what E was fighting against, when he got stuck in his moments. Lately, we've had a lot of moments.

On Halloween E got stuck in such a moment. It was bad. So much so that I thought he would not be trick-or-treating that night. Trying to save Halloween for him, I took him back to his room and tried to help him through the anger, the sadness, so he could go trick-or-treating with Wy Wy who was ready to hit the streets. In his room, with just us, E absolutely lost it, which, funnily enough, is where I found it. The memory.

Coincidentally (or would you call it fate?) one of the movies that the toddler version of E would sit and watch, again and again, was Four Weddings and a Funeral. The poem Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden that was read at the funeral was what I had been trying to remember.

That poem, for me, expresses a grief that he can't yet express. Hell, it expresses my grief too. But this isn't about me. It is about E, who is having a hard time reconciling in his mind how you can have fun, be happy, doing something like trick-or-treating when his Granny died. How can he play with toys, things that make him happy, things she gave him, because she died. How can you go to school, and have fun at recess, when everyone around you doesn't get your Granny died? How do make your way in a world where everyone isn't sad, or the same kind of sad as you, because your Granny died?

Who would have ever guessed that one of the hardest parts about Mom's death, would be watching the Boy(s) suffer through their grief? Hearing E crying in his room at night, trying to go to sleep. Knowing full well, that when we go to him, and ask, what is wrong, his answer will be Granny died. I usually lay with him after those times, in a vain attempt to make him feel better by my proximity. I'm sure it helps some, but truthfully, no matter how close I get, I can't get into his head. Into his heart. I can't take away the pain. Even if I could, I'm not sure that would be a wise choice. He needs to grieve. We all need to grieve. If only that knowledge made it easier. It doesn't. Nothing could ever prepare me for the pain I felt when I saw him take Mom's photo inside that sailboat frame and clutch it like a teddy bear as he turned over onto his side, and cried himself to sleep.

Until I BLOG again... and the night, the night is yours alone

Living in perfect symmetry

"How we approach death is going to depend upon our fear of life, how much we participated in that life, and how willing we are to let go of this known expression to venture into a new one. Fear and unfinished business are two big factors in determining how much resistance we put in meeting death."

"Fuck me," I said, mainly to myself, as I threw down Gone From My Sight, The Dying Experience, by Barbara Karnes.

Looking at Mom, in that hospital bed in the middle of her living room, with an oxygen machine between us, making a strange Darth Vader-like sound, I wondered if Barbara Karnes was full of shit. Even if she was right, I couldn't get my head around how Mom, with her wasted body, would be able to take care of any unfinished business. Perhaps she was dealing with it internally, down deeper than I could see, or understand. Maybe Barbara Karness was right? I'll never know, just like I'll never be certain Mom wasn't in pain those final days. I won't know if she suffered.

Hospice assured us she was not in pain. That all of her moving, and shifting in bed was part of the process. The dying process. Same as the sounds Mom made. Hospice looked me in the eye and said, "Your Mom isn't doing any of that because she is in pain, it is part of the process." Then, the nurse I'll never forget said something I'll never forget, "This is normal."

This is normal? Fuck normal.

I can't begin to express how much I wanted, how much I needed to believe the nurse. I had my doubts though, mainly because the one person who could honestly tell me whether or not there was pain, well, she could no longer speak. Hell, Mom couldn't even swallow at that point, which made giving her pain medicine very hard. Not that Mom complained, all she could do was make this consistent guttural moan like groan that competed against the oxygen machine's Darth Vader-esque sound. Eyes half open. Reaching out with her arms every so often as she shifted around in her bed. "This is normal," I said, to myself, as I looked around the living room at all of the photographs of the Boy(s). Seeing their pictures, especially in that setting, was like being stuck with a knife. It hurt. Bad. The realization that Mom, who so enjoyed being a Granny, would miss so much in the coming years. "This is normal," I said to Mom this time, wondering if she could hear me, even though she couldn't respond. Hospice said hearing was the last sense the dying lost. So did Barbara Karnes. "Isn't that reassuring."

Looking at the cable box, I saw that it was 2:25am, which meant I had 35 minutes until I could give Mom her next dose of morphine. That I had only massaged the valium cream into her wrists 25 minutes ago. Could that be right? 25 minutes? Time stood still late at night in that living room.

Confused, and afraid that I was going to give Mom more than her prescribed dose of morphine, I decided to recheck my notes. We had this whole medicine timetable that helped us keep up with all the drops, creams, and shots. I'm not sure which was more absurd, the fact that I was worried about giving Mom to much morphine, or the fact that I was watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on Nick @ Nite while I worried about it. Seriously. There was something very wrong with Nick @ Nite playing on TV under those circumstances. So much so, that I muted The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and decided to pick up Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience and re-read it. Hospice had suggested it, and well, Hospice, and the people that work for it were amazing. Noble.

After reading Gone From My Sight for a third time, I have to be honest and say, the book didn't do much for me. In fact the book reminded me of a truncated inverse version of What to Expect When You are Expecting. I'm sure there are many, who in similar circumstances would take great comfort in the book, and the titular poem by Henry Van Dyke. Not me. In truth, the book pissed me off, and made me even more angry at the whole fucking situation.

To be fair, Ms. Karnes did know her shit. The guide in Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience about the signs, phases, and timetable on dying were correct. Everything that I read, I saw. The thing is, I didn't really need the book. I felt Mom dying.

I'm not sure I can put into words, what I felt, but it was the same feeling I had a few days earlier when I had the urge to call Dad to see if we should move up our trip to see Mom. It was something I felt for a long time, if I'm honest. Nearly a year. I just kept telling myself that I was being negative. That what I felt wasn't real. Real or not, I felt that feeling again, hard, on Wednesday, October 18. I knew that Mom would die that day.

At noon, not really knowing what to do, I went with my gut and drug this old chair over next to Mom's bed. The chair was one Mom had bought at a garage sale a few years in the rear view. Most people couldn't get their ass in that chair, it was so small, but I have no ass, and more importantly the chair meant something to me. To Mom. She had bought it for Ethan. When he visited his Granny he'd always sit in that old chair at the dining table, the same table from my youth, and watch cartoons as Granny watched him.

Sitting in that chair, I took Mom's hand as I thought of The Little Warrior, and felt a palpable sense of loss because I knew he'd never get the same chance. He probably wouldn't even be able to remember his Granny when he got older. That hurt.

Holding Mom's hand, I looked into her eyes, and told her I loved her. I'm not sure if she could hear me. Or even see me. Her eyes, although open, were fixed. That didn't matter though, because the one thing the cancer had not ravaged was Mom's eyes. They looked the same as they always had. They looked like my eyes. They looked like the Boy(s) eyes. Staring into her eyes I quietly, and I'm ashamed to say, awkwardly told my Mom all the things I felt I needed to tell her. If Hospice and Barbara Karnes were correct, and the ability to hear is the last sense to go, Mom heard me. I'd like to think she did. The same way I'd like to believe she wasn't in pain those final days. That she knew I was with her, helping take care of her. Helping my Dad. Most important, I hope Mom knew that I sat holding her hand when she died at 1:26pm on Wednesday, October 18. Only 8 days past her 65 birthday.

I had never seen anyone die. Not in real life anyway. I'm amazed and sad that the first person I saw enter into death was the person who gave me life.

Still, nearly two weeks later, I can't get my head around the fact that Mom is gone. That she is no longer around. That I live in a world where I cannot call her, or go see her. I saw her take her last breath. I saw her body shudder and then watched it get, well it got lighter. If you are religious or spiritual, you can say that was when Mom's soul left her body. If you are not, you could say it was simply her muscles relaxing upon physical death. In the end, we all believe what we want or need to believe.

As for me, I simply cannot believe my Mom is dead.

Until I BLOG again...Nothing is as down or up as us.

I have got to leave to find my way

Anger is easy. If anyone knows that, it is me. That is why, although hurt by his words, I understood when E said, "I'm going to get a new Daddy!" I knew where the Boy was coming from, and what he was fighting against. His Granny was dying. That was hard enough in and of itself. But the fact that I was turning around and going back to Houston, well, he was pissed.

"You aren't going to read me books. Ever!" He raged. "You're coming back...you're going to be gone a day!"

"Son," I said, "I don't know how long I'm going to be gone. I know you are angry, it is ok. Daddy loves you."

"YOU AREN'T MY DADDY!!!"

"Bub," I said, "When you are mad-or sad-or happy. Daddy and Mommy always love you. No matter what. You can't do anything to ever change that. I love you forever. Always."

