I am not on a diet.

I probably need to be. Beginning in early July, I started to notice that my lifestyle (fast drinks, fast food, no exercise, etc.) was starting to manifest itself in tighter pants. Those once roomy blue jeans started to feel a tad tighter around the man-parts.

I am loathe to exercise, though. I don't mind getting exercise by accident, but making myself sore for the purpose of making myself sore just doesn't jibe with my generally lazy attitude toward life.

The wife, however, is more than a tad into a new self improvement program. The early results are fairly striking. I don't dare go into specifics, but suffice it to say that the other night I felt like I was cheating on her when I stole a peek as she was getting ready for bed. Who is that woman?

The upshot of all of this is that I haven't been eating much either. Our frequent trips to the local Mexican joint have been cut back to almost none. Take-out? Haven't seen it. A huge meal slathered in butter and bacon from my devil-may-care hands? Haven't cooked one. What's more, I've had a grand total of four beers in the past 23 days and I've gone out to play cards once. Finally, I've reduced my diet soda intake by 80%.

Combine all of that with the fact that my buddies have either been ill, busy, or, in one case, caring for a newborn, and you have an Otis that has not been tending to his hendonistic side.

Frequent readers will note that my hedonistic side is, in a word, significant. I like huge, fatty meals. I like to take a drink or six. I like to be...okay, I'll say it. I like to be irresponsible. The combined factors above, however, have led me to a rather quiet lifestyle that, albeit healthy, leaves me wanting. For everything.

So, take a trip into my bedroom, if you will. The hard wood floors are shiny. The bed is soft. The pillows are feathery. The TV, while inadequate, is packed with hundreds of channels of DirecTV goodness. On any given night, I have choice upon choice of what I can watch before I go to sleep.

Every night I settle on pornography.

At first, I didn't think my wife would be interested. That kind of programming has never really suited her more delicate side. When I first turned it on, I expected her to sigh, roll over, put on a sleeping mask, and go to sleep. Instead, she grabbed my hand and squeezed. A small gasp escaped her lips.

"I want that," she said as a man with nimble fingers worked on TV.

I didn't respond at first and just watched her watch the TV. It was sexy and dirty and touched off every unsated nerve in my body. I heard her breathing quicken and had to steal a glance for myself.

Sure, Alton Brown was no John Holmes, but he would have to do.

For the past three weeks, the Mt. Otis television sets have been filled with little other than food porn. From Anthony Bourdain's exotica to Alton Brown's Dr. Ruth-style science, we have lapped up every bit of it. We've watched chocolate sculpting, how Pop Rocks get made, and reruns of Iron Chef (during which I developed an inexplicable crush on Iron Chef Cora as she berated her help for not removing the scales from a sea bass). If it weren't for an active Netflix account (make me your Netflix friend by clicking HERE) and an ongoing love affair with the Coen Brothers, we would be watching nothing but food programming.

I know what the experts say. This Food TV is a gateway activity. Before long, my wife is going to find me at 3am, naked in front of the fridge and eating sticks of butter whole. But I can't stop. Not right now.

I think Julia Child is coming on.

She gets me so hot.

Labels: Food, Health

I hate it when I get like this. It's nothing I can define outside of "uninspired." Even that isn't entirely true. The best word is "blank." I am 100% blank right now. It's one of those times where just about nothing sounds like fun and all my normal distractions (movies, books, poker, music, etc) lose their luster way too quickly.

If I were to write right now, it would be about the following things.

Sixty seconds away from my brother's house in the tony community of Kirkwood, Missouri, a guy walked in to a city council meeting and started killing peoople. Before he was done, he had shot seven people, killing two police officers, as well as some city council members and other members of city government. A reporter and the mayor of the city were also shot. At the very same time this was happening, a sugar refinery not too far from here in Savannah, Georgia blew up. At the time, the casualty numbers seemed astounding. I started flipping between every major cable news network. Here's a rundown of what they were showing:

FOX News: Britney Spears coverage
CNN: Britney Spears coverage
MSNBC: A pre-packaged hour-long bio on Hillary Clinton (funny enough, the DirecTV guide showed the program listing as "The Mind of Manson.")

I mean...come on.

I'm not a big Phish disciple, but I found this article absolutely fascinating. Probably something about being an aging husband and father with a wild and crazy history. Via Coventry.

