220, 221...whatever it takes

"Never Take Friendship Personal"

2008-08-07T20:31:00.003-04:00

Thank God for friends who aren't opposed to sweating a bit in the Southern humidity! After moving just about anything that would fit in our cars all last week—and after a quick weekend field trip to a small Georgia town for a family wedding—we finally moved all our stuff in to our new place a little more than a week ago, thanks to a fantastic effort by those foolish enough to accept our invitation to help out. All told, our “crew” worked for about an hour-and-change, and we were done.

It almost feels wrong to badmouth the “old” place. When we decided to move here, housing was slim pickin’s, and we were thankful to have anything at that point. I think we conveniently forgot that fact when our gripes were piling up. Somehow, seeing the city’s abundant homeless population didn’t do much to temper our complaints. Uh, my bad?

Anyway, we’re now in an environment where we feel more comfortable—a house with yard/garage/closets/etc. and no neighbors right on top of us—and I’m hoping that the next several years are free of U-Haul trucks, packing tape and paper plates. After 12-plus years together, and nearly seven years of marriage, this was our first in-town, in-state move—despite packing our things and throwing them on a rented truck more times than I care to recall.

And to our friends who continue to offer their help, for our next move we promise to at least try to sign a lease in the winter.

"Close Yet Far"

2008-06-17T20:17:00.003-04:00

I really should have seen it coming.

This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I caught myself thinking that I'd finally gotten a handle on my "new" job—where I've been working for nearly a year... it's a pretty lengthy learning process. Gimme a break.

I put the toothpaste back in the cabinet and said to myself, "Slow down. The last time you started feeling this confident things totally fell apart." I brushed my teeth, calmed myself down and spit the toothpaste into the sink, assured that I'd dodged whatever karma bullet was surely headed my way for being too prideful about my accomplishments at work—or my lack of extreme failure in at least a month. In a few hours my day started to crumble, and by noon it was in shambles.

Without going into the specifics, my job often depends on others meeting their deadlines in order for me to meet mine. If I miss a deadline because someone else dropped the ball, it's still my fault, kinda like the scene in Goodfellas... "Business is slow? F--- you. Pay me!"

I'm the kind of person who gets very invested in his job. I get heavy boots when things aren't going right, especially when I feel like the fault isn't my own.

But, tonight, all the stress of the workday disappeared as I sang Connor to sleep—as I do most nights. Feeling blissed, I offered a quick thank-you prayer to the heavens and left my protégé sound asleep, his arms wrapped tightly around his stuffed dog, Barkley.

I sat down in front of this computer against my better judgment and checked my work e-mail one last time before bed only to receive more bad news, completely unrelated to any of the issues from earlier.

I wonder if I'll ever learn to quit while I'm ahead...

Games Daddies Play

2008-05-04T20:26:00.005-04:00

Yes, yes. Been a long time and whatnot. Let's just dispense with the preliminaries, shall we?

Much has been happening in our world these last few months. The banjo twangs have been getting more purposeful (and on-key), and the swimming pool water has been inching toward bearable while the weather inches toward unbearable in equal fashion. Connor and I have also invented a brand new game that we call Creeper Catch, after his favorite rogue from his new favorite show—any one of the many Scooby Doo variants.

The Creeper aka Mr. Carswell, the bank president. (He would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for, well, you know...)

It started by accident, as all good games do. (Who throws a ball into a peach basket expecting to invent a multi-gazillion-dollar behemoth?) Connor and I were playing in the den when I started to pretend I was the Creeper, and he ran away at full speed, halfway pretending to be scared. Without really thinking, I reached out and grabbed one of his bedroom slippers and chucked it at him. Just before he turned the corner into the kitchen (a good 20 feet away from where I was lying on the floor), the slipper knicked him on the heel. For about two seconds, he freaked out, thinking that I had closed the distance between us at an otherwise unbelievable rate. Once he figured it out, though, he started to laugh, and thus Creeper Catch was born.

Between the 30 minutes that he spent sprinting through the house to avoid flying bedroom slippers and the 45 minutes spent shivering in the swimming pool (the weather hasn't quite become unbearable enough for the pool to be comfortably bearable yet, apparently), he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Just remember, when your children's children are reading in their history books about the birth of Creeper Catch, you can say you read about it here first.

"You're Gonna Get Yours"

2008-01-17T22:19:00.000-05:00

People in my family know people—or they know people who know people.

For example, my older brother does quite a bit of entertainment writing and can secure everything from backstage passes to Disney tickets with a quick phone call. So, imagine my surprise when a piece of “insider” swag was delivered to my mailbox and my brother wasn’t involved.

Put another way—the banjo saga has taken an interesting and unexpected twist.

My father-in-law, ever the creative thinker, called in a favor and delivered one of the more unique gifts I’ve ever received. His company, a finishing (printing/laminating/binding/etc.) firm recently did some rush order work for none other than Mr. Roy Clark—the man I credit for originally interesting me in the banjo back when I was still losing baby teeth and wanting to be a “CHiPs man” when I grew up.

One called-in favor later and several days ago, I received a surprise manila envelope from Roy Clark Productions. Inside was an 8”x10” photo of Clark with the following inscription:

To Carter
Thanks for the kind words posted on your blog
Keep on pickin’
Happy Birthday
Your Friend,
Roy Clark

I was dumbfounded, and it took me awhile to believe that this was really from Clark and not from one of my scheming friends or family members.

Stacey had to fill in the back story for me—some of which I’ve recapped above—but she also said that, yes, Roy Clark had read my blog. I’m not sure if he interpreted my comments about him as serious or insulting (I tend to come off as a condescending jerk to those who don’t know me—and even to those who do), but I will say that anyone who thinks merely of Roy Clark as “that rube from the redneck show” hasn’t heard him play any of the instruments in his repertoire. Check the YouTubes for proof—underappreciated isn’t the word. The dude can play his tail off, and he’s ripe for a Rick Rubin-styled, Johnny Cash-esque makeover if I do say so myself.

The autographed picture was very much appreciated, but it was more important to know that perhaps I offered a few moments of entertainment to a man who has certainly offered me plenty (Saaaalute). In addition, it was the result of a kind gesture based on something that I said I liked—almost in passing.

By the way, have I mentioned how much I like $100 bills?

"Beliefs and Obsessions"

2008-01-02T18:21:00.000-05:00

I have an obsessive personality. When I decide that I NEED something—regardless of whether I truly need it or not (and usually, I don’t)—I can think of little else. Probably the worst thing to happen to me as a kid was receiving my older brother’s hand-me-down Musician’s Friend catalogs.

Contained within these pages were images of instruments, amplifiers and accessories so far out of my price range that they might as well have cost a million bucks. That didn’t stop my futile wish-listing, though. After trying to decide which guitar in the whole catalog that I’d pick, if given a choice between any of them—I foolishly chose the Steve Vai Jem 7V, complete with carved handle...ugh—I began to stare at the pages of drumsets.

I was convinced that I had to have a drumset, even though I’d not long since bought my first electric guitar—a D-grade Strat copy from Japan. I began poring over the images of drumsets, and they even began creeping into my dreams. I even went so far as to make a kit of my own out of differently sized boxes and using skateboard rails as sticks and pie tins as cymbals. After a few aborted attempts to craft a homemade bass drum pedal, and growing increasingly frustrated that the rails constantly pierced the box tops, I gave up. It was surely an unrecognized sign of the mania that would follow me into adulthood.

So, it should come as no surprise that I continue to find objects over which to obsess. The latest object of my desire? A banjo. Yes. A banjo.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted a banjo, though never enough to go out and actually buy one. I’m pretty sure—and I can’t believe I’m admitting this—that I can trace this desire back to the Hee Haw episodes I’d watch on Saturday nights. Between Stringbean, Grandpa Jones and Roy Clark, I thought that the banjo looked like a lot of fun, and I’ve always liked bluegrass music on some level. But, if it was a trip to see Alison Krauss & Union Station in 2004 that reignited my interest in the banjo, it was a chance to see The Avett Brothers in early November that finally sent me over the edge.

For the last two months, I have been banjo-crazy, and my poor wife has been suffering just as much as I have, though if only for having to put up with me. I’ve ordered catalogs, devoured retail Web sites, watched countless YouTube videos and even joined a couple of banjo-themed forums. I’ll not even speak about the dreams I was having, or the cardboard banjo that Stacey and Connor made me as a joke... I hope.

At Christmas, however, my obsessing over owning a banjo finally ended when my mom stepped up and gave me a banjo to call my own–although I had picked it out and ordered it myself and shipped it to her house several weeks before Christmas, which nearly killed me. She was footing the bill, which meant I had to wait, but it was more than worth it.

Now how do I play this damn thing?

Where to start with this picture? How about the super awesome stars-n-stripes guitar? How about Ernest Borgnine in the background? How about the fact that both Buck Owens AND Roy Clark were in the same place and the Hee Haw set didn't explode from an overdose of awesomeness?!

"Picture Book"

2007-12-17T18:08:00.000-05:00

Although I am nowhere near my little brother’s record number of employers (which must surely be nearing triple digits by now), I have held at least a handful of jobs in as many different industries.

I’ve worked high-stress, low-stress, no-stress, clean-up-this-mess jobs, but few of them outside of fast food have been set up in a way that offers a clear workday schedule; and anyone who knows me should be aware of how highly I value adhering to a schedule and sticking to a pre-decided plan of action—although the “pre-decided” part usually doesn’t actually scream “ACTION!!”

My current job is incredibly detail heavy and very structured—the latter of which necessity mandates, due to a daunting workload that would be otherwise unmanageable. When I think of how structured this job is (especially compared with some workplace “adventures” of the past), I turn into Gollum and start gushing about my structure. “My precious.”

But, aside from keeping me from drowning in a sea of projects, I’ve discovered an added benefit: time to read. Every day around mid-day, I heat up my lunch, sequester myself and disappear into a book.

It helps me escape from the stress of the workday, and I can finally dig into the ever-growing mental list of books-to-read that I’ve been amassing for quite a few years.

I’ve always been a slow reader and would often get frustrated at the quick turnaround time necessary for school-related reading. When left to my own schedule, oddly enough, I’ve found that my reading times have picked up a little bit—probably because I’m not trying to capture meaningless details that I know will be on a pop quiz. In fact, I find that I have a better grasp on what I’ve read and can analyze the material and pick up on the symbolism and underlying themes just as well on my own as I ever did in a classroom.

I have also found that my tastes in books are as divergent (or “disorganized”) as my musical preferences. In the last few months I’ve read, among others, early 20th century sci-fi (William Hope Hodgson), a thinly veiled attempt at satire disguised as music criticism (Chuck Klosterman), a 21st century masterpiece (David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas), disposable pulp trash (Chuck Barris) and a book that I’m absolutely glad that no one asked me about while reading it in the breakroom—Sound of the Beast: The Complete Headbanging History of Heavy Metal.

Whether they’ll (we’ll) admit it or not, readers look at non-readers with at least a little disdain. If someone asks you about the last great book you read, just lie. You could say that you believe the earth is flat. You could say that there is no such thing as a laundromat. You could say that there are no cats in America. You will still be looked at as less evolved if you say, rather blasé, “Oh I don’t read.”

You’ll look dumber than Dan “Do they speak Latin in Latin America?” Quayle.

Henry Rollins often says that one of the first questions he’ll ask a woman he’s interested in is not the usual get-to-know-you banter like, “Where are you from?” or “What do you do for a living?” Instead, he typically inquires about the most recent book that the woman read—usually coming up disappointed because it seems like fewer people are reading anything of substance these days... coughPeoplecough.

But, had he asked me about Sound of the Beast, I'm sure he would have been disappoinsted.

"Leave This City"

2007-11-18T18:01:00.000-05:00

Hi, my name is Carter, and I live in Florida.

Sorry, it’s taking some getting used to.

Living in the Sunshine State has been a bit of a mind trip so far, aside from having to readjust from the notion that I’d never live here (people under 80 don’t move to Florida) and actually winding up here (at 31).

It’s strange to drive around town and see real live palm trees everywhere and not the plastic ones in the parking lot of the local seafood restaurant. It’s strange to step outside in October and immediately start sweating. It’s strange to not see orange leaves anywhere in the fall. It’s strange to be living in a state I’ve only ever associated with Cannibal Corpse, spring training, Mickey Mouse and geriatric Yankees.

Most of all, though, it’s strange to leave a town with palm trees and warm weather to drive to the beach—which isn’t that far away and also features palm trees and equally warm weather.

A few weekends ago, Stacey, Connor and I ducked out of town and headed to a beach condo owned by a family member in St. Augustine—a perk that’s been far better than any dowry I could have hoped for.

For as long as Stacey and I have been together (and a bit longer for her), this has been our usual and favorite vacation spot, taken usually with family, sometimes with friends and occasionally with both. Going there is a BIG deal. The trip is preceded by a little bit of planning, a lot of anticipation and half-a-day in the car.

Now, it’s a relatively short drive away, and we have a three-year-old who can actually appreciate the ocean air, salt water and riptide better than our adult bodies ever will.

I’m sure that being this close to the ocean (and the prized family condo) will be both blessing and curse; Connor knows that we’re hours and hours away from our families, and he’s a little sad about it, but he definitely knows how close we are to the beach.

...and don’t think he hasn’t asked to go more than once or twice.

"Free Speech For The Dumb"

2007-11-04T17:16:00.000-05:00

As part of my job, I spent a lot of time trawling the various stock photography Web sites of the world. Consequently, I often come across many interesting and completely useless images, like the one included below.

I hope that this image lifts your spirits as it did mine. Enjoy...

"Stop Me If You Think That You've Heard This One Before"

2007-10-30T17:51:00.000-04:00

Please accept my apologies for the previous post’s serious nature. It won’t happen again. Anyway, I’m still figuring out my place here—although so is Connor, apparently.

No longer content to toe the line and accept everything we say as the unmitigated truth, he’s developed—gasp!—his own opinions and is turning into quite the defiant little man, perhaps in response to having been uprooted more often in his first four years of life than a loose-lipped felon in the Witness Protection Program.

(As a consequence of our travels hither and yon, Gypsy life is suddenly starting to look less nomadic than the existence we’ve carved out recently.)

More people in America can probably describe the practice of reverse psychology than can find Iraq (or Canada) on a map, but just because the practice is known far and wide doesn’t mean it doesn’t work on three-year-olds.

And how.

“Whatever you do, don’t wash your hands before dinner,” we’ll say with eyes beaded and brows furrowed. Sure enough, within seconds the water is running, soap is squirting and germs are dispatched.

“Please don’t eat all of your dinner,” we’ll suggest, with a slight waft of desperation. In moments, we’ve got a chipmunk-cheeked kid seated across the table gasping for air because his face is packed.

“Stop spitting on the floor,” we’ll implore, momentarily forgetting that we’re supposed to ask him to do the opposite of whatever it was we wanted him to do... or stop doing.

Sure enough, there will soon be a glob of spit resting at his feet, a string of which will still be stuck to the corner of his mouth.

To say that Connor is obstinate would be an understatement on par with NASA’s immediately-regretted-as-soon-as-it-was-uttered phrase, “Obviously a major malfunction,” when the Challenger blew up in ’86.