Sweet mother of all that is good, it was as if I poked a stick into a nest of hornets.

"DON'T SAY THAT! DON'T TALK TO ME!!!!"

"Son, Daddy, has to go. I need to be there. For Pops. For Granny. I know it is hard to understand, but, well, I wouldn't be a very good Daddy if I didn't go, not the kind of Daddy you would want anyway. To be honest, I don't want to go, I'm scared, but I need to be there. I hope you..."

"ONLY GONE FOR A DAY!!!"

"Son, I don't know how long I'm going to be gone. I can't promise you that."

"Daddy..."

"Yes, baby?"

"Don't go."

"Son, I want to be there..."

"YOU'RE NOT MY DADDY!"

But I am, Dear Reader. I am. That is why I left Dallas and went back to Houston.

I know I have issues. That I'm far from perfect. Still, I'd like to think, or maybe I need to believe that I'm a good Dad. A good Husband. A good Son. And whatever it is, that trait that makes me these things, it is the same thing that drove me back to Houston. The thing that gave me the strength, or the courage to do, and see such horrible things. That thing that had me at my Mom's side, holding her hand, when she died.

Until I BLOG again...Strength and courage overrides, The privileged and weary eyes.

Am I too late

I called my Dad a week ago today. Intuition? I had a feeling, that if the Boy(s) were going to see their Granny before she died, we should move up our trip to see her. After speaking to Dad, and learning my gut was right, we made arrangements to come down to see Mom on Saturday, October 14. To make things easier, for the Boy(s), and Mom, we decided to stay in a hotel.

We arrived at her home at 3pm. We only stayed until 5pm. 2 hours. That wrecked my Mom. All the strength she had left, she expended for that visit. I thought, maybe the Boy(s) would be able to come over the next morning, or that night, but that was not to be.

During our time together on Saturday, my Mom was lucid with the Boy(s). She was able to interact with them. The Elder Boy was hesistant, bless his heart, based on her diminished appearance. No hair. Loss of weight. Absolutely ravaged by the fucking cancer. For him to see that. Fuck me. It was horrible.

This here BLOG entry, isn't about E though. I love him. My first born. More than I can ever type. Him and his Granny had a special bond. I hope he'll always remember that, and her. Today's entry is about The Little Warrior. What he did on the visit. I'll never forget his moment. It was magical.

Wy is 2 1/2, still young enough to be protected from the harsh realities of life. He wasn't aware that his Granny was dying. That it was probably going to be the last time he'd see her alive. He also wasn't bothered by her appearance, or the oxygen machine she was hooked up to that helped her breathe. He didn't care that she was in a hospital bed in the middle of the living room. Not Wy. Our Little Warrior. He walked right up to that bed, and pulled himself up, and then crawled toward his Granny, who smiling, leaned forward to meet him, as he said, I shit you not, I love you.

Our Little Warrior. My sweet Wy Wy, has told me he loves me, a handful of times. He usually will say I like you instead. I find that funny. My point, I love you isn't something the Younger Boy says often. In fact, I don't think that he'd ever said it to his Granny, unprompted at least. Why, on that day, at that time, the last he'd ever see his Granny, Wy said that? I don't know. All I can tell you is this: it was beautiful.

Until I BLOG again...Never thought that you'd stop bein' 'round.

Lights will guide you home

The fact that it stormed the day before the Boy(s) first day of school was apropos of my emotional state. You see, Dear Reader, I had returned from a hard trip to Houston the night before. The storm was bad enough that the power went out, and stayed out, long after the weather had passed our little piece of the Messoplex. As time passed, it became clear that TX(Screw)U was not going to fix the problem before night time. That was a problem. Imagine bathing a 4 1/2 and 2 1/2 year old by candlelight. Trying to get them ready and to bed early for their first day of school with no electricity. Trying to explain why they couldn't watch TV. Why it was so hot in the house. Why we couldn't turn on their night lights.

My Lovely Bride, much smarter in real time, than I, suggested we divide and conquer. Thus, she took the Little Warrior as I wrangled the Elder Boy.

After I had E bathed and ready for bed, I decided to preserve some sense of normalcy by reading books. Easier said than done with a flashlight. After one book, I decided to change my course and promised the Boy I would lay with him until he fell asleep. He was cool with that, so I turned the flash light off and watched the votive candle on his dresser as we laid together in silence. I actually became so mesmerized by the flickering of the flame and the strange shadows it cast that I didn't quite get what the Boy meant when he asked, "Where was his crib?"

"In Wy Wy's room. You know that. We gave it to Wy when you..."
"No," he said, "Where was it in my room when I was a baby?"
"Oh..." I, (king of the dipshits) said, "It was over there, where your dresser is, right under the shelf on the wall that has the ship."

Sweet mother of all that is good. The ship reference caused a torrent of questions from the Boy. Seriously, full-on Five Ws! Who, What, Why,Where, When and How!

Outside the sky turned black, as I answered his questions. I explained that the ship was made by his Great Papa, the late Roe Jarman, who made many scale model ships, like the one in his room. That his Great Papa, who was his Mom's Papa, and his Mimi's Daddy, made the ship when he was 80 years old. How it was hard to make a scale model ship no matter how old you are, because of the time and the intricate work it required. That someone doing it at 80 was very impressive. I told him that the ship was actually made for his Mom, that she got it before he was born, but that Ethan (and the ship) meant so much to her, she decided to decorate his room around a nautical theme using the ship as the centerpiece. I finished by telling him, that the ship was a scale model of an actual ship from olden times. The H.M.S. Rattlesnake. That we could actually look it up on the computer if he wanted to learn more about it.

"Can we take it down?"
"Sure," I said, "We have to be careful, it is not a toy. But I don't see why we can't take it down so you can have a closer look in the morning."

Looking at the ship, and the strange shadows cast by the votive candle, we fell asleep.

Fast forward. Crick of the crack next morning. I was up, on the computer trying to do something for my Mom. I had promised her, upon my return from Houston, to email Dad some links to stuff for the Boy(s). Since my parents live in Houston, they haven't had the chance to see the Boy(s) as much as they would like. To make their visits extra special, Mom has always bought the Boy(s) a prize for when she does get to see them. The Boy(s) are like Pavlo's dog when it comes to their prize. They expect it. Ever the Granny, Mom was concerned that the cancer and the treatments would trip her up and she would not be able to get the Boy(s) something for our trip that weekend. That she would disappoint them. Before I had returned to Dallas she had me promise to send them some links on some toys that they wanted so they could get them after one of her chemo sessions. To be honest, I already felt impotent in regard to being able to help my Mom. Thus I was hellbent on accomplishing this simple task before I had to go to work. In fact, I would have done it the night before, but, TX(Screw)U and Mother Nature thwarted that.

It was in the middle of this search, when E awoke, and yelled, "Daddy! I need you!!!" Now it was my turn to play Pavlo's dog, as my first reaction to his call was to go to his room. I fought that impulse though, as I knew if I didn't send the info to my Mom that morning, I would have a hard time getting it done. I'm obsessed with doing what I say I will do anytime, but considering this task, even more so. I ignored E' calls, and continued my task, growing more and more agitated each time he called out for me.

Enter my Lovely Bride. I heard her go into E's room. Usually, being a Daddy's Boy, E will cruelly reject my Lovely Bride and ask for me. Thankfully not this morning. All he could think about was the ship on the shelf, which I heard My Lovely Bride take down for him. I could sort of hear them talking in his room, more murmurs really, as I drifted back to what I was doing on the computer.

Upon completion of the email, as I sort of half ass spell checked it, I spaced out staring at the screen. Sad thoughts. I wondered if this upcoming trip to Houston, would be the last time the Boy(s) saw their Granny alive? Was it the last time they'd get a prize from her? Those thoughts snowballed as I realized all the things we would lose when Mom died. That made me cry. That is what I was doing, in front of the computer when E startled me as he said, "Here Dad." I Turned from the screen and saw that he was handing me a sailboat picture frame. This picture frame was on the shelf next to the ship his Great Papa made. The photo was from June 2002. The six month old version of the Boy is in the surf on the beach at Galveston Island. His first time at the beach. I'm proudly holding him, as my Mom, his Granny stands behind us. We're smiling.

"I know you are sad about Granny - Because she's sick. Here."

As I took the frame from his hand, he gave me a hug. I was stunned. I sat there, as tears streamed down my face, looking into his brown eyes. My Mom's eyes. He smiled and said, "This will make you feel better." Then, he turned and ran back to his room to see his ship.