My friend E asked me to write a guest post for her professional blog. She's a political reporter out of Austin who is getting ready to see the onslaught of national media and candidates in Texas. She asked for some advice she can pass along to her colleagues. My only regret is the censors cut out the only really funny thing I put in there. It involved the word genitalia. Regardless, you can find it HERE

Finally...the other day, I was perusing plastic surgery websites in preparation for a rant about the industry. I came across a doctor who specialized in...wait for it...vaginal reconstruction. I suppose I should've assumed there would be such an area of expertise. I didn't realize, however, how popular a surgery it is. Among the specialities within the specialties is labiaplasty. I'll admit, I looked at pictures, because...well, really, who doesn't want to see before and after images? Let me warn you. This is absolutely Not Safe For Work. Do not open this link if anyone else is around. I feel a little weird linking it at all. However, science is involved and I think we can all stand a little enlightenment. NSFW.

Yeah...let that carry you through the weekend.

Labels: Crime, Health, Music, TV News

I'm currently involved in medicine's version of finding Jesus in a foxhole. Last night saw me use the swab and spray version of Zicam. I also pounded a glass of Airborne. Do I think these remedies work. No. Am I willing to believe they work as long as they don't keep me from getting sick this weekend? Absolutely.

This will be the fourth consecutive year I've taken this trip. In 2004, I had a ball. In 2005, I didn't feel so great. In 2006, I got "just kill me now" sick. This year, I'm doing everything I can to get back as close to 2004 standards as I can.

If you're not a parent, you might not understand how hard this can be. The boy brings home two or three monkey viruses a month and between October and February remains in a semi-constant state of Centers for Disease Control attention. I thought I was in good shape when I got sick earlier this year. You know, antibodies and all. However, and maybe it is just my imagination, but I'm feeling a little stuffy, little scratchy, and a little bleh. Therefore, I'm in my foxhole and drinking zinc gluconate by the gallon.

Further compounding the problem, I am not at all focused on tasks that need attention. As a traveling companion wrote me this morning of his anticipatory glee, "I'm like a kid on Christmas eve. With ADD." Regardless, I am a year older today and am trying my best to act like the responsible human being I am supposed to be.

I'm going to be semi-off-grid for the next four or five days. Any news from the trip will take place in the Twitter feed to the left or, in the event of cell phone pics, in the Buzznet feed at the bottom-left.

I leave you with nature's birthday gift to me. For exactly three minutes yesterday, the sky was exactly as you see it below. Not so bad at all.

Labels: Health, Travel

I did the math.

By the time I get up from this chair, I will have spent the better part of 32 days sitting on my ass and staring at a computer screen. Like, for 12-15 hours a day.

Today, in a brief moment in the car (also sitting on my ass), I taught my kid how to say "atrophy."

I've put on 10 pounds in the past four months.

I lose the chains on October 17th. On the 18th, I'm going to the mountains, where I will likely sit on my ass.

But at least I won't be looking at a computer screen.

Labels: Health

It's pretty damned rare to find people later in life that you know you can trust like a brother. I've been fortunate enough to find a few of those people since I began this life far away from my real family. Among those kindred spirits is a guy some of you know and all of you have read about here. I call him Uncle Ted for reasons that would take too long to explain. He's neither an uncle nor a Ted, but he is like a brother to me. Since our friendship began, his family has become like family to me as well. Ted and I have been through a lot together, including my dad's near death and recovery from a brain aneurysm. During that time, Ted was one of many people I could count on to listen to me or talk me down.

Over the past few weeks, the roles have been reversed as Ted's dad Chuck (seen left) has gone through a really tough time. He's currently recovering from some serious cancer surgery. Ted's dad and mom have become like family to my family, so the weeks have weighed pretty heavy on everybody.

I've found it pretty amazing how many parallels there have been between Ted's situation and the one I went through almost four years ago. It like there is is script or at least an outline for what it's like to think your dad is going to die. I remember being in exactly the same mental place as Ted is right now and it's without a doubt the worst thing I have ever experienced.

Ted's dad is still having a rough go of it. However, I know this guy and there's very little that he can't conquer. He's my kind of dude--foul-mouthed, scotch-drinking, curmudgeonly, but as friendly and fun as you'd ever want in a guy. What's more, he loves his family in a way that every father should.

