"He who remembers nothing but facts and past events, and is never brought back into the present, is a victim of amnesia." - Thomas Merton
Memory is a double-edged sword. I didn't say that. Robert Cooper Pond did. He was right. He has a hard time remembering certain things. I hope he doesn't mind me writing that. I on the other hand, do not.
I remember nearly every trivial thing that ever occured. I'm like Rain Man. Tell me your birthday, 20 years later, I'll remember you on your special day. Not to imply I'm some sort of genius. Even smart. I'm not. I thought a quarter 'til, was literally a quarter (read: 25) 'til for a very very long time. I'm embarrassed how long actually. The same way I'm embarrassed by the fact that my father had to convince my sophomore geometry teacher to let me pass because I was such a dumbass.
I just have this ability to latch onto trivial bits of information, and remember.
It is a great party trick to be able to tell someone you vaguely know their birthday. Or remember your anniversary. Need help naming that actor in that movie, what was it called? I'm your guy. What is not so great, and what cuts, as Buddy so wisely said is when you remember things you don't necessarily want to remember.
That's what I'm doing right about now. You see, Dear Reader, this coming weekend, a year ago in the rear view mirror, was the last time Mom visited our home. The last time she visited Dallas actually. The last time I was photographed with her.
It wasn't the last time I saw Mom. Just the last time I saw her at my house in Dallas, and one of the last times I saw her appearing healthy. She wasn't, of course. The cancer was busy, doing what it does, eating her up, inside. I didn't know that though. The same way I didn't know that a month later, 11 months in the rearview, would be the last time Mom and Dad watched the Boy(s) on their own as me and My Lovely Bride visited California. That was the last time, that Mom, was able to enjoy the Boy(s) at the level she wanted. To run with them. Play. Go to Putt Putt. A movie. It was the last time she was around us and was able to get around without the pain. She didn't need her cane then, which turned into a wheel chair. She didn't have the fear that she would become physically sick in front of them. Or that she wouldn't have hair.
Truly, that time, early April 2006 was last time I saw my Mom appearing healthy. She wasn't obviously. In fact she would be dead in six months time. The curse of memory. Fuck me. I forgot to remember to forget.
Until I BLOG again...What is closer to the truth.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
And liberty she pirouette
The Little Warrior, like the Elder Boy before him, went from 0 to 60 in potty training. Literally from shitting in the sink on Sunday, to asking that we vacate the bathroom so he could vacate his bowels on Thursday.
Even though potty training is it's own reward, Wy's newly minted Big Boy status awarded the Team a new member. Ruby the dog.
We met Ruby, née Gretchen this past Saturday. She was part of this gonzo animal lady's cavalcade of unwanted dogs. My Lovely Bride had met this lady, and heard of her work soon after dog dog died. She was/is a true warrior animal rescuer, trolling the local animal shelters that have a kill policy. When she finds a dog that is unclaimed and/or unwanted, about to be whacked, she descends on the shelter and gives the poor dog their reprieve. Then she places them in a foster family for temporary custody, until she finds someone who wants the dog. She accomplishes this by taking the unwanted dogs on tour, usually in front of a heavy traffic, animal friendly establishment like Petsmart.
Which is where we met Ruby. Only she wasn't Ruby then. Her name was Gretchen. She also wasn't our first choice for a dog. Hell, she wasn't even our second choice, or third, or fifth. Ruby is the last dog I thought we'd get, and living proof that Mick Jagger had the right idea when he sang, you can't always get what you want (you get what you need.)
My Lovely Bride thought we would get Iago. He was a handsome dog. Big. Strong. Short hair. Male, thus he could become Archie (this was the name for our future dog when we discussed it at home.)
At first glance, Iago seemed perfect. Then, when we started walking him around the store, we learned that he might not be the best dog for us. He was exceptionally strong. So much so, I was afraid to let either of the Boy(s) walk him, in fear that he'd pull them down and escape. More than that though, Iago didn't seem give a shit about the Boy(s.) He didn't pay them any mind as he walked around Petsmart. Finally, he sealed his fate. He peed. In the store. I need a nearly grown dog that isn't house broken like a hole in the head. The whole reason to get an older dog (read not a puppy) is because it is house broken. The whole reason we were getting a dog was because we had moved beyond cleaning up shit in the sink, or floor. Sorry Iago, Godspeed.