Until I BLOG again...And I will try to fix you.

Everyday is like Sunday

One of my favorite movies is The Shawshank Redemption. In a movie with many great lines, the most famous is probably this: "Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'."

I used to love that line. Now, I'm troubled by it. How do you get busy living when someone you love is dying? When you are faced with their slow decline to the inevitable? I have absolutely no idea. Truly.

It is strange how consumed by sorrow you can become, when dealing with a protracted death. The conflict you face. You know you should enjoy every moment of life. Hug your kids. Kiss your wife. Enjoy the ride. But, let's be honest, we all forget that, and get wrapped up in our own dramas. You could say that I'm wrapped up in this drama. The drama of my Mom dying. Alas, I'm not the first guy to lose a parent to cancer. Sadly, I won't be the last. I get that even as that gets me. I realize that when I succumb to the anger, and the sorrow, I'm ultimately doing a disservice to my Mom. That hurts. Bad. My Mom wants nothing more than for me to be happy. To enjoy my life. Yet, I'm so stuck inside my head with her dying, that I often fail to carry out her simple wish.

Maybe these feelings change as time passes. Or, I'm being to hard on myself. I really don't know.

What I do know is that life doesn't stop for the dying. Bills need to be paid. You have to work. Take out your trash. Give the kids a bath. Empty the dishwasher. Mundane things you often take for granted when things are normal. Things that the dying person would relish doing, if only they were able. "Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'" Is easier said on the big screen, than done in real life, when faced with this circle jerk of anger and sorrow, that often leads to bitterness.

Fuck cancer.

Until I BLOG again...How I dearly wish I was not here

Becoming who we are

I heart irony. Really. I love that, unbeknownst to me, my recent trip to Houston by way of Oklahoma with my Grandma (a.k.a. Old Granny) fell on homecoming week at my home town high school. Go Sandites! I was even considering sticking around upon my return and going to the Friday homecoming parade, for old times sake, that is, until the dog died.

Seriously. Gypsy, a wonderful mix of a mutt that we found abandoned on the beach at Galveston Island in 1996 died when I was in Houston with Old Granny. She had a stroke a few days before and at first, Mom and Dad feared that they would have to put her to sleep. A few days later, the Vets were positive about her recovery. Then, on Wednesday, Dad and I went to the Vet and brought Gypsy home. We all thought she was on the mend. Good news in a house that hasn't had much in a long time.

Then she died.

Gypsy woke my Dad up early the next morning, fighting for her life. This struggle to survive went on, painfully, for an hour, until she eventually expired on the floor next to my Mom and Dad's bed.

Which is where I found Gypsy the next morning. Covered with a black sheet. Urine, feces, and blood pooling out from her rigid body.

I'll never forget Dad coming into the office were I slept on a pull out sofa, asking me for help. At first, I thought something had happened to my Mom or Grandma, before he told me it was Gypsy. The look on his face is seared in my brain, as is the image of my frail and newly bald Mom, sitting in her wheelchair by the dining room table, watching Dad and I carry Gypsy out of the house in that black sheet. That sheet has been on the bed of my childhood on one of my recent visits to their house. Now it was Gypsy's body bag. That's what I was thinking as we carried her out of the house, as my poor dying Mother, thanked me, for being there to help my Dad.

I heart irony, honest, because if I didn't, I think might lose my mind.

Until I BLOG again...Wake me up when September ends

I'm 'round the corner from anything that's real

Lately, I do two things, a lot. I cry. I think about snakes. I usually cry in traffic. Granted Dallas traffic sucks. Hard. But that is not why I cry. I cry because my Mom is dying of cancer, and when I'm in my car, I'm alone with my thoughts. Which is why I think about snakes. Actually, serpents. I've since learned that snake is a biological description. Serpent implies something mystical or religious.

I didn't know that then though. I just thought I was having weird ass recurring snake dreams because I had seen Snakes On A Plane. Silly me, I would soon learn, as I drove down 45 on my way to Houston Town, to go to a Doctor appointment with my Mom and Dad. At this point in the story, I knew my Mom was very sick with cancer. That there were a lot of complications. It didn't look good. Still, I didn't know then, what I know now, so I was trying to shake that sick feeling attributing it to me being a worrier.

So, there I was, driving down 45, unable to shake that sick feeling, alone, in traffic which meant I was soon crying. At some point, I decided to play U2 on my iPod. I should note, I have 91 U2 songs. That equates to 6.5 hours of music. I also had my U2 playlist set to shuffle mode (which means that songs play randomly.) The first song I wanted to hear though was one I had been thinking about a lot lately. Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own. So, I selected it and let it play, and cried all the more because of the subject. That song ended and I continued listening to U2. Thinking. Worrying. Driving. Crying.

At some point, I sort of zoned out on U2, and decided to pray. Because of my tentative relationship with religion, I feel like a complete tool when I pray. I think I'm doing it wrong, or I become self conscious, or my mind will wander. Still, I try, hard, and will usually start off with a mantra, or recite either The Lord's Prayer, or The Prayer of St. Francis. Those are some good prayers. Better than my rambling ass. But still, considering how I felt, the dread, the fear, the confusion, I felt I needed something that was more personal. So, I prayed. Hard. I'm talking a rambling prayer where I cried, pleaded, begged, and cursed. This went on for a long time. By the end of it all, I was so spent from the outpouring of emotions, that I literally, gave up, and ended with a tiny plea for help. Anything.

At that moment, as if on cue, the U2 song One Step Closer started. At the time, I didn't know much about that song. All I knew was the lyrics were hitting very close to home. Listening, I became so into the song, that I calmed down to better concentrate. After the song was over, I repeated it. During that second spin, I felt so much calmer, that I removed my glasses to wipe away all my tears. As I cleaned the gunk, I noticed something ahead in the road, in my lane, which was the left. I didn't get what it was until I was nearly upon it, at which point, I swerved to miss a big black snake that was trying to cross the highway. When I swerved, the momentum of my car, caused the snake to spin around. Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw the snake slither back from whence it came.

At that point in my story, I had yet to look up the meaning of One Step Closer. I had yet to read anything about serpent symbolism. I had yet to learn that my Mom had been given six months to live.

That was then, this is now. A now in which six months seems a generous prognosis considering the fucking cancer is in the brain. In fact, they are suspending all chemo. Now, it is about giving her medication and treatment that will hopefully ease her suffering. The pain. You might think, or assume from what you just read that 45 was my road to Damascus. Not quite. I'm still sad. I'm angry. I'm confused.

Are all the snakes, and the songs that seem so poignant nothing more than synchronicity? Or something more? I won't lie, the thought of God playing DJ on my iPod sounds strange even to me. And, if it is an answered prayer, do I like the answer? I don't know. I really, truly, don't know.

One step closer, indeed.

Until I BLOG again...a heart that hurts is a heart that beats

Who's to say where the wind will take you?

I'm sitting in the dark, on an old brass bed, in the guest room of my parents house, typing. This bed, like so many other things in this room, in this house, are touchstones of my youth. The bed was my bed for most of my childhood. Strangely familiar in unfamiliar surroundings. That's the way most things are here. They invoke so many memories from my past, yet they reside in a house that has never been my home. I've never lived here. But, this stuff - I've known it all my life.

There is a portrait on the wall to my left. From 1964. Mom is captured at the tender age of 23. So young, and beautiful. Behind me is a family photograph circa 1970. The pièce de résistance though, is a piece of art drawn by the 1st grade version of me, which Mom shellacked onto a tablet to hang on the wall for posterity. The assignment, which I can still recall, was to write a few things about 'your family' and underneath the story, you drew a picture of your home. What did I write so long ago?

I help my family.
I help my dad carry fire logs.
I have to help mow the lawn.
I love my family.
And thies is my home.
I do not have any brothers or sisters.

Two things strike me hard. Gut punch hard. The first is the fact that I screwed up the assignment. I'm not referring to the obvious typo of the word this (once a dipshit, always a dipshit.) I was supposed to end the writing portion of the project with the line, and this is my home. Then underneath that line I was supposed to draw my home. As you read, I did not do that. Instead, I had a last minute knee jerk reaction to tack on the fact that I'm an only child. Why. I don't remember. But, reading it now, alone, in the dark, as I hear my Mom cough in the other room - it is eerily prescient - so much so that goosebumps break out on my arm.

