 |
My conversation with the school nurse at the start of every academic year ends with me say this: If anybody comes down with chickenpox, call me immediately -- it could save my daughter's life.
Chickenpox – deadly?
Most adults remember chickenpox as an irritating childhood rite of passage. No one ever died from excessive itching, right? I didn't, though I still bear a small, circular scar on my right cheek from my fingers getting the best of me during my bout. U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention statistics, however, show that before development of a vaccine in the mid-1990s, chickenpox killed more than 100 children annually and hospitalized over 10,000 for complications, including pneumonia, meningitis and encephalitis. The more severe consequences tended to happen to those with underlying health issues, such as a comprised autoimmune system.
My Love had an air of curiosity in her tone when she said this over the weekend:
“The neighbors said they saw you out running this morning. They said you looked … ‘very intense.’”
“Yep, I saw them,” I said, digging through the mini-fridge for hoppy re-hydration. “And that’s how I look when I ‘m concentrating on not dying.”
I sensed her glare without turning around.
“OK. Concentrating on not dying more than usual,” I clarified. “No one wants to be found a victim while wearing Day-Glo green sneakers and sweaty jogging shorts without underwear.”
+ + +
I run on Sunday to put an end to Juvenile Myositis. I’m about $3,000 shy of my $15,000 goal.
Give online today at http://tinyurl.com/CureOurMegan or send a check to:
Cure JM Foundation
Attn: 2013 Chicago Fundraiser
836 Lynwood Drive
Encinitas, CA 92024
Don’t make me sweat and risk cardiac arrest in vain.
I’m winging my way cross country to Houston today to attend the second-coming of the Dad 2.0 Summit. (Needs a proper sequel name. Dad 2.0: Part Deux-Doo? Dad 2.0: The Other Parental Unit Strikes Back? Dad 2.0: Eclectic BoogerWiper-aloo?)
Reading, really. Aloud. One of my blog posts.
I’m not going to pull one of those “oooh, I’m so shy and socially awkward that I need Xanax to walk out to the mailbox” routines on you in an attempt to fill the comment section with all sorts of “you’re so brave – hugs!” I have plenty of personal hang-ups (just ask My Love) and the occasional panic attack but general social anxiety and agoraphobia are not among my many issues despite the fact I spend the majority of my time home alone. (New sequel name -- Dad 2.0: Lost in the Houston Four Seasons.)
In fact, when I found out I was going to read before 200 or so peers, I couldn’t have been more stoked.
“Finally!” I thought. “I’ll be able to complete an entire sentence without a member of my family interrupting me.”
Yet, I do have one fear. The fear of not being able to talk.
After two long days of extensive online research and opinion soliciting into new laptops, I have announcement.
I’m exhausted and intensely confused.
SSD. HHD. Hybrid. Hybrid? These things run on unleaded now?
Lightweight. Ultrabook. Convertible. What the … I’m not buying a car. Which would be far easier. My requirements for a vehicle are simple: start, go, turn and stop on command; don’t explode or fall apart in between.
“Why so stressed?” asked My Love, brushing off another fallen strand of my hair from her shoes. “You should be excited. This should be fun research. new computer! Oooo, shiny shiny!”
Spoken like the indiscriminate, sporadic consumer she is. You remember her bulk shopping sprees at farmers’ market that lead to the Summer of Freshly Rotted Vegetables. Here’s a more recent example:
I opened the kitchen cabinet where we keep our vitamins and Li’l Diva’s daily meds a few months ago to discover, in a rare unsupervised trip to CostCo, My Love had purchased half a dozen boxes of low-dose aspirin. In all, 216 tablets.
“I heard a daily aspirin is good for your heart,” she said.
True enough .. if you have a heart condition. She doesn’t and I’m constantly reminded I only imagine I do. Otherwise, they are good for aches and ulcers. Creating ulcers, that is. I’m ahead of the curve on that one.
Back to the research.
i3. i5. i7. Hut-hut-hike! Punt!
SATA. mSATA … Aaaaugh – my head feels like it is going to explode.
Oh.
Dang that woman of mine.
But first, the non-pandemic news.
As you see in the graphic, I ran my first major 5K in a decent 29 minutes and 8 seconds. This put me squarely in the middle of the pack of people my age (last gasp before the rapid downhill slide) and gender (hmm … yep, still male). Proof you can’t spell “mediocrity” without “me.”
Except for misestimating the location of the finish line three times, my run went down as smoothly as the two free beers the organizers gave us runners afterward. Drinking at 9 a.m. after exercise and almost no breakfast may help explain what happened next …
Hi. My name is Kevin. It’s been nine weeks since I started training to run Saturday’s 5K to raise money to find a cure for juvenile myositis.
My lungs are strong. I might take up smoking.
My thighs are -- hey, stop that! My Love does not want you thinking about my thighs.
My calves are chiseled. Like sculpted butter.
