"If I Can't Change Your Mind"

While cleaning up my computer's hard drive this week — just in case the feds stop by looking for...uh, nevermind — I stumbled upon a document I created when I started this blog. It was a list of potential subjects to write about in case I ever got stuck with writer's block. Clearly the idea was a poor one because as soon as I created the file, I promptly forgot about it. But, with Connor providing endless subject matter without even trying each day, a lack of ideas hasn't been an issue.

On this masterstroke of a list were ideas of various worth — most of which I've either covered or mentally discarded as soon as I typed them. One particularly horrid idea was an ode to my dress shirts and square toe oxfords that I wore to my job as a managing editor of two publications every day the last few years. It was something along the line of "I miss you guys, and I'll see you soon."

Pretty bad, right? It's called "brainstorming" for a reason. Sometimes you gotta get through some pretty rough stuff to get something decent. Kind of like parenting. (Boy, am I going to get in trouble for that one!)

Despite me realizing that this was a stupid idea for an entry, I also realized that I no longer feel this way. I've been wearing little other than camo shorts or jeans, T-shirts and Vans for eight months. I couldn't imagine wearing a dress shirt right now. In college, I had an English professor that wore a lot of Merrell and North Face gear (that'd be casual, camping-type clothes for those of you who don't know anyone in a frat), and said that he laughed at his lonely suit hanging in the closet each morning as he dressed. At the time, I thought he was a little odd — well, he's a Poe expert and a Vietnam vet, of course he's odd — but now I get it.

I still toss on an occasional polo shirt, and yes, I do wear deodorant, but the thought of pressing my shirts and wearing long sleeves this coming summer (tattoo coverage, ya know?) makes my skin crawl. It's nice to not have to look pretty for once.

Sure, Stacey hasn't come near me lately, but once the beard really fills in...oh yeah, it's gonna be great!

"Bring The Noise"

Wow. My first non-lemonade diet post in quite some time. I'm glad that's over with simply because I can now write about something else.

When Stacey and I embarked on this venture of her working and me staying at home with Connor, the idea was that I'd continue my writing career — albeit in a drastically scaled back fashion, writing when Connor napped and at night. Sure, writing while he naps is a piece of cake, if I can tear myself away from YouTube. Scheduling phone interviews with sources who adhere to demands outside of the resting habits of my two-year-old, though, is another story entirely.

At my previous job, I preferred meeting my sources face to face because human contact always yields measurably better stories. Freelancing usually doesn't afford that luxury, so I have to use the telephone. To clue you in, I don't even like to talk to Stacey on the phone for more than a few seconds. Despite what a few of you perverts were hoping, I'm not a 13-year-old girl who likes chatting on the phone for hours.

So far, every interview I've had to conduct via the phone I've been lucky enough to schedule during Connor's naps. Today, though, I had to accept a call "after hours," when Connor was awake, since this particular source has been more elusive than pictures of Tom Cruise's new baby.

Knowing that I was expecting a call at any moment, I had the DVD player on standby with a Wiggles disc locked and loaded and my notepad stationed at the kitchen table where I could keep an eye on Connor while he rotted his brain on the floor in the den. The plan seemed foolproof. He never gives me the time of day when he's watching any of his shows (Sesame Street, Thomas the Tank Engine, Barney, Taxicab Confessions), so why should today be any different?

As soon as the phone rang, I mashed the "play" button on the DVD player, turned the TV on, parked Connor on the floor in front of the set and scrambled to the kitchen table to answer the phone. Two minutes into the interview, Connor waltzed over to see what I was doing. I directed him back to the TV with my eyes, impressed that it actually worked. A moment later, he started banging on his drum. After that, he pulled out his recorder and started playing it — badly. Thank God his lungs aren't strong enough to blow his train whistle yet.

I had to move into the kitchen and huddle in the corner, but it did little to guard against the aural barrage coming from the den. I'm sure the person I was talking to wondered where the hell I was. An elementary school music class? A day care?