Then we have the second thing, which is far worse than a gut punch. It is more akin to a baseball bat to the mouth, that breaks teeth. There, in my crude drawing, behind my childhood home is a graveyard. It is quite unsettling to see a graveyard behind my childishly drawn home. In fact, my teacher was so disturbed that I drew a cemetery, that she phoned my parents. To this day, they laugh recalling this story, and the teacher's fear that I was obsessed with death. That I had serious emotional issues.

You see Dear Reader, what the teacher didn't understand, what she failed to grasp, was that I truly did live in a house that backed up against a cemetery. That at the tender age of 6, with my limited artistic ability, I was trying to be representational in my art. Just like I added that line about being an only child. I was and am, a realist, which is why I'm reading my Mom's medical reports, looking up terrible words. Bilateral metastases. Hypermetabolic activity. Mediastinum. Hilar lymph nodes. Ischium posterior. Necrosis.

Sitting alone, in the dark, on an old brass, in the guest room of my parents house, I can't help but wonder, can I help my family?

Until I BLOG again...Who's to say what it is will break you?

That techno-rock you guys listen to is gutless

I'm not sure why, or when, but at some point music that me and the Boy(s) equally dig has been dubbed mad music. In the beginning this was primarily any music that was either hard, or fast. Jesus of Suburbia by Green Day is a good example. As is God Save the Queen by The Sex Pistols.

I freely admit their taste in music, which mirrors mine (which I guess is nothing more than ego stroking,) makes me extremely proud. I dig the fact that one of Ethan's first favorite songs wasn't a tune by Barney, but what he dubbed Pick Up The Pieces which is actually titled My Head Is Hanging Upside Down (Bonzo Goes To Bitburg). In my book, that is pretty cool.

Sure, the Boy(s) do like some kid type songs. They dig Laurie Berkner for example, but she's not that bad actually. I'd much rather listen to her sing about dinosaurs than the Hi-5 kids sing their crap.

Lately though, the Boy(s) have bastardized the meaning of mad music. The connotation isn't so much hard, or fast as much as it is music that they listen to with me, usually in my car.

Wy Wy digs Stacy's Mom by Fountains of Wayne. It is a catchy song, but mad, I think not. Still, Wy Wy will load up in the XTerra, and as I strap the Boy into his seat, he'll yell, "Daa! Want ear MAD music."

"Sure Wy Wy, what do you want to hear?"

"Stacy's Mommy." That alone is priceless, that he calls Mom, Mommy, but as is usual, trying to teach the Boy to be polite, I have to prompt him on his manners.

"Stacy's Mom - what?"

"Stacy's Mommy PLEASE!"

At which point I'll crank it up and Wy Wy does what can best be described as a seated (in a car seat mind you) slam dance. He'll thrash his head back and forth (looks painful) and rock out to what is probably his number one song, Stacy's Mommy.

The Older Boy is a bit more punk rock, as illustrated above about his love of The Ramones. But lately, he also has altered what the meaning of mad music. Dig this. One of his current favorite songs, are you ready - My Kind Of Lover by Billy Squier. Seriously.

About the only thing I can think Billy Squier would have to be mad about, would be his his unrequited stroke request.

Until I BLOG again...Man, it's like tripendicular, ya know?

Sunday's on the phone to Monday

We have the Little Warrior in Like Henry mode. He is taking those first tentative steps toward being potty trained.

Being a second child, I figured he'd be easy to potty train. I thought seeing his big brother pee, and poop would show him the way. That the peer pressure from his brother would make him want to be a big boy, and not poop in his pants. In fact, the Younger Boy was doing something the Elder Boy never did, going off to be by himself when he would crap in his diaper. I thought we were ready, steady, go.

I like to start potty training with trying to master number 1. Urination. That's how we did the Elder Boy. In fact, I figured I'd employ the same method I did with Ethan, and let Wy Wy pee in our backyard at first. This horrifies many of My Lovely Brides friends, but trust me, it works. Not only does the Boy think it is fun to pee out of doors, you also don't have any issues with their bad aim and the subsequent clean-up. Added bonus, we're in the midst of a drought in the Messoplex, so I figured we're helping the lawn. And, to be completely honest, I often pee in the backyard myself. Even when we're not having a drought.

So, there we were this past weekend, in the backyard, trying to pee. Wy Wy was a natural. He quickly mastered the art of peeing in the yard. When he would finish, he'd yell (my poor neighbors), "I did it! I pee peed like a big boy!" He'd then run into the house to find his Mom and tell her the good news. Other times, he'd pee, and then want to immediately pee again. I tried to explain that it didn't work that way. That just made him mad, and he'd huff back into the house and watch more Dora.

After a few hours of this, Wy announced that he needed to go poop. Outside. Excuse me? I tried to explain that peeing outside was ok, sort of, but pooping outside, well, that was not. Trying to seize the moment, I took Wy to the bathroom and tried to get him to poop on the potty. He wanted none of that. He sat there for a minute or so, then started to complain violently, asking, then pleading for a diaper. Not wanting to scar him (any worse than we already are!) I suited the Boy up in a diaper and he promptly went into his room, and then into his dark closet and took a shit. Potty training doesn't happen overnight.

Sunday morning coming down, we did the same thing as Saturday. We had numerous successful number 1 trips to the backyard, followed by the requisite celebrating. We also had the same set-back when it came time to poop. Still, after only one weekend, I felt good. I thought we were ahead of the game when compared where Ethan was at the same age, and right on track with Wy Wy's potty training.

As usual, I was wrong.

You see Dear Reader, sitting at work on Monday Monday my cell phone rang. I picked it up and noted that it was My Lovely Bride, who was calling very early in the day? Figuring something was up, I answered by asking that question, "What's up?" I said.

"Wyatt shit in the garage." My Lovely Bride replied.
"Excuse me."
"Wyatt. Shit in the garage. He said that he had to pee pee and the next thing I know he was in the..."

I'm sorry to say at that point Dear Reader, I quit listening to My Lovely Bride. I was to busy, I'm afraid to say, laughing. Father of the year. That's me.

Until I BLOG again...Tuesday's on the phone to me.

When you said to me

I recently turned 39. July 25. My 12th wedding anniversary too. July 30. I'm obsessed with age. Numbers. Time. Always have been. Every birthday since my 25th, has bothered me at some level. I simply can't believe I'm going to be X years old. I don't get hung up on the milestone years either. The round numbers. 30 felt the same to me as 28. 34 felt as odd as 36. It is always the same. I just can't believe that I'm going to be X years old. Then when I get used to being X years old, it is time to do it over again. That's life. Right? I won't bore you with my usual age obsession game of choice. I have something better. You see Dear Reader...STOP! Tangent time.

Someone asked about my use of Dear Reader in these here BLOG entries. I've always assumed anyone who frequented the Team Tinsley BLOG, got what I meant by saying Dear Reader. So, lest you think I'm being cheeky, which in a way I am, the true meaning of Dear Reader boils back to my original mission. Why I do this BLOG in the first place. It is a chronicle for my family - Team Tinsley. A remember when, then, then being the Buck Rogers future. Dear Reader is my time warp way of addressing the future version of the Boy(s). I'm superstitious, so much that I can't bring myself to type out their names in this regard. Plus it would be odd. Pretentious even. So I simply type, Dear Reader(s), with the thought that their future versions will know their Dad well enough to get that I'm typing to them, for them, from the here and now, which will be the past, in that Buck Rogers future. See, it does sound mighty pretentious, especially for my bad writing. STOP! Hammer time.

My age game today has to do with a recent snippet I read in Entertainment Weekly. In their Hot List, EW cited a reissue of the Girlfriend album by Matthew Sweet. The reason it was reissued was that 2006 marks the 15th anniversary of the original release date. The reason that got me is simple. That was the last new release album I purchased as a cassette tape. After that album, my new music would be purchased as a CD. Well, up until 2003 or so, when I started purchasing my music on iTunes.

Right about now, funk show brother, you are asking yourself, why in the heck would I remember something like that? Simple. 15 years ago. Actually, it was 14 years ago, since I bought that album in the Spring of 1992. That's not the point though, the reason I remember buying it was after I purchased it from the Sound Warehouse (which have went the way of vinyl records and cassette tapes) on Greenville Avenue in Dallas, Texas, I drove back to my Love Shack on Prospect. As I was getting out of my car to go inside, an old friend of mine rolled up in front of said shack. With him? Well, it was the lady who would one day become my Lovely Bride. She was far from my Lovely Bride at this point though. In fact, at this point in the story, I think she still thought I was funny. Not the ha-ha variety either.

14 years ago. I was 24 years old. She was 21. Now, I'm 39. Fuck me. 39. She's 35 (I usually round up to what she'll be in this year which is 36, but that makes her mad) and we've been married for 12 years. 12 years!