I ask, “Where is Jennifer Garner and her rubber gloves when I am in my hour of need?” Yeah, probably oiling down that Affleck clown.
Today, I’ll drive five hours to Baltimore where I will meet my fate. On the outside, I am going to be the happy-go-lucky-sarcastically-whiny ol’ self you’ve learned to tolerate. Inside, I’m going to be a gooey heap of wet linguine because I’ve been carbo-loading for 19 days. My pee is pure starch. Lumps included.
Actually, I think I’m going to be fine. I’ve have never missed or cut short one of my training runs as much as I’ve wanted to. If I can motivate myself without anyone watching, I’m sure I’ll do even better when pushed by several thousand other runners exuding confidence, adrenaline and rancid B.O.
Here’s some of my tips, observations and thoughts from this whole hellish process:
In an uncontrollable fit of neatness to avoid actual work this past weekend, I cleaned my drawers.
Not those drawers, which are done on Monday with the rest of the family unmentionables, but the filing cabinet drawers in my home office. That reminds me, we’re out of Shout.
After sorting through a desk full of paper that means nothing at all, I found a thick packet filled with colors and textures in paints and crayons and markers and pencils and stickers. It was the kids’ artwork from the days when I was still the center of their world instead of that guy who knows all the parental control codes to the household electronics.
I went through all the papers. The homemade Father’s Day cards, the school art projects, the five-minute masterpieces made on long summer days between snack and cartoon breaks.
I pitched a few things that held no special significance, such as a sheet with randomly placed shark stickers Excitable obviously created and a coloring book butterfly outline polka-dotted with splattered water color from the Li’l Diva.
Then there was this:
I hate them.
I exaggerate.
I only hate every fiber of their obnoxious “put down the Doritos and look at me acting all superior and health-conscious” beings.
Know who hates them more than me?
My Love.
But only because she can’t be one of them.
After running two marathons and three half-marathons over the years to raise money to help find a cure for Li’l Diva’s juvenile myositis, My Love has been officially scratched from the Baltimore Running Festival on Oct. 13, 2012. She goes under the knife next week to repair a torn meniscus in one of her knees.
In her place, will be …
While there are many tricks to raising a healthy scholar, tricking children into what's good for them is frowned upon these days. Blame those self-appointed "experts" who subscribe to the child-rearing theory known as the Sanctimonious Helicopter Attachment Drone of Uptight Parenting, or just SHAD-UP.
So what can you do as aside from giving junior daily baths in free-range, grass-feed hand sanitizer?
Poke the kid silly with syringes! Preferably ones loaded with bacteria and viruses!
Vaccines have proved to be highly effective at warding off many childhood diseases, so make sure your little one is up-to-date on all required shots before the school year starts.
But wait – there's more!
Scientists who actually got out of the lab enough to meet members of the opposite sex and spawn a child or two, sometimes on purpose, are developing some super new vaccines. The following are currently under review by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (now a fully owned subsidiary of ConAgra Foods, a division of Google and a Spike Lee Joint):
A Claritin here, a Zyrtec there, Benadryl everywhere and all will be fine in a couple of weeks, so I thought.
Then the sneeze.
A quarter-size red bubble on the white tile floor.
Off to the doctor we went.
Not my doctor.
My dog’s.
All you need to know about a dog having blood come from its nose is this: It is never good.
You’ve been seeing a lot less of me lately.
Roughly 30 pounds less.
(Oh. You meant my online absence. I’ll explain. In due time. Honestly.)
I had what you may call a transformative moment, an epiphany if you will, about 18 months back following my annual physical.
My blood pressure was slightly elevated.
My cholesterol, a few ticks into the red.
Most importantly, I had trouble buttoning my pants.
Having spent most of my adult life in a 34 waist, in the year previous I had moved to a 36.
Then, a 36 with a “comfort waist.” That’s a 36 with an extra few inches of elastic hidden in the belt line. Lands’ End is Genius.
Eeeeee-vil genius.
How desperate are people for me to get rid of this growth on my face?
The folks at Philips Norelco not only sent me, free of charge, their Vacuum Stubble and Beard Trimmer Pro but also their super high-end SensoTouch 3D Electric Razor.
Then they forked over $15,000 to the cause our band of Movember Dads has been growing these goofy things for.
All I had to do is use them … and let the world watch me as I did:
Ahhhh. Smoooooth.
Thing 2 has already said he’ll let me kiss him again since I’m not so “prickly.”
Thing 1 was too busy texting to comment. Once the cell phone battery dies, I’m sure she’ll look up and say something. Maybe even something nice.
My Love … well, she says she likes me better clean shaven but I think secretly she dug the ‘stache. Let her pretend she was snoring next some strange other man every night.
Well … strange, definitely.
# # #
If you want to be smooth like me, I can hook you up with a special holiday rebate on the SensoTouch. Just click that link in the previous sentence.