But for all his hard-headedness, when he closes his eyes at the end of the day, turns off his mind and melts into the bed—exhausted from a day’s-worth of disobedience and just deserts—it’s hard to remember the obtuse little boy who spits on the floor.

"...But Home Is Nowhere"

2007-10-24T17:34:00.000-04:00

I’ve found it odd how little energy I have left when I get home from work each day. True, I don’t spend my days swinging a sledgehammer or smelting steel, but for whatever reason, I’m having trouble staying awake past 10 p.m. without feeling beaten down the next morning. Maybe it has something to do with the continual busy-ness of my job—manual labor though it definitely is not.

When I get home from work, one of the last things on my mind is sitting back down in front of a computer for a protracted amount of time (except to watch online MMA fights)—hence the neglect manifested here.

As we’ve been in transition after transition these past several years, I’ve often envied the stability that “normal” people seem to find in returning to a steady job every day (and one that pays well enough to actually buy groceries and the occasional movie ticket) and the subsequent semblance of normalcy that surely follows. Now that I’ve arrived at what promises to be the filler of the next who-knows-how-many-years of my life—though definitely still acclimating to the new job, town, state and climate—I’m wondering what the draw was.

When I was filling in the gaps, so to speak, while Stacey worked full-time—staying home with Connor during the day and writing/editing/odd jobbing for whomever would have me—we were definitely scraping bottom financially, and we were far from stable (one of my editing jobs routinely kept me out until the wee hours), but I’m starting to feel all sentimental-like for the more trying times, although we’re definitely not out of the woods yet (no pun intended for anyone who remembers that when I started this blog, we were actually living in the woods).

Fittingly, some of my best memories of my entire life were probably gleaned during these last few years when we were semi-homeless and broke and when I frittered away my days alongside my little boy.

I’ve been missing the goliath of a playground in South Carolina where Connor and I would feed the ducks, run our brains out and gallop back and forth across the rope bridge so many times I’d wonder how it didn’t catch fire from the friction caused by obsessive overuse and tiny tennis shoes. I’ve been missing being back amongst our families and friends in Atlanta, not to mention the numerous (and increasing number of) skateparks that the city offers. I’ve even caught myself looking at Google’s satellite images of places where we’ve lived and played in recent years. These fuzzy images, taken from Pluto with a point-and-shoot camera, somehow make me nostalgic for living in the midst of what certainly had to be a clan of white separatists in South Carolina, although logic (and my actual feelings at the time) should tell me to be glad I got out alive and with all my teeth.

But back to the present day, I may have a job that pays decently in a town with the potential to be someplace really great, but as long as 1/4 of our stuff is still in storage and the memories of repeated relocations are fresh, I’ll probably never feel settled.

It’s often said that “there’s no place like home.” I’m still not sure where that is.

"The Final Countdown"

2007-09-27T17:33:00.000-04:00

On one particularly steamy Sunday this past summer,, like most Sunday mornings, I was hanging out at the skatepark with my friend Tony and kicking it in the heat when one of the older dudes (yes, older than me) struck up a conversation with us due to Tony’s non-sarcastic and titillatingly rad AC/DC Heat Seeker Tour T-shirt.

Him: -in a Southern drawl thicker than the sexual innuendo at a Prince concert- “Man, that’s a great shirt!”

Tony: “Absolutely!”

Him: “Man, I got a friend who thinks Angus Young is the greatest guitar player in the world. Man, he’s great and all, but I’d put him up against the guitar player from White Lion any day!”

Me: “You mean Vito Bratta?”

Him: “Yeah, man, that’s his name.”

Tony: -looking at me, justifiably, like the biggest dope on the planet- “HOW do you know his name?!”

I have no excuse. I was never a big White Lion fan, but I know lots of dumb stuff. I suppose the retention of useless facts is the mark of an editor—well, that and the attraction to tedious, exacting work and a tendency to be self-righteous about the proper usage of the serial comma. With this imaginary guitar duel in mind, and given that I no longer self-impose myself to write only about childcare-related topics (especially since wife and child are out of town for a week), I will now bore you with my list of the five greatest guitar players of all time. It’s long; it’s boring; it’s self-serving; it rules!

5. Peter Moses — Into Another
Trained primarily as a classical player, Moses changed direction completely when he joined Into Another—a post-hardcore art rock band of sorts that was absurdly out of place and time in New York's mid-90s punk scene. His deft playing style oozed soul while his sound was abrasive. To this day, I have no idea how his frail-looking hands were able to coax such an enormous sound out of his instrument. Also, he’s now either a hermit or dead. Nobody seems to know where this guy is. First one to find him and start a band wins!

4. Omar Rodriguez-Lopez — The Mars Volta & Solo
With more soul than a Latin kid from El Paso should legally be allowed to posses, Rodriguez-Lopez is the modern day equivalent of Jimi Hendrix, John Zorn and Carlos Santana, all rolled into one, with a dose of Larry Harlow’s salsa music for good measure. I can’t even comprehend half of the stuff this guy comes up with, let alone play it myself. I saw him play live last year and my jaw is still sore from being on the floor for the entire hour's set.

3. Chris Haskett — Rollins Band
I remember reading a story about Chris Haskett in Guitar World probably 16 years ago where he expressed genuine surprise that the interviewer wasn’t actually trying to write a story about Henry Rollins, the band’s larger-than-life frontman. Such has long been the case for this ridiculously underappreciated guitar player who brings jazz fusion, rock and noise together in an earth-shaking combination of bombastic riffs that were about a decade ahead of Tom Morello and ten times better anyway. When Rollins dumped Haskett and the rest of the Rollins Band in favor of a new backing group a few years ago, the albums were barely listenable; it was hardly a coincidence.

2. Dr. Know — Bad Brains
Probably the first real guitar hero I ever worshipped—and got to meet when a former band of mine was opening for Bad Brains—Dr. Know’s approach first introduced me to the concepts of less is more and more is more. Combining the traditional power chord structure of punk and hardcore with more jazz-influenced improvisational flourishes, Dr. Know turned me on to an entirely new style of playing where chords were completely optional. Their last album may have been mediocre at best, but his playing was a blazing as ever.

1. Stevie Ray Vaughan
SRV is the top of the food chain, be-all end-all of guitar players in my mind. His style, though cribbed heavily from Albert King, primarily, has been jacked more often than the petty cash fund at work that you know you’re not supposed to touch. But all the imitators in the world—I'm looking squarely at you, John Mayer—can't touch the original.

Bow down.

Honorable Mentions—slight disrespect intended: Tommy Accüsed, Brian Knudson, Al DiMeola, Robert Fripp, Dimebag Darrell (I’m not kidding), Vic DiCara, “Mahavishnu” “John McLaughlin

You’re welcome. Now go listen to something new.

"The Daily Grind"

2007-09-20T21:14:00.000-04:00

Ah, the jaw—she no longer throbs, and the hydrocodone is in the trash (sorry to all the dopes who asked if I’d sell it to ‘em). Though I’ve got some loose stitches dangling in the back of my mouth, I’m almost back to normal.

Like the somewhat recent brush with appendicitis, I hadn’t realized how much that tooth had been bothering me until it was gone. It’s kind of like a lame girlfriend. One minute you’re putting up with being assaulted with a pepper grinder, the next minute your breaking up with her and saying, “Holy criminy, why didn’t I do that earlier?!”

Anyway, I’m finally starting to settle into my “new” job, though I’ve been there for nearly two months now. Although I’ve accrued a decent amount of writing and editing experience prior to this gig, this new endeavor offers a lot of unique challenges for me. For starters, it’s much more corporate than anywhere I’ve worked before. Also, it’s not run by anti-establishment, counter-culture anarchists—which is a new thing for me. Plus, given that I've spent the last two years freelancing, transitioning back into a 9 to 5 thing is new in and of itself.

No more lazy days at the playground, or watching Cars with Connor for the zillionth time. I now have to report for duty at a certain time each day and depart at a preset time, as well. But, given that my round-trip commute is about five miles per day, going and coming doesn’t take long.

For my Atlanta people, consider this: I filled up my gas tank well over a month ago and have only put 150 miles on my car since. I have about half a tank left and it'll probably be close to Halloween before I have to refill. Suckers.

Also, I have to be much more of a record keeper now, which isn’t my strength, due to the overwhelming amount of details required to keep track of. Before this, if I couldn’t keep up with a deadline or appointment in my head… well, I have no example because that’s never happened. Outlook’s calendar function is now my best friend.

So far my co-workers are very cool, my bosses are laid back, and I can get home in less time than it probably takes you to go to the bathroom. What's not to like?

"My Stupid Mouth"

2007-09-12T18:33:00.000-04:00

Well, the source of the mysterious toothache has been solved—and readily removed.

After suffering through the throbbing ache that emanated from the region of my jaw nearest the joint on the right side of my skull for more than a week, curiously, the ache disappeared within a day or two. Knowing that this isn't normal, I finally made an appointment to see a local dentist. Everything I read convinced me that I had a tooth abscess, which can only be treated two ways—root canal or extraction. Given that we're awaiting my "real" insurance to kick in at work, I was worried that I would have to make the choice between saving my tooth and spending a small fortune (root canal) or saving some bucks (extraction).

Once I saw the x-rays, that immediately became a moot argument. "It's a very clear abscess, and it's very clearly an unsalvagable tooth," the dentist told me.

Somehow, despite having never had a cavity in my life, I had a rotten tooth stuck in my jaw. The x-ray was disturbing; the tooth was but a shell around a cavernous, hollowed-out core.

Within minutes, after signing the release forms, I had, in quick succession, three scary-large needles jammed in my jaw, numbing my face for the impending extraction process.

"How wong fould dish take?" I asked. "About 30 minutes, tops," the dental assistant replied, somehow understanding my mush-mouthed query.

An hour-and-a-half later it was all over. I'll spare the gory details, but there were multiple drills, pliers, bone files and an extra shot of anesthesia halfway through the ordeal involved. Apparently, I allowed the dentist to partake in what he seemed to think was the most difficult tooth extraction in history.

Once "we" were done, I was soaked in sweat and shivering, and I was as exhausted and tense as if I'd been hanging by my fingertips on the edge of a 100-story building for an hour-and-a-half. Once I paid the receptionist for the privilege of having someone demolish my mouth, I made the drive home, unable to feel anything above my neck, filled my prescription for hydrocodone at the drug store and collapsed on the couch at home with a mouthful of gauze, a head swimmingly full of nartcotics and a jaw with a gaping hole where a seemingly healthy tooth once made its home.

Thank God for modern medicine—and I can say that without a hint of sarcasm because, even just 20 years ago, this could have been soooooo much worse.

"The Flaming Lips"

2007-09-07T20:31:00.000-04:00

Be careful what you wish for...

For the past week, I've been enduring a disgustingly painful toothache. After a lifetime of no cavities, I'm afraid my luck has finally run out. Growing up, I visited the dentist regularly, every six months, but in the past six or seven years (the exact amount of time since I left the last job I held that offered decent insurance), dental exams and cleanings have occurred far less frequently.

Also, moving to a new town, I have no "primary" dentist nearby that I can call and have this mess straightened out. I tried to tough it out until my probationary period at my new job is complete and I can get back on a decent health/dental plan, but today I acknowledged that might not be a possibility—I'm petrified that this mouth rot is causing the scientific condition known as "stank bref," and being the new guy at work, nobody wants to be labeled as "the dude with a smelly mouth."

I've been downing Tylenol like Pez (even keeping two pills by the bed for the inevitable wake up jolt of pain around 3 a.m.), but I've been craving something else to mask the pain.

Tonight, I got my wish.

While clipping the bush in front of our townhome (which, despite the "complimentary" lawn service, we are required to maintain for some odd reason) I was stung on the lip by an outraged wasp, who apparently preferred the overgrown mess of a hedge to the neatly trimmed shrub I was attempting to sculpt.

I now feel like I have a marble lodged in my upper lip, and it's throbbing as if there were a miniscule dance club inside. I can't open my mouth very far without the fear of my lip splitting, and I have a nice headache to accompany my protruding lip.

But, hey, at least my tooth isn't bothering me anymore.

"Southern Kind Of Life"

2007-08-25T18:38:00.000-04:00

I have accepted it; we are never going to escape the South.

Despite having visited most every state in the country in my travels as a tourist, after living in five different Southern towns in my lifetime it's now painfully clear that I—and Stacey and Connor now, too—am fated to never leave the confines of the humidity-stained South.

Florida life, so far, is pretty good. The weather has been "cooler" here (read: not instant death-inducing HOT) than in each of our previous three hometowns, so that's been nice.

Just like our previous two homes (SC & Ala.), Florida is yet another state that I never thought I'd call home. Actually, on many occasions I've said, "I'll live just about anywhere except Florida." Whoops.

But, it could be bitterly cold, and I wouldn't really notice because I spend most of my day inside a climate-controlled office building. My office is on the third floor, and offers a view slightly above the tree canopy, which has been innately calming as I absorb the immense workload that this job promises to deliver. I have to wear long sleeves at work each day (tattoos), but as I mentioned the building is very climate-controlled.

Stacey has immediately fallen in love with her new role of staying home with Connor. It's almost like it's encoded on her DNA... As I type this, he's in timeout for standing on the dog's back. It's probably his 10th trip to the penalty box today, including several trips during our pool outing. Putting him in timeout isn't the problem—it's that he usually pees wherever we stick him that's been problematic.

Oh well; it's not my problem anymore.

The Audience Is Listening

2007-08-22T19:33:00.000-04:00

Guess who's back?

Wow, where to start? In the nearly three months since what I thought would be my last post, a lot has changed in our lives. We're now living in Central Florida, I'm working as an editor for a large communications conglomerate, and Stacey is now the one staying home with Connor.

My main reason for putting the blog to bed in May was that I didn't want to jeopardize any potential job opportunities—hoping that potential employers wouldn't discover the blog, or find it to be offensive if it was unearthed. Now that I've settled into my new job and gauged the level of stuffiness of said employer, I've decided it's safe to resume posting here.

So buckle up, buttercup. I'm back!

"We'll Meet Again"

2007-05-23T16:32:00.001-04:00

When I started this blog in August 2005, I foolishly attached my name to the URL. At the time, I was without a steady employer—"working" as a stay-at-home dad and moonlighting as a freelance writer—and didn't have to worry about stepping on anyone's or any company's toes. By making my real name (or is it?) part of the blog address, I stupidly put myself in a bad spot—one that I should have remedied long ago.

Incidentally, I never intended for anyone to discover this blog. My intention was to write in private, but Stacey didn't know this and sent the address out to a few family members and interest spread from there.

Now that I'm on the job hunt, I'm having to take steps to ensure that certain facets of my personal life don't interfere with potential employment opportunities. My MySpace page is now "friends only," the "Don't laugh mister, your daughter might be in here" bumper sticker is no longer affixed to my car, and the blog is now needing to be retired.

I've enjoyed writing here, but considering that I've written about topics such as abortion, immigration, at-home schooling and even taken one or two jabs at our government here and there, I think it's a safe bet that Corporate America might not take kindly to the half-baked musings of a guy who has spent the better part of the last two years knuckle deep in poop and Cheerios.