It spun out of control from there. We couldn't find one unwanted dog we all wanted. I was beginning to think we were going to leave empty handed when I came upon a small cage in the back of of the store. At first I thought, this poor dog must be the reject of all rejects. Why else would it be in back? Most of the dogs were out front? Strike two was the size. Small. At first, I mistook this to mean this reject was a puppy. We didn't want a pup. Strike three, long black hair. We wanted a mid to short hair dog. Out of curiosity, I stooped down to give this reject pooch a cursory glance, and as goofy as this sounds, I saw something in the dog's eyes that stopped me. This isn't TV though, real life, and I was playing my logical Dad role, so I didn't stop for long. I continued the search and found nothing.
After a few minutes of nothing, I decided to go back over and ask about the reject dog. That is when I learned that it was a she and that she was full grown - or so they thought. They weren't sure because they didn't have her paperwork.
Nice, I thought, more strikes for this poor thing. She's a female so Archie won't work. Full grown thus much smaller than we had discussed. And they don't have her paperwork. Serioulsy? I'll admit, I'm a jaded man and I didn't buy that story, I figured they lost it (or shredded it) to hide the fact that the dog was nuts.
I guess the rescue worker sensed that I was about to walk away - that she needed to offer me something more - which is when she said, to the dog, dance.
And she did.
First with the young lady, then with me. Later with the Boy(s), who thought it was about the coolest thing they had ever seen. Ruby liked to dance. She also seemed to genuinely like us. That flicker in her eyes, well it wasn't some apocryphal account. It was true. She happily let the Boy(s) walk her around the store. She looked at fish with them. Hamsters. Wherever they wanted to take her, she gladly went.
My Lovely Bride and I stood near the fish, discussing all the reasons Ruby was wrong, while the best reason for her becoming our dog was right in front of our face.
$200 or so dollars later ($140 was Ruby's price) we left Petsmart with the reject of all rejects. Ruby, who was going to be our dog.
On the way home, Ruby was perfect in the van, sitting between the Boy(s). I was happy. I guess because I was so excited. I thought to myself, I need to call my Mom and tell her about Ruby.
As if. Mom is dead.
It was odd, for the briefest moment I had thought calling her was a possibility. Then, in a flash, the profound reality of her death hit me. The first time in weeks actually. Strange. I'm always aware that she is gone and I don't mean to imply that I'm not sad, or don't miss her. But, the past few weeks the pain has been different. Not as raw as it was around New Year's. Then something happens, trivial, simple, like getting a dog, and I'm struck down by the finality of her death. Of all that she lost. All that we lost. To which I say: Fuck cancer.
Until I BLOG again...When I think that I am free.
Even though potty training is it's own reward, Wy's newly minted Big Boy status awarded the Team a new member. Ruby the dog.
We met Ruby, née Gretchen this past Saturday. She was part of this gonzo animal lady's cavalcade of unwanted dogs. My Lovely Bride had met this lady, and heard of her work soon after dog dog died. She was/is a true warrior animal rescuer, trolling the local animal shelters that have a kill policy. When she finds a dog that is unclaimed and/or unwanted, about to be whacked, she descends on the shelter and gives the poor dog their reprieve. Then she places them in a foster family for temporary custody, until she finds someone who wants the dog. She accomplishes this by taking the unwanted dogs on tour, usually in front of a heavy traffic, animal friendly establishment like Petsmart.
Which is where we met Ruby. Only she wasn't Ruby then. Her name was Gretchen. She also wasn't our first choice for a dog. Hell, she wasn't even our second choice, or third, or fifth. Ruby is the last dog I thought we'd get, and living proof that Mick Jagger had the right idea when he sang, you can't always get what you want (you get what you need.)
My Lovely Bride thought we would get Iago. He was a handsome dog. Big. Strong. Short hair. Male, thus he could become Archie (this was the name for our future dog when we discussed it at home.)
At first glance, Iago seemed perfect. Then, when we started walking him around the store, we learned that he might not be the best dog for us. He was exceptionally strong. So much so, I was afraid to let either of the Boy(s) walk him, in fear that he'd pull them down and escape. More than that though, Iago didn't seem give a shit about the Boy(s.) He didn't pay them any mind as he walked around Petsmart. Finally, he sealed his fate. He peed. In the store. I need a nearly grown dog that isn't house broken like a hole in the head. The whole reason to get an older dog (read not a puppy) is because it is house broken. The whole reason we were getting a dog was because we had moved beyond cleaning up shit in the sink, or floor. Sorry Iago, Godspeed.
It spun out of control from there. We couldn't find one unwanted dog we all wanted. I was beginning to think we were going to leave empty handed when I came upon a small cage in the back of of the store. At first I thought, this poor dog must be the reject of all rejects. Why else would it be in back? Most of the dogs were out front? Strike two was the size. Small. At first, I mistook this to mean this reject was a puppy. We didn't want a pup. Strike three, long black hair. We wanted a mid to short hair dog. Out of curiosity, I stooped down to give this reject pooch a cursory glance, and as goofy as this sounds, I saw something in the dog's eyes that stopped me. This isn't TV though, real life, and I was playing my logical Dad role, so I didn't stop for long. I continued the search and found nothing.