Nope. It would definitely have been a bit more quiet.

"Don't Believe The Hype"

As promised, here is my conclusion of the lemonade diet wrap up. I know, you lost sleep last night waiting on this, right? Patience, grasshoppah.

Despite being worried that I'd feel chronically undernourished, I never really felt hungry during my three-day fast. Whenever I did feel the beginnings of hunger pangs, I simply drank the lemonade/maple syrup concoction and the feelings vanished. It was a bit weird to not be eating, but I never really felt like anything was missing.

I was worried beforehand, though, because I am in charge of Mr. Connor during the day. This means that I've got to keep food in him or else pay the price (Don't make Connor angry...you wouldn't like him when he's angry.) Since I knew there was no way of convincing my two-year-old Tasmanian devil of a son to undergo the fast as well, I resigned myself to watching him eat while I sipped on my juice.

By the way, he immediately noticed that something was out of place. "Daddy eating?" he asked me, several times. After a meal or two eating solo, he got used to my ever-present blue cup filled with "Daddy's juice," as he liked to call it.

I was worried that sitting with Connor while he ate, in addition to "preparing" his food (translation: heating up someone else's hard work), that I wouldn't be able to sustain the fast due to food envy. But, since all the basic nutrients I needed were in the lemonade, I never had a problem with feeding Connor, because I wasn't ever hungry. Additionally, I made a couple of trips to the grocery store during this time and never had a problem either. Wal-Mart has a way of making me lose my appetite, though. Maybe I should try visiting Whole Foods before I jump to rash conclusions.

As is one of the intended by-products of this particular fast/cleanse, I began to study the amount of food that I consume from a different perspective. When I realized that I didn't need food (strictly in the short term sense, mind you) I felt as liberated as George Takei.

I've been taking gradual steps to reduce my daily food intake, or at least replace some of the filler food with more nourishing sustenance. I'm still trying to figure out a decent excuse to continue consuming Atomic Fire Balls. There's gotta be some vitamins in there somewhere, right? Cure for cancer, maybe?

When I did start eating again, it took a bit of mental readjustment — even though I'd been without food just three days. My mind started to think of food as an extravagance, and it felt unnatural when I did eat again.

Then again, maybe I shouldn't have started off with Taco Bell.

Kidding.

"Don't Dream It's Over"

My lemonade-based fast lasted exactly three days. I might have made it longer, but Chick-Fil-A lemonade gets expensive after a while, ya know?

Even though I wasn't feeling weak, I decided to end the cleanse on Friday night for several reasons. Primarily, I wasn't giving it my "all." Since we live in a part of the world where decent produce is considered a luxury, getting the ingredients for the "lemonade" (grade B maple syrup, for example) proved quite difficult. Plus, I couldn't find the right herbal laxative tea, so I didn't feel like it was a particularly good idea to continue without, uh, eliminating some of the toxins that I was supposedly loosening within my body. Basically, they (including the parasitic worms that I never did get acquainted with, dammit!) were just floating around in my system instead of being deposited in the toilet. Speaking of the toilet, I probably used a thousand gallons of water just flushing the toilet as I found myself leaking more often than Mary McCarthy, the recently fired C.I.A employee. Ba-dum-dum

Plus, squeezing the lemons proved to be the most time consuming and taxing part of the whole process. Stacey has a juicing attachment for her Kitchen-Aid that's packed up right now, so tracking that down should make this regimen easier in the future.

I was really more interested in getting my bearings with the fast this time around, than pursuing an extended "cleanse." Now that I know what to expect, I can head into it with more confidence and planning next time, which I've yet to pencil into my day timer, although it consists purely of trips to the park and Wal-Mart. Translation? I've got some spare time.

Rather than overload you with details, I'm breaking this entry into two parts. Tomorrow, I'll deal with the hows, whys and whats — and in the meantime, I'll be enjoying the hell out of some bean burritos.

