"Get Out"

Finally. Moving week is here. Stacey seems to be having a tougher time than I letting go of our current surroundings – ready though she is to move on. Apparently, she actually enjoyed her job and likes the people she works with. Sheesh. I warned her about getting attached to people.

What, exactly, am I leaving behind? The wilderness? A 20-minute drive to anywhere? Zero friends to speak of? Hmmm. This should be one of the easiest moves in my life.

Had anyone told me that it would be six years (and counting) before my life would see any semblance of stability again when I initially moved from my longtime home in the suburbs of Atlanta in 2000 to follow Stacey to grad school like a lost puppy dog, I probably would have balked at the prospect of being adrift for so long.

Had I not made the leap, I probably wouldn't have married Stacey, finally graduated from college with a general idea of what to do for a living, had Connor and weaseled my way into staying at home with him all day.

That one simple decision changed my life forever in ways unmeasurable. At the time, it just seemed like no big deal. Just something to do, I thought.

On the flip side, though, we are pretty broke, we have no long-term plans beyond basic conceptual-type ideas, and we have no clue where we'll be this time next year, all of which lend a general feeling of unease to our otherwise happy life.

I think a former co-worker of mine summed up my feelings perfectly.

"You know what they say," she said confidently. "Hindsight is 50/50."

"Life Wasted"

It's back!

The new Musician's Friend catalog arrived in our malbox this week. Ever since I was at least 13, I've spent more time perusing the pages of this glossy rag with more lust in my eyes than if I were...well, my mom reads this blog so let's just leave it at that, hmmm?

Connor is getting a kick out of it, too. He likes the pictures of all the guitars, drums, pianos, keyboards and other sundry musical gear. He can even point out my guitar and has gotten nearly as much enjoyment out of the photos of the exorbitantly priced items as I have — well, not exactly, but he does dig it.

Ever since the arrival of this faithful companion, I've been loath to get anything meaningful accomplished around the house. Seeing page upon page of guitars has inspired me to play mine moreso than normal and stay up way too late visiting random guitar messageboards and websites, gleaning as much information as possible about vintage pickups, wiring schemes and repair techniques.

The sink is full of dirty dishes, I haven't showered in two days, and I think Stacey's noticing that I'm spending more time with my guitar than her.

This is essentially a very long way for me to say that I've nothing to write about tonight, unless you want to debate the differences between '61 and '62 Gibson SGs.

Now, if you'll pardon me, there's someone demanding my attention at the moment...

"Did Ya Say That?"

Connor is a regular kind of guy. Well, he does put his diapers on one Velcro tab at a time, but what I meant is that he has no problem eliminating waste — as the nurses in the ER taught me to say.

Usually, he's a three-dumper-a-day kind of kid. Today, he managed to squeeze out (pun intended) four. When I went to get him up from his nap this afternoon, he immediately let me know, too.

"I've got a pooper in my diaper, Daddy," he said. "It smells like butter."

Is this kid going to stick out when he starts school or what?

"Another One Bites The Dust"

Although I have zero firsthand experience with the subject, I've always liked the adage, "more money, more problems." It's a saying that seems to make sense, I guess — even though many of us with bank account balances approaching negative digits would love to have such issues, I'm sure.

But, the opposite (less money, less problems) couldn't be further from the truth. It seems the closer we are to hitting bottom, the more things go wrong. For example, this year we really had to tighten our belts in order to survive on one (veeeeery modest) income so we wouldn't have to put Connor in daycare. But, even though our current budget has about as much wiggle room as Brian Dennehey's pants after a trip to a Shoney's breakfast bar, we've repeatedly found ourselves in situations that have put undue strain on our finances.

Less than two months ago, Stacey had a flat tire resulting in a cracked rim, which necessitated a set of all new tires. Today, she got another flat — in the driveway?! Her spare tire has seen more action than a hooker on payday because this is her third flat of the year. Add that to the two hospital stays our family enjoyed this year and the other unexpected bills that came our way, and it's a miracle that we're still afloat.

But, for all of our problems, I am glad that we have electricity, that we don't live in the Middle East and, most importantly, that we're almost out of here.

One week to go...

"Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now"

Before we had Connor I'd been repeatedly warned that kids were diesease-carrying filth mongers. "They'll make you sick," 'they' told me; "You'll have a permanent sniffle," 'they' said; "Your washer and dryer will be constantly running," 'they cautioned; "You'll be dead broke," 'they' predicted. (The latter of which has nothing to do with sickness, it was just repeated to me often by proponents of childless marriages.)

