The Cleanse

30-day-doterra-cleanse-foods

I’m not really sure how it came about.  We went to the beach for Labor Day, and on the way home, I was suddenly told our family was doing the 30 Day Cleanse.  Like we stopped at Bojangles for lunch – a chicken biscuit, fries and a Coke, consumption for a normal human, and as we talked among the group at the table, Stephanie, Michelle, their two friends and Julie, my girlfriend, a decision was made that we were going to starve ourselves for a month.  How does that happen?  Bojangles to beets.  Good lord!

Michelle and her friend Kimmey were driving this train.  Kimmey used to be a vegetarian so the idea of colon restoration was taking her back to her 7th grade roots.

I don’t know much about cleansing.  What I do know is that several people I work with have gone through the process, and it can be ugly.  Dark rings around the eyes, grumbling stomachs at the staff meeting, and the temporary personality of Cinderella’s stepmother.  Very lovely people, turned evil.

“Hey Bob.  You wanna grab a beer after work?”

“I CAN’T you JERK!  Remember…  I’M ON A CLEANSE!  You trying to KILL me?”

“Geeze.  I forgot.  I forgot.”

I was told that sugars, grains, dairy and legumes could be having a negative impact on my health and fitness without me even realizing it.  And in fact, if legumes are having a negative impact on me, I do not know it.  Primarily because I don’t know what a legume is.  I was then assured that if I cut out carbs, peanuts, dairy, fried foods, beans, sugar, alcohol and everything else except meat, vegetables and fruit, that I would feel better, my skin would glow, my colon would work more efficiently, my pancreas would feel lighter, I’d have no acne, my joints would repair, and I’d develop the strength of a gorilla.  As Julie read more from the satanic magazine article that offered this self-help option, she reiterated that I could have all the vinegar I desired.

“Well.  That changes everything.”

This 30 day cleanse was guaranteed to change my emotional relationship with food.  I realize I have an emotional relationship with my mom.  I did not know that the green bean and I were that close.

I wasn’t necessarily opposed to eating more healthy, but this technique seemed extreme. I suggested that we actually spread the thirty days out – not do them all at once.  My thought was since Chic Fil A is closed on Sundays we should cleanse on the day of rest for thirty weeks.

I was voted down by the girls.  For some reason, the purge must be consecutive.

So we tried.

Monday was our last day of normalcy.  I ate all of the cookie dough in the fridge and finished a bottle of wine.  We went to the grocery store and strategically avoided the snack and cereal isles.  The cashier giggled as he rang us up.  He’s seen me before.  This was not normal.  I’m sure he was amused by the eggplant, brussel sprouts and and lack of legumes.

I hate it when I purchase produce at the store that is so odd the salesperson has to ask me what it is.  I feel so snobbish.  I’m sure he’s thinking, “Why can’t he just each Iceberg lettuce like a normal guy.”

On Wednesday we decided to introduce beans and dairy back into our diet.  I feel certain our diet didn’t even notice it had been missing.

On Thursday, Stephanie texted me, “I’m starving.  I’m done.” Bring on the Cheez-Its!

On Friday, Michelle admitted she had eaten crackers for lunch.  I admitted I had done the same the night before.  I had no choice.  It was a work event, and I was so hungry my colon was about to eat my light pancreas.  The only food at the reception was crackers and cheese.  What’s a guy to do?  The cracker guilt was killing me.

Pizza this weekend shot the cleanse to hell.  After 4 1/2 days of mildly expurgating my innards, my skin looks the same, my colon is unchanged and my pancreas feels as heavy as ever.  But I’m happy – I’m just really happy.

Good news:  we are all committed to eating more fruits and vegetables and limiting our milkshake intake.  Perhaps our cleanse worked after all.

 

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No Purex for Them

They came home today.  The two oldest, DJ and Stephanie, returned from ten weeks away working at summer camp.

Not only did they come home, their clothes came home.  14 loads thus far – and counting.

I’m used to the laundry.  I kinda like it.  It signals the end of summer and a return to normalcy.

And yet, I am perplexed.

There was a laundry facility at camp for staff.  I know for sure that my girls used the washer and dryer provided for two reasons:

Frist, they told me.