I've not written anything here up to this point about this. However, since Ted and his family have started up a blog to keep friends and family updated, I guess it's alright now. Back when my dad was in the hospital, we got tons of e-mails and comments on the blog I updated for my dad. I remember printing them all out and taking them to the hospital for him to read. Hospitals suck, but when you know there are people on the outside caring about you, it makes it a lot easier.

So, Ted, tell your mom and dad we love'em and to get back home soon.

Labels: Family, Health

My wife and I haven't been sleeping together.

For the past few nights, I've slept on the couch or in my office, curled up under an old blanket or with some random pillow that just doesn't feel right. At the moment, my relationship with the wife is such that if I see her, I walk in the other direction. If she dares enter a room with me, she knows she'll get nothing more than a finger pointed in the other direction. I barely have to speak to her anymore. She knows to get the hell away from me. And, try as she may, she can't bring herself to speak to me either.

Strep throat will do that to you.

I don't think I'm breaking any martial vows by telling you my wife's tolerance for pain is equivalent to a three year-old who knows doting adults are watching. She'd rather suffer years of water boarding than stub her toe. Of course, she is also the only member of this family to drop a seven pound weight out of her crotch, so I can't say too much. However, if I were going to say too much, I might say that she handles the pain of strep throat...well, I guess about like anybody else handles the pain of strep throat. I, for one, can't remember ever having been afflicted with the illness. My mom, ever the champion of the Mother Class, insists I did have strep as a kid and likely handled it pretty badly. She also tells me that it feels like someone took a heavy grade sandpaper and snaked out your esophagus. My wife just says it hurts worse than any sore throat she's ever had.

Yesterday her doctor, in spite of a "false negative" strep test, diagnosed my wife with a "nasty throat" and sent her home with some antibiotics. Where normally I might be a bit intrigued by the concept of a spousal nasty throat, in this case, I was willing the believe that the doctor--again, in spite of a negative test--was likely right. And even if she wasn't right, I still wasn't going to go anywhere near my wife.

Now, in normal cases, I'd be a real fucking hero about all of this. If it meant I had to lick said "nasty throat" to prove my love for my wife, I'd do it. I have a fairly decent immune system and only get sick once or twice a year. This time though, I can't afford to take any chances. I'm getting ready to go on an eleven day international trip, during which I figure to be working 16 hours a day or so and traveling on every mode of uncomfortable transport you can imagine (aside: there should be a law that coach must be described as "coach" and not "tourist class" or some other "class." Coach is coach and it means it will suck, no matter how you look at it).

Before the "nasty" diagnosis, I was avoiding close contact and deep high-school-style kissing with my wife. Now, she gets me in thirty-second shots (that's enough snickering from the peanut gallery). That is, I pop into the bedroom to bring her water or broth and noodle soup. She takes it, rasps something that sounds like "I love you" or "I wish you were dead" and crawls back under the covers. And me? Well, I'm Mr. Mom for a while. See, my kid's pain tolerance is better than my wife's, but he's still only two. And with me getting ready to hit the road, the wife can't really afford to give the kid Nasty Throat.

And so now, as the kid naps and I pound through my work-work, I realize I'm unshowered, unshaven, and generally disgusting. I've slept about 12 hours out of the last 72. I actually feel okay so far. However, if this continues for much longer, I'm going to have to see about finding some home remedy for the Nasty.

More on the upcoming trip to come. The kid is stirring and I need to wash myself.

Labels: Family, Health, Marriage, Mt. Otis, Parenting, Physical, Travel

I've been cooking with swiss cheese a lot recently. You know, a little cordon bleu, a little casserole, a little this and that. Cheese fetishes run in cylces, I think, and recently I've been feeling a little Swiss.

Saturday was one of those days when nobody should've been messing with a big block of swiss. Up late the night before, I was cooking for 25 people, suffering a work crisis that threatened to (and did) last for 36 hours, and helping my neighbor move five years of living into a 18-wheeled moving truck. There was no time for messing around with any kind of cheese, let alone one as haphazard as swiss. And yet I was. For lack of better sense, I was grating an entire block of swiss for a monster cordon bleu-y pasta salad I was whipping up to go with the grilled fare. In the end, I got a little carried away and grated the whole damned block. Work was pinging me on the IM machine, the moving truck guy was idling in the cul-de-sac, and the wife was giving me a look that said, "I love you, but if you don't put down the damned cheese, I'm going to put it in a hole you don't even know you have."