As Jerr says, blink your eyes and bam. Time. It moves fast. The older you get. I used to get so annoyed when he'd tell me that. The thing is, he was right. You see, I can still remember the first casette tape I ever purchased. Blackout by the Scorpions. I purchased it at K-Mart in Sand Springs, Oklahoma in the Summer of 1982. I had told my Mom that the 8-Track tape was obsolete. Casette was the future. I needed a boom box. I was right, of course, but at that point, I had no idea. I just wanted a boom box. Mom got me one at K-Mart along with my first tape which was Blackout. I wanted that album for the song, No One Like You. I liked that song (still do, actually.) So, there I sat in my Mom's car, the 14 year old version of me (soon to be 15, if I round up) loading a gazillion batteries into the back of that boom box so I could hear No One Like You by the Scorpions. So excited, and impatient (still am, actually) that I couldn't even wait until I got home. Blink your eyes. 10 years. Pulling up in front of the Love Shack house listening to Girlfriend in my car, about to see my future Lovely Bride. Blink your eyes.

10 years. Looking back, with my goofy little bookends of Blackout and Girlfriend, I'm amazed at how much my life changed in that decade. How fast it changed. How I went from a teenager living at home in Sand Springs, Oklahoma, to a man living in Dallas, Texas. How I went from seeing my Mom and Dad on a daily basis, living in the same home as them, to living in a different home hundreds of miles away which made it difficult to be able to see them more than few times a year. I think of the friends I had and lost during that time. All those changes that would shape who I would become, for good, and bad.

10 years seemed like an eternity to that Boy version of me sitting in the front seat of my Mom's Oldsmobile Toronado listening to The Scorpions. Ditto to the young Man version of me rolling up to the Love Shack in his Geo Storm listening to Matthew Sweet.

Dear Reader - blink your eyes.

Until I BLOG again...You are not so old.

We would be warm below the storm

The Team tries to live by a budget. We actually call it The Budget. In this day and age of $2.99 gas, high utility costs in light of 100+ heat, and a severe drought that requires extra water consumption, we try to save where we can. One way my Lovely Bride does this at the grocery store is purchasing off brand cereal. You know, private label kind, that are bastard versions of an original. At Kroger (where we shop) Cheerios becomes Tasteeos. Cocoa Puffs become Cocoa Crunchies, and Fruit Loops are Fruit Rings. When the name doesn't provide an immediate clue on what Kroger is ripping off, the picture on the front of the box does, which is why I was looking at an Octopus guarding a treasure of marshmallows on this fine morning.

I was baffled though. The cereal looked a lot like Lucky Charms. You had the cereal part and then little treasures that were marshmallowy goodness. Like Lucky Charms, right? But, an Octopus in place of Lucky, the sugary smack shilling leprechaun? I didn't get that connection. Still, it didn't matter. The Elder Boy dug the Octopus and was really into the cereal. Excited even. I'm not sure if the excitement was akin to a crack head wanting a fix, as this stuff is nothing but sugar. Or, was because he had help pick it out himself at the store. Whatever the reason, the Boy was motivated. So much so that he went into the kitchen and retrieved the milk, the cereal, a spoon, and then a bowl. That might not sound like much to you, but the bowls are up high in our casa. He then proceeded, with us (Me, My Lovely Bride, and Wyatt) less than 5 feet away, to make himself a bowl of cereal at our dining table. The milk was almost all the way full too (read: heavy,) and the Boy didn't spill any of it. No mess. Nice.

I was proud of the Boy. So, I got up from the sofa in the front room and went to the table and told him so. Gave him a hug. I was about to go get ready for work when he asked me to play I Spy with him. This is a curious eating time habit of the Elder Boy (and adopted by the Younger as well.) They like to play I Spy as we eat. Family bonding. He was asking me to play at this time because he wanted me to stay with him, which I got, and did. So we sat there and played a few rounds of I Spy. Quickly running out of things to Spy at the dinner table, we turned our attention to the Marshmallow Treasures box. The Boy had it in front of his bowl. You know, like kids will do, so he could look at all the cartoons and what not on the box as he ate. He was looking at the back of the box. I was looking at the front at that Octopus and again trying to figure out if it was in fact a Lucky Charms knock-off and if so, why the Octopus? The Boy is a cereal expert so I asked him if it was like Lucky Charms. He didn't really answer that but instead went into a story on what each marshmallow treasure was as he scooped up a heart that he said tasted like Applejacks.

Now I was confused. Applejacks? The Boy went on with his commentary as I studied the front of the box, looking at the underwater scene of the Octopus sitting on top of this treasure chest which was open underwater and full of the cereal (wouldn't it be really soggy under water?)

Being a dipshit, I often try to impart knowledge to the Boy(s) at odd times, like now, and decided to count the arms of the Octopus to illustrate why an Octopus was named an Octopus. You know, eight arms.

Getting the Boy's attention, I started to count as I pointed at each arm on the front of the box. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.

6? I do suck at at math. So, I decided to give it another try. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.

6! I looked at the box more closely to see if another arm or two was hidden behind the treasure, or down in the cereal. Nope. This Kroger brand of bastard Lucky Charms was being shilled by a 6 arm Octopus. I shit you not. Nice.

As the Boy looked at me, waiting for the pay-off to my goofy lesson, I couldn't stop thinking why? Was it a simple mistake? Perhaps an error born out of space necessity? Maybe a disgruntled employee at Kroger HQ giving the man the finger? The Boy kept waiting - What? "That's what we get for buying Kroger brand cereal."

Until I BLOG again...In our little hideaway beneath the waves.

The truth is the truth

Sunday afternoon coming down, hard. It was less than an hour since me and the Boy(s) had left church. Funnily enough (in that watching someone get kicked in the nuts way), that very day, was my first as a Shepherd, doing a summer rotation with the Scripture in Motion program. Care to guess the theme for my rotation? Choices. In fact that very morning the class had discussed the story of Jonah and the importance of making good choices.

Fast forward and I'm standing in 100+ heat in the middle of the Home Depot parking lot. I had just strapped the Younger Boy into his car seat and was coming back around to strap the Elder Boy into his. That's when I noticed Ethan fiddling around with his pocket. Thinking it was candy, and not wanting him to spoil his lunch, I said, "Boy, what do you have in your pocket?" He immediately placed his hands over his ears, like you would to block out a loud noise. Only he wasn't blocking out a noise, he was incriminating himself.

"Ethan," I said, "What is in your pocket?" No reply.
"Ethan." Slow. Measured. Getting angry. "What is in your pocket!?!"

Removing his hands from his ear, he looked at me, sadly and replied, "You...You...You'll be mad."

Great. That's what I want to hear. Marching on, "Ethan. Show me what is in your pocket - now."

Right about now, funny like on tv, but not really that funny in real life when it is a happening to you in a hot Home Depot parking lot, Wy Wy started his Little Brother comic relief routine by chiming in with, "What Ethan do?"

Trying to nip it in the bud, I said, "Wy Wy. Please be quiet for a minute. I need to talk to bubba."
"Ethan..." I said, "show me..." Wy interrupted me with a roar!
"I DON'T WANT TO BE QUIET!!!!!!!"
Patiently, I said, "Wyatt. Please be quiet for a minute."
"NO!" He yelled.
I decided to ignore him and continue my investigation, "Ethan..."
"NO...I not going..." Wy raged.
"...what is in your..." I continued.
"be quiet!" Wy yelled.
...pocket. You need to show me now, son." I finished. Wyatt just sat in his car seat looking mad, which I was about to become, as you see, Dear Reader, that is when the Elder Boy pulled out one of them there little tape measure key chain things. $2 bucks. Only we didn't pay $2 bucks for it. Nope. The Elder Boy had taken a five finger discount from Home Depot. Not nice. I took the tape measure from his hand and he quickly returned his hands to his ears. With the tape measure in my hand, I took a few steps back from the car and the open door and stared at it. I was stunned.

Ethan immediately started to sob and apologize, "I'm sorry!!!!!!!!!"
Wy, sensing something big was up, was right behind trying to figure out what was going on, "What Ethan do?"
"Daddy, I'm sorry!!!!!!!!!!" Ethan pleaded. "I'm sorry!!!!!!!!!"
Wyatt contined, "What Ethan do?" Then figuring it was something bad, imposed his sentence, "Ethan go to time out."
This would normally provoke Ethan to lash out at Wy, but he was to far gone to even notice, "Daddy...Daddy...Daddy, I'm sorry. Daddy?"