Second, I unpacked Tide from both of their laundry bags.

Yes.  TIDE!  As in Tide’s in, dirt’s out.

How is it that my kids are using Tide and I am washing with Purex?  Not that there’s anything wrong with Purex, but man, would I like to smell like Tide when I walk down the halls at work.  But no, my ongoing cost savings strategy requires that I settle for the least expensive suds on the shelf.  And yet, my kids don’t!  And the worst part of it is, they charge THEIR Tide to MY credit card!!

I’m smelling like 13 cents a wash, and they’re walking around with a $.78 cent aroma.

It does not make sense.  The dad should be the one splurging.  They are not even 21 years old.  They don’t have steady employment.  I fill up their cars with gas.  I use generic toilet paper so I can afford their school tuition (and sometimes it hurts).  But they are ordering sodas with their dinners (while I drink water), Ubering (while I walk), and washing their clothes with Top-Shelf detergent.

I bet the college dorm room has Charmin!

Geeze.  I wish I was my child.  I’d live a more lucrative life!

 

The NC Coast

Aniver and Annie

I did manage to bury two teenagers last week!

We went to the beach last week.  I wasn’t able to stay for the entire time – I had to commute to work a day or two.  Those drives gave me ample time to reflect on trips of years gone by.

When I was a kid, a member of my dad’s church allowed us to use their beach house in North Litchfield, SC, for a week each summer.  Man – were those some great trips.

I remember my parent’s had a sedan, not nearly enough room for them, my brother, me, and two friends.  For years we took the Mozena boys on our annual vacation.  Greg was Chad’s age and Steven was mine.  We traded cars with their parents.  Sid and Jerry drove a massive blue station wagon.  Jerry had built a huge wooden blue box that sat on the top of the car strapped onto the roof rack.  There was a seat in the back that faced the opposite direction.  My brother and I fought over who got to sit there.  I don’t remember who won – if I know my mom, she determined the exact mileage for the trip and made a stop precisely at mid-point to switch riders.  The woman is FAIR.

One year we took several other families with us for the week.  This house had a massive picnic table in the kitchen with two long, wooden benches on either side.  The group convened for a card game called Spoons which required you to sometimes dive for the utensil once someone put together a winning hand.  For some reason, my young teenage self showed up for the game in a bathrobe.  Just a bathrobe.  When I dove across the table to grab my spoon for the win, the robe flew up, and I presented my entire lower being to not only my family but also to Mr. and Mrs. Benner and their teenage daughter.  Thankfully I was successful at nabbing the spoon else my exhibitionism would have been in vain.

I have long passed the days of required sandcastle building and burying children in the sand.  I watched my brother and sister-in-laws work their asses off this week entertaining on the strand.  I drank beer and read having the occasional grown up conversation with Michelle and her friend.  I sort of miss the digging.  For years, my carved out living rooms with dug out sofas were quite the place to chill on Topsail Island.

One of my favorite memories is the night my entire family went on an evening walk to catch sand crabs.  We used buckets and nets as well as frisbees to capture the critters.  As we walked down the dark beach, I picked up wet sticks and made it a point to sneak up behind my mom and tickle her ankles.  She would jump a mile EVERY SINGLE TIME I touched her.

It just never gets old to scare grandma!

This year was quiet.  Only Michelle was able to come for the full week.  DJ dropped in for about 24 hours and Stephanie couldn’t leave her job at Camp Seafarer.

I hope that one day we can all reconvene to begin to form new traditions and memories.  I wouldn’t trade anything for that time with the family.

Late. Again.

bus

I was literally looking down the snout of my long nose at the poor parents who would not have their acts together this year.  I mean, I generally run late, but I have NEVER held up a bus for a school trip.

Last year it was a friend of Michelle’s.  I can’t remember where they were going.  Maybe to spend the night on the battleship in Wilmington.  The charter bus was packed and no Kimmy Gibbler.  All the kids were on, waiting.  I texted her mom.  Are you guys awake.  You know the bus leaves at 6:30.  It was 6:34.

She sent back and expletive – not for me, for herself.  I let them know she was running a bit late.