Despite the wealth of expert opinions on the subject, I was clearly unprepared for the onslaught of germs that comes part-and-parcel with sharing a living space with a slobbery, drooling, snot-dripping maniac of a kid. With such an unsavory description, though, how could anyone not know that little kids are perpetual germ factories?

This past weekend Stacey took Connor to see a friend of hers who has a little boy close to Connor's age. In addition to the fresh tomatoes and dirty laundry that they brought back with them yesterday, Connor also returned with a head cold.

Translation? I now have a head cold.

I've probably been sick more times this year since I started staying home with Connor, than during all of my previous 29 years combined, and it's really beginning to grate on my nerves.

I'm starting to feel like a little old lady who seems to always have some new affliction, hunched over from the constant muscle fatigue earned from playing with someone four feet shorter than me, carrying around a pocketful of Kleenex and coughing at the most inopportune moments.

Still, I suppose things could be worse.

I could be at...gulp...WORK!

"Couple Days Off"

As of 9 a.m. tomorrow, I will be officially off duty until approximately the same time Monday morning.

Stacey is taking a long weekend vacation to visit a very pregnant friend (due in less than a month) and is taking both Connor and our dog, Murphy, with her. I had the option of tagging along, but house calls really don't fit in well with my anti-social nature. So, I'm staying behind to pack some more stuff that Stacey will claim to miss once she finds out has been packed. I'll have no one but the cockroaches and spiders to keep me company. I'm just kidding. We have wasps and flying ants, too.

Also included on my list of goals to accomplish: paint over the scuff marks on the walls (none of which, curiously, are higher than two feet from floor level...hmmm), mow the weeds, spend an entire day washing my car with Stacey's toothbrush. Plus, there's the vacuuming of the house, the hosing down of the exterior of the house, and a few other chores I'm probably leaving out.

Since we're moving in less than two weeks, the house needs to be getting back to looking like it did when we moved in. Until it does, I will itch like crazy and have trouble sleeping.

And you think I'm joking.

In between all the work, though, I'm sure to find time to turn the guitar amp up to 11, strut around the house naked and practice my yodeling — but not all at the same time...what do you take me for?

Come Monday, though, I'll be back on duty. Ready to change dirty diapers, play chauffeur, prepare meals and induce sleepiness when required.

Enjoy your weekend. I know I will.

"How Could Hell Be Any Worse?"

If you've gotten anywhere near anything resembling news lately you know that it's really hot outside. Of course, you probably already knew that unless you're tied up in some sadist's basement — in which case, the weather is the least of your problems.

When I was in college, I remember hearing a lecture in my geography class about how we humans (particularly overweight, oafish Westerners) were progressively conditioning ourselves to be unable to tolerate the weather on the planet upon which we live. (For the record, this professor was French, but he was absolutely right.)

At the time, it was the dead of summer in lower Alabama (aka: the third ring of Hell), and I was living in a horribly insulated apartment, with two second-rate window units to provide air conditioning and walking to class, 30 minutes each way, and was driving a car without A/C. I immediately understood his point. Even though the temperatures were hovering near 100 degrees each day, I often walked to class in jeans as my body had learned to tolerate the heat. Plus, in the years before I left for school, I'd been living with a friend with whom I'd participate in an annual contest to see who could go the longest each summer before turning the A/C on. By the way, our last summer as roommates, I was the one who caved...in late July.

While my classmates, friends and family members were complaining about the opppresive heat (or bemoaning my resistance to decrease our household air temperature to less than 85 degrees), I'd barely noticed the heat. My body had simply adapted, just as I'm sure as happened to those poor sods who work with road tar in the summer.

Once I graduated from school, though, my tolerance for the heat diminished with each passing summer until I became just like you — hunched over the air conditioning vents in my car, cursing at the sweat dripping down my eyebrows into my eyes.

With Connor's addition to outside play (and irresponsible shows such as Sesame Street encouraging him to get out EVERY DAY!!), we've spent plenty of time out of doors this year.

The result? I typically feel like a roasted pig at the end of the day, but he's so worn out he usually naps for 3-4 hours each day.

I'd say that's a fair trade.

"The Gas Face"

My three-and-a-half-year-old niece is apparently entering the stage of life where potty humor finally becomes funny.

Welcome to the club, darlin'! At 30, I'm still waiting to grow out of that phase, so I'll bet your parents probably won't want you around me for a few years, especially given our own son's cognizance of the finer points of a well-timed poot — especially in bath water. His comic timing really is remarkable.

Tonight at dinner, Connor put his hand up to his nose after eating some cauliflower and deadpanned, "it smells like Daddy's toot."

"Oh really?" Stacey said, barely able to contain herself. "Does it smell good or bad?"