Me. I just stood there. Like a dip shit. Hot. Sweating. Seething. Silent. I'm ashamed to say, Dear Reader, my first instinct, when I came to my senses was to slap my first born son across the face, since he was strapped into his car seat and I couldn't get to his bottom. Thankfully, I let that thought pass. Instead, I just stood there, holding that damn tape measure, as Ethan continued to plead, "Daddy, I'm sorry. Sorry. Daddy. I'm sorry!!!!!!" Followed by Wyatt saying, "What Ethan do? Ethan what wrong?"

I kept thinking over and over, that the Boy knew from the get go, based on the covering of his ears that what he did was wrong. That he has made a bad choice. His apologies further proved that he knew that he had done wrong. Yet, he still, took something out of a Home Depot store, placed it in his pocket (while I was not looking) and walked out the door with it. There wasn't any excuse for it. He did it, hid it, and was trying to get away with it, until I caught him.

Ethan continued, "Daddy...I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry." At which point he started to cry so hard he could not longer apologize. Only sob. Wy kept up his incessant what's wrong with Ethan, what did Ethan do, Ethan needs to go to time out, questioning and comments, and I kept standing in that hell of a Home Depot parking lot trying to figure out what I should do in this situation.

Should I unstrap both of the Boy(s), and drag them (kicking and screaming I'm sure) across the parking lot into the store, find the manager on duty, and have Ethan give back the tape measure and apologize. Probably. But I didn't do that. No. The ragged truth is that I was afraid of what I might do if either Boy gave me any resistance. I was that upset. I declared myself unsafe. What then? I couldn't keep the tape measure. That would be a bad message to send to the Boy. Plus, I wanted to return it right then and there. I wanted the offending trinket gone. I was about to walk across the parking lot into the store and return it myself when I realized that leaving the Boy(s) in a parked car in 100+ heat was not a grand idea. On hindsight, what I should have done was drive the Boy(s) home, leave Wy with My Lovely Bride, get back into the car and return with Ethan so he could give the tape measure back and apologize. Alas, I'm not that smart in real time, perhaps because of the heat, or more than likely because I'm a dipshit. Instead, I saw a Home Depot employee across the parking lot, gathering up shopping carts, and decided I would return the tape measure to him. Slowly I walked across that lot in that blinding heat, so hot that the poor guy gathering the carts actually winced when his bare arm touched the hot metal of one of those carts. Still rubbing his arm, he eyed me warily as I approched.

"Hello. I'm sorry to bother you," I said, as I extended my hand with the tape measure. "My Boy took this from your store. I'm very sorry. Can you take it back inside and return it for me?" Waiting for his answer, it dawned on me that I was unable to even say the word steal to this guy. Some half ass knee jerk trying to protect Ethan reflex? Or was I just embarrassed by his actions? The way I phrased it though, it was like he took it by accident. He did not. By the way he looked at me, he could give a shit whether Ethan took it on purpose or by accident. He looked at me like I was nuts to take the time to walk across the parking lot and return a $2 tape measure.

"Aaaaaaa. Sure." He said, with a strange, are you messing with me grin, "I can take it back inside...for you. No problem."

All business, I replied, "Thank you. I'm sorry for what my Boy did."

Smiling again, he said, "Yeah. No problem - sir. Happens all the time."

"I'm sure it does, but that doesn't make it right."

That got another strange look from him. "Have a nice day," I said, as I turned and took the long walk back to the car. Ethan was crying. Wy was still alternating between questions and his time out judgment. Me. I was still in shock, as I strapped myself into my car seat. Ethan quit crying long enough to plead me to not tell his Mom. He then asked for me to not call the police, because he did not want to go to jail. I couldn't muster a reply. All I could think was, Indeed.

A day removed from the above, and I'm still upset with Ethan's actions. Did I overreact. Probably. My Lovely Bride thinks so, and thinks I need to let it go, among other things. She's probably right. She usually is.

Until I BLOG again...Or the truth is surely a lie.

Ego tripping at the gates of hell.

On Sunday, I was in my office. Office in the Fonzie sense. The bathroom. My Lovely Bride was long gone for morning services at church. Ethan was presiding over his own version of the land before time in the den. Wy, well he was looking for me.

Wy: "Dad-E. R-U?"
Please pardon my hooked on phonics transcription of Wy, as regular readers know, this here BLOG is a chronicle for The Team in the Buck Rogers Future. A remember when then. I type it that way because I want to play Jim Croce and save time in the bottle.

Me: "I'm in here Wy Wy, in the bathroom."

At which point, Wy fiddles around with the knob a few moments before he gets the door open. It is not locked. I gave up on locking the door a long time ago, because there are few things worse than a small child on the other side of a locked bathroom door when you are on the other side trying to take a shit. First, it is annoying. Second, it is hard to get up and unlock the door to get them to stop banging and crying when you are in the middle of said shit. With the door opened, Wy comes strutting into my office. Strutting is the only way to describe this curious happy walk he likes to do when he's in a good mood or excited.

Wy: "What U doin' Daaaaa!"

Mind you I'm sitting on the stool, taking a shit. It is pretty obvious what I'm doing, but the Boy is only 2 1/2 and still poops in his diaper so I state the obvious.

Me: "I'm using the bathroom."

Wy: "U poo poo?"

Me: "Yes. Daddy is pooping."

Wy: "Poo POO YUK-EE!!!!"

I didn't really have a come back for that one, so, I let it pass. Pooping is kind of 'yuk-ee' but it is a fact of life. We all poop. I don't want to freak the Boy out by concuring the 'yuk-ee-ness' of defecation since he's on the edge of potty training. Wy isn't bothered by my lack of response though. He's busy climbing up onto the stool that we have in front of the bathroom sink so the Boy(s) can wash their hands and brush their teeth. Wy is doing neither of these activities though. He's using this higher perch to look down at me with a shit eating grin. I should also add that he is uncomfortably close to me. An arm length. Dig the picture (below). Imagine Wy standing on the stool instead of sitting, and me in place of E.



Not sure what he is up too (I'm actually afraid he might be thinking of jumping off the stool onto me, and well I'm taking a shit,) I decide to ignore him, and go back to the book I'm reading. When Wy had entered the bathroom, I had lowered that book to my lap which had covered up my genitalia. Reading it again, I bring it up closer to my face, and eyes, since I'm not wearing my glasses. This exposes my genitalia to Wy who is still looking at me with his shit eating grin.

Wy: "WOW!"

Me: "What?"

Wy: "DAAA!" In a booming, top of his lungs, excited voice, "'UR ENIS EEL-EE BIG!"
That Dear Readers translates to, DAD! YOUR PENIS IS REALLY BIG!

Full disclosure. My penis isn't that big. I also didn't have what Ethan would call a long penis or a 'election'. Nope it was just my average taking a poop penis. Nothing special. Yet, the Boy was really impressed, which I'm sad to say, gave me a slight ego boost. Well, until I realized he's 2 1/2 and is used to looking at his own penis, which because of his SHITTY Doctor (Dr. Haygood!) isn't really even circumcized. Ego trip over, I decided to again ignore Wy, but in the end that was impossible.

You see Dear Reader, a few seconds later, Wy, leaning over toward me on his stool, tipped it over, and fell onto my 'large' penis, and then rolled off onto the magazine rack that is next to our shitter. Nice.

Until I BLOG again...I was waiting on a moment.

It's in the things I do and say...

This is probably only funny to me, and my Mom. Someone getting kicked in the nuts funny. Ready?

My Mom's (the Boy(s) Granny) cancer doctor has a dog who has cancer. Seriously. You cant make this shit up. When Mom told me, my first question was, "Is he giving his dog chemo?" Mom laughed. You have too.

Until I BLOG again...FUCK cancer.

They're talking in a language I don't speak

Dinner at the Casa is nuts. I'm not sure what it is about that block of time between 5pm-7pm, but the Boy(s) are usually wound up like an 8 day clock. This makes sitting down to a family dinner extremely challenging. Factor in My Lovely Bride had Drunco in Southern Oklahoma so she passed the Boy(s) baton to me, pretty much, as soon as I entered the door, and well, it is hard.

Remember all the times I've told you I'm an idiot? For those that think maybe I'm trying to be funny, or being hard on myself, dig this. I decided last night, at dinner time, crazy time, that was a good time for me to have the cancer conversation with the Boy(s).