Plus there's, like, a lot of pictures of people vomiting.

So, goodbye for now, and thank you for reading. I may resurface again, so feel free to check this page every month or two. I'll be sure to leave a forwarding address.

"Immigrant Song"

2007-05-04T08:13:00.000-04:00

There seems to be no one more removed from society than the very people we elect to make our laws. In that light, I propose that we abolish the current concept of the politician as we know it, and instead allow stay-at-home dads everywhere (and maybe a mom, or two) to start making the laws. If such a measure were adopted, there'd be fewer wars, more sharing and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for everyone.

I'm not interested in stirring up a political discourse in this space, and I'm not looking to change anyone's mind, but any politician with a firm stance on removing all the "illegals" from our country would be well served to spend some time at a playground with their kids, instead of spending all day glad-handing, kissing babies and accepting bribes in the name of America's best interests.

A large piece of the anti-immigration argument that keeps surfacing is that these people who are coming to our country unchecked are refusing to assimilate into "our" culture—although I wouldn't exactly mind if the next generation of Americans wasn't made up of gun-happy, overweight, uninspired zealots who are much to quick to anger or resort to violence as a first-option to a dispute.

Spend five minutes on a playground, and you'll quickly realized that this argument is as ridiculous as Phil Spector's haircut.

On the playground, I'm often frustrated that I can't communicate with the adults who—despite probably living here for decades—have yet to learn a word of English. I'm often greeted with a blank stare when I ask a parent if they wouldn't mind asking their child(ren) to stop pushing my kid or stealing his shovel.

But, when I express the same sentiment to their kids, more often than not, the kids respond with perfect English—although they usually keep on pushing and stealing... damn immigrants. Most of these children were born here and they are quickly mastering a language and culture that their parents have refused to accept.

I'd wager that any schoolteacher would be able to tell the same story.

I'm not saying that you need to re-evaluate your stance if you're a strict believer in stronger anti-immigration policies in the U.S.—I've obviously and intentionally overlooked the bulk of this issue—but if your sole point of contention with immigrants is that "those people" aren't assimilating, give it about ten years. You'll see; The kids of today's immigrants will soon be just as fat, lazy and trigger-happy as the rest of America.

"The World is Full of Crashing Bores"

2007-04-29T17:54:00.000-04:00

Through the course of each day, we are faced with endless decisions—most of which we barely even register.

What should I eat breakfast? What time should I leave for work? (Ha ha, suckers, I don't have that problem, yet) Should I go to bed now or pay the price for staying up late tomorrow? Should I really wash my hands after changing that last dirty diaper?

Since becoming a parent, I've become hyper-sensitive to the multitude of bad decisions that are made every second of every day. From poor eating habits (of which I'm certainly guilty) to horrid fashion choices (again, guilty), I've decided that the worst offenders are people who make poor choices while behind the wheel of their cars.

I have been cut off, and nearly rear-ended/T-boned/head-on'd more times than I care to remember, and, as a result, my car's horn gets used more often than a rape whistle at a frat party.

Seriously, do any of you know how to drive?

Last week, while Connor and I were at a nearby playground, a woman sped into the parking lot, with her music blaring. Once she "parked" (which more resembled a slide into home plate) five kids poured out of her smallish sedan. Let's do the math on this really quick: One compact car=no more than five seatbelts, tops. Even IF she had carseats for these kids, which she DIDN'T, she couldn't have fit them into her car. On top of piling five kids into an already space-challenged backseat, she DECIDED to drive like she was recreating the chase scene from Bullitt. I talked myself out of calling tha fuzz, assuming that she lived across the street from the park and ran a small day care out of her home and had no other means of getting an ornerous bunch of hellions to the park. I think I may have also imagined that she had a limited income and that she was dying of cancer.

Today, I was "cussed out" by an older, heavy-set man with swatches of gray hair at his temples, behind the wheel of his mid-life-crisis convertible because I wasn't driving at a satisfactory speed, which forced him to cut me off rather than simply merge behind me, as I was the only other car on the road.

"YOU SPED UP, YOU PECKERHEAD!!!" he hollered at me when we stopped next to each other at a subsequent traffic light. "SO DID YOU, ASSHOLE!!!" I replied, laughing at his rage, later glad that Connor wasn't in the backseat to witness my total failure as a role model.
"STAY THE F— OUT OF THE WAY!!!" he yelled back, and sped off.

I'd also like to mention that, several weeks ago, I was given a healthy dose of "the bird" by a driver who felt I'd wronged him—a driver who, I should mention, had a very large and prominently displayed Chrstian bumper sticker on his car.

So, just slow down. You'll get there eventually. Besides, damn near none of you know how to be on time anyway, (ah, another post for another day) so I really don't understand what all the rush is about.

...The soapbox is now closed.

"Question The Answer"

2007-04-13T13:37:00.000-04:00

A fellow blogger "tagged" me a few weeks ago with a pop quiz of sorts, and I've been putting off doing it ever since. In my defense, I've been furiously Craigslisting some of my extra guitar gear, and I managed to scrape enough together to buy a decent tube amp and have been spending a bit too much time playing my guitar in the evenings.

So, after much delay, here are my answers to the three most crucial issues in the entire world (yeah, us stay-at-home dads tackle some world-changing stuff):

1) What was your biggest surprise when you became a parent?

At no point during the official discussions concerning pregnancy did I ever assume that I'd be the one staying at home "raising" the offspring instead of being out in the working world and bringing home the bacon (bits)—nor was it ever discussed as a posibility. Unexpected though it was, I have enjoyed my now-numbered days of lounging around the house, playground-hopping and swapping rump roast recipes with the neighborhood gals (hey-ohhhh!!).

2) Name some things you vowed you'd never do, but find yourself doing now.

I didn't exactly take a "vow," per se, but I somehow convinced myself that I wouldn't have to change dirty diapers—ever. I vaguely recall Stacey including this perk in her pitch to get pregnant, and, like a sucker, I fell for it. I did manage to abstain from changing the brown trout-filled diapers until Connor was eating solid food. But, in hindsight, it would have been immeasurably smarter to have started changing the diapers when they didn't smell like a turd covered in burnt hair—if I may steal a line from Anchorman.

3) What's the one thing you thought you would do, but actually don't?

Does "be financially stable" count? I never would have imagined, after Stacey's thoroughly researched PowerPoint presentation on why we should get pregnant, that we'd still be in financial and professional transition nearly four years (come August) after this process first started. After grad school, internship and post-doc fellowship, we might finally be moving toward stability, but by now, I've quit thinking too much about it. My goal now is to be able to afford to send Connor to high school—maybe.

"Take The Night Off"

2007-04-01T21:01:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the prolonged absence. As of late, things have been quite busy 'round here thanks to the child-raising-and-whatnot, the freelancing and the extensive copy editing for a certain magazine staff that was partying in Austin at South By Southwest soaking up Booker T & The MGs, X Clan, Turbonegro, Mastodon, mc chris, Kenna, and Amy Winehouse leaving me to pull their weight back here at home.

Anyway, there have been a few new developments in our world in the last week-and-a-half. We have learned through a third party source that Connor's teachers think that he's the most consistently pleasant child in his class. But, we were also told, his poops are, by far, consistently the least pleasant. I'm not quite sure what we're going to do with that information—it's just nice to know that we're not being lightweights when we dry heave while changing his dirties.

Also, we've learned, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Connor most definitely has his mother's strong will—it's a will with more resolve than that of a cobra who refuses to let go of his prey, even when his head is cut off.

Last night, when Stacey put Connor to bed, I witnessed a test of wills that left me in awe and a little frightened of the two people who outnumber me in our three-person family. Instead of falling asleep fairly quickly, as he normally does, Connor got out of bed at least 75 times (I actually believe the final tally to be closer to 100 trips out of bed), and Stacey was charged with returning him to bed each time. I offered to step in for her, but she was fully aware that she and Connor were locked in a war—a war that she had to win.

The first 20 or so trips out, he simply whined and cried. Next, he begged for her to snuggle with him. When that didn't work, he said that he needed to "krow up in the sink." When that didn't work, he said that he needed to "krow up in the toi-wet." Next, he said his butt was itchy and that he had a bug in his diaper. Then he returned to the "krow up" ploy. He followed that up with a full-on temper tantrum, collapsing onto the floor. He, of course, threw in the "I want my Daddy," occasionally, just to make Stacey feel bad.

Finally, nearly TWO hours later, a completely exhausted Connor finally gave up and stayed in bed. No more than 30 seconds later, he was out cold. Neither Stacey nor I exhaled for at least five minutes, until we were certain that this torturous exercise was through. 20 minutes later, Stacey bravely entered Connor's room to cover him up. I partly expected her to smother him with a pillow out of frustration, but in anti-climatic fashion, she was in and out in less than ten seconds and Connor was none the wiser—and still alive.

It makes perfect sense that his school teachers think he's a very pleasant child—they've never had to put him to bed.

"Another Brick In The Wall"

2007-03-21T11:00:00.000-04:00

When I pick Connor up from 'school,' on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I make sure to ask one of his two teachers, "Did Connor keep his hands to himself today?"

Lately, the answer has been a consistent "yes," but last Thursday, Miss J. told me, "Connor did have trouble keeping his hands to himself today. He was hitting some of the other kids, and he had trouble sharing. He also walked right up to [one of the other kids] and kissed him on the lips."

...uhhh, which of these three items doesn't belong in that sentence?!

After informing me of Connor's misbehavior, I was also reminded by Miss J. of our pre-scheduled parent-teacher conference the following Tuesday (yesterday). Obviously, given the most recent news from the front, I wasn't expecting great things.

Stacey took the morning off of work and we both went to hear about our child's performance from the first two non-family members/close friends to ever spend any extensive amount of time with Connor without having us around. Growing up, my parents (and Stacey's, too) were called in plenty of times for impromptu parent-teacher conferences, so it was nice to finally be on the other side of the fence—not worrying about what my horrid, unspeakably mean and cruel teachers were saying behing my back, and not worrying about what my parents were going to take away from me as punishment. (During one particularly bad year, pretty much the only thing I had left after all the punishment was doled out was the "privelege" of going to school.)

The summary of our 15-minute conference is quite simple, and completely unsurprising for anyone that knows this kid; Connor is very smart, but can't sit still. He's mastered pretty much every task the teachers set before him—and those that he has yet to conquer all require sitting in one place for more than ten seconds.

Oh, I already knew he was a clever lad. On the trip home from "school" last week after being told that he was hitting, I told him he couldn't get a treat out of the awesomely named "treat bag"—which we keep full of dollar-store junk, to motivate him toward pacifisim. "But I DIDN'T hit anyone," he pleaded with me. After two minutes of this, realizing that he was getting nowhere, he said, "Daddy, I hit the other kids. -pause- Can I have a treat now?"

"Take This Job And Shove It"

2007-03-12T14:54:00.000-04:00

After a year-and-a-half of jockeying for the position of non-wage-earning-parent who gets to stay home and hang out all day while listening to King Crimson and eating pizza, Stacey and I have decided (I was tricked, dammit!) that I will seek gainful full-time employment upon the termination of her post-doctoral position this summer.

Translation: Since I lack the internal mechanisms required for child-birth, I'm going back to work.

Stacey is worried that I'll procrastinate until the last possible moment to begin the job hunt, but I've got a rock-solid plan; Since a good many people read this blog (I know so because of the constant reminders I get when too much time has elapsed between updates, and because of the countless random strangers that have approached me at, say, Target expressing their surprise that I'm not at Wal-Mart instead.) I am banking on one—or several—of YOU to find me a job instead. Sounds like a plan, right? Besides, I've been giving and giving for free here, and have asked for little in return... except for the iPhone that I'm SURE will be arriving in my mailbox the day it's released to the public, hmmm?

You probably want to know what I'm looking for. Here's my ideal job, after staying home with Connor, of course:

1. In my professional career, I've held jobs in the fields of fast food, the custodial arts (that's a ten-cent word for 'janitor'), construction, landscape, soul-sucking corporate office, and editorial/journalism. Hmmm. Which of these industries would you prefer? I dunno 'bout yous, but I like writering and stuff. I be goods at it.

2. Of course, I will require at least a low four-figure salary. I almost typed "four-digit." That's pretty much what Stacey and I are both bringing home now.

4. No jobs that require a working knowledge of math. For that matter, I want nothing to do with a job that requires acknowledging that math even exists.

5. NO NEWSPAPERS! I have probably written more words in this blog that I will ever utter aloud in my entire life. I'm an introvert with OCD. I'm not exactly what you'd call a 'people' person. Newspaper reporters have to, like, talk to people—a lot. Sheesh.

I think that's pretty much it. I need YOU to find ME a writing-related job that pays really well , and that doesn't involve math or personal interaction. Oh yeah, that should be a breeze.

"Stinkfist"

2007-03-06T15:33:00.000-05:00

Okay. Enough with the texts, e-mails, phone calls and carrier pigeons. I'll write something...

The sickness that has permeated this house has finally subsided. Except for one of the dogs—who is laid up from knee surgery—everybody 'round these parts is relatively healthy. Connor is on his last day of heavy-duty antibiotics, while the rest of our immune systems have been fending for themselves—quite poorly, I might add. At least I never got diahrrea.

After picking up Connor at school today, we stopped by the vet for more pain medicine for the gimp dog and then ran by the almighty Wal-Mart for a loaf of bread and a 50 cent squirt bottle to be filled with water so I don't have to drag Connor over to the sink every morning to rid him of his perpetually bad bed-head.

On our way out of the store, Connor was riding on my shoulders. He kept putting his fingers by my mouth, so I acted like I was going to eat them whenver they got close. Connor was getting a huge kick out of it, and quickly figured out an ingenious way to keep his hands far out of reach. He kept telling me, "My hands are back here now. You can't get them, Daddy."

I figured they were behind his back, but when I saw our reflection in my car's windows I realized he had both hands jammed down the back of his diaper. When I was putting him in his carseat moments later, he smooshed his fingers in my face, laughing hysterically. I don't think he quite put it together that what he was doing was gross, but he got a kick out of it nonetheless. I didn't want his hands anywhere near me and he seemed to key in on that and capitalize while I was preoccupied.

I think we'd all be a lot healthier in this house if, instead of shaking hands with people when'st out and about, we walked around with our hands jammed down our pants.

Looks like it's catching on already...

"I Think I Smell A Rat"

2007-02-21T13:35:00.000-05:00

So far, Connor's stomach bug has yet to spread itself throughout the family, but that's not to say that there haven't been repercussions.

On Monday, Connor woke up acting like his normal, hyper self. Convinced that the bug had worked its way through its system, I took him to the local mall to run around and burn off some energy. I reasoned that it was still too cold out for his still-recovering immune system, and thus, we spent the morning indoors. In hindsight, though, I would have appreciated the extra, outdoor air for dissipatory purposes.

Again, as I mentioned previously, this virus has given Connor otherworldly powers with respect to his gassious emanations—it's completely wretched, I tell you.