BAD!" Connor said, giggling. Noticing that we were hysterical, he continuted to tell us just how bad the cauliflower smelled...at least, I think he was talking about the vegetable on his plate.

As I sit writing this, I happend to glance over at the couch where Stacey and Connor are participating in the pre-bedtime ritual of a Baby Einstein video and a cup of soymilk. Since I have headphones on, Stacey pointed at Connor's posterior and mouthed "HE TOOTED."

I guess my niece won't be spending time around anyone in this house anytime soon.

By the way, you should be very proud of yourself. You've just spent five minutes reading an entry about nothing but flatulence, and I made sure to include as many visual aids as possible so that you couldn't hide this one from your co-workers, family or curious onlookers.

My mother must be very proud.

"I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got"

Invariably, as moving time around our house approaches — a process with which we're becoming intimately familiar — I start to more closely examine my relationship with our possessions, determining whether I can really live without some of the stuff that we've been lugging around for years — Connor not (yet) included.

In reality, I am probably the exact opposite of a pack rat, or hoarder, but I don't feel that way at all, even though we're travelling nearly as lightly as possible this year, with most of our stuff in storage, including 99 percent of our furniture. I feel like any attachment to an inanimate object constitutes reason enough to sever ties with said item. If I keep one thing, what's to stop our house from being overrun with junk? Or worse, knick knacks! The horror.

I once blew up at Stacey because I believed that every single flat surface of our house in Alabama had something on it. Our stuff was suffocating me, or so I thought. I'm on medication now, thankyouverymuch.

Most of what we brought with us this year I've already packed up in anticipation of our move, which is still more than two weeks away. I may have been asked to leave the Boy Scouts, but I do like to be prepared.

Stacey thinks I've flipped my lid — especially since I've packed a majority of Connor's clothes and toys, although it's mostly winter wear and junk he rarely plays with anymore. But, as sure as I'd tape up a box and label it appropriately, he'd ask for one of the very toys that had just been pulled from the regular rotation.

If you'll pardon me, I have a stack of boxes to hunt through so that I can find a certain book that Connor probably won't even touch when, and if, I do find it.

Life in a monastery suddenly makes much more sense to me. Those guys know how to travel light.

"Guitarmageddon"

When I was in high school, I drove a mint green Chevy Celebrity (similar in shade to this vehicle), which had been decommissioned from the Forestry Service, thus explaining its unparalleled stare-inducing potential. At least five times a week someone I knew would tell me that they'd spotted me while out driving somewhere, but that I didn't see them. I was flagged down on the interstate, dirt roads, in parking lots and even out of state because of my instantly spottable mode of transportation, and those that didn't know me still felt the need to take a peek at the "Green Machine" — and every smartass in the world thought he was the first to suggest that as a nickname.

As a side note, the person to whom I sold the car (a longtime friend and former employer) lent it to his brother to use. I later found out that this sharp-as-a-doorknob brother used this very noticeable green car in a string of armed robberies. Smart fella, huh?

Although the car I drive now is indeed green, it's a much more subdued shade and doesn't stand out in the slightest — well, except that it's almost the only foreign-made car in our neck of the woods that's packed with Fords and Chevys. But, I still seem to be attracting attention and stares when out and about, but not because my car wasn't Made in Amurrrica.

Now that I think about it, this could have something to do with Connor's insistence that we "play along" to the music on the car stereo. He usually pretends to play the drums and demands that I play air guitar along with the tunes, but sometimes we'll swap just to keep things interesting.

It doesn't help that, because my windows are tinted, Connor is basically invisible in the backseat. I'm sure it looks like I'm having some kind of histerical meltdown in the car by myself — my own personal Great Gazoo that no one else can see. (By the way, I think the tellers at the bank drive-through assume I'm talking to myself, because they never send candy for the kid back through the pneumatic tube.)

So there I am, driving down the road, hooting and hollering with my arms flailing about at Connor's behest while receiving all sorts of odd looks.

But it's alright. I look like an idiot on my own just fine all the time anyway. Having Connor to use an excuse works just fine for me.

I guess if I'm going to do this I'd better do it right.

Time to call in the professionals...

"Waiting For My Real Life To Begin"

Perhaps it's due to my age — or, more precisely, my current station in life — but I don't feel like my life has much stability. Over the past six years, I've moved almost as many times and there looks to be no end yet in sight.

But, I'm not exactly a person who looks too far ahead, so a lack of a planned out "future" doesn't really bother me.

Case in point? My unexplainable habit of subsisting in a diet rich in beans and Cheerios, without worrying about what they're going to do to my digestive system (or my wife while she tries to sleep next to me).