It went pretty well considering the subject matter. I talked myself into a few corners, but, again, I'm an idiot so you'd expect that I would illustrate what bald is be citing Uncle Chewning, only to realize that wasn't the smartest thing to say because the Boy(s) might assume he had cancer. Or was taking chemotherapy. So, I tried to explain male pattern baldness along with cancer, and chemotherapy, and all of that. During most of my talk, Wy Wy was more interested in playing with his ramen noodles than what I had to say on the subject. Ethan actually listened, and had a few questions for me. My favorite, "What's a wig?" at which point he hopped up from the dinner table (a no no at dinner time, that we half ass enforce) and grabbed an old ball of play-dough that was by the art table (which is near our dinner table.)

Knowing what the Boy had in mind, I said, "Ethan. Don't throw that...(as he threw it across the table hitting Wy on the top of the head, which was a pretty good shot.)

Fuming, "ETHAN!!!" I paused. Trying to stay in the now, count to 10, all the while looking at Wyatt, since my sight line was on the flight path of the play-dough, "Why didn't you obey me!"

As Ethan stood beside me stammering for an answer, Wyatt stopped playing with his ramen noodles and went from 0-60. He was pissed. He actually looked more upset than me.

"DA!" He shouted. "I'm not a baby! I'm a boy! Little boy!!!!"

Indeed. And I'm an idiot, who also talks fast and mumbles.

Until I BLOG again...Nothing's really making any sense at all.

Jesus of Suburbia

The Elder Boy has been telling people he can walk on water. Seriously. It is especially funny (to me at least) when he tells people from (or at) church that he walks on water. The strange, often uncomfortable look people give him. Classic.

He can walk on water though. I've seen him do it. If you went swimming with the Team, you would too. You see, Dear Reader, what he means when he says he can walk on water is that he is now tall enough to walk in the shallow end of most swimming pools. He can walk in the water.

Funny, how using on instead of in changes the connotation of his statement. The implication. You see, Dear Reader, me and my Lovely Bride have to sit the Boy(s) down this week and talk about cancer. How do you explain cancer to young children? Hair loss from chemotherapy? Uncertainty in treatment? Prognosis? Walking on water sounds pretty damn good if you ask me.

Until I BLOG again...FUCK cancer.

Longview

Morning often finds the Little Warrior in the den drinking milk and watching Max & Ruby on the tube, while the Elder Boy repairs to our bed to watch Cartoon Network. This all came about because I'm usually in the bedroom getting ready for work in the AM, and Ethan watching TV in our bed allows him a bit more Daddy time. You might ask yourself, what about Wy? Trust me, Wy is OK with this arrangement. I'll save how OK for a future BLOG entry, cause it is actually kind of funny and worth recording. But, back to my point, this AM, I was getting ready while Ethan lounged in the bed watching Tom & Jerry on Cartoon Network.

I was putting on my socks when the Boy stopped watching Tom & Jerry and said, "Dad?" Which is usually the intro for a barrage of questions.

"Yes?"
"I have a long penis."
"Excuse me?"
"I have a long penis."
"What?"
Looking at me, like the idiot I am, Ethan repeated slowly.
"I have a long penis."
"Really. You don't get that from me."
The Boy, not getting my joke, pulled down the covers and then his pajama bottoms enough to expose himself, as he said proudly, "See, I have a long penis."
"Boy, you have an erection."
"e...election?"
"No, erection. When your penis is hard, or long like that, you call it an erection."

Until I BLOG again...Some say,"Quit or I'll go BLIND." But it's just a myth

You mean, I'm going to stay this color?

The Elder Boy asks a lot of questions. Pretty much, anytime you tell him something, he'll follow it up with, why? Seriously. It can be quite exhausting. It isn't that he's being insubordinate. He seems genuinely curious about things. Which is good. What is not, is that the poor Boy got me for a Dad, and well, I'm a dipshit.

Still, I'm a dedicated Dad and dipshit, so I will go to great lengths to find out why, so I can tell him. Often the answers lead to more questions, which, well it is kind of like Lost if you dig that reference or watch that show.

Then, one day, driving home from Burger House, the Boy asked a simple question on the whereabouts of his Mom that led to a series of questions, that quite simply changed the game for good. Making it much harder, and not so easy to find the answers to the tough questions we all face. To illustrate how it can go from 0 to Crazy, below is my recollection of the conversation. Mind you I'm driving in Messoplex traffic during it. And that I'm a dipshit. I speak to the Boy(s) as if they were adults using big words. My Lovely Bride thinks I'm crazy. She's right. Still, Ethan blew his teacher's mind early in the school year, before he turned 4, by using the word incarcerated in context. Nice.

I should alse note that Wy Wy was present for this conversation. He wasn't asking that many questions though. He was busy messing with his Dora helmet.

Elder Boy: Dad, Is Mom going to be home when we get home?
Dipshit: No. Mom is at a meeting for work at the Church.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: The meeting is over at 9pm - I think - so Mom will be home after you guys go to sleep. You'll see Mom in the morning.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: (Pause to consider what he is asking why about, why will Mom see him in the morning? Why the meeting is over at 9pm? Giving up, I decide to go my normal route and answer a question with a question.) Why what?
Elder Boy: Why is Mom at Church?
Dipshit: Mom is at a meeting at Church for her new job. It is a meeting about racial insensitivity, or something like that.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: Mommy has a new job and everyone on staff is going to this meeting to hear someone speak on racial insensitivity...
Elder Boy: What is race all in sent ee?
Dipshit: R A C I A L I N S E N S I T I V I T Y. It is a meeting to help people. To stop racism...
Elder Boy: What is race-um.
Dipshit: R A C I S M. Racism is bad. It is when you discriminate against somebody because of their race...their creed...the color of their skin. You treat them bad because they appear different than you. Sometimes people do the same thing because someone believes differently than them. Or has less, or more, money. Lives somewhere else...racism is very bad, Boy.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: You have brown hair. Right? Imagine if someone didn't like you because you had brown hair. Would that be fair? You can't control what color your hair is, so it would not be very nice for someone to hold that against you. You should never judge a person by the way they look, or by how much money they make or don't make. Or what they do, or where they live. You should just pay attention to how they act, and how they treat you. That's what matters.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: There is an old saying, never judge a book by the cover. You judge a person by their actions. How they treat you and others.
Elder Boy: Why?

Stopped at a traffic light I look back at the Boy(s) in my kick-ass Daddy rearview mirror thingy (it hooks to the actual rear view mirror so you can look into the back seat and see your kids, without having to turn around and risk crashing your car) and consider how I can explain something as big as racism to them. Do I even fully understand it, or the implications for it? Hell, am I even above it? Sadly, no. Just the other day I was cut off in messaplex traffic. This caused me to nearly crash. My first gut reaction after avoiding the crash was to curse the person who had caused my near miss. She was a lady. What did I say, "You stupid (F Bomb) women." She was a caucausian lady. Thus, I didn't call her a stupid (f bomb racial slur) women, but if she had been a person of color, would I have crossed the line. If my Boy(s) were in the car when it all happened would I behave the same way?

Sweating in traffic at a light, considering the huge ass implications of rearing children, I decided to opt out and again, and do my usual trick to buy some time.

Dipshit: Why what?
Elder Boy: Why is my hair brown.

Nice. Saved by the attention span of a four year old. For now, at least.

Until I BLOG again...Navin, I'd love you if you were the color of a baboon's ass.

Stepping over the line in the sands of coolness

The Boy(s) got bikes. We had us one of them there garage sales. Actually, it was more a part of the front yard, and some of our drive way sale. Regardless we got a nice chunk of change and rid of a lot of our crap, so we could quickly run out and buy more crap. Like bikes. And protective gear for those bikes. Safety first.

The Elder Boy actually got his protective gear before he purchased his bike. He was so enamored by this kick-ass helmet he saw at Toys 'R Sucks that my Lovely Bride bought it for him on the spot. If you saw it, you'd understand. It is cool. Metallic blue. Flames. I'd wear it.

The Younger Boy also was enamored by a certain helmet he saw at Wal-Mart. A Dora The Explorer helmet. My Lovely Bride swears that this Dora helmet is not gender specific. I don't believe her. It is a girl helmet. Worse, it has matching knee and elbow pads.

Not that the Little Warrior minds. He loves that helmet. And pads. So much so, he'll often wear them around the house. To school. On errands. Mind you, he's not riding his bike around the house, or to school, or on errands. Nope. He's just into the bike gear.