While making good use of the Thomas the Tank Engine train table in Barnes & Noble, Connor let rip the most foul odor I have ever experienced. Sensing that either, a.) Our welcome was about to expire, or b.) Anyone within a thousand feet would think the odor was mine, we made a hasty exit. I'm sure the establishment's patrons, from front to back, all got much more than they bargained for during an otherwise banal morning of quiet bookstore-perusing. I probably should have offered to pay for the books that were ruined...

Aside from the gas, though, the bug seemed to have abated. But, yesterday morning, the vomit and diarrhea were back with a vengeance. We spent the day watching movies, eating crackers and drinking water and practically bathing in antibacterial soap.

Today, though, our little stink bug woke up just as he did on Monday—virtually symptom-free aside from a vicious poot or two. Given this disturbing pattern, I'm deathly afraid of what's coming tomorrow. The vomit?! The diarrhea?!? OH, THE HORROR!!!

More importantly, though, I'm more consumed with my own immune system's defenses. How much longer can I really be expected to hold out?!

"The Race Is On"

2007-02-18T16:08:00.000-05:00

Connor woke up at 5:30 this morning spewing bile. His burps smell like ass, his gas smells worse than a decomposed body and he's acting as if nothing is wrong. Oh, something is wrong all right. We just aren't sure what it is yet.

So, the questions of the day are as follows:
1. What the hell does he have, and...2. when will we get it?

The countdown is on. I'm not looking forward to its conclusion.

Also, Connor fell and chipped a tooth today. It was a baby tooth (obviously) so it didn't really hurt much, but he's continuously running his tongue over the newly jagged incisor.

All this and the day isn't over yet...

"From Out Of Nowhere"

2007-02-11T09:31:00.000-05:00

My quest for all the free orange juice I can drink has been completed. I've been grappling with how to obtain a bottomless supply of my citrus juice of choice, and stumbled upon this foolproof plan: have my appendix removed.

It's so simple, yet so brilliant...

Around noon on Thursday, my insides began to constrict, as if some thuggish hitman had his hands inside my abdomen and was squeezing my innards. Over the course of the day, it slowly got worse and at about 5 a.m. Friday, Stacey convinced me to go to the hospital. For the record, I thought I just had stomach cramps that would eventually dissipate. What I didn't know was that my stomach was located closer to my sternum, and not near my right hip bone—the location of my pain. Also, every hospital employee who heard me admit that I didn't know where my stomach was had a nice laugh at my expense.

"You poor, dumb man."

Several hours later, I was lying unconscious on an operating table, my gut filled with gas and an effecient former army surgeon removing the inflamed organ that my body would never need anyway.

Barely 24 hours later, I was back home, three bandages on my lower torso, and plenty sore. The process wasn't all that bad—about as uncomfortable as watching a Brendan Fraser movie... well, maybe not that bad. (Monkeybone? Dudley Do-Right? George of the Jungle?!) But, according to my plan, I had more than my fill of orange juice and crackers. I am a genius!

Today, I can remove the increasingly nasty gauze that's covering the bandages and, more importantly, I can shower. I don't think I smell all that bad, but I'm sure other occupants of this house might beg to differ.

"My Brain Hurts"

2007-01-29T20:04:00.000-05:00

When I was six or seven years old, I earned myself a pretty decent concussion. I was swinging back and forth between two propped open doors, and my reverse momentum was apparently unequal to the gravitational forces underneath me. My hands slipped off of the door handles and I smacked my forehead on the concrete floor, thus rendering me wobbly and blind for about two days. After what seemed like an eternity of staring at a huge black circle that enveloped 95 percent of my field of vision, my sight eventually returned to normal.

If anyone ever asks if I was dropped on my head as a child, though, from then on I had to answer affirmatively.

The doctor called it a "mild" concussion, and I've spent the years since trying to prevent my head from ever hitting the concrete at terminal velocity again. Today I found out there's virtually no difference between concrete and drywall with respect to head injuries.

When our previously mentioned door alarm sounded at 6 a.m. today—meaning that Connor's internal clock is about as stable as a bag of popcorn in the microwave—I was in an incredibly deep sleep. I'm talkin' could've-been-sleeping-in-my-own-poop-and-wouldn't-have-known deep. For some reason, though, the alarm woke me up instantly. I jumped out of bed and attempted to throw my pants while simultaneously bolting out of the room.

THUD.

I ran forehead-first into the wall by the bed, and crumpled to the floor as if I'd just, well, run into a wall. I would say that I misjudged the distance to the hallway but that would imply that there was some thought behind this. Keep in mind, also, that this entire scene unfolded before the three-second door alarm was even through chiming. I slowly made my way out into the hall and saw that Stacey—who was getting ready for work—was tending to Connor. Groggily, I made my way back to bed. After all, this is the same guy who went right back to sleep, bloody sheets and all, after I broke my nose in my sleep when I was 15 (a stereo fell off of my headboard and onto my face... don't ask).

I still feel like there's a railroad spike poking through my cerebral cortex, and my eyes are jiggling like Dolly Parton on a see-saw, but I'm slowly returning to normal—relatively speaking, of course. I have a nice acorn-sized lump on my forehead that will probably turn purple in a day or two. But, since I don't have a 'real' job right now, I don't really care.

Of course, I may try and be more careful tomorrow.

"Free Speech For The Dumb"

2007-01-25T15:24:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: If you haven't read the previous post, skip this one until you've read it.
----

Conventional wisdom holds that the one to scream the loudest will be the first to fall. Remember yesterday's post? I believe I was bragging about how we'd finally conquered Connor's multiple escape attempts from his bedroom...

D'oh!

The very next morning, our soon-to-be cat burglar somehow managed to break out of his room without alerting me. The most likely possibility is that I somehow slept through the doorbell-like alarm, although I'm still not convinced that some technical glitch prevented the alarm from sounding. The only way out of his room that doesn't involve a child-proofed or alarm-enabled door would be through either the skylight or the airvent. At any rate, I think I'm going to hide the Batman comic books for awhile.

At any rate, at about 8 a.m., I received a phone call from Stacey (who was on her way to work) asking me where Connor was, because she had just gotten a phone call from her mom asking where I was, because Connor was downstairs banging on her door. Still following me?

Apparently, he snuck past our bedroom door, went downstairs and closed Grammy's bedroom door, so as not to get caught, and proceeded to pour salt all over the kitchen, den and foyer. I'm still a bit perplexed as to how he managed to get so much salt from one shaker. When he was satisfied with his many masterpieces, he banged on Grammy's door until she got out of bed.

It could have been infinitely worse, though; he could have attempted to wash the floor with spaghetti sauce—like his mother did as a child.

Anyway, in light of my overt bragging, I've learned my lesson... from now on, we're chaining him to the bed and dosing him with sleeping pills.

"Ring The Alarm"

2007-01-23T10:25:00.000-05:00

The eagle has landed. The chicken is out of the pot. The vulture flies at midnight...

Okay, I'll come out and say it... Keeping Connor in his bed until a reasonable hour of the morning (read: NOT 5 a.m.) has become more difficult than trying to arm wrestle a steel beam.

In mid-November, Connor finally figured out how to escape his crib. It's one of the only milestones he's achieved behind schedule, and we feel quite fortunate to have kept him in bondage for as long as we did. If we could just get him to poop in the toilet, we'd be in business.

For the first week of his newfound freedom—or, life in a "big-boy bed"—he stayed put all night, but he soon figured out that he was in charge of when he got out of bed. 11:30, 1 a.m., 5 a.m.; it didn't matter to him. At first it proved most difficult just to get him to go to sleep. Once we mastered the intimidation necessary to keep him in bed at bedtime, he began to get up in the middle of the night. Even a particularly frightening barrage by the three dogs thinking that he was an intruder one night at about 3 a.m. didn't stop him from attempting nightly escapes on random occasions. But, we eventually managed to put a stop to that behavior as well. Soon, though, he began attempting to get up at insane hours of the morning. Seriously, I didn't even know that 4:30 a.m. existed until just recently.

The main problem is that Connor's bedroom is on the opposite side of the house as ours, and he is sneakier than a two-and-a-half-year-old boy, which makes sense, huh? He's so quiet in his exit that we never hear a sound on the baby monitor. Something had to give.

So, rather than locking him in his room—which Stacey responded to by throwing everything she owned out the window when she was a kid—we've installed an alarm on his bedroom door to alert us to his escape attemts. At least once a night/morning/nap, we're greeted with a cacophonous BINGBONGBINGBONG from our portable receiver that now gets toted around with the now-useless baby monitor.

So far, the system is working perfectly. In the one week since its implementation, Connor's escapes have been stifled at every turn. There have been no further instances of him appearing at his grandparents' bedside, Windex bottle in one hand, Windex-soaked stuffed animal in the other hand, saying, "My Daddy is asleep upstairs and I did a pooper!"

"Go With The Flow"

2007-01-09T15:42:00.000-05:00

I've been given a fair amount of grief over the past two weeks for neglecting to post here. Actually, any time there's more than a six-hour lapse between entries, I get a passive-aggressive e-mail or two, informing me that I "need" to update my blog more often.

In light of such requests, if you will all kindly pool your funds and secure me a new iPhone, I promise to pay more attention to this oft-neglected space.

Seems a reasonable enough offer to enough to me.

Until said technological innovation is in my hands, however, do not expect much in the way of updates. You NEED me, dammit!

But, to tide you over until then, I'll share a little nugget of wisdom Connor shared with me today.

On our way home from school, Connor seemed quite preoccupied with the clouds, as they were nearer to the ground than usual, fluffier than the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, and whiter than my Western European-inherited legs.

Noticing his obvious interest, I started trying to explain that the clouds were filling up with rain, and that when they were full, the rain would begin to fall. I dumbed the lecture down for him, and he seemed geniunely interested, but when I concluded he offered just one statement in reply.

"I just tooted, Daddy."

That's my boy.

"Sweet Child O' Mine"

2006-12-20T22:56:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite comedians, David Cross, has a joke about pathetic and boring his friends who have recently had kids for the first time have become, especially when talking about their kids.

"Oh, David, you should have seen him; he was great; he's such a funny little guy. We just... yesterday, yesterday, yesterday... he was staring at this grape!"

It's so true, but it's also a perfect indicator of the divide between those of us who have kids and those of us who don't. Before Connor came along, I could probably count on one finger the things in my life that I couldn't walk away from at a moment's notice if I absolutely had to—boy that should fuel some speculation, huh?

Now, I can't get more than ten feet away from this skinny, pink stick of a kid with permanent bed-head before I start to miss him—though I've gotten the violent muscle spasms and obnoxious cursing somewhat under control now. Everything Stacey and I see when we're away from him, we either think about how much our boy would like to see it, or how much it reminds us of him. It doesn't matter if it's a mud puddle, a discarded work boot or a homeless war vet amputee—we see Connor in everything.

Occasionally, in the middle of all the joy, there are times of concern—like today when Connor was diagnosed with a case of bronchitis or last year's hospitalization for Rotavirus, or the continual parade of cuts, bruises and other minor maladies. Stacey is constantly consumed with morbid thoughts of things that could possibly happen to Connor, and I must confess that I am, too. Shows like Law & Order are now nearly off limits as they always seem to deal with hurt/endangered/molested/kidnapped/murdered children. I just don't have the gut for that anymore.

Anyone similarly turned off by these topics would do well to avoid the movie Freedomland, though I am immensely glad I sacked up and sat through it, even if it did deal with the uncomfortable topics of violence, absentee parents and children caught in the middle.

When the movie was over, I wanted to wake Connor up and hold him 'til dawn—and never let him out of my sight from then until my last breath, although it might look odd, in 50 years, for an old man to be holding a full grown dude on his lap.

Though I already knew it, Freedomland reminded me why being a parent is one of the most gut-wrenchingly painful and rewarding endeavors that a human can undertake. We love our children, and we want to protect them, but we can't always be there for them—despite our best efforts to shield them from every danger the world has to offer.

Today, I found out that the remains of a little girl who was abducted from the bus stop just a hundred yards from our house in Alabama several years ago were found in the crawlspace of an abandoned house in a nearby town earlier this week.

While I certainly don't need help appreciating Connor, stories such as this one (or this blog) or even ephemeral entertainment fare like Freedomland remind me that my time with him is limited, in the grand scheme of things. All I can do is love him and try to be the best role model I can... stop snickering... I said "try."

I initially wanted this post to be a convincing argument for the benefits of having children, though I'm sure that never came across. All I can say is this: I wouldn't trade my son for anything in the world. If you think you might be inclinded to swap your own flesh and blood for, say, a PlayStation3 or a dose of Crystal Meth, parenthood might not be for you. Otherwise, join the party. I need someone new to talk dirty diapers with.

"Long Way Back From Hell"

2006-12-17T21:24:00.000-05:00

He's baaaaaaaack!

You'd think I learned my lesson fifteen years ago ... at least that's what my mama says.

After countless broken bones, cuts, gashes, sprains and Godknowswhatelse inflicted upon my body in the name of skateboarding, maybe I should have figured out that pads and a helmet aren't the enemy long before now. In light of recent events, though, I've invested in some wrist guards and a decent helmet (with elbow and knee pads likely to follow shortly), because if I get mangled, I can't write. If I can't write, I can't earn. If I can't earn ... seein' a pattern yet?

Two weeks after spraining my wrist (and with a soft cast on), I made a trip to the same skatepark that so generously gave me a sprained wrist to show that concrete beast that I wasn't afraid of it. After being there for exactly two seconds, I slammed again, removing a healthy (healthy?) portion of skin from one elbow, two knees. Oh, and I'm also sporting a nice "hipper."

I'm not fifteen anymore. My body doesn't instantly heal itself, and I suppose it's time I accepted that fact. Besides, Connor WILL wear a helmet if he starts skating in the next few years, so I might as well get used to wearing one now. ("Why doesn't daddy have to protect HIS brain?")

Today at the 'park, a full-time touring musician was sessioning with us, sans pads, and I couldn't help but think, 'If you slam hard, your band is screwed. DUDE, put some pads on.'

Great, I've turned into my mother.

"Hand of Doom"

2006-11-29T15:25:00.000-05:00

The results are in: my right hand and/or wrist are not broken, just seriously sprained and reeeeeeeeeallllllly sore and swollen.

After thwaking my right limb pretty good on the concrete at a local skatepark on Sunday, my wrist slowly inflated throughout the day, until it was almost jiggling by bedtime. Unable to move it on Monday morning, I visited the doctor to have it X-rayed.

For the next three weeks, I have to wear a soft cast. Since I manage to earn a couple of bucks a month as a writer, this is seriously impeding my progress. (This entry took nine hours to compose, by the way, typing with just my tongue.)

But there is some good news in all this: since we have good insurance this year, I spent a grand total of $15 on this little malady.

"The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret"

2006-11-22T15:37:00.000-05:00

Oh, the shame, it engulfs me. Where, you might be asking yourself, have I been? I'm asking myself the same question.

After the events of last week, I think I've thrown in the towel. I'm a parent now... might as well accept my fate. Instead of joining my friends in going to see Converge—a band that has long been a favorite of mine—I went to see, gulp, The Wiggles. I traded in loud guitars for kiddie stars, and the sad thing is that I didn't really mind. I've just been delaying writing about it.