What seems to give me trouble is not the big picture, but the waiting game that we've been playing in small leaps and bounds for the last three years. First it was knowing that we were going to move somewhere for Stacey's internship. Then it was waiting to actually go once we found out where it would be. Now, it's waiting these last few weeks until the internship is completed and we move in with Stacey's parents outside of Atlanta. We know where we're going, but we've gotta sit on our hands until we go — again. Next Spring, we'll be playing the same game again, as Stacey's job next year is again only a one-year commitment.

Would it be too much of a stretch to compare this seemingly unending test of endurance to the experience of a lengthy prison sentence? It's madness, I tell you!

...uh, sorry, a fifth grade public speaking student just called. He wants his over-inflated sense of self-importance back.

"Kill Your Television"

Since beginning this stay-at-home-dad experiement last August, I've had plenty of time to familiarize myself with the daytime TV schedule — particularly shows Connor finds interesting.

Usually, our routine consists of Connor waking up around 8:00. After giving him a few moments to wake up, I'll make my way upstairs to change his diaper and get his clothes on that will surely be caked with dirt in less than ten minutes. Then we'll head downstairs for a cup of soymilk, and I'll turn the TV on so I can make breakfast while he finishes waking up and inhales his beverage. Typically, Connor will watch an episode of Caillou, followed by Dr. Phil, and sometimes capped off with a little bit of Sesame Street for good measure.

I'm sorry, did one of those not belong?

Okay, I confess, I occasionally...okay, regularly...okay, religiously watch Dr. Phil. But, for the record, Connor asks to watch it when I first enter his room in the mornings.

"Get some milk and watch Dr. Phil, Daddy?"

What can I say? He likes campy and mindless TV shows. I suppose I should keep him away from Desperate Housewives or Fox News.

I must admit, it's reassuring to know that there are indeed people out there more messed up than me. Sure, I have OCD, I'm a tightwad with our finances, and I'm not exactly the world's best communicator, but did you know that there are folks out there who give their kids money knowing that it's gonna be used for drugs? How 'bout the lady who lets her husband sleep in a bed with her 15-year-old daughter? Ooh, how about the packrat people? (That's another animal entirely.)

You know how common wisdom tells you that, in order to make yourself look better, you should stand next to someone less attractive?

I'm looking pretty damn good right now.

"Are You Experienced"

Last year while Stacey was applying for post-doctoral positions, we decided that I would stay at home with Connor this year. It seemed an easy enough decision to make.

Well, maybe not.

At that time, I had probably only spent about 20 hours (cumulative) alone with Connor, typically on Saturday mornings while Stacey taught a psych class at a nearby community college. That was basically the extent of my parenting experience. During last summer while we stopped over in Atlanta for two-and-a-half months until we moved into our "permanent" living situation for the year, I upped the ante and watched Connor for two days a week.

The transition wasn't easy.

At first, the days with Connor seemed to drag by longer than a stay at Guantanamo. How was I supposed to entertain a little kid with whom I hadn't spent all that much time in his first year of life? (Keep in mind, hands-off though I was, when Connor was born I was working very long hours at my job and Stacey was loath to give up much Connor time when he was very little...we didn't get much of a chance to get to know each other.)

Looking back now, though, the very best thing that could have happened to me was to stay home while Stacey suffered the working week. Although next year will see me continuing to stay home in a slightly modified fashion — perhaps working part-time while family members spell me on a regular basis — I still have trouble picturing myself in a 9-to-5 again.

The horror.

Besides, if I went back to work, what would you people have to read every day?

"Sitting Around At Home"

Each Thursday that Stacey's grandparents come out, I often find myself struggling with how to fill this space. Usually, (relatively speaking, mind you) I've done little in the way of childcare all day — no dishes, no laundry, no cleaning, no feeding, no worries.

I suppose I shouldn't shoot myself in the foot, though, because I spend nearly every evening convincing Stacey that Connor and I weren't just playing all day.

"Honest, baby, it really IS like work! I'm soooo ready to re-enter the workforce. I'm sooo not having fun doing this."

When Connor's great-grandparents are here, I do get some stuff done. Today I took a trunkload of recyclables to the dump and then went to spend the Father's Day money I'd been hoarding on iPod gadgets. I also spent damn near half the day on the phone trying to clear up address-related issues with the company that was handling our investments until we had to cash them in to pay Stacey's and Connor's medical bills.

So excuse me if I don't have an entertaining story to tell tonight. Besides, who wants to read about the tapeworm I pulled out of Connor's butt today?

Kidding.

