Boo!

This Invisible Man costume seems to be working out for me this year.

Detox or Die Trying

My body is a temple that each summer is desecrated by Mr. Sam Adams; his London buddy, Mr. Gordon; and assorted hangers-on. Thus, with a chill in the air signaling the end of elastic-waistband shorts, I knew it was time for something radical.

Detox.

Not Betty Ford (that would be "rehab" for those scorin' at home), but a detox diet. Get all the poisons out of the ol' system, reinvigorate the ol' noodle and recover all the randomly dropped "d's" and "g's" in my writin'. Maybe I'll even lose a few pounds and be worthy of the post-Jenny Craig Valerie Bertinelli. Rrrrowl.

Someone I trust recommended a best-selling three-week regime. This person lived to tell, so it must be a winner.

Then I read the detox details.

People, be leery of a 200-page book in which 126 pages are testimonies from Twinkie-stuffed bozos. Fred flippin' Flintstone, I didn't pay $24.95 (plus tax in you liberal, unpatriotic, unreal-American states) to hear about your problems!

Next, be suspicious of chapters dedicated solely to explaining why enemas are your best friend. Sorry, but coffee only enters this body through one portal and, pal, it is on a different end of the digestive system.

Then, worry if you need to buy a warehouse of supplements to fill the nutritional gaps caused by the cleansing. (Note: To save money, most of the supplement ingredients can be scraped off the floor of your local nursery. Also, did you know aloe vera leaves your skin soft and supple when you apply it externally and your intestines' smooth and silky when you consume it? Consider yourself educated.)

The actual detox instructions came down to this: eat only vegetables, especially dark leafy greens, but only after you boil them beyond recognition, toss most of the nutrient-filled water, then stick the remnants in a $500 juicer that renders them completely unrecognizable and tasteless.

(Oh, there was also a warning that detox-ers with unresolved "issues" in their lives may experience suicidal thoughts and bouts of unexplained public nudity. But this is just "a hiccup in the healing process," so don't panic.)

Sounds fun -- let's go!

Day 1: Not bad. You eat every two hours. By "eat," I mean you drink quarts of enzyme concoctions and herbal teas. All these things all fruit flavored, yet a nice crisp Macintosh violates the detox. Go figure.

Day 2: I'm peeing every two hours. Dear Lord, am I pregnant?

Day 3: Lost 4 pounds. Still, chamomile tea tastes like ass. And not Victoria's Secret quality, either.

Day 4: Neither light-headed nor dizzy today. I feel like I lost an old friend. I eye the stale box of donuts in the trash. Hmmm …

Day 5: Down 6 pounds. I make "cleansing soup." Gallons of vegetables and seasonings later, mmm, it tastes just like ... water.

Day 6: Since I no longer chew anything, I give up brushing and flossing. Bonus!

Day 7: Dear God, no more [radio edit] herbal tea. They all [censored] SUCK! SUCK MY [digitally altered] MOTHERHUMPING [bleeeeeeeep]!!

Day 8: Down 9 pounds. I haven't gone this long without alcohol since high school. I don't seem to have the DTs. Confirmation that I'm not an alcoholic.

Day 9: I'm craving a cigarette, though I haven't smoked in eons. Is detoxing like sex? Assuming sex is like "vegetable" juice, distilled water and gallons of [redacted] herbal [cuckoo] tea.

Day 10: Seeing the 180s again! This is because my body is free of all heavy metals, insecticides and other poisons. Or because I'm consuming only 348 calories a day.

Day 11: The book's last chapter warns about coming off detox too soon. Could send my body into fatal shock. Now that's incentive.

Day 12: Dropped 13 pounds. It's not that I miss food. I just miss flavor. Any flavor. Except [deleted] herbal ass tea flavor.

Day 13: Screw it. Going for a latte and a maple nut scone. Life's too [buuuzz] short to be thin, healthy and miserable.

Day 14: Went to Humor-Blogs.com and fattened up my rankings with many a smiley face.