Instead of this:

I was hangin' with these dudes:

Should I mention that I spent my entire Saturday at a five-hour financial lecture across town? Need to borrow some self-loathing? I've got plenty to spare right about now.

"My Stupid Mouth"

2006-11-06T21:47:00.000-05:00

Overheard whilst taking Connor trick-or-treating last Tuesday on Halloween.

Man: Wow. Superman! Would you like some candy?
Connor: -says nothing-
Man: Well... Happy Halloween.
Connor: -says nothing, and walks away, grabbing his mom's hand, looking nervously at the stranger who just gave him free candy despite our warnings to the contrary the other 364 days of the year-

As Connor is walking away, three pre-teen girls hustle to the still-open door to take advantage of the still-open door and previously mentioned candy supply.

Man: Happy Halloween. You girls look great. Come on in... (insert uncomfortable pause) uh, well you'd better not... (yet another awkward hesitation) my wife probably wouldn't appreciate that... (more silence) I'll just shut up now.

I think we'll be skipping this house next year.

"An Uncomfortable Routine"

2006-10-31T11:33:00.000-05:00

...must resist urge to write about being sick AGAIN!!

Ah, screw it. This past weekend, Stacey and I were told that we were really "selling parenting" by one of our non-child-having friends. If he could see me now, he might change his tune.

It seems, that for the 473rd time this year, I'm sick, and I'm pretty sure that my son—the harbinger of germtastic nastiness himself—is somehow to blame. I woke up yesterday with a sore throat, knowing that I'd been infected yet again. Today, I'm achy, I've got chills and I'm dizzy, in addition to the increasingly sore throat. If I wrote an entry here every time Connor has gotten me sick in the last year-and-then-some, the sheer volume of posts would probably bring Blogger to its knees.

By now, though, I've been through this enough to know to respond to each different type of virus that manages to overwhelm my weak-ass immune system—which appears to be having about the same success rate at supressing uprisings as American troops in Iraq. Thankfully, this particular bout of sickness isn't that bad. Tomorrow morning, I suspect I'll wake up feeling much better, ready to take out my frustration on Connor for getting me sick in the first place. Next week, we'll probably repeat the process all over again, and again, and again...

"Big Pimpin'"

2006-10-21T12:26:00.000-04:00

In mafia terminology, I might be called an "earner."

Sure, I'm not exactly brining home fat stacks of hundred-dollar-bills every day (or wearing an ill-fitting tracksuit) but with all the separate 'jobs' I've got going on these days, coming up with an accurate description of my current line of work is getting tougher by the day—much like an actual mobster. ("I'm in, uh, construction.")

My gig as a stay-at-home dad was rudely interrupted when we moved back to civilization in August. I only get one day a week with Connor all to myself, and the rest of the time I'm either working on one of several different freelance jobs, pimping myself out as a copy editor, periodically working a day at my old job in a warehouse, or doing odd jobs for additional cash. I've got checks coming in from more places than Bank of America.

Perhaps this flurry of activity explains my absence from this space of late. Perhaps my lack of posts can be better explained by a particularly frustrating recent freelance job—in which I was required to write a 1200-word article based larely on an interview with a source at the IRS who gave quotes that would have been more useful if they were in Mandarian.

In any case, don't worry... it's not you, it's me—I don't like you.

"Life By The Drop"

2006-10-05T15:51:00.000-04:00

I got a telephone call today that left me feeling as if I'd been kicked in the stomach, when I was informed that the media company for whom I had worked before leaving to be a stay-at-home dad nearly a year-and-a-half ago was closing its doors for good.

Sure, this piece of news was about as surprising as hearing that Bill cheated on Hilary, but that didn't cause it to sting any less. This was a company that had never, during its eight year existence, operated very far above the break-even line. But still, I'm depressed. It feels like a childhood haunt that had been elevated into near mythical proportions has just been razed. A chunk of my life now vanished.

It wasn't just that this was the company that took a huge chance on me, fresh out of college — with zero experience, I might add; It wasn't that this was a job that I loved more than any I'd held before or since; It wasn't that the people employed by this company were some of the most loyal folks on the planet (sometimes delaying payment for services rendered in lieu of the satisfaction that could be had in doing a job extremely well and filling a niche in a community aching for some culture); It wasn't the freedom to shape the magazines I edited into whatever (within reason) I wanted; It wasn't that this job left me better than it found me and prepared me for life better than my college education ever could; It was all of these things, and more.

So, to Will, Lisa, and Brooks (and all of the unbelievably talented and creative people I worked with over the years): thank you, from the bottomest bottom of my heart.

"Who Needs Pictures?"

2006-09-30T20:10:00.000-04:00

This week was picture week at Connor's school. I was informed about the pictures, but, judging by the sudden abundance of sailor outfits, pastels and suspender-shorts (with white socks and loafers), I apparently missed the memo that advised parents to dress their children to look as if they belonged on one of those Anne Geddes greeting cards.

At Connor's school, there is a drop-off policy called "carpool," in which the parents pull up to the front door in the morning, and their kids are pulled out of the car by a school staff member, (maybe the correct term is "car-pull"?) which allowed me an up-close look at many of the other kids' horrid outfits. By now, most of the kids are accustomed to the process of being yanked out of the car by a stranger, but Connor is still having a tough time with it. On Tuesday, as he was crying, snot running down his chin and begging to go back home, a horribly dressed child hopped out of the car, of his own volition, next to us. As Connor kicked and screamed, I wasn't sure who I felt worse for: Connor, with his eyes full of tears and arms reaching out for me, or the boy next to us, with a green jumpsuit on and a lace-lined collar.

"Welcome To The Working Week"

2006-09-24T19:59:00.000-04:00

I have spent the last year-and-then-some doing my best to convice Stacey (and myself) that I was unfit to work outside the home. I had a good thing going at the house with Connor. Why screw it up?

But, somewhere along the way, I exposed myself — not literally... well, yeah, literally, but I've since paid my debt to society for that offense.

Anyway, due in no small part to this blog, and my continued efforts to secure freelance writing work, Stacey has surmised that I am, in fact, capable of doing more than providing mediocre child care for our son.

Are you happy now, all you bloodthirsty, ravenous-for-a-new-update zealots?!

Plus, in my efforts to dissuade Stacey from sending me back out into the adult world, job application in hand, I convinced myself that I never wanted to work again. I left a job that I absolutely loved (as a managing editor for two monthly publications) for a job I instantly loved even more (raising my son). It seemed like finding another job I liked equally — or could even tolerare — was an impossiblity.

Turns out, I was wrong.

I've somehow weasled my way into a limited role at a large monthly music magazine as a part-time, deadline copy editor. The work is non-demanding — copy-editing, proofreading, fact checking — but it's fulfilling in a way that raising a child can never be. I'd certainly still prefer to be at home with Connor full-time, but if the alternative is a job that I enjoy as much as this one, well, that's an alternative I think I can live with.

"Learning to Fly"

2006-09-12T16:36:00.000-04:00

As of one week ago today, Connor is attending school twice a week, four hours a day. Since this is basically his first experience being left with anyone but family, I'm not sure who had a more difficult time adjusting — Connor or his mom.

Here is the up-to-the-minute update of how Connor and Stacey are handling this new adventure thus far.

Open House: Stacey took the day off, and we both took Connor for an open play day in his classroom. Seeing the classroom gave me shudders — reminding me how much I despised school, and also reminding me of how long a journey Connor has before he's done. Sorry, kid.
He played well with the other kids, but freaked out when he wasn't ready to stop playing with a particular toy. Rather than make a scene and upset the other kids, we left...after making a scene and upsetting a few kids.

Day #1: Many parents of other first-timers like Connor stuck around after dropping off their kids to see how the wee ones fared without their parents at their sides. After 10 minutes, nearly every parent was gone, but I was there to stay, given very specific instructions by Stacey to not even step out to use the restroom. So, I camped out with my laptop, video iPod and a magazine, and hunkered down for the long haul. One hour after dropping him off, Connor melted down and I had to take him home.

"He's a sympathetic cryer," the program's director told me, as if this was an issue I was supposed to have resolved previously.

Day #2: We'd been 'talking up' going back to school and Connor seemed a bit more ready to go, though he still cried when I dropped him off. I prepared to camp out again, but after 30 minutes, the program director informed me that he was playing with other kids and wasn't crying.

"You're welcome to leave," she told me. "We won't let him cry very long, and if he does, we'll call you immediately."
"Thanks for the info, but I have to talk to my wife first," I told her.
"Well, you CAN leave," she responded.

After getting a half-hearted green light from Stacey, I bolted. Connor made it the whole day and all is right with the world.

Though I wasn't nearly as nervous as Stacey about this process, I am shocked that Connor adjusted as quickly as he did. Though he still cries a bit when I drop him off, he marches in on his own and never looks back for me.

I suppose I have more work to do than him with this, though. If he finds out how terrible I did in school — not to mention how long it took me to finish — I'll never be able to get him to do his homework.

Have they invented smart pills yet?

"The Separation of Church and Skate"

2006-09-04T19:59:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid, I played organized soccer and baseball. Each season, there would inevitably be at least one overzealous parent who either got routinely thrown out of the park or should have been.

James Simpkins was a kid who always seemed to end up on my baseball team. His mother had more lip than Mick Jagger and she knew less about the game of baseball than my socks did. Either she or James got themselves thrown out of more games than Bobby Cox and Billy Martin combined. The only positive of this, though — aside from James or his mom repeatedly arguing calls with a zeal that would make Yosemite Sam ashamed to call himself 'animated' — is that there was usually only one clueless parent each season. As soccer was a bit more obscure in the '80s, a ton of parents didn't know much about the game, but most of them at least had the sense to keep their mouths shut in the stands. I said "most." One mother liked to yell out to her son, "I'll give you five bucks if you score a gold!"

That's gold.

Now that skateboarding is finally beginning to become a serious alternative to traditional organized sports, more and more parents are taking their kids to the skatepark (or dumping them off for some organized babysitting). The problem, aside from the plethora of rugrats is that the parents have about as much notion of skatepark etiquette as James Simpkins' mom did at the ballpark, which leads to a lot of unnecessary problems at the park.

If your kid is expressing in interest in skateboarding, here are a few pointers to keep your kid from getting run'd over.

-The skatepark is NOT where you go to learn to skate. That's what driveways or officeparks are for. If you can't at least stand on the board while rolling, stay home.
-There is to be NO standing around anywhere that people are skating or where you have the potential to get hit — especially if you have two or three friends camped out with you. Are you hoping that a 200-pound dude will smash into you at 20 mph?
-The first thing you must learn to do is drop in on a ramp. If you can't drop in, you will be 'that guy' standing around at the bottom of the ramp, waiting to have your insides rearranged by previously mentioned 200-pound dude.
-Skateboarding, in and of itself, is not a contest. If you are at the park to gloat at how much better your kid is than everyone else, go home. Skateboarding is about creativity and having fun. If your idea of sport involves being an asshole and talking shit, let your kid play football instead.
-Above all, just watch what the older guys are doing and copy their behavior. I, for one, don't mind the kids at the park, as long as they understand that there are other people trying to skate. I don't want to be your kid's babysitter. Wait...look at me. Do you want me to be your kid's babysitter.

That's what I thought.

"Suburban Home"

2006-08-30T16:49:00.000-04:00

It took us three weeks to move in — how else to explain the serious lack of writing up in here — but we're officially back in the friendly confines of suburban Atlanta.

Reunited and it feels so good.

After being back for just a couple of days, I realized that things were going to be indellibly different this year when Stacey and I took a trip to the grocery story for some essentials...you know, deodorant, cereal, poison-tipped darts. On this trip we saw no less than three dads flying solo with their kids. Maybe the divorce rate is higher here than in backwoods South Carolina, but I'm tempted to think I may have witnessed an actual stay-at-home dad or three in the wild. Stacey was visibly tempted to ask each of these guy's their 'story,' but with me at her side, her often-uncontrollable flirtatious nature was being held gingerly in check.

Then, two weeks ago when Connor and I visited our first playground since moving back, I ran into more dads spending time with their kids. What gives? Whereas I once felt like the odd man out, I'm now just one of the herd, and I'm receiving far fewer second- and third-glances than before.

I think it's time Connor got some tattoos, or a mohawk...or both.

"Communication Breakdown"

2006-08-18T13:21:00.000-04:00

Baby monitors are the best/worst thing to happen to child-rearing since the discovery (probably by my mom) that spatulas make very good ass-whuppers.

On one hand, immediately hearing your child crying in the middle of the night can be helpful, because you can diffuse any huge meltdowns before they spiral out of control, thus keeping everyone awake for several hours.

But, on the other hand, it's probably just a matter of time until you get caught badmouthing someone while forgetting that you're in a room that is 'bugged.'

Unless someone is being too polite to burst my bubble, I haven't been busted yet, but it's not for lack of trying. I've thought on several occasions that I'd muttered something less than flattering with someone unintentionally listening in on a receiver unit that was inadvertantly left on in another room.

But, the baby monitor also carries with it the threat of disseminating too much information.

For example, yesterday morning, I could swear I heard Connor say "ADHD," in his bedroom and then fall back asleep.

I wish I were kidding.

"Guess Who's Back?"

2006-08-15T16:05:00.000-04:00

Don't call it a comeback...I've just been waiting for our Internet connection to get straightened out in our new place. Today, after a week of endless wrangling with BellSouth, we're finally good to go. Lucky you.

Before moving on to new stuff, I should probably recap the events of the last week-and-a-half...

After picking up the U-Haul truck at a very sketchy pawn shop, Stacey and I proceeded to load it with our possessions, and one very large souvenir from our stay in the country.

I'm no packing expert, but I think we may have loaded too much stuff toward the front of the truck.

With everything loaded up we were ready to hit the road.

Perhaps "ready" isn't a strong enough word. Don't get me wrong, I had a fun year, but living in the woods is for suckers. I think we left a little bit of tire tread behind in our haste to get out of Dodge.

The trip to our new home was pretty much a straight shot down the interstate, but we did have a few adventures.

Something told me we were home...

It's good to be back.

"Begin the Begin"

2006-08-06T12:04:00.000-04:00

For those of you who are regular visitors here, you may have noticed a minor disturbance in the force as I did not update my blog on Thursday, as is mandated per my own self-enforced schedule.

The grand experiment is now over. Although I'm not returning to a 9-to-5 just yet, my days of being alone with Connor every single day is officially over for now. On Thursday and Friday, Stacey and I finally moved back to Atlanta after six years away, and are beginning a new chapter in our life together.

For the next year (and perhaps infinitely longer since we're sick of moving our junk from one address to another) we will be living with Stacey's parents. As far as living with in-laws, the situation is abslolutely fabulous. We have an entire floor of the house to ourselves, with digital cable TV, an exercise room and free parking.

But, this situation also means that we're closer to both of our families, which means that I'm negotiating my schedule with everyone who is eager to take Connor off of my hands. I will probably work several days a month at my former full-time job (warehouse/clerical type stuff) while scaring up more freelance work as well. Also, Connor is beginning a preschool/daycare program that will occupy him for two mornings a week.