What do you mean I didn't learn anything?

"I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"

Day two of the cleanse is nearly complete.

At about three this morning, though, I wasn't certain I'd make it this far. I was jolted out of an otherwise restful sleep by a blisteringly brutal headache. I laid there for about 45 minutes before dragging myself out of bed for a glass of lemonade, though it provided no immediate relief. At about 4:30, I somehow managed to fall back asleep. When Stacey woke up at 5:30, I had her get me some Tylenol. Although it wasn't on the allowable ingredients list, I had to have some relief. At eight, I woke up feeling much better.

But, now that I'm feeling normal again, I'm not sure how much longer I'm going to do this. Aside from a newly acquired power of seeing through women's clothing, I haven't experienced any tangible benefits — just smelly hands from all the lemon squeezing and a lack of sleep due to last night's pretend hangover. I don't really feel hungry, but I do have a lingering feeling of unsatisfaction associated with the absence of fats in my diet, I suppose. The package of chocolate chip cookies that Stacey's grandparents left on the counter all day today didn't help much either.

Also, as I've learned more about this regimen, I read a few online accounts where people mentioned seeing worms in their stool.

I'm not sure if that makes me want to quit or keep going indefinitely.

"Hungry Like The Wolf"

Whew. Day one of my fast, known commonly as the "lemonade diet," is nearly complete.

The results?

I can now levitate my body, I can control objects through mental telepathy, and I have the power to kill a yak from 200 yards away with MIND BULLETS!

I sense your skepticism. To that I say, don't make me make you slap yourself.

While preparing for this fast, I was extremely curious as to what it would be like. As I mentioned last week, I've rarely missed a meal in my 30 years. I've gotten by on little more than ramen noodles and refried beans, but missing a meal was a concept I wasn't comfortable with.

Nearly 24 hours into this, I've already realized what is going to be the toughest part — no cereal in the morning. I think I could do without my left hand, my eyebrows and my ears more easily than I could forgo my usual bowl of carbohydrates and soymilk.

But, as with others I've spoken with who have undergone this particular fast (and despite the Duran Duran song title I went with for a title today) I don't really feel all that hungry — though I suppose the crystal meth in the lemonade takes care of the appetite. As I'm composing this entry, Stacey and Connor are eating dinner just a few feet away. While they're jabbering on about peanut butter, ice cream and whatever else they're stuffing in, I'm feeling a bit nauseaus at the mere mention of food.

I have no idea how long this will go on, but this much I know: at least I have ready blogging material for a few days.

"You're The Reason Our Kids Are Ugly"

When we found out that Stacey was pregnant, one theme dominated our discussions of what our life with a child would be like: If the kid is ugly, will we be objective enough to notice?

We've all seen an unattractive baby, but most people are too polite to comment with enough honesty to knock those proud parents off their high and mighty perch. Surely those parents with their faceonlyamamacouldlove baby can't possibly think that their kid is cute.

But, sure enough, when Connor was born, logic became as foreign to us as lazy mornings spent in bed or an uninterrupted night's sleep. I'm not saying the kid isn't handsome, but we were immediately anything but biased.

We just knew that Connor was the cutest kid on the planet. At night, when we were falling asleep, Stacey and I would have hushed discussions that almost bordered on apology about how cute he was, while we reassured ourselves that we hadn't caught a case of unnecessarily proud parentitis.

After having Connor, I'm definitely more in touch with babies. I notice them everywhere I go and am constantly comparing them to Connor. 'Nope, not nearly as cute,' I tell myself. 'He's got 'em all beat.'

My apologies to any of you with children to whom I've secretly compared Connor, but I suspect you're guilty of the same crime. Hmmm?

The funny thing is, when Stacey and I now look at Connor's baby pictures, we've realized that he was a little funny looking. No hair, a wild baby smile that showed off his entire uvula, and one lone dimple made for crazy baby.

