Synchronicity II

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Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why. Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
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"It's about two o'clock in Tulsa," I heard Dad's disconnected voice playback on my cell phone voice mail. Taking a deep breath, I glanced at a clock, noting it was about four o'clock in Dallas as I braced myself for what came next.

"We're at the justice of the peace and we'll be getting married in, oh about an hour, or so. Call me."

A month ago, I discovered, by accident, that The Family Channel was running My Three Sons episodes from 5-6pm and 1-2am daily. Being a dork, who enjoys old school TV sitcoms, I set our DVR to record the 1-2am block and have settled into a happy habit of watching these episodes every morning, by myself, while drinking coffee. Being an idiot savant in regard to inane trivia, I quickly discerned, much to my delight, that The Family Channel was playing these episodes in chronological order. Being a freak, while I eat lunch, I often look up the episode I watched that morning, to see when it first aired, and any other asinine trivia facts that I can glean from the intertubes.

A few days before I heard Dad's disconnected voice mail voice telling me it was about two o'clock in Tulsa, his real time voice told me that he was going to marry his special lady friend in the near future. Legal reasons with the selling of their homes as they prepared to buy a new one and move in with each other being the major reason. I'd been telling Dad, as well as his special lady friend, that they should go ahead and do it for months. Do it being get married. Why wait, at their age (or any age) if that was what they wanted to do was my point. Thus, his announcement wasn't a surprise, or a disappointment. I was happy for them, because they were happy, and glad that they had finally decided to do it, regardless of their reason. I also knew, knowing Dad, that the near future would probably be sooner rather than later.

"Congratulations," I said after hearing his news.

"Thanks son. I think we'll just go to the justice of the peace to do it, and later we'll have a reception. No gifts. We'll have one in Oklahoma and then one later in Texas to make it easier on you guys. On everybody. No gifts. A party. Nothing big."

"Ok." I said numbly. Not from the news, but the massive hang over I was nursing from the previous night's over indulgence.

"Congratulations," I weakly offered up again, not really knowing what else to say.

"Thanks," he said. "I feel bad though, but I don't think I'll invite your Grandma to the reception."

No shit, I thought.

"I don't think she would understand," he continued.

"I wouldn't worry about it, Dad" I said thinking, Dear Ms. Manners, do I invite my deceased wife's Mom to my getting remarried wedding reception? "I don't think it would be appropriate. And she certainly wouldn't understand."

And she wouldn't. You see Dear Reader, my Grandma lost her husband in 1985 when she was 63 years old. Barring a secret live I'm not aware of, she's never considered dating, let alone remarrying. Then there's the fact that my Grandma and Dad don't really like each other. Forced together because my Dad married her daughter. The only link between them, tenuous at best, is me, the Boy(s) and the ghosts of my Mom and my Mom's Dad.

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If I hadn’t spent so much time studying Earthlings," said the Tralfamadorian, "I wouldn’t have any idea what was meant by 'free will.' I've visited thirty-one inhabited planets in the universe, and I have studied reports on one hundred more. Only on Earth is there any talk of free will." Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
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The morning after Dad married his special lady friend I watched My Three Sons, by myself, as I drank coffee. The episode, from season 10 for those playing along at home, was one were perennial widower Steve Douglas realizes he's in love with Barbara Harper which sets into motion him getting remarried.

Later that same morning, while getting dressed for work, I heard a cacophony of curses coming from the kitchen which was My Lovely Brides way of letting me know that our Jetsonian dishwasher had not turned itself on and washed our dishes while we slept. If only. Turned out our Jetsonian dishwasher was busted.

Troubled by this news, I did the unlikely act of making myself a bowl of cereal (something I do, at best, four times a month) and went into the front living room by myself to eat. Not wanting to sing along to the age of paranoia by watching Good Morning American I decided to flip the channel and landed on Still Standing. I nearly shit as I sat there crunching on my dirt cereal (Grape Nuts) and watched the Still Bill Vol. 1 episode where Bill, the main character, has to deal with his Dad's remarriage and his new, 9 year old step-brother, also named Bill.

Later that afternoon, while sitting at my desk, eating my lunch, I looked up the episode of My Three Sons I had watched that morning and realized I should have wore a Depends that day. Seriously. Shit myself redux. That episode originally aired on October 18, 1969. My Mom died on October 18 in 2006.

Later that afternoon My Lovely Bride called to inform me that our Jetsonian dishwasher was not busted. It was dead. This time the cacophony of cursing came from me.

"That thing is only a couple of years old!" I raged.

"It's older than that," My Lovely Bride said. "Your Mom got it for us."

"She's only been dead two and half years!" I raged. "That's bullshit!"

"She got it for us for Christmas. Her last Christmas." My Lovely Bride said.

Being that I suck in real time, as well as being enraged over the dead dishwasher, it took me thirty minutes to realize what you probably already have.

That our dishwasher, the last gift Mom gave us, died the day Dad was remarried. That in and of itself is odd, but factor in the Still Standing episode and the My Three Sons episode, and well, fuck me. I can't make this shit up. I'm not that clever.

Since My Lovely Bride and I were hot about the dead Jetsonian dishwasher, I decided to email her my recap of all the synchronistic shit.

Her reply to my email was this: You think too hard. Most people don’t see the connections in our lives like you. Fucked up? Or special.

I vote fucked up.

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So it goes. Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
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Considering the BLOG posts that I've put out here, the things I've shared or revealed, you might find it odd that this BLOG entry has caused me the most consternation. If I should post it or not. Mainly because I don't want what I've wrote to be misconstrued.

You see Dear Reader, I am happy for my Dad and the new Mrs. Tinsley. The former Mrs. Tinsley, my dead Mom, would want nothing more for my Dad. I believe that. And the same goes for me and my family (excluding my Grandma of course, but that's a story for another time.)

I'm happy my Dad is happy. I wish him and his special lady friend, who is now my Step Mom, nothing but the best.

At the same time though, it makes me sad in a way that is hard for me to express without sounding like I'm talking shit about being happy for my Dad and my new Step Mom. I try, very hard, to not let this sadness pull me under because the last thing I want to do is put a damper on their happiness. They should be happy. Move forward. Live their lives. But in their doing that, I can't help but remember why it is happening in the first place. Because Mom died of cancer eight days after turning sixty-five. That's too young and has caused her to miss so many thing.

Things like Dad getting married (insert rim shot.)

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Whenever you're in Cody, Wyoming, just ask for Wild Bob. Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
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A few days later My Lovely Bride called me at work and said, "I don't know what to do. I feel like vomiting."

She was dishwasher shopping. She'd been to Home Depot, and was waiting for Conns to open. I suggested she go see one of the blue shirt cats at Sears.

Later that day she called me again, at work, and said, "I've been to Home Depot, Conns and Sears. Guess what the guy's name at Sears was?"

Even though I had a pretty good idea who his name had to be I still said, "I don't know."

"Guess."

"Jerry." I said.

"Yeah," My Lovely Bride said. "It was Jerry."

Jerry is my Dad's name.

Fuck me and Carl Jung.

Until I BLOG again...Many miles away, Something crawls to the surface, Of a dark Scottish loch.