After a few minutes of nothing, I decided to go back over and ask about the reject dog. That is when I learned that it was a she and that she was full grown - or so they thought. They weren't sure because they didn't have her paperwork.
Nice, I thought, more strikes for this poor thing. She's a female so Archie won't work. Full grown thus much smaller than we had discussed. And they don't have her paperwork. Serioulsy? I'll admit, I'm a jaded man and I didn't buy that story, I figured they lost it (or shredded it) to hide the fact that the dog was nuts.
I guess the rescue worker sensed that I was about to walk away - that she needed to offer me something more - which is when she said, to the dog, dance.
And she did.
First with the young lady, then with me. Later with the Boy(s), who thought it was about the coolest thing they had ever seen. Ruby liked to dance. She also seemed to genuinely like us. That flicker in her eyes, well it wasn't some apocryphal account. It was true. She happily let the Boy(s) walk her around the store. She looked at fish with them. Hamsters. Wherever they wanted to take her, she gladly went.
My Lovely Bride and I stood near the fish, discussing all the reasons Ruby was wrong, while the best reason for her becoming our dog was right in front of our face.
$200 or so dollars later ($140 was Ruby's price) we left Petsmart with the reject of all rejects. Ruby, who was going to be our dog.
On the way home, Ruby was perfect in the van, sitting between the Boy(s). I was happy. I guess because I was so excited. I thought to myself, I need to call my Mom and tell her about Ruby.
As if. Mom is dead.
It was odd, for the briefest moment I had thought calling her was a possibility. Then, in a flash, the profound reality of her death hit me. The first time in weeks actually. Strange. I'm always aware that she is gone and I don't mean to imply that I'm not sad, or don't miss her. But, the past few weeks the pain has been different. Not as raw as it was around New Year's. Then something happens, trivial, simple, like getting a dog, and I'm struck down by the finality of her death. Of all that she lost. All that we lost. To which I say: Fuck cancer.
Until I BLOG again...When I think that I am free.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Hey Ho, Let's Go
Pride is hard. Uncle Bob said even a cowboy's got to swallow his pride sometimes, because, you know, pride's one of those seven deadlies. Uncle Bob was a wise man. It was sad about him dying in that fiery explosion over at the oil refinery. You know, the one caused by the lightning strike? Ok. Not as sad as trying to glean life lessons from Urban Cowboy but still, pride has always confused me.
I think it stems from my school days. My hometown had a lot of holy rollers. And did they ever roll, I'm talking hard, going off on things like pride. They claimed pride was in the top seven of the devil's deadly sins parade.
Then, those same folk, who had spoken so passionately about the evilness of pride, would be the ones who lost their shit bad, at our pep rallies. They would yell, scream, some would cry, to show how much pride they had. At my high school the class that yelled the loudest, collectively, was deemed to have the most pride. If your class had the most pride on a given week, then it was awarded the spirit stick. People wanted that stick, especially the holy rollers.
The contradiction is mind boggling, especially when you consider that the spirit stick was a giant paddle. Seriously. Go Sandites! No wonder I'm so fucked up...but as always I digress. My point.
This past Sunday Boy #2 was running around the house, sans pants, half singing, half screaming, "Hey Ho, Let's Go!" Repeatedly. How cool is that? I mean, really, the Boy just turned three and there he was singing Blitzkrieg Bop by The Ramones.
I was proud of the Boy. In fact, my pride was so great I could have won my very own father of the year spirit stick. I thought, or felt that I rocked, hard, as a Dad. Pride.
That feeling lasted all of five minutes which is when I heard the Boy(s) in the bathroom, in unison, saying, "Don't tell Daddy." Sweet mother of all that is good, those three words never are good. They turn my blood cold.
As I approached the semi-closed door, I could tell from their pleading and the exasperated grunts of my Lovely Bride that the shit had hit the fan. As usual, I was wrong.
The shit had hit the sink.
As soon as the Boy(s) saw me, standing there, with a stunned look on my face, they said, "Don't be mad!"
How could I be mad, I was confused. You see Dear Reader, the Elder Boy was on the toilet taking a dump. The Younger Boy, was standing near him, with no pants, and shit all over his legs and feet. My Bride, who was muttering the Younger Boy's name, over and over, was on her knees wiping what must have been shit off of the tile floor.