But now that he's grown up a little, he's really cute.

I promise.

"Sugar, We're Going Down"

Ah, Easter. The time of year where we celebrate the birth of the Easter Bunny (thanks, Tony). In keeping with such a noble tradition, this weekend was a marathon gorge-fest spent hop-skip-and-jumping back and forth between our families in order to accomodate everyone that needed some quality twenty-on-one time with Connor.

Though Stacey and I do get tired from the back-and-forth of having two families in such close proximity to each other (especially during holidays, special occasions, and basically any other time we visit), by Saturday night, we'd paced ourselves well enough so that we weren't dragging, and, most important to everyone's sanity, Connor was still in remarkably good spirits despite having activities scheduled during every waking moment. Ever a credit to his impeccable breeding (a trivia nugget for you: this means that he's got awesome parents who are perfect in every way), he was a saint through it all.

By Sunday evening, though, the kid was a wobbly, drooling shell of his former self with a newly-acquired habit of throwing himself on the floor while demanding instant attention and things that we couldn't possibly give him.

"I want 30 autographed pictures of Bea Arthur!!!! Waaaaaaaaaaaa!!!"

I think we can safely trace this horrendous crash to the sickening amount of chocolates, cakes, candies and sundry other vessels for refined sugar that he ingested yesterday afternoon at the pinnacle of Easter's decadence.

The horror...the horror.

"The Frayed Ends Of Sanity"

After two days without e-mail or Internet access, I'm back online. For those curious, the computer problems weren't mine, but that of a computer in the house where I was staying.

Please accept my half-hearted apologies for the lack of explanation as to my whereabouts in my previous post, but I don't like to broadcast where I'm going to be at certain times. It's bad enough that I've used my real name on this blog. D'oh! I can't have you creeps visiting my house and wearing my wife's underwear on your head when I'm gone, can I?

Anyway, MY computer is fine. I kissed it when I got home today. Reunited and it feels so good...

It's strange to think that just a few years ago, there was no widespread e-mail or Internet access. In today's world, going without contact with the 'net for a few hours can feel incredibly isolating — for me, at least — and I suspect that some of you incurable computer junkies are worse off than I. Plus, during the last several days (or, as I refer to it: the dark period that we don't talk about), I didn't really have an opportunity to catch the news on TV, so I was completely out of it for a few days. I now know what inmates feel like when they're released after a lengthy sentence.

Please tell me that Brad and Angelina are still together!!

If those crazy kids can't make it, what hope to the rest of us have?

Technical Difficulties

Computer issues...be back soon...end transmission

"Fast As You Can"

This morning marked an occasion I'd been planning for several weeks — months, even. As I slept last night — while dreaming about hanging out with Drew Lachey, Rebecca Romjin and the Wu-Tang Clan — there waited 60 ounces of a lemon-based concoction in the refrigerator that was to be the the only thing I consumed during the next several days, except maybe for some unintentionally-swallowed toothpaste.

I was prepared to undergo the very first fast of my life.

Known commonly as the Lemonade Diet (pdf), this is not designed as a weight loss plan. Rather, it's a cleanse, that's supposed to help de-toxify your system.

Why, on earth, would I consider this? For several reasons, actually.

1. I know several people that have tried this already. Since they did it, and I want desperately to be cool in the eyes of my peers, I'mma do it too!

2. I'm curious to see how long I can go without food. My current record is 45 minutes — not counting sleep time or hunger-induced comas.

3. I'm interested in the effects of food deprivation on the body. I've been told that the effect of a fast can yield a feeling of enlightenment, enhanced clarity and a bigger penis (just kidding...maybe). I've also been told it's stupid. But, if it's good enough for Dikembe Mutombo, it's good enough for me.

4. “Approximately 790 million people in the developing world are still chronically undernourished." I don't think that missing a few meals will hurt me too much.