I'll still be at home with Connor, just not every day, thus bringing to an end my year of being his primary caregiver during the week. It's a role I am shedding reluctantly, but knowing full well that he'd probably rather see someone different every day anyway.

In the spirit of my adjusted role as a part-time stay-at-home-dad, I have been wrestling with what to do with this space. Initially, I only wanted to do this for a year, just to see if I could. I've done that, but I'm hesitant to let it go, because writing here is fun for me — ie. I have full editorial control, resulting in the nauseating stories and pictures you've been enduring these past 12 months. Thanks for sticking around.

I considered abandoning this site in favor of an anonymous blogging identity so I could talk openly about living with Stacey's parents, but since they are aren't exactly the typical overbearing in-laws, I probably couldn't say anything I can't say to them in person.

Since I'm not going to be with Connor every day, I won't be writing here every day. I have no schedule for entries, and will probably expand my subject matter to include other things happening in my life as well.

But don't worry; the pictures and stories will still be every bit as nauseating.

"In The Meantime and In Between Time"

2006-08-02T21:19:00.000-04:00

The end is finally here at last, though it is hard to believe it's been a year already. When we got here last August, it was hot as hell outside, Connor was hard to handle at times, and I was unsure of what the coming year would hold.

What a difference a year makes....uh, nevermind. Seems not much has changed, just our address.

At the moment, Stacey and I are stranded amidst an ever deepening sea of boxes, waiting as patiently as we can until we pick up the moving truck tomorrow morning. Connor has already been escorted out of town by a very willing grandmother, leaving us here alone to buckle down, gear up and get out.

By the way, for all you ATL folk, Connor is now offially in town, so feel free to start scheduling your visits. We all know you couldn't care less whether we ever come or not. We've accepted our new role in life as Connor's parents. As Connor says to Murphy when it's thundering: "It's no big deal."

Although our situation this year was far from perfect, it was ideal in a lot of ways; Our rent was cheap, we lived in a furnished house on the lake, we were a hell of a lot closer to family and friends than we were in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, I got to stay home with Connor, and Stacey finally earned that damn PhD she's been chasing for what seems like an eternity. P.S. You are all now required to call her "Dr." at all times — well, at least I have to.

Even though I complained a lot about our reclusive whitey neighbors, the massive amount of labor required for the smallest of tasks out here, our lack of funds, the constant invasions of the insect variety, and our reclusive whitey neighbors (sorry, it bears repeating), I will absolutely remember this 12-month stretch with only the fondest of memories.

Being able to spend nearly every waking moment with my son made this experience, warts and all, the best year of my life, and I say that with all the cheesiness and sincerity I can muster.

"The Audience Is Listening"

2006-08-01T19:23:00.000-04:00

Every summer, Regal Theaters hosts a free PG- or G-rated movie for kids on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings. I didn't find about this well-kept secret until just recently and hadn't had an opportunity to try it out until today.

Judging by Connor's behavior, though, it's just as well.

We arrived early enough to get a decent seat (25 minutes before showtime) becase I correctly assumed that the daycare kids would be out in full force. But, since the theater shows two films (today's selections were Willy Wonka and March of the Penguins, most of the rambunctious older kids were in the former, while we camped out in the theater screening the documentary with kids a bit closer to Connor's age, as well as a few fixed income elderly couples who had snuck in, sans grandkids.

Although Morgan Freeman is credited as the narrator in March of the Penguins, Connor apparently felt that Mr. Freeman's storytelling capabilities left much to be desired.

As soon as the film started, Connor began his own narration, convinced that everyone around him needed an extra audio guide to what was happening on screen.

"Where are the penguins?...There they are!...They are walking!...There's the moon!...That penguin fell down!...He's being silly!...It's snowing!...I want some juice!...Where is that penguin going?...Those penguins are snuggling!...That penguin is sleeping!...HE'S AWAKE!!!...When are Mater and McQueen coming out?...I gotta do a pooper!...In my diaper!...I wanna go home!...That boy is looking at me!...

We made it about 30 or 40 minutes in before I decided to spare the other patrons Connor's incessant babble and escorted Mr. Motor Mouth out of the theater – before an usher could do it for us.

"Get Out"

2006-07-31T20:34:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-27T21:39:00.000-04:00

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?"

2006-07-26T19:56:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-25T19:18:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-24T19:26:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-20T21:38:00.000-04:00

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?"

2006-07-19T19:33:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-18T20:07:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-17T19:21:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-13T19:55:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-12T19:32:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-11T19:38:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-10T19:42:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-06T21:51:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-05T19:50:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-04T20:01:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-07-03T21:51:00.000-04:00

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.

"Only The Lonely"

2006-06-29T21:14:00.000-04:00

This is not necessarily an anti-daycare screed, but if you find yourself especially sensitive about other people taking care of your kids, come back tomorrow.

Today, Connor and I went to a nearby playground to lose some water weight in the oppressive heat and burn off the Cookie Crisp we ate for breakfast. (We've been eating GREAT since Stacey started coupon shopping.) Apparently, a local daycare had the same idea because the playground was swarming with kids, most of whom were too old to be playing on slides, swings and sand.

The daycare's two workers who had accompanied the 30-or-so kids to the park — terrible odds should there be a Lord of the Flies-type uprising, don't ya think? — were squeezed in together at a picnic table off in the shade, while the kids wore themselves out in the sun. When Connor and I got there, we were swarmed faster than a discarded piece of hotdog on an anthill.

CanIplaywiththoseshovels? Doeshewanttoplaytag? Whyisn'therunningaround? What'syourname? Pushmeontheswing? Arethosetattoosreal? Areyouhisdaddy? Whyishestaringatme?

To his credit, overwhelmed though he obviously was, Connor never lashed out at these overly enthusiastic kids. Me? I may or may not have intentionally tripped one or ten of them. I ain't sayin'.

Another dad who also had the unfortunate luck of choosing this day to go to this playground had to sit with his two children while the daycare kids ran off with their toys. He lasted about 15 minutes before deciding to pack it in and head home, defeated by a horde of wild kids hungry for attention of any kind.

When it was time for the group of kids to leave, the two daycare workers tried to assemble them in an orderly fashion, but the kids seemed to be having trouble shutting off their overdrive function, much like a car with a cinder block lying on the gas pedal.

Hellooooooooo," one of them said sarcastically. "I don't have eyes in the back of my head. Get where I can see you. And quit making all that noise so I can think!"

Nice.

We have been planning on having Connor start a "school" program in the fall, which he would attend two days a week for four hours each day — though mainly for socialization benefits.

Now I'm having second thoughts about it.

"You're Gonna Change (Or I'm Gonna Leave)"

2006-06-28T20:12:00.000-04:00

At what point does making a mess while eating become a battle that must be fought – lest a certain little boy grow into a man thinking it's okay to dunk his fingers in his soymilk, fling his lettuce at the wall or toss his plate off the table when he's ready for dessert?

Everyone who has witnessed the trainwreck that is mealtime with Connor consistently comments to us that he is, by far, the messiest eater he or she has ever seen. By the end of the meal, what he hasn't managed to get into his mouth, is smashed up on the table, squished between his butt and his booster chair or lying on the floor beneath him. I've had to start kicking Murphy out of the kitchen when we're eating because he was gaining weight at an alarming rate.

Also, Connor often demands to eat with a toy in one hand — usually a Matchbox car. As a result, the car gets a pretty good dousing of whatever we're trying to get him to eat. (Refer to the bed of the pickup truck in the picture above.)

It was cute at first. Awww. Look. He got more on him than in him. Ha ha. But now it's becoming a tad embarassing. On those rare occasions when we eat in a restaurant, Stacey and I are usually scraping up whatever remnants of his food that we can from off of the floor and table before the server comes back and sees the mess waiting to be cleaned up once we leave — thus dramatically increasing our chances of receiving a plate of food contaminated with some type of bodily fluid.

Of course, I'm sure Stacey and I are both partly to blame. Our table manners have pretty much vanished ever since Connor came along. We've become quite adept at shoveling food into our own mouths as quickly as possible so that we can tend to Connor's needs and keep him from flinging his food willy-nilly across the room.

Then there's Stacey's incessant farting at the table.

Kidding. That, of course, is me.

"Couldn't Stand The Weather"

2006-06-27T20:31:00.000-04:00

When I returned home from my recent two-week vacation, my car decided to punish me for neglecting it by burning out the motor that controls the windshield wipers, thus preventing me from defending myself from stray raindrops, bird poop, that pine straw/pollen glop that seems to favor my car, or anything else that might get stuck there.

I do plan on having this matter attended to by a qualified professional, but since I know of no such place out here (and it's hard to set up times to drop off and pick up the car since Stacey leaves for work before most places open and gets home after they've closed up for the day), I'm waiting until we move back to the suburbs of Atlanta next month to take it to a mechanic I know and trust.

But, given this mild inconvenience, it's been difficult to get far from home when there's even the threat of rain especially when there's a kid in the backseat who needs his two-hour nap every day or...well, there is no "or." Comprende?

Since it was raining almost all day yesterday, Connor and I amused ourselves with every possible indoor activity. But, by today, he was obviously itching to get out and about. Since the local TV meteorologist told us to expect torrential rains again for most of the day today, I knew we couldn't get far. So, we headed to our old standby — the dump — and even dared to drive as far as the Dollar General, which I've heard some locals refer to as "the mall" — a statement which qualifies for its own post on another day.

We rushed home, so as not to tempt fate any more than we already had, but Connor knew that I'd cut his 'out of the house time' well short of his required daily dosage. There was nothing he could do about it, but that didn't stop him from flinging his wooden Thomas the Tank Engine trains at the back of my head as we drove home.

So, in total, how much rain did we get today? None. How overcast was the sky? Barely.

I'm starting to lose faith in my firm belief that everything on TV is true.

"Drive Slow"

2006-06-26T19:41:00.000-04:00

This weekend, Stacey and I went to a wedding. Well, perhaps "went to" is a poor choice of words. We were really only at the reception. Well, we never went in, and we didn't get any cake, but we were still totally there, man! Well, sort of.

In truth, we spent our Saturday evening each behind the steering wheel of a 15-passenger van shuttling wedding reception guests between a nearby parking lot and the home where the reception was being held. Despite the potential for disaster, the worst thing that happened was that the vans didn't have a tape deck for me plug my iPod into, thus rendering me unable to subject my passengers to the soothing sounds of Van Halen's "Eruption" pumped up to 11 on the stereo. Instead, we opted for a local radio station that played what I can sensitively describe as Mexican circus music.

Actually, I just remembered that Stacey hit a wheelbarrow right as we were parking the vans at the end of the night. Way to end the night on a high note, baby!

The job itself — driving from point A to point B, and back again...and again...and again — wasn't that taxing, but by the end of the evening, I was wishing I had taken Stacey's semi-joking suggestion to heart and put up a sign that said "NO SMALL TALK ALLOWED!"

I'm an introvert and often just holding conversations with random people at any given length of time sucks more energy out of me than trying to lift a two-ton car with nothing but my bare hands. Every time I'd pass Stacey on the road between the house and the office park where the guests' cars were, she'd be waving her hands around and yammering away, as if in the middle of an enthralling conversation with old friends, while I'd be clutching the steering wheel and trying my best to be polite. I managed a few jokes (telling one vanload of folks that I'd only had two wrecks all evening!), but I'm sure I wasn't the highlight of their night.

In the end, we got paid (the impetus causing us to take this random odd job), and nobody died. Maybe it wasn't a "good" night, but it was a success.

After all, the last time someone in my family drove a 15-passenger van, my older brother ended up in the hospital.

"We People Who Are Darker Than Blue"

2006-06-22T19:43:00.000-04:00

Somewhere in my many boxes of old photos, is a picture of me when I was 17. Taken during the summer, this particular snapshot probably captured my skin at its most dark state — as I apparently spent a lot of time out of doors that year. Being a descendent of Swedes and Scotch-Irish folk, I'm hardly the swarthy beast that many of you surely assume me to be purely by how badass I come across on this blog, right? Rest assured, though, I'm every bit the man-beast that you've come to expect on the inside...somewhere...maybe.

I'm not nearly Johnny Winter pale, but I would never, ever be confused for anything other than a white guy – a very white guy.

This summer, though, I may be giving the 17-year-old me a run for its money in the sun tan department. After a two-week vacation to Florida and South Carolina beaches, I had already accumulated a fair amount of sun, but since we returned home, it's become quite apparent that I'm developing an actual tan — despite a very unhealthy addiction to suncreen, which stops just short of me eating the stuff. Connor is even getting darker, despite never wearing a sunscreen with an SPF rating of less than a 50 while out of doors.

Even my Italian wife, who usually makes me look jaundiced when comparing our skin tones, is looking a bit sickly. To be fair though, she — who can transform the tint of her skin to a hue befitting even Hulk Hogan simply by watching a documentary about the sun — spent a fair portion of her two-week vacation sick at the condo or laid up in the hospital. Plus, she's got a 9-to-5 that keeps her indoors for most of the day, the poor lass.

Now that I have an entire summer to bake in the sun, I'm wondering if I'll know whether I've gotten too much sun.

Uhhhh, maybe I'll spend the rest of the summer inside instead.

"The Positive Aspect of Negative Thinking"

2006-06-21T19:30:00.000-04:00

As I've mentioned at least 30 times in this space before, we live in what I consider to be the middle of nowhere. Although I've adjusted to the lack of ameneties in our community (in that there's very little development less than ten miles from our house, at least), I'll probably never conquer my fear of hillbilly folk.

For example, we have neighbors who live spread out over at least three trailers with four times as many vehicles scattered throughout the property — all broken down with weeds pulling them into the earth. There is probably more junk on this one acre of property than in all of the Smithsonian museums combined.

Everytime I drive past this particular compound (again, our "neighborhood" has several, so you gotta be specific when referring to them) whoever is out on the property stops what they're doing and stares, mouth agape, as if the sight of a car is completely unexpected on this regularly trafficked stretch of road. It's downright creepy. I'm trying my best not to judge these people, because there's nothing that says my style of life is better than theirs — just different...really really different — but it's hard, to say the least to not think that I'm better'n 'em.

Today, Connor and I spent a few hours at the lake, swimming at a nearby recreation area that has a beach, picnic tables and a newly erected playground. Surrounding us, were at least 20 of the very same, reclusive mountain folk that scare the shit out of me. Two kids were "fishing" with sticks, string and Wonderbread. Two kids were playing "drown the other one before he gets you first." Several parents were huddled around the concrete picnic tables, chain smoking, along with a few kids who looked all of 16 years old.

Also, several parents were floating carelessly into deep water on half-inflated pool floats while their kids (the oldest of whom couldn't have been more than four) played at the water's edge, occasionally venturing far enough into the water to warrant a scolding from a half-interested parent. I must have looked like the overprotective father to these people, never getting more than a foot or two away from Connor — especially when he started trying to swim in water over his head.

By the way, how do parents who let small children get so far away from them AT THE LAKE still have children in the first place?! Am I really that out of touch?

Anyway, I'm scared of white people. It doesn't make the the first, I guess.