Fast forward four days into the Buck Rogers future, which is now, and I'm still not sure what happened. Best I can figure, the Elder Boy needed to take a dump and asked his brother if he cared to join him. Take a break from running around the house, sans pants, singing The Ramones. That might sound odd to some, but is completely normal at Casa Tinsley. In fact, the Elder Boy might have been conducting his own version of a potty training seminar in an attempt to get the Little Warrior to start pooping in the potty. My Lovely Bride has long said, once Wy is fully potty trained, fully meaning poop in the potty, we can get a dog.
As for why there was shit in the sink, best guess is that at some point, Wy decided to get a better vantage point, to see his brother's technique, and climbed upon the vanity near the sink.
At that point, with everything perfectly aligned, Wy must have let a nicotine fart. Or, it could have been a slight bout of diarrhea. His first of the day I might add, lest you think we're complete failures as parents.
In fact, the Boy had been puked on at church earlier in the day. Literally. In the face. I guess that bug entered his system and gave him what Old Granny would call the stomach grippe. That's why he wasn't wearing pants. He had a bath when he got home from church, and well, My Bride thought she'd leave his pants off to try and work on potty training.
Pride. Did it lead me down the road to vanity and narcissism? Is that why everything aligned perfectly, to show me the error of my way? If so, why did my Lovely Bride have to suffer the consequences of my hubris? I don't know. If only they had made Urban Cowboy 2.
Until I BLOG again...They're all reved up and ready to go!
I think it stems from my school days. My hometown had a lot of holy rollers. And did they ever roll, I'm talking hard, going off on things like pride. They claimed pride was in the top seven of the devil's deadly sins parade.
Then, those same folk, who had spoken so passionately about the evilness of pride, would be the ones who lost their shit bad, at our pep rallies. They would yell, scream, some would cry, to show how much pride they had. At my high school the class that yelled the loudest, collectively, was deemed to have the most pride. If your class had the most pride on a given week, then it was awarded the spirit stick. People wanted that stick, especially the holy rollers.
The contradiction is mind boggling, especially when you consider that the spirit stick was a giant paddle. Seriously. Go Sandites! No wonder I'm so fucked up...but as always I digress. My point.
This past Sunday Boy #2 was running around the house, sans pants, half singing, half screaming, "Hey Ho, Let's Go!" Repeatedly. How cool is that? I mean, really, the Boy just turned three and there he was singing Blitzkrieg Bop by The Ramones.
I was proud of the Boy. In fact, my pride was so great I could have won my very own father of the year spirit stick. I thought, or felt that I rocked, hard, as a Dad. Pride.
That feeling lasted all of five minutes which is when I heard the Boy(s) in the bathroom, in unison, saying, "Don't tell Daddy." Sweet mother of all that is good, those three words never are good. They turn my blood cold.
As I approached the semi-closed door, I could tell from their pleading and the exasperated grunts of my Lovely Bride that the shit had hit the fan. As usual, I was wrong.
The shit had hit the sink.
As soon as the Boy(s) saw me, standing there, with a stunned look on my face, they said, "Don't be mad!"
How could I be mad, I was confused. You see Dear Reader, the Elder Boy was on the toilet taking a dump. The Younger Boy, was standing near him, with no pants, and shit all over his legs and feet. My Bride, who was muttering the Younger Boy's name, over and over, was on her knees wiping what must have been shit off of the tile floor.
Fast forward four days into the Buck Rogers future, which is now, and I'm still not sure what happened. Best I can figure, the Elder Boy needed to take a dump and asked his brother if he cared to join him. Take a break from running around the house, sans pants, singing The Ramones. That might sound odd to some, but is completely normal at Casa Tinsley. In fact, the Elder Boy might have been conducting his own version of a potty training seminar in an attempt to get the Little Warrior to start pooping in the potty. My Lovely Bride has long said, once Wy is fully potty trained, fully meaning poop in the potty, we can get a dog.
As for why there was shit in the sink, best guess is that at some point, Wy decided to get a better vantage point, to see his brother's technique, and climbed upon the vanity near the sink.
At that point, with everything perfectly aligned, Wy must have let a nicotine fart. Or, it could have been a slight bout of diarrhea. His first of the day I might add, lest you think we're complete failures as parents.
In fact, the Boy had been puked on at church earlier in the day. Literally. In the face. I guess that bug entered his system and gave him what Old Granny would call the stomach grippe. That's why he wasn't wearing pants. He had a bath when he got home from church, and well, My Bride thought she'd leave his pants off to try and work on potty training.
Pride. Did it lead me down the road to vanity and narcissism? Is that why everything aligned perfectly, to show me the error of my way? If so, why did my Lovely Bride have to suffer the consequences of my hubris? I don't know. If only they had made Urban Cowboy 2.
Until I BLOG again...They're all reved up and ready to go!
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