5. Most importantly — to me, at least: I'm trying to get a handle on some food issues — namely portion control. Now that I have a son, I have realized the importance of passing on healthy attitudes about food. Simply being a vegetarian doesn't ensure this, especially since some of the biggest gluttons I know are strict vegans. The fact is, we are so out of whack with the amount of food that we need to survive, it's of crucial importance that we reconnect with our bodies. Besides, I'm tired of buying clothes that are tailored for our population's ever-expanding waistlines. A "large" is no longer a large. It's now a small tent with sleeves.


This morning I woke up excited to begin my fast. After anxiously sipping the brew that was to be my sustenance, I quickly realized that I had somehow screwed up the recipe. It was acidic, it was nasty and there was no way I could survive on it, much less stomach it. With no lemons left over to squeeze, and a serious jonesing for some cereal and soymilk, I quit.

My fast lasted all of five minutes.

(I am going to try again next week, though.)

"Everything In Its Right Place"

I am, by nature, a compulsive organizer. Regardless of how my bedroom may have looked when I was 15, I can't stand clutter. Having a child and several exuberant grandparents (and great-grandparents) who have gone the extra mile (or 20) to take care of Connor's every need, it's been difficult, to say the least, to maintain my sanity amidst the ever growing sprawl of toys, books and more toys.

The result? Plenty of clutter — or toys, whatever you want to call it. Even though we regularly attempt to pare down Connor's monstrous toy collection, we've currently got Matchbox cars, giant building blocks, Thomas trains, a doctor playset, activity balls, golf clubs (for kids), a lawnmower (again, just pretend), a miniature farm animal set, musical instruments, Mega Blocks, musical books, DVDs, VHS tapes, various Little Tikes playsets, a motorized four-wheeler, a Radio Flyer wagon, and many more items I'm too lazy to list (and you probably don't care too much about anyway) taking up precious real estate in our home.

If I hadn't come down with another case of cleanitoutbeforemyheadexplodes syndrome, we'd have much, much more. Besides, his favorite toys are my Swiss Army knife and my guitar picks, anyway. He won't miss his old toys a bit.

Our super secret hiding spot (our pantry) is currently off-limits to Connor until we can transport the purged toys to Stacey's parents' basement storage facility — which currently rivals any toy store in its selection of choice and is growing by the month...I smell a side business.

Feeling that special tingle that only us manic organizers can identify, I scrambled to Wal-Mart yesterday and picked up a cheap three-drawer organizer. Once Connor was down for his nap, I sprung into action. Except for a few "floor items," if it don't fit in the drawers, it ain't stayin'.

If you're interested to see the monster I was up against, I took before and after pictures...

Before

After

Too much?

"Listen Like Thieves"

I apologize for my sudden case of sensitivity and global awareness yesterday. I'm a little short on sleep. It won't happen again. But, thanks for checking out the website, if you did, and for supporting such an important cause. By the way, social consciousness is punk, unless you hate punk, in which case it's not punk...

--

As I mentioned at the beginning of yesterday's post, Connor and I went to the park on Tuesday. Now that the weather has started to warm up, the playground is teeming with rambunctious kids and preoccupied parents too lazy to keep an eye on their own kids, thus forcing me to either play traffic cop to keep careening 12-year-olds from colliding with otherwise oblivious four-year-olds (or my nearly-two-year-old) or get the uncomfortable stares from parents suddenly aware that their kids are running around like lunatics and wondering why the closest adult — me — didn't intervene before their kid ended up with his bottom teeth jammed through his upper lip.

Here's a thought: if you're too much of a lightweight to come to the park during the winter (which, in the South, hardly passes for winter anyway) you lose your right to visit during warmer temperatures. When it's below 50 or 60 degrees outside, we're always assured of having a playground nearly to ourselves — except for a few stir-crazy moms who occasionally try and keep their kids from playing to close to us anyway, and an occasional gathering of uninspired high school students skipping class.