"Nobody Weird Like Me"

2006-06-20T19:22:00.000-04:00

For those who know both me and Stacey, it might seem safe to characterize me as the zanier parent of the two. She, the PhD candidate who has been in school for most of her life, is surely a more straightlaced parent than I, the class clown who was perpetually in trouble for the few years I could manage to stay in school, right?

Turns out, such an characterization would be dead wrong.

Sure, I've used Connor to deliver the punchlines to many a joke ("How does Connor do a pooper?" His answer: a very long and loud grunt — a gag used to its greatest effect in very public places such as libraries and restaurants) but his mother has gone off the deep end.

A few weeks ago, Connor and I were driving somewhere (either the dump, the playground or the dump, probably) and he pointed out the window at the randomly placed rolls of hay in an adjacent field.

"Look, Daddy," he shouted. "Dinosaur poop!!"

Yeah, that's his mom's handiwork.

A few months ago, when I was putting Connor down for his nap he got the giggles and started singing, instead of drifting off in my arms.

Instead of singing the familiar hook to Elmo's theme song ("that's Elmo's world!!!"), he instead sang, at loud as his tiny lungs would allow: "That's Elmo's UNDERWEAR!!!"

Again, that one was all Stacey.

So, remember this when you're chastising me for teaching Connor to jiggle the breasts of women at the mall, for helping him figure out how to light his farts on fire, or for showing him how to give wedgies to other kids on the playground. Believe it or not, he might have learned these things from that well-read, deceptively normal woman that he calls Mama.

"Lazy Sunday"

2006-06-19T17:58:00.000-04:00

This year for Father's Day (my third such occasion), instead of getting an ill-fitting dress shirt, socks or a tie that I'd never wear anyway as so many of you poor dads did yesterday, I was afforded the luxury of doing absolutely nothing — simply because LBJ made the day a holiday in 1966, which Nixon signed into law in '72. (Who needs a formal education when we have Google?)

So, this weekend, I sat by the pool, watched World Cup soccer all day both days and spent about an hour-and-a-half on the treadmill on both Saturday and Sunday while watching World Cup soccer. The only thing that could have made the weekend better would have been a complete Led Zeppelin reunion in my den.

Becoming a parent is probably the coolest thing I've ever done in my life, but that doesn't mean that I want to spend every waking moment with my son.

-This concludes our daily attempt to make Stacey feel like I don't fully appreciate staying home with our son.

"Wanna Be Startin' Something"

2006-06-15T19:53:00.000-04:00

For all you germophobes — if you weren't already justifiably frightened enough to enter a house where small children live — allow me to impart a piece of advice to you: never, ever cross the threshold of the home in which children are being potty trained.

Although we've been saying that Connor is "potty aware" for more than a year now (he can pee on command, though he often refuses to perform, and makes a huge show when he's dropping a SCUD in his diaper), we've only recently begun to seriously make a stab at teaching him the finer points of being a grown-up, including the whole nose-blowing thing. (Tonight, I got a snotty kiss on the cheek that was nastier than a heavy make-out session with Barbara Walters.)

If, instead of drying basically clear, urine turned a garish shade of pink once it left the body, our house would look like the Barbie Dream House. I'm sure the stuff is everywhere. Now I know why we have that huge tub of hand sanitizer ever at the ready.

When Connor is sitting on his tiny toilet, tinkling away, he usually likes to dip his fingers in the cup between his legs and swirl the pee around a bit. He's even starting to threaten to then touch his fingers to his lips. I guess it's a two-year-old's version of sniffing the wine before drinking it — gotta make sure it's a good batch, I guess.

When he's done conducting his business, I'm left with a serious decision: do I immediately wash his hands, or tend to the open vat of urine in the den? Either way, I've got a two-year-old boy with a loose bladder and no diaper on running around the house. No matter which choice I make, there is always some pee on the floor, walls or both.

By the way, I hope none of you reading this blog are sitting on the fence about having kids, because I don't think I'm doing such a good job of selling the concept, huh?

"Victim in Pain"

2006-06-14T21:04:00.000-04:00

I was in as deep a sleep as I could possibly be in, without being buried six feet beneath the earth. But, as quickly as a two-year-old boy can fall down while running down a steep driveway, my state of bliss was over.

"Carter," Stacey said in a hushed, but strained voice.

With that one word sentence, and after a few moments of "coming to," I was awake.

Seeing my wife doubled over in the bed, clutching her midsection while her eyeballs strained against the lids which were pulled tightly shut, I somehow sensed that something was wrong. (Male intuition, baby!) With sleep still calling my name, and wishing desperately that she could somehow stomach the pain (ba-dum-dum) until morning, I instead did the only thing I could in that situation and gingerly helped Stacey downstairs and into the car so that we could make for the hospital. Keep in mind, this is a woman who has undergone natural childbirth, so to say she has phenomenal pain tolerance would be as big an understatement as saying that Katrina dropped a bit of rain on New Orleans. If she says "it hurts," don't ask questions or someone is gonna die.

Nearly ten hours and one removed gangrenous appendix later, Stacey was coming out of the anesthesia with all of the grace of a hungover co-ed on Sunday morning.

"How much do you think it weighed," she asked clumsily, referencing her erstwhile infected organ, hoping that she at least earned the benefit of losing a few pounds of unwanted weight for her suffering.

My wife, ever the comedian, was trying to make me laugh after undergoing a routine, but serious procedure. Being as I hadn't really slept in two days, and put aside my desire to sleep to get her to the hospital (whatta guy) I appreciated the gesture.

In retrospect, having appendicitis while on vacation certainly wasn't the worst way to spend a couple of days (although Stacey might disagree just a tad).

Besides, who else can say... "I had my appendix taken out on vacation, and all I got was this crappy mug."

"Possessed to Skate"

2006-06-13T20:01:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, rather than parking myself at the beach or pool all day during my two-week vacation, I tried to spend as much time as possible at the nearby skateparks. (St. Augustine is above; Hilton Head below...click on the pictures if you wanna see 'em bigger.)

Until I discovered the guitar, the only thing in the world that I cared about was skateboarding. After the guitar's introduction into my life, however, my time would forever be divided — forcing me to ultimately dedicate my undying devotion to the latter. After all, it was skateboarding that put my left arm in a cast for nearly six months, and broke at least one of every type of bone in my body at least once. Aside from a few bloody fingertips, what did my guitar ever do to me?

Although I never really "quit" skating, calling me a skater would definitely be a stretch. I've gotten in and out of it over the years, but haven't lived near any of my skating friends in quite some time (most of whom have long since quit, anyway). Plus, I'm too old to run from the cops anymore.

With free skateparks so close by to our vacation spots, though, I knew I had to take advantage, and I managed to spend probably 10 hours at each park over the course of several days each week. I was incredibly surprised at how quickly everything came back, and how much more in-tune with my body's capabilities I am now than I was when I was 15. Before long, I was doing tricks I couldn't do when I was a teenager. Maybe I'll try out for the NFL next.

At both parks, usually it was me and a bunch of pre-teen kids whose parents had found a convenient babysitter in the form of a city-run skatepark or a few teenagers who were too preoccupied with the ever present skate groupies to bother skating much, so I mostly had the places to myself.

A few of the older kids talked to me (one even asked me if I was sponsored...get that kid's vision checked ASAP), but mostly, everyone steered well clear of the dude with the tattoos and black wraparound sunglasses. If only they'd known that the sunglasses contained prescription lenses and that I have a low tolerance for bright light, perhaps I'd have seemed a bit more approachable?

"Road Trippin"

2006-06-12T20:14:00.000-04:00

Ahhhhhh. Two weeks of vacation. Can you sense the relaxtion oozing out of my pores? No? Well, that's probably since the last ten months have basically been a vaction for me, and believe me, I'm enjoying it.

For those of you who don't know, I have been, in fact, on a bona fide vacation these past two weeks and not just playing mean tricks on my reader(s) by not posting for 17 days. I don't announce events such as that in advance for obvious reasons. With the "Bikini Strangler" loose in these parts during that time, perhaps you can see why I wouldn't want to broadcast my comings and goings to the world. It's bad enough that you already know about the frequency of my son's bowel movements (or mine). Do you really need to know where I am at all times?

Anyway, part I of Vacation '06 saw us spending the week with Stacey's family in St. Augustine, Fla., while part II found us on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina with my family. Yeah, life is rough — especially since both locations had free, city run skateparks very close to where we were staying, clean beaches, and swimming pools...but no movie stars.

Somewhere along the way, though, the west and welaxation got a bit complicated. We had to replace Stacey's tires and one very expensive cracked rim at the last minute before leaving (which ain't easy or cheap in small town USA), Stacey got appendicitis in the middle of the night (do medical emergencies EVER happen during mid-day?!?) and there was a strep/cold outbreak amongst my family (infecting Connor, too). After the several-hundred-mile round trip that we made, it was nice to return to the house on the lake that we're calling home for the next month-and-a-half, even if the spiders did try to reclaim the place in our absence.

Oh yeah, and the US soccer team got its posterior pulverized in its opening World Cup match today.

Yep, vacation is really over.

"Less Talk, More Rock"

2006-05-25T20:20:00.000-04:00

Before last night's finale, I couldn't have cared less for American Idol.

I'm sorry, were you expecting more?

There are many things about this show I don't like, but I will admit to watching only the first two or three episodes of the show each season, due purely to the scads of horrendous singers that continue to try out, invariably to be rejected via increasingly demeaning methods — although this season, the teasing crossed a few too many homophobic, sexist and racist lines for me to tune in again at the outset of next year's competition.

Well...maybe. Those poor ignorant fools who have no clue they can't sing are just too entertaining to pass up.

But, today while Connor and I were getting tore up from the floor up at the playground, I suddenly discovered a positive side to the otherwise banal television show: it gives parents something to talk about at gatherings.

While Connor and I sat digging in the dirt, several other parents with children arrived at the playground. While their children played, almost all of these parents huddled in the shade at a picnic table, waiting for their children to tire out so they could leave (a subject worth of a separate entry, for sure). They all sat stonefaced until someone mentioned American Idol. You would have thought that these people knew each other their whole lives the way they were prattling on about who should have won, who is secretly gay, who should wind up sleeping with the fishes, and so on.

Since few people seem to keep up with world events anymore (more people cast a vote for an "American Idol" last night than for any American president), and many of those who do are getting their "news" from a biased source (cough-Fox News-cough) so we need something in common, right?

I guess we could talk about the weather.

--
By the way, since this blog has become something of a job, I am taking a well-deserved, two-week vacation to remodel the basement, stain the deck and maybe make another baby.

Deal with that image for two weeks.

See you back here on June 12.

"Ain't Nobody Playin"

2006-05-24T21:28:00.000-04:00

When you live in a remote area — as do we — you learn to appreciate the convenience of having necessary resources nearby. At no time has that been more apparent to me than today.

With Connor acting a bit stir crazy from being cooped up last week while sick, I've been trying to get us out of the house as much as possible. Today we headed to a nearby (relatively speaking) town to hit up the ginormous playground and adjacent duck pond that seems to fascinate Connor even more than Wal-Mart and the dump combined — I'm sure you are having trouble picturing such a magical place, huh?

There was just one teensy weensy problem: THE PLAYGROUND WAS CLOSED! (Can you sense the frustration?!) If we lived just around the corner, it'd be no problem, but since we'd made a 30 minute trip, it was a little inconvenient. What really bothered me, though, is that the playground was closed for no good reason. It seems this particular park has a large Memorial Day weekend festival, and to make sure that no one can do anything at the park but participate they close anything not directly related to the celebration. It didn't seem to matter that the shindig doesn't start until Friday, either. The playground is closed all week. Go figure.

Even though the reasoning behind the closure was beyond me, I made my peace with it. Connor was a bit more difficult to console.

Talk about a long ride home.

"Nightmares By The Sea"

2006-05-23T21:45:00.000-04:00

As I've mentioned before, I married into a family of Italians — some of them very old school. Along with the proud heritage, fabulous food and questionable customs (squid for Christmas Eve dinner, anyone?) comes a finely cultivated sixth sense. Even my otherwise sane wife — who, as a psychologist, is involved with a profession that is based largely on scientific study — occasionally claims to possess this trait.

For years, several members of Stacey's family claimed to have experienced repeated visions of her older sister Susan's future offspring, which was surely just around the corner, they swore. But, despite this bankable sense of intuition, none of the family prophets ever had any visions of Stacey having a child, even though she proved to be the first sibling to get pregnant. No one besides me seemed to notice anything telling in this revelation.

But, in the past few weeks, I've had dreams about a subject about which I am terrified to consider to be in any way a premonition — Connor's drowning to death.

Gentle transition, huh?

About most things, I am not a chronic worrier, so I don't think I've developed a sudden fear of losing my son to powers out of my control, which scares me even more about these repeated dreams. We do live on the lake, and we are making a trip to the beach soon, so perhaps that's to blame, but I've had several dreams that revolve around this particular theme, and aside from him drowning, there are no other recurring motifs. I've "seen" him drown in bathtubs, the lake, et cetera, and it makes me sick when I wake up. Once, I even drowned him myself in a dream.

Would it be cruel to have a lifejacket surgically attached?

"Too Much Month (At The End Of The Money)"

2006-05-22T20:44:00.000-04:00

First it was the student loan debt. Next it was scaling back from two incomes to one. Then it was the coma-inducing hospital bill. Oh, and don't forget the nasty heroin habit. There's also the ever growing price of gas and the distance between us and anything resembling civilization. Last week Stacey got a speeding ticket. Today, a flat tire.

I'm sure I've left something out, but at this point, does it matter?

I won't go so far as to say that we're broke, because we do have some reserves from which we can draw emergency funds. We also have items that we can sell including blood plasma, spare organs (and not the kind you play in church, either) and two-year-old boys to keep us afloat, Of course we also have a host of family members who are nothing if not selfless in their generosity, but we're not exactly operating in the black right now.

To try and offset things a bit, Stacey has found a new hobby: clipping coupons. I secretly (well, not anymore, I guess) think that this is another attempt to prove that she's the smartest, most hardworkin'est member of this partnership (which, let's be obvious, I surrendured any claim to looooong ago). After buying the requisite supplies, which include a how-to book, a binder full of baseball card holders for organizing the coupons and cultivating a working knowledge of price comparison, she's set out to reinvent how we buy groceries.

I'm not asking too many questions but I can say this: we now have better food in our pantry (name brands, even!!) and we're somehow spending less, although I haven't seen the receipts.

Wait, maybe she has another new hobby she hasn't told me about yet. That would explain all those new fancy pairs of underwear she bought.

This post would probably explain why I'll be sleeping on the couch tomorrow night.

"When The Levee Breaks"

2006-05-18T21:29:00.000-04:00

Remember the scene in Dumb and Dumber where Jeff Daniels' character gets dosed with TurboLax and has an unfortunate encounter with an out-of-order toilet? Welcome to Wednesday night in the Davis house — just add in uncontrolled vomiting for extra effect, and a working toilet, thank GOD!

Not pretty.

Now that the virus seems to have mostly passed out of my system, though, I thought that we were all three finally getting back to our normal happy selves, instead of shuffling around the house with a perma-scowl on our faces and vomit on our breath.