I had compassion, but I’ll have to say that on occasion when I get it right, I am so very proud.  I sort of relished in her misery.  I was actually THE parent with HER phone number who got to text and tell her they were late… because I, in fact, was on time!!  I seldom get to do that.  It was quite a treat.

I despise the parents who always get it right.  Their kids are on time.  They don’t forget things.  Their registration form is already in and they had their doctor sign the medical form.  More than once Nurse Huber has scolded me in the halls of St. Timothy’s for my lack of compliance.  I deserved it.  There are just so many rules.  I do not like rules.

Anyway, we were driving up Six Forks Road listening to my new favorite song, Sunday Candy by Chance the Rapper, headed to school for the eighth grade trip to Washington, DC.  I do like to drive up to school blasting new tunes.  Michelle, Stephanie and DJ keep me up to speed on musical trends.

I felt good.  It was 6:25.  The parking lot was less than 2 minutes away.  We could park, grab her bags and walk up the steps to the drop off spot and still be on time.  Score!

As I was waiting to turn off the four lane road into the shopping center parking lot, my phone rang.  It was an unfamiliar number.  It took a second to register.

Son-of-a-&*%#$.

I didn’t answer, but I knew.  I screwed up.

We parked quickly, grab the bags and scurried up the steps.  And there they were – every stinkin’ eighth grader on the bus, and worst of all, many of the parents, standing there wondering why the kids had not yet driven away.

As Michelle and I took the walk of shame, they got their answer.

I couldn’t think of another reason that those parents would stand around outside of the bus except to harass the last person.  The bags were packed, their kids were aboard.  The windows on the bus were tinted so they weren’t gonna wave goodbye.  No, they stood there to find out who the sorry last parent was going to be.  And it was me.

I kissed my kid on the forehead, tossed her bag toward the open luggage chamber at the bottom of the mammoth vehicle, and quickly walked toward my car.  I did not make eye contact with the other, more timely, adults.

The thing I’m most embarrassed about is that I, on my way that morning, seriously thought to myself: I wonder which family is going to hold up the bus this year.  I sort of chuckled to myself as I considered the others who are as disorganized as me.  It won’t be you buddy.  You’re actually early.  You’re such a good dad.

I was congratulating myself on Ridge Road and then got the phone call one street over.  Two exits down the beltline can make all the difference in the world.

 

Not from around here…

I was in San Diego last week for a conference.  It’s a really cool place – with really cool people.

I thought I was kinda cool.  After going there, I discovered I am not.  I am so, so not.

I also thought I was fairly open-minded, accepting of others and new ideas.  But maybe not so much either.

On Friday night, I went out in the Gaslamp neighborhood.  This borough sort of reminded me of Bourbon Street in New Orleans.  There was lots to see and do.  Skimpy clothes.  Lots of body art.  Piercings galore.  I’m good with all that.  I actually find it interesting to observe different kinds of people.

What I didn’t expect was a female bathroom attendant in the men’s john!

I walked into a fairly small area, a couple of guys in line before me, and there she was – tending the sink.  I don’t remember what she looked like or what she was wearing.  I tried hard to look the other way.  I did recognize that she was doing a great job of attending.  She’d pump the soap right into your hand and have a drying towel ready when you finished rinsing.  Her counter was full of essentials: hair gel, lotions, cologne.  She even offered a plethora of tobacco products for your liking.

When I approached the urinal, a young dude on my right and she on my left, I thought to myself you ain’t in Raleigh anymore.  Her phone rang, she answered.  The line of full bladders was growing outside the door.

I tried to concentrate for I really needed to go.  But I couldn’t.  There was simply too much for this simpleton.  I walked out as full as I’d entered.

I don’t want to be the person who gets stuck, who can’t accept the progressions of the world.  I could end up having a daughter who decides to build a career in the bathroom service industry.  I don’t want to thwart anyone’s potential.  And I hate this was bothersome to me.  But indeed it was!

My father accepted women Deacons in our church, and he was not raised with that mentality.  Perhaps I too will warm up to this idea.

Longing for Gray

Tampon

I raise money for a living.  I work at a large YMCA in the development office.  Currently we are working on a $117,000,000 campaign which will allows us to build five new YMCAs, renovate several existing Ys and camps, send tens of thousands of children to programs who otherwise could not afford to attend and grow our endowment.  Most people don’t like to ask folks for money.  I got over that about a decade ago.  I just really believe in the work that we do.