That rule should thin the herd a bit during the spring and summer months, don't ya think?

Also, now that the weather is warming up, we've been able to keep the door to our screened-in porch open. This means that Connor's indoor play area is nearly doubled — well, almost, but we do live in a pretty small house — and the neighbors are subjected to the second-hand soundwaves of Slayer, Radiohead and Blondie, which are transmitted at fairly loud volumes.

What this also means, is that our neighbors are also privy to the many insane conversations that Connor and I share, without the crucial visual context with which to properly judge said dialogue.

For example, this afternoon, Connor and I were enjoying some cupcakes at the kitchen table when he started spreading his icing all over the table. Knowing that if he didn't clean it up, I'd certainly have to, I suggested that he help me out.

This is what the neighbors heard, if they were paying attention...

"Lick it!"

"Noooo!" (followed by an uncomfortable spell of squealing laughter)

"Come on, lick it. You'll like it!"

"Mmmmmmmm." (insert more squealing)


Maybe we'll keep the doors closed tomorrow.

"Image of the Invisible"

Today, Connor and I went to the park and had a picnic. No worries. Plenty of smiles.

When we got back home, I put him down for his nap, cleaned up a bit and sat down to answer some e-mail and get started on some freelance projects.

Somehow, I ended up on a website that told of the plight of the children in Uganda — a situation that's remained virtually unchanged for several decades as the world continues to ignore the situation in a country with little or nothing in the way of measurable goods or services to offer the rest of the world.

I'd heard about it before, but apparently needed to see the images myself for the story to have a deeper impact.

Basically, for the last 20 years, there has been a war raging in this already poverty- and drought-ravaged region of Africa. During the night, soldiers from the Lord's Resistance Army regularly kidnap children from their homes outside the cities and force them to take up arms against the government.

For this reason, every single night, the Ugandan children travel from their homes into the cities to sleep — as the cities offer a bit more protection from the violent rebel army.

Thus, the children who aren't abducted often go without education, contact with their parents, food and many other necessities. Those who are, mostly end up dead in combat.

The situation is vastly more complex than this, but even if the story stopped there, this would still be an atrocity. Plus, the world has laregly turned a blind eye to this problem.

I would hope that every single one of you would make time to visit the website (www.invisiblechildren.com) and learn about this for yourself. This group/charity/movement/cause has produced a film about these resilient children and has employed many of them to make bracelets to sell to Westerners. It's a small gesture, but every penny raised goes directly to help improve this situation.

I can't even imagine Connor being kidnapped — much less forced to fight in a war in a few years. Simply because he was born in America, we don't have to worry about this. Because these kids had the "misfortune" of being born in Uganda, they do.

I wanted to run upstairs and wake Connor up to give him a hug and thank God that we didn't live in Uganda. Instead, I ordered a bracelet.

Maybe you will, too.

-Invisible Children-

"So Fresh, So Clean"

It's official (and yes, I know I've started more than one entry with this phrase): Today marks the day I finally realized that we no longer have a cute baby living with us. In his place, we now have a smelly, loud, chronically dirty manboy who burps at the table, farts in public (it wasn't me, I SWEAR) and is developing a personality less predictable than where a fourteen-year-old's next pimple is going to pop up.

I suppose we knew it was coming. We have friends — relatives even — with kids older than Connor, and, sure enough, their offspring have gotten older and smellier as time has passed. Why should Connor be any different?

The only time of the day when Connor isn't sweaty and out of breath with remnants of his last meal caked on his shirt and pants is right after bathtime. But, fifteen-or-so minutes later, he's just as dirty as if he'd had no bath at all. I can't figure it out. I guess if I were that close to the ground, I'd get dirty easily too.

Those who know me well can attest to my aversion to dirt, and having a kid with a predilection for getting filthy has been nothing if not an intense exercise in immersion therapy — except with therapy the goal is to get better, and I'm afraid I'm just getting more manic.

But I still love him.

I guess.