"Out Of Step"

Ever get the feeling that you don't quite fit in?


Every Wednesday during the summer, a nearby university hosts a free story-and-a-movie for kids. Given Connor's obvious attraction to motion pictures, I thought it might be a good idea — especially since it's hotter than David Hasselhoff's European singing career outside.

Even though the weather forecast predicted imminent rainshowers, and my wipers are non-functional at the moment, I decided to ignore the advice and head out anyway. (Again, contrary to the official forecast we got zilch in the way of rainfall today.)

Anyway, Connor and I made our grand entrance about five minutes early — which, for me, is considered late since I'll probably be early to my own funeral. Given our near tardiness, there were a few parents with kids already seated, having a rather animated conversation about a subject somehow related to their children. (Usually, in these situations, I find that each parent blabs about his or her own kid for as long as possible, until the other party butts in and dominates the "conversation" similarly.)

When these ladies saw us sit down for the story/movie combo, you would have thought I farted — I didn't, for the record...I at least had the courtesy to wait until the movie started — because you could instantly hear the hum of the flourescent lights overhead, instead of their rambling dialogue, which had previously filled the now-quiet space.

I may be reading more into this than need be, but it seemed obvious that these ladies hadn't planned on a dude being there today and were caught off guard.

I now knew what it felt like to be the black guy.

Uh, what did you think I was talking about?

The Memory Remains

It's been said ten million different ways (and better than I could ever put it), but the video iPod is the coolest invention ever. (See? That was pretty lame.) Lately, I've been using mine to watch movies while I run on the treadmill. Since most movies are around an hour-and-a-half, I usually try to watch an entire film at once when I have more than 90 minutes to spend running and/or walking. Obviously, this forces me to stay on the treadmill for as long as the movie is playing.

Today, I watched Memento — which may have been a bad choice since the physique of the main actor (that'd be Guy Pearce) is a bit intimidating in this particular film.

Speaking of body dismorphia, by the way, according to the treadmill's computations, I burned exactly 657 calories, although I gotta say, it felt like 675 calories. I think I was cheated.

Memento is about a man with no short-term memory. He can remember things he learned a long time ago (before a traumatic accident) but retains nothing new for longer than a few minutes. To cope, he lugs around a set of Polaroids, a stack of notes and a few important tattooed instructions to keep him sane.

After watching the movie — once my legs stopped jiggling from the abuse — I noticed that Pearce's character, Leonard, and my son, Connor, seem to have the same affliction.

Like Leonard, Connor knows who he is, knows how to complete basic tasks, but he seems to have a bit of trouble remembering what you told him two minutes ago.

"What's that?" is the question I field from him most often during the day. That he just asked me what "that" was 30 seconds ago matters little. Either he truly forgot, he's testing me, or he doesn't believe me the first ten times I tell him what "that" is.

"Nope," I'll reply. "It's still a bank, and guess what? Next time you ask me, it will still be a bank...and the next time...and the next time..."

This doesn't stop him from asking, though.

While we're on the subject of disabilities, Connor also seems to be developing his selective hearing a bit early. My mom swore that this condition was real when I was growing up, but I didn't believe her until now. The same kid who can hear me unwrapping a piece of candy on the other side of the house suddenly can't hear me ask him to close the door to the porch when I'm standing right next to him?

Suuuuuure.

"At The Movies"

This weekend, Stacey and I took Connor to see his very first movie — Cars. Ever since seeing the previews for the film, Stacey had pegged it as Connor's first movie theater experience. After a few missed opportunities, we finally got to go on Saturday morning, and it was one of the best moments we've had thus far as a family.


He's been dragging around two Matchbox versions of the two main characters for a month, but I don't think he could grasp that his two little cars were going to come to life on the screen. As soon as the movie started though, our normally hyperactive little boy who can't keep his mouth shut for two minutes turned into a comatose, drooling blob of Jell-O on his mama's lap and remained as such for the duration of the film.

Toward the end of the picture, the main character (Lightning McQueen) was speeding around a racetrack showing off. Connor sat up, held his toy version of Lightning up and stared at it, as if he was waiting for the tiny car to start talking to him. (It didn't, for the record.)

The movie ended with a tearjerking song by Brad Paisley, which resulted in Stacey clutching Connor tighter than a million dollar lottery ticket and bawling her brains out.

Connor has been talking about Cars ever since our trip. Stacey mentioned that we probably should have waited to let him see it until it was closer to being released on DVD. To sate him a bit, we watched every trailer Pixar made for the film at least three times on the 'Net today.

I may be making a trip back to the theater with a camcorder hidden under my shirt.