Sleeping With My Daughter

It started innocently enough. Thing 1 began navigating the prison walls known as her crib at about 16 months, so we moved her into the spare double bed across the hall. That became my first mistake.

The bed was big enough and comfortable enough for two -- obvious, given it came from my swingin' bachelor days. (Did I mention it was only lightly used during my bachelor days? Insert your best guess as to why.) Nearly every night Thing 1 and I snuggled in until she fell asleep. One successful strategy consisted of me yawning as often and loudly as possibly to pass on the nighty-nighty contagion. It worked so well that most nights I conked out right next to her.

We were at the point of breaking this relationship off for the first time when she developed a horrible muck-filled cough. It was aspiration pneumonia -- a complication of what we later learned was her adventure with the autoimmune disease juvenile dermatomyositis. Now I felt a need to be there next to her in case she started choking on her own gunk during the night. That, and -- I was assured -- I was not required to assist in any way, shape or form with the breastfeeding of Thing 2 going on in the master suite.

Flash forward a few years to a new home, our current one. The bachelor bed has gone to a mysterious Mexican man from Craigslist under condition he'd used it only for religious experiences. It was replaced in our home by an even more comfy, more roomy model from Ethan Allen. The cough is gone but now Thing 1 had another issue -- monsters.

I assured her the contract we signed on the house had a "no monster" clause. I produced a state-and-county licensed inspector (who looked and smelled much like our old newspaper delivery guy) who certified the entire property as sprite-, spirit- and demon-less. I even walked her about her pink bedroom with a lit candle while I chanted sacred anti-beastie hymns that only the most discriminating ear would have recognized as vaguely similar to what the monks sing before the Holy Hand Grenade sequence in "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

It took quite some time, but in the Year of Our Republican-Endorsed Lord 2008, we finally had two breakthroughs. First, Thing 1 stopped requiring me to cradle her head with my arm and shoulder. This has helped restore full feeling and circulation to the arm I use to change our home's many lightbulbs. Ah, my screwing skills haven't been this sharp since the Clinton administration. Second, one day this spring, Thing 1 made a proclamation:

"I'll stop needing someone to sleep with me when I start third grade."

Third grade is now entering its eighth week. It's been a slow, gradual withdrawal as we've tapered our co-habitation time from five minutes to now just 30 seconds. In a week or two, I expect to be able to give her a peck on the forehead, flick the switch and walk away.

Unless, of course, someone, say, leaves the front door open a little too long on Halloween night …
If I didn't put you to sleep, go to Humor-Blogs.com and give me a smiley face before I fall any lower in the rankings.

The Treadmill of Reverse Sexism

I had three main fears about taking the stress test:

• I'd have a heart attack on the treadmill.
• I would survive the actual test, but the results would definitively prove I did have a something more than an overactive imagination causing my occasional chest pains.
• I'd survive, have a clean bill of health, but My Love would kick my ass in the time trials.

Face it, I have ceded most of my so-called manhood in this married life. She brings home the bacon, I save the drippings in a Martinson's coffee can for unspecified use at a later date; she manages the household expenses, I clip the coupons and take them to the Stop 'n' Shop on triple bonus cash back day. I'm cool with all this … because the chicks dig it … once they pick themselves up off the floor from the laughing … and call their husbands or boyfriends to goof on me.

However, I will not lose to My Love in a foot race.

Sure, she's completed four marathons and one half-marathon in the 17 years we've known each other. She's also kayaked across Long Island Sound while I was sidelined with panic attacks and seasickness. However, on land, in anything under a few thousand yards, she's eating my dust … assuming one creates dust when running under the weight of an imaginary elephant on his back.

No sooner did I stumble out of the torture chamber, uh, stress test room, I came across My Love in the waiting room, sipping on a vitamin water with a wedge of lemon and a little umbrella in it. (I might have been hallucinating from lack of oxygen, but I also think she was using a Crazy Straw.)

"How'd (cough) you (hack) do?" I asked.

"I did well," she said. "Made the 'good health' category."

"So (blech) did (wheeze) I!"

"I could have made 'excellent' but it would have meant two more minutes of torture on that machine."