I actually got to go out Mother's Day shopping this past Saturday with the Boy(s) and have disgruntled phone store employees smirk at me because Wy was suited up in Dora head gear and pads. It probably didn't help that the Boy(s) got into a knock down fight in the store when I was trying to pay for our purchase. The helmet actually came in handy then, Wyatt can lower it like a battering ram. Still, it is a bit curious to have the Boy all suited up in this stuff. He wore the knee pads so much (they are tight) that he developed some weird creeping crud type rash.

Probably the oddest thing though, is that he wants to sleep in the helmet. With it on his head. I'm pretty sure that all the instruction manuals would not recommend this, so we compromise with the Boy and let him sleep with the helmet in his bed, but not on his head. You know, like most kids sleep with a blanket or a teddy bear.

So, the other day, I come home and find my sweet Wy Wy perched in my throne of impotence watching Bear (what he calls the Little Bear cartoon on Noggin.) As I bent over to give him a kiss, I noted he was sitting next to his helmet. This is normal. What was not, was the fact that there was something crammed inside of the helmet. You know, the part where you would put your head if you were actually wearing the helmet. Looking closer I realized that what was inside the helmet, well it was underwear. Seriously. More specifically, Thomas the Tank Engine underwear. The Boy is starting the potty training process, and he feels Big Boy underwear are cool. Still, it is a lot easier to watch Bear in a diaper, that way, well you don't have those bothersome bathroom breaks. So what do you do? You cram your cool Big Boy underwear into your favorite helmet and all hunker down and watch Bear. Nice.

Giving Boy #2 a big hello kiss, I thought to myself, at least he hasn't crammed Dora underwear into his helmet.

Looking up at me, Wy gave me his typical, "Hi Da!" greeting.
"Hello Wy Wy," I said, "How are you today?"

To which he replied, "That's MY bike."
Indeed.

Until I BLOG again...Hey, That's my bike!

Someday, somebody's gonna ask you

Even though I often feel I don't know jack, I recently learned that the Boy(s), at least the Elder Boy, think I'm a veritable answer man. You see, Dear Reader, the other night, Boy #1 pissed his bed. I was jarred from my night night around 4am by the sound of his voice calling to me from the dark hallway. As I groggily pulled his wet pajama bottoms off in our main bathroom, my first instinct was to point out that he more than likely pissed his bed because he was to lazy to try and pee before he went night night the previous night. Surprisingly I held my tongue, figuring he already felt bad enough, and the last thing he needed was his Dad doing the, I told you so, thing. Plus, I am supposed to be the one in charge of him using the bathroom before bed, and well, I suck, and was getting the payback I deserved.

I didn't have time to beat myself up about it though, you see, I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with the Boy and his wet bed. I had recently watched Big Daddy, and thought I could do the newspaper trick, only we don't take the paper. I was considering paper towels when my Lovely Bride threw me a life line from our warm bed by telling me to put the Boy on his trundle bed.

Good idea, but even so, I didn't tell My Lovely Bride, I just grunted in her direction, as if that was the obvious choice and what I was planning to do all along. Truth be told, if My Lovely Bride hadn't offered her expert advice the Boy would have had to sleep on a bed of Brawny. Since I'm being all honest, I might as well tell you truth be told 2, you see, My Lovely Bride actually would get most of the payback that I deserved since she washed all the Boy's bedding. See, I do suck.

Fast forward a few minutes and we're both sleeping low (which is Ethanese for sleeping on the trundle bed.) I was about to return to my own bed when the Boy started to go into an elaborate story on why he peed in his bed. The Boy is shrewd. I'm sure there was some truth to the story, which had to do with ghosts and dinosaurs. There was also something about window blinds, but the main point was he had a bad dream. A nightmare. Scary enough to pee the bed? Who knows. The story he was telling me though, was his way of trying to keep me in his room without simply asking me to stay. So, I cut to the chase and said, if he wanted me to stay awhile, I would, just ask. He did. I said yes, and then we shook on it (a curious habit of ours, all about trust, and my obsession with walking my talk.)

This seemed to please the Boy enough to abandon his epic why I peed the bed story and just be quiet for a few moments. But, then, out of the blue, he asked my why he had nightmares? And then added, why do people have nightmares? Damn. Good question.

Not really sure, and under prepared to go into a lengthy discourse at 4am on brain cycles during sleep and REM and all that - I decided to shock the Boy with a revelation that would serve as a diversion and get us away from his question. I told him, that I also have bad dreams and get scared. That everyone does. His reply to this shocking news - Why? Damn, the Boy is Mr. Question (more payback I hear, as my Pop - the Boy(s) Pops - tells me I was the same way.) Again, under prepared to answer such a question at such a late (or early) hour, I told him he needed to go to sleep, we could talk about it more in the morning.

So, there we were, both sleeping low, him drifting off to night night and me with my monkey brain thinking about why people dream and get scared, and why the Boy asked so many questions. Why did I ask so many questions? My thinking why I'm always asking why got me onto something, albeit goofy, that I've been absolutely puzzled about for the past few weeks. Tomorrow being Cinco de Mayo, I figure it is as good of time as any to throw it out there.

Q: Why are there so many water stores and kiosks (where you can fill up 5 gallon water jug) in hispanic communities?

I live in an area where there are a lot of hispanic folk, and these places are everywhere. Hell, they even have one in the parking lot of a grocery store and it is shaped like a windmill. Seriously. You can drive up and fill up your 5 gallon water bottle. I'm fairly certain that this windmill (and the other strip mall shops that do this) are selling tap water? The same water the people would get at home, assuming they have running water, which I'm sure they do? A lot of the people in this area live in apartments, which I think include water as part of the rent? I don't think there is some magical spring under the windmill? Still, these good hard working people, often walk a long way lugging these heavy 5 gallon jugs to these water shops and then pay for water? Curious? What gives?

Oh, and while we're on the subject of water and latinos, another thing that perplexes me. Why do hispanic people like to put ice in their milk?

Right about now (funk show brother), you might think I'm trying to be all Jerry Seinfeld pointing out the obvious funny. Or you might think I'm a racially insensitive gringo ass. You can think what you want, just answer these two questions, cause all kidding aside, I'm sincerely curious and have spent entirely to much time considering both questions.

Until I BLOG again...Why?

It's not the size of the ship...

This is not one of those, I got this friend who has a problem, but I'm really talking about me, kind of a story. Nope.

Our story begins in a public restroom at a large sporting event in the Messoplex. It is crowded. Many males need to urinate. I'm one of them. Waiting my turn, I notice two spaces ahead of me, a Dad and Lad. The Lad, had to be around Ethan's age. Four for those playing along at home. Standing around, like Men do in a public restroom, not wanting to make much eye contact or accidently look at another man's penis, I was busy keeping my eyes high. At first, I kept my self busy reading the shit house walls (which is full of ads these days, which I find interesting, in a, what a nutty world, kind of a way) I quickly became bored with the hair loss and Skoal ads and decided to watch the Dad and Lad. I surmised, it was just the two of them, thus the Dad had to keep the Boy close to him in the line. I've been there before, with one or two of our Boy(s) and know the difficulties that can arise from trying to urinate in a crowded restroom while your Boy(s) try to touch every nasty surface within reach. Or worse, lifting the urinal cake, because they think it actual might be cake. Speaking of my Boy(s) - they were back at home right about now, which was then, and damn if it wasn't bath time and I was getting out of it. I thought about trying to get a high five from the Man in line behind me, but I thought he might think me a bit queer, both figuratively and literally, so I just kept my happiness to myself and returned to the Dad and Lad show. It was about to get interesting since it was the Dad's turn to pee.

Again, it was very crowded in this restroom. Thus, the Dad wanted to keep the Lad close to him as he urinated. Still, I don't think he wanted the Lad so close that he stood between him and the man to his right. The Lad was so close in fact, that he could quite literally see his business, which is what the Lad did - staring hard. The Man being gawked at was oblivious to the Lad. He was busy reading the ad on the shit house wall in front of him. It was for a gentleman's club. The Lad kept on staring hard at this Man, who was a very large african american gentleman. I guess he was large in other ways too, because before long, the Lad looked up at his Dad, who was busy reading the shit house wall ad in front of him (for a Limo service) and said,

"Daddy, his (meaning the other man) pee pee is big!"

At that point, the Lad paused long enough to give his dad time to give the man next to him a very uncomfortable smile, which the man returned. While they were still giving each other their curious smiles, the Lad finished his thought,

"His pee pee is bigger than yours."

Oh, dear Reader...even though I was in that line for Number 1, I damn near did Number 2 in my pants I laughed so hard.

Until I BLOG again...It's the motion of the ocean.