The FTC Full Monty: Philips Norelco and its PR firm, Zocalo Group, sent me the razor and trimmer for free. No charge whatsoever. I used them, filmed it and wrote about it solely for the money - a $15,000 donation to our team raising money to fight prostate cancer. For that, my fellow "bros in mos" and I are incredibly grateful. Nonetheless, the opinions and typos contained in this post remain mine and mine alone.
To quote from Raiders of the Lost Ark:
“Marion, don't look at it! Shut your eyes, Marion! Don't look at it, no matter what happens!”
The mustache has only hours to live. Don’t let it die in vain.
Please donate to help the Movember fight against prostate cancer. Our team has raised more than $17,000 this month thanks to generous (and hysterically laughing) people like yourself.
His face not blurry. It’s distorted by steam rising from the pot. Turkey chili. With free bread.
Mmm, mmm -- NO SOUP FOR YOU ‘TIL YOU DONATE!
Maybe you get him over the $1,000 mark, he sing Freddie Mercury song for you. He does good “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”
You want “Bohemian Rhapsody”?
TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!
I'm at the point in this mustache growing gig where I'm hesitant to leave the house for fear of having to make visual contact with others while having this THING on my face.
I’m even embarrassed to look you in the eyes.
However, venture forth I must. Today it was the dentist’s office for my semi-annual cleaning.
Whereas strangers I encounter who see this caterpillar orgy going on around my lips have no clue I don’t normally look like I’m auditioning for the part of Otto in a remake of A Fish Called Wanda …
… it’s a different story with my dental hygienist.
I see her only once every six months for maybe 20 minutes at a shot, but it’s possibly the most intimate relationship in my life outside of my marriage.
Think about: Would your partner ever floss you? Would you trust him or her to poke around your soft tissue with a sharp metal object? No. Besides, it’s hard not to feel a certain bond with someone when you have little choice but to stare up into her pale blue eyes while she stares down at the tarter build-up on your No. 17 occlusal surface.
So no sooner does she sees me standing in the waiting room yesterday and it’s all “so what’s, uh, going on, uh with that” and lots of index finger circles around her mouth.
I lay out my tale and she’s at least amused if not confused. Trying to explain the connection between growing a mustache on one’s face and the health of one’s prostate (well, you know where that is) has that effect.
Then it’s sexy time. Scrap, floss and polish. The ol’ rinse and spit. Mmm, give me that good oral hygiene, one mo’ time.
When we finish, she calls in my dentist of nearly 20 years for a final review of my choppers. And my facial growth.
“Everything looks perfect, as usual,” she says. “Except for that mustache he brought in with him.”
I ran through the whole Movember scenario with him and well, let me sum it this way:
I left the dentist’s office today with three sample tubes of Sensodyne toothpaste for a finicky filling and $100 to support men’s health issues.
I also left with the knowledge that if I ever need to hire my own PR person, she’s going to wear powder blue scrubs, latex gloves and scent of Cool Mint Listerine very well.
* * *
Now it’s your turn. Donate now to help my mustache in this Movember fight against prostate cancer and other issues threatening men’s health.
It’s Day 9 and I’m wondering … does this mustache make me look fat?
In fact donate now. I can’t suck in my gut like this for much longer.
No, really, do you see?
Look! It's right under your nose. I mean, MY nose. I'm growing what you would charitably call a mustache.
Or, to be exact, a mustache for charity.
Yes, friends, it is time again for those of us who are facial-hair inclined to change the month of November into "Movember," 30 days of growing lip sweaters to raise awareness of men's health issues.
Men’s health issues? Like what? Terminal beer gut? Remote control finger?
Turns out 1 in 2 men are likely to be diagnosed with some form of cancer in their life compared with 1 in 3 women.
While enormous amounts of pink are spilled annually publicizing breast cancer awareness for women, did you realize a man is 35% more likely to be diagnosed with prostate cancer than a woman is to be diagnosed with breast cancer?
I didn’t until last year when I first grew a soup strainer for Movember. That’s when you and others helped me contribute $1,300 to the fight against prostate and testicular cancers through the nonprofit Movember Foundation, which in 2010 raised more than $80 million.
This year, I’m at it again with a team of 50+, including again my partners in crime against fatherhood at DadCentric.com. I shaved late last night and now I again intend to put them to shame with my overt facial fuzziness.
Here’s what you can do help this worthy cause:
DONATE: Give a few bucks to support the growth between my nose and upper lip. Funds raised benefit the Prostate Cancer Foundation and LIVESTRONG - the Lance Armstrong Foundation.
JOIN IN: Whether you are facial hair proficient or not, you can join our team to raise funds and awareness.
(By the way, why “Movember”? According to legend, the movement started several years ago when a group of men gathered in an Australian pub decided to grow whiskers for a good cause. "Mo" is allegedly short for the "moustache." I've never actually heard that nickname used before, but I have seen enough Foster's Lager commercials to know those Australians have a different way of saying almost everything.)