But, just before bed, Connor threw up for the first time since Tuesday morning when this nightmare really kicked in.

If we're all getting sick again I swear I'm going to start shooting.

"Don't Stand So Close To Me"

2006-05-17T21:10:00.000-04:00

Crap.

Connor is finally over his bug, but in the process of curing him (which involved a live rooster, ten red M&M candies and a gallon of salt), Stacey and I both caught whatever he had. She's coming out of it, but I was apparently the last one to be infected.

I've got "it" coming out of both ends — too much information? — making Old Faithful look lazy by comparison, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Save yourself before it's too late.

Run.

"Sick Boy"

2006-05-16T22:30:00.000-04:00

He's at it again.

This morning, when I went to wake Connor up to make our 8:20 doctor's appointment, I was greeted with the distintive aroma of vomit and a drippy mess that culminated in a chunky puddle on the floor next to his crib.

As proof that he's truly sick he didn't even budge, even with the door wide open, light filling the previously darkened room. Stacey and I cleaned up as much as possible and hurried off to the appointment. His doctor basically gave us "wait and see" orders, so for the rest of the day we chilled out, watched cartoons and drank several ounces of Gatorade every 15 minutes. By 5:30, we felt brave enough to attempt dry cereal and eventually plain rice. So far so good.

A few hours ago, he went to sleep easily enough, but I'm dreading what I'm going to find tomorrow morning.

"Get This Party Started"

2006-05-15T21:25:00.000-04:00

Today was Connor's 2nd birthday. How'd he spend it? The exact same way he spent it last year — sick as a dog. Call me crazy, but I think there's a slight correlation between ingesting ten cups of sugar and napping only once during our three day weekend that's to blame.

Stacey took today off from work to hang out with the birthday boy and ended up playing nurse instead of going to the park or out to lunch, as she'd so optimistically planned. He was feeling better by tonight, though — keeping a bit of Corn Pops and Gatorade down — so any worries about another bout of Rotavirus have been quashed. Well, it's either that or his immune system kicked the shiite out of the little round invaders, sending them back to the shopping cart at Wal-Mart where he probably picked the germs up in the first place.

But, rather than bore you with the details of what the vomit of a sick kid looks like — a subject with which I'm intimately familiar, let me assure you — I'll let you see the video from his birthday party yesterday at Stacey's parents house instead.

Your appetite will thank me.

"Everything's Not Lost"

2006-05-11T19:37:00.000-04:00

Our house isn't that big. We don't have a ton of stuff. We have few flat surfaces for depositing small (or big) items. Would someone please explain to me how we keep losing stuff?

First it was my Swiss Army knife (which I've since recoverd and had surgically attached to my right hand), then it was an endless line of car keys, credit cards, toy skateboards, ball point pens, dirty underwear, -item censored-, and even food items. Ever since Connor came along, we just can't seem to keep track of our stuff.

Yesterday, as per our usual routine, Connor and I made a trip to Wal-Mart. In the course of our travels, he conned me into buying him yet another Matchbox car. He's quickly approaching a car collection that would make Jay Leno blush.

Twenty minutes after we returned home, the car was gone. I remember seeing it in the house, so I KNOW we made it home with the toy car. Despite turning the house upside down (literally...I'm freakishly strong), I have yet to find the damn thing. I'm sure when we move in August (back to Atlanta, maybe you've heard!?), we'll stumble on Connor's secret hiding spot where he keeps his Playboys, the countless number of my guitar picks he's absconded with or the password to his MySpace account.

I've mentioned how much I hate to lose track of stuff, right?

I think, for my sanity's sake—especially when he's not even aware a specific toy is missing—I just have to try and forget about keeping track of everything Connor owns...especially since the worth of his enormous toy collection is quickly approaching the GNP of many small countries.

Maybe I can just get my OCD medication upped instead?

"Beat On The Brat"

2006-05-10T19:53:00.000-04:00

One of the most depressing days of my life was when I heard the following cliche: the cleanest that your car will ever be is on the day you buy it and the day you sell it. As someone who strives to keep his posessions looking as new as possible, this devastated me. Even though I stepped up my efforts to rid my car of dirt, I secretly knew this revelation to be true.

Last year, at my job as a managing editor for two monthly publications, one of the perks I receieved was free car detailing in a trade deal involved with acquiring an advertising contract. We run their ads. They clean our cars and pay us for the privelege. Works for me.

Most of the people I worked with were single. Only two — not counting me — were married. Only one had kids. When detailing day rolled around, can you guess whose car took more than an hour to clean every time? It wasn't mine — that took them all of five minutes since I'd pretty much already done their job for them. I remember standing on the porch of our building watching the detailers take jackhammers and pressure washers to the car of my co-worker with kids to blast away the Cheerios/raisin/peanutbutterjelly globs that had become part of the upholstery. That was as good a birth control method I'd ever seen. Kids equal mess. Mess equals stress. Stress equals a loaded gun in a crowded shopping mall and we don't want to down that road, okay?

I have a strict list of what Connor is allowed to consume in my car, which mostly includes dried, non-sugary foods, such as animal crackers — yes, vegetarians eat animal crackers. Spare me the jokes, please. But, after every trip, I find myself scouring the backseat for stray pieces of food, which I invariably find tucked into the most obscure corners and crevasses.

Stacey once found a dead cockroach in the carseat that's in her car, which was enough to make me want to strap Connor to my roof. I know now that's a felony. Lesson learned.

In order to preserve my relationship with my son, though, I don't blow a fuse when he wings his crackers at my head, or stomps the back of my seat with his dirty feet. I just try and stay on top of the mess, but the day I find a dead roach (or a live one) in my car, fuse blowing will most certainly commence. Don't make me angry, boy. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

You wanna let this kid ride with you?

"What's The Matter With Parents These Days?"

2006-05-09T20:42:00.000-04:00

Whoever said that marriage is the biggest compromise you'll ever make never had kids.

Just a few moments ago, I was sitting downstairs, working on a freelance project on my computer when I overheard Stacey getting ready to put Connor to bed upstairs.

"Okay, you can touch the nail, but then it's time for bed," she told him, matter of factly.

On one of the walls in his bedroom, is a nail left from a picture that we took down so it wouldn't get broken while we're staying here. Ever since the day we removed the picture in August, thus exposing the nail, Connor has been fascinated with it. He used to demand to touch it after every nap, but he's backed off a bit.

This scenario is a perfect example of how our lives have changed in the past two years. Now, instead of merely rocking a newborn to sleep, we have to touch nails in the wall, read certain books using specific voices, and dance on one foot with a paper pirate hat on our heads. Instead of simply parking our butts on the couch and stuffing a bottle in a baby's mouth, we have to entice the child to the table with crayons, toys and threats of bodily harm.

Marriage? Pfffft. Piece of cake.

"Working for the Weekend"

2006-05-08T20:02:00.000-04:00

I work hard all week. I go to the grocery store. I wash the dishes (mostly). I spray Tilex in the shower every day. I do my little dance on the catwalk. But, when the weekend comes, I like to "clock out" and indulge myself. This is a self-prescribed regimen that has been enabled by Stacey's tenacious defense of her weekend time with Connor. Since she won't give him up anyway, I find other ways to occupy myself.

This weekend, my closely guarded routine was disrupted. On Saturday night, Stacey's stomach turned into a powder keg — well, a gooey, spasming mess of a powder keg. While I slept peacefully, she spent a great portion of the night in the bathroom, vomiting and dry heaving until her stomach was so sore that I couldn't even look at her without it hurting. I'll bet she's pissed that I went into so much detail, too.

On Sunday morning, I woke up to the sounds of "Daddy's coming." Wondering why Stacey wasn't in the bedroom and the baby monitor was, I went looking for an explanation, finding Stacey huddled up on the bed downstairs. Without asking, I already knew she was sick. We think she might have some form of the same Rotavirus that blindsided Connor nearly two months ago. (By the way, I spared some of you outspoken wusses the projectile vomiting pictures, and I found some GOOD ones online, too.)

So, she camped out in our bedroom upstairs, while Connor and I played downstairs until about lunchtime, oblivious to her presence in the house. I think he figured that his weekend had been cut short, too, and he didn't pitch too much of a fit at being stuck with just me again. His mama eventually emerged from her cocoon, parked herself in the recliner and was basically limp for the remainder of the day, cursing under her breath that she was missing out on some of her own preciously guarded weekend time.

But, even though I didn't spent the entire weekend being a miscreant, playing PS2 or my guitar, or loafing around the house like usual, I still enjoyed my weekend. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for my wife.

"Finest Worksong"

2006-05-04T20:09:00.000-04:00

Today was officially an every-other-Thursday, meaning that Connor's great grandparents were here to take the horrid burden of being a parent to a kid with way too much charm for his own good off of me for a day. Since I've got plenty to work on in the way of writing this week, I used the time constructively, rather than wistfully wasting the day watching Arrested Development episodes or seeing how many nose hairs I can pluck before my eyes start watering.

Basically, as soon as my backup arrived, I parked myself at my desk and started banging out the copy — in between trips to the pantry for a replinishment of my ever dwindling Atomic FireBall supply, of course. Since my computer is set up in the den, though, any mental outbursts were limited to a couple of minutes at a time.

Once Connor went down for his nap, though, I got into serious writing mode. I plugged in my noise isolating headphones (so I wouldn't hear the snoring of a certain great-grandparent or two who shall remain nameless), put on the soothing sounds of Mobb Deep, and got to work. After nearly three hours, during which I never once glanced at my watch, I realized that I'd been writing undisturbed for what was probably the longest duration since I left my job last summer.

Around that time, Connor was waking up and my creativity was coming to an end.

Prior to today, I had been thinking that I would have a tough time reacclimating myself to working — and I probably will — but I will now admit, in public, that it probably won't be as tough as I had assumed. So, Stacey, you can stop worrying about me going back to work. When Connor — and any future offspring we might produce, adopt or steal — graduates high school, I'm right back in the workforce.

Sounds like a plan to me.

"No Need To Argue"

2006-05-03T20:10:00.000-04:00

Despite getting along famously these days, I think I've accepted that, one day, Connor and I are going to argue. These days, our disagreements consist mostly of him wanting to spend 99 percent of his life out of doors, and me insisting that we come back in for trivial routines, such as mealtimes and naps.

I know that I can't predict how our relationship will change over the course of the next something-teen years, but by the time Connor is in middle school, I fully expect the gloves to come off I just don't know what we'll fight about yet, though I do have one prediction that I'm almost willing to lay money on: grammar.

Pffft. Kids these days have zero appreciation for proper grammatical usage. In my day, we spoke all proper like (well, not really) and we liked it. But, if you combine anincreasingg dependence on typing (e-mail, IM, etc) with the inherent laziness that is part and parcel with those of the teenage persuasion, disaster is inevitable, OMG, LMAO, ROTFL, LOL, PWNED! So br00tal!

I should confess that I've used one or two of these inane terms once or twice myself. I've even used a "smiley" in an e-mail or two. Ugh, I disgust myself.

When it comes to grammar, I'm an asshole. Stacey is probably sick to death of me chiming in every time she makes a verbal miscue, but she wasn't complaining when I was editing her cover letters for internship sites, now was she?

By the way, for those of you now self-conscious that I'm mentally correcting your grammar when we're talking, know this: Stacey is a psychologist, and I can guarantee that she's already mentally diagnosed every single one of you. She'll deny it, but don't let her fool you. You're all nuts.

"Country Roads Take Me Home"

2006-05-02T19:56:00.000-04:00

Although it's not yet been confirmed, it looks like we're finally headed back to our hometown — the suburbs outside of Atlanta — after a six year absence, which saw a lot of our friends getting married, having kids or going to jail. Sometimes, all three.

Stacey was tentatively offered a post-doctoral position with a university counseling center (pending approval from their Human Resources dept.), and we should know within 24 hours whether the offer is officially on the table. The HR screening, as I understand it, is little more than a minor checkpoint to ensure that no "undesirables" are hired. Seeing as how Stacey is very desirable, I can't see how they'd pass on her.

When we blew town in the summer of 2000, we were two kids who'd been dating a while, but were still unsure of our future together. We return, married for several years with a child, a car payment, student loan debt and a road-weary dog in tow.

Prior to today's welcomed news, there was a possibility that we could have stayed put as Stacey's current employer might have ponied up and offered her a full-time position upon fulfillment of her internship. Knowing that we're leaving in a few months, though, makes putting up with the-20-minute-drive-to-anywhere a bit more tolerable. Besides, apart from trips to the grocery store or the mall, you're almost guaranteed at least 20 minutes in the car while driving in Atlanta traffic.

We aren't sure yet where we'll be living next year — maybe shacked up with Stacey's parents, if we can sneak in one night and hole ourselves up before they can kick us out — but eliminating one uncertainty from our status next year has lifted a ton of bricks off of our shoulders.

These past nine months have been fun and tough at the same time. On the positive side, we have an unbelievably generous hookup on rent payments (I'm actually ashamed to put the figure in print), but it's easy to feel isolated out here in the woods. Plus, 95 percent of our stuff is stored in Atlanta in a relative's basement as this house was furnished when we moved in.

I will certainly miss living on the lake, but it sure will be nice to be living in the same city as our furniture again.

"Talk is Cheap"

2006-05-01T19:39:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I stop and really think about how lucky I am. Sure, we've got a knee-wobbling hospital bill hanging over our heads from Connor's recent stint in sick bay, we're facing the uncertainty of where we'll be next year and how the hell we'll make a living, and we're currently maxing out the possibilities of our "getting by on the kindness of strangers" budget, but life is good — well, for me and Connor, at least. Stacey's gotta go to work every day, the poor lass.

Today was a gorgeous day, with temperatures hovering in the low 70s and just enough clouds in the sky to keep the impending heat of summer at bay. After a few routine errands, Connor and I headed to the playground. For most of the time we spent there, we had the slide, swings and sand all to ourselves. After about 45 minutes, a mom with two kids showed up — a 14-month-old and a six-year-old. With her attention focused solely on the younger of the two siblings, we found ourselves with a new playmate. Connor was jealous of this kid's sandbox toys since figuring out new ways to get sand in my shoes is one of his favorite pasttimes. Our new acquaintance was gracious anough to let Connor play with his shovel and dumptruck, but, the tradeoff was that this boy became Connor's play boss.

"We're going to fill up this bucket, okay," he'd say, and Connor would politely oblige, fulfilling every duty he was instructed to complete.

After playing for a while, the boy decided that they needed to bury the dumptruck in the sand. Realizing that Connor wasn't understanding what he wanted him to do, he said, "we're gonna bury it — you know, like they do to people when they die?"

His mom, who had been oblivious to her elder son to this point, quickly snapped to attention and scolded him.

I understood her concern, but couldn't stop laughing. Suddenly, I had a realization: If Connor spends enough time around other kids, he'll learn about everything that we're scared to talk about with him.

Suddenly, daycare is starting to look more appealing.

"If I Can't Change Your Mind"

2006-04-27T19:59:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-04-26T22:39:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-04-25T21:58:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-04-24T20:23:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-04-20T18:32:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-04-19T17:53:00.000-04:00

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.