"Me, too! (groan) Wanna find (ack) a supply closet?"

"Stop it."

"So," I asked, "what was your time?"

"I got the 'good' category."

"I know that, but what was your time?"

"I didn't know this was a competition?"

"It's not," I lied. "I'm just curious. I've given up on you ever telling me your weight, so humor me on this one."

"Bite me."

"Any time. Now what was your time? I did 22 minutes, 17 seconds. 'Fess up."

After throwing on my "concerned spouse" face and laying it on thicker than Cindy McCain's foundation, she confessed to doing a little more than 17 minutes.

"What?! Women only have to do 17 minutes to qualify for 'good'? What happened to equal rights? Did Bella Abzug wear those horrible hats in vain? I declare reverse sexism! Bi-as! Bi-as!"

But deep down, under the façade of protest and insult, I laughed the laugh of man whose freshly shaved chest was swelling with personal pride. Or cardiac fluid.
Can I get a defib over here, stat? Go to Humor-Blogs.com, register and give me a smiley to jump start my heart and ranking.

Stressing about testing

Some people celebrate the onset of middle age with a new Volvo C70 hard-top convertible (uh, that would be My Love). Me -- I spent it trying to maintain my dignity by not flying off the back of a moving treadmill.

If you've never taken a stress test before, you've probably seen one done on any of the zillion of medical shows on TV these days. My turn on it resembled a cross between "Mystery Diagnosis" and "Scrubs."

In retrospect, I'm happy it just didn't turn into "CSI." After all, who hasn't heard the following story at least once in their lives:

"(INSERT NAME HERE) was doing just fine. Then he went to the doctor for a physical and BAM! Coronary on the treadmill. Had to scrape bits of him off the walls."

I asked my test technician about this, hoping to uncover an urban myth.

"Oh, sure," he said. "It happens."

Someone should tell him that such an honest answer is not the way to an "exceeds my expectations" score on the patient satisfaction survey.

"But," he continued, "if you are going to have a heart attack, having one of during the stress test is the best time. You're already hooked up to all the right monitors and you're surrounded by doctors and the necessary equipment to save your life."

Then he started shaving my chest.

This was the second time a man had ever shaved me before. While not on my list of life's pleasures, this go-round did beat the time it was performed by the urologist.

And, we're moving, we're moving …

So, now, I've got circular sticky patches and wires galore on my body. Zero hour has come.

"You'll be walking at a brisk pace, 3.3 miles per hour," he said. Every minute, the incline will increase one degree. Don't hold onto the bar. Just use it to balance yourself briefly when you need to. Let's go."

The first few minutes were deceivingly simple. I'm on a lovely stroll! Up a little hill! Watching "SportsCenter" and debating the evils of the designated hitter with a man in a white jumpsuit! How pleasant.

After five minutes, I'm eying the clinic's "stress test record holders" who are framed on the wall in front of me. I recognize a few names. They're all marathon runners. Hey, only 26 minutes more to go before I kick their asses!

Then, somewhere around Minute 13, I started rocketing through the Five Stages of Grief over my own body's flabbiness:

Denial -- That clock has got to be slow. It's been at least an hour!

Anger -- I am going to kill my wife for talking me into this stupid physical!

Bargaining -- If I live, I'm never even THINKING about cheese again. Or red meat. I'll give up sugar, too. Jane! Get me off this crazy thing!

Depression -- Dear Lord, I'm going to die in a backless paper gown.

Acceptance -- This gown is a lovely shade of blue, isn't it. Carolina? Mmmm, more of a periwinkle, I think. It will go nice with the blood splatters.

I made it to 22 minutes, 17 seconds before my legs went jelly. I probably could have stumbled and sweated another two minutes to move from the "good" to "excellent" health category; however, being wheeled out on a gurney would have been so anticlimactic.

If you enjoy my pain, go to Humor-Blogs.com, register and give a smiley face ... and some oxygen -- stat!

Touch Me, Touch Me Not

To learn the story behind this note, you will need to read my post on DadCentric today. Or you can just hang here and make your best guess.