I often drive prospective donors around in my car to take them to programs or show them construction sites.  I drive a 2007 Acura MDX.  It’s a nice car that I’ve kept well maintained.  But it is old.  Each time I have an appointment, I try to remember to tidy up my vehicle wanting to make a good impression.

Recently, I pulled up to our downtown Y facility to pick up a couple I had never met.  They were older, a bit reserved.  I had forgotten to tidy.

I opened the car door for the wife and as she climbed in the back of my car, I noticed a number of tampons, in very colorful wrapping, dispersed across the seat and floor.

I dived in before her explaining my situation: “I am a widower and have three teenage daughters…” who apparently want me to get fired!

It used to be Cherrios I’d find strewn about my vehicle.  My how times change.

I don’t get this.  Do they just grab a handful and dash out of the house as if they’re taking mints from the checkout counter at Denny’s?  What good are they to them in the car floor?  Why not in a backpack or purse?

Why are they packaged in the most vivid colors available?  Neon green, yellow and pink.  You can’t miss them.  They glow in the dark.

On more than one occasion, I’ve been asked to hold a stash in my pocket at an event.  I’ve reached for my keys before and had a tampon explosion – dropping them on the floor and having to scurry around to clean up my mess.  At least they’re easy to find.

 

 

I wish women had pockets.  I wish cars had built in hygiene storage compartments.  I wish tampons came in plain, gray packages.

Stephanie, the Pickle Farmer

college visit photo

Another junior, another week of college tours!  Whoa baby.

What a great way to spend one-on-one time with your kid.  A car, a dad, a daughter and 947 miles of walking around college campuses.

The first one was interesting.  It declined from there.

Things I rediscovered about universities and making that all important, life-changing decision:

  • Every school has a blue light emergency system. This is pointed out at all of the schools for parents who are scared to death that their kid is going to be attacked walking across campus at 2 AM.  I am one of those parents.  I like the blue light stations.
  • For a high school junior female on tour, the cuter the male guide, the higher the satisfaction with the college. At Furman, half of the tour was given on long purple golf carts.  Stephanie and I had been near the back of the walking portion of the tour led by a cute, peppy female co-ed.  When the staff member pointed us toward the golf carts for the remainder of our visit, a blonde stud muffin with a million dollar smile stepped out of the driver’s side inviting us to embark.  Stephanie knocked over two other girls, three moms and a grandmother to sit on the row behind Sven.  I glared at her.  “I’m really interested in this college” she defended.  I should arrange for the cuter guides to meet us at the cheaper schools.  Seriously?  We can’t make a decision on where to attend college based on the hotness factor of the dude leading the tour!  That is NOT a good measuring stick.
  • At each school, the first question prospective students are asked is “What are you considering for your major?” Stephanie is undecided although she has some interest in psychology.  I suggested she share her potential major.  She did not.  She didn’t want to commit.  I told her it didn’t matter what she said on tour, that it was not binding – that they would not force her to become a child psychologist simply because she mentioned it in April of her junior year in high school.  As we drove down the highway, we saw a sign for Mt. Olive College (we did not tour there).  But since Mt. Olive is famous for pickles, I suggested when asked about her future vocation at the next stop she say, “I am considering becoming a pickle farmer.”  We wondered how that would go over at Wake Forest.
  • I was aware that most higher learning establishments housed a Starbucks. I was unaware that the most frequently asked question by students on a college tour was, “Do you have a Chic Fil A?”  I do not know why that surprised me.  When DJ went to college in Washington, DC, she picked up jogging as a hobby.  That was shocking since she absolutely HATES to run.  But then, I realized, she was not running for exercise or endorphin pleasure.  She was running to catch the Chic Fil A food truck.  There are no stores near campus so she had an ap on her phone that tracked the vehicle’s whereabouts.  If within three miles of her dorm, she would don the running gear and high tail it to chicken.  By the way, all but one of the universities we visited had a Chic Fil A.  So don’t panic.  One is near.

This is not my last child nor my last week of tours.  Although a bit boring and repetitive, I would not trade this time with my kids for anything.  What an incredible way to get uninterrupted time with someone you love.

An Ode to Nowak

 

Roses are red,

Homework is a bore,

Why do my kids wait to put the massive poetry project together

 the night before?

 

She knew it was coming,

and I did too.

Her sisters made the same mistake,

The night ends with boo – hoo.

 

Due in three weeks,

 she wrote hard for the first.

Then set it aside,

Oh Lord, we’ll be cursed.

 

I got back to the house

at 10 PM from a meeting,

the project was due in 10 hours,

was even too late for some cheating.

 

She wrote haiku, a couplet,

free verse and a sonnet,

Dad, get the glue out and the hole punch,

Although late, I was on it!

 

The writing was easy,

Putting it together was not.

A nice binder, and drawings,

The presentation, a lot.

 

With colored pencils, and crayons

And glue and some tape,

She worked and she worked,

Michelle was up really late.

 

And me, well I watched.

I coached from the side,

And picked up little round papers

from the hole punch til I thought I would die.

 

This is my last child

to learn from Mr. Nowak.

He has motivated my daughters

And taught them Shakespearean clack.

 

 

PHOTO = $100

You can’t do this.  It is illegal!!!  It is unfair.  Re-dic-u-lous!!!

This is the SECOND time that I have received a SPEEDING ticket when visiting DJ in DC.  Yeah.  Bad me for speeding, huh?  WRONG!

They don’t have police up there.  They just put a camera out and take a picture of you and tell you that you owe $100 without any dag gone proof that you have sped.

39 in a 25 zone they say.  Yeah.  Well prove it sucka!  I could take a picture of your damn car driving down the street too and SAY that YOU’RE speeding.  But I got no proof.

What are their policemen doing?  EATING DOUGHNUTS?

Get the cream filled, chocolate covered puff out of your mouth and get to work!  If you want to give me a ticket because I’m speeding, fine.  Do it like a man.  Follow me.  Turn on your stinkin’ BLUE LIGHT, walk up to my window and write out the ticket in cursive!

In Raleigh, our officers will track your butt down, with a vehicle, and give you a citation.  That is fair.  This is NOT.  They can’t even put points on your license for this infraction because it is stupid.  The insurance companies won’t believe them.

I am employed by the YMCA.  I can’t take a picture of someone I perceive to be out of shape, send them the pic, and charge them for a membership.  I have to work for it.  I have to advertise, give them a tour, and convince them that our services would make a difference in their life.

What the heck?

Nuggets from Dad

My mother enjoys sharing helpful little nuggets for life with my brother and me.

This week she forwarded an email that explained how to give yourself CPR in the event you have a heart attack alone.  For those who might find themselves in that situation, apparently you cough like a mad dog.

She has also warned of the foods most likely to contain Salmonella (her favorite bacteria): eggs and chicken; places where snakes might hide in your yard (near heavy shrubbery and near water); and the distance your fecal matter can travel if you flush the toilet with the lid open (2.7 miles).

Because I am becoming my mother, I now pass my own nuggets to my children.

Last week I saw a TV special on the growing use of heroin by teenagers.  Therefore, I sent a group text to my daughters:

I just watched a news segment on heroin use.  They said to tell your kids not to use.  It is bad.  It will kill you.  It makes your skin and teeth nasty which doesn’t even matter if you’re dead.  So stop using heroin if you are and don’t start if you aren’t.

Now I am fairly certain that none of them are on drugs, but I gotta bring the issue up regardless, huh?

These were the follow up texts I received from my children:

Stephanie:  I just threw out my stash and I’m already having withdrawals

DJ:  I’m too addicted I can’t stop

Michelle:  Dad I’m having trouble getting the needle in my vein.  Can you come upstairs and help?

Me:  You guys, this is serious!

They say to talk about issues with your kids from the get go.  So I do.  Sex, drugs, eating disorders, alcohol use – all are fair game.  I’m pretty certain that none of my dad warnings will do much good.  But, my hope is that it will open the doors of conversation, allowing us to be open and discuss whatever comes to mind – even the stuff that is a bit uncomfortable.