I had too much grated cheese.

My keen eye noted this as I filled up a bowl with enough pasta salad to feed 60 people (that eye wasn't so keen) and started cleaning up my work area.

"Something is wrong with the garbage disposal," the wife said.

This, as I have noted before, is my wife's verbal cue that something isn't working for her. Nine times out of ten, whatever it is works just fine. This time though, she was spot on.

Something was wrong with the garbage disposal. Flipping the switch produced a sound a lot like you get when you...ah yes, jam up some sort of motor. It was a strained "I'm about to burn out like a motherfucker" sound.

And this was a bad time for such a thing to happen. I had scraps of just about everything I'd been cutting that morning. Egg shells littered the countertop. Not to mention all the cheese.

Wait, where is all the fucking cheese?

Well, it's in the garbage disposal, of course.

Now, I don't fault the wife for putting about two cups of shredded swiss in the disposal. I would've and have done the same thing. However, this timing was especially bad.

After two minutes of using the old Garbage Disposal Reboot trick, I finally just shoved my hand in the small hole and felt for the problem Sure enough, the whole of the blades was gummed up with melted swiss cheese. It was a decidedly non-neutral situation.

Eventually, with the help of a spoon, my wife's smaller hands, and a lot of hot water, we got the thing running again. The crisis, however swiss, was over.

Later, after the work debacle, the move, the BBQ, and a few too many beers, I got to wondering about the swiss cheese. A simple sentence kept running through my brain:

You eat that stuff.

Now, given, I rarely eat two cups of cheese at a time, so my chances of gumming up the works to the same degree are slim. With that acknowledgement, I also don't have sharp blades spinning at several thousand RPMs in my gut.

Methinks it may be time to switch cheese for a while. It just might be time for something in the way of a Stracchino or Teleme.

Labels: Food, Health, Physical

I'm not sick. I'm not. I mean, yeah, I have some issues I should be dealing with, but who doesn't? At least I'm not sick. In fact, I've been fortunate this cold and flu season. Four days of wishing I was dead (in Las Vegas and Cincinnati, no less) was all I had to endure. It was a bad-ass illness, to be sure. For me, though, it was up and down relatively fast.

Relatively, you say? Well, yeah. Most people I've met have been dealing with it for a long, long time.

Right now, I'm sitting in the dark. I mean dark-dark. No lights, no TV, no radio LED display. If not for the light of this computer screen (and the ever-so bright light of my achey-breaky heart), I couldn't see anything. And maybe it is the dark that has me a little paranoid, but I'm thinking there has been a little something odd about this season's colds and flus.

Now, it's a given...I get around, govn'ah. I meet all kinds of people in all kinds of places. And, yeah, many of those places are not the cleanest of joints. Regardless, I've not known many people who have not suffered some dread disease this year. And most of them have described it as a lingering death march from the local drug store, to bed, to work, back to the drug store, to the doctor, and eventually to a priest for last rites...you know, just in case.

Now, maybe it's just that my fortunate life has led me to be acquainted with people all over America. Maybe I'm just a little more exposed the maladies of the country at large. Maybe it's just that I'm sitting in the dark at 2:30am. But, this year seems a little odd to me. It seems to me that more people are getting sick this year, they are getting sicker, and they are staying sick longer.

I remember one paranoid night in my garage about 12 years ago when I was talking to a med student friend of mine. He laid out the case for how our overuse of antibiotics was eventually going to make us terminally vulnerable to germs and bugs. I'm not saying that's what we're dealing with here, but I've seen more otherwise healthy people bedridden this year than I've ever seen in my life.

I got rather lucky. While my early December bout with the bug made me wish I dead for 48 hours, I recovered rather quickly. Many other folks have not fared as well.

So, I ask you, delicate reader, am I just being paranoid because of insomnia, darkness, evil spirits, and the ghost of Christmas past? Or do you think something is going on here? Because, I'm not one to go looking for monsters under the bed, but if they start knocking in the middle of the night, I'm at least going to take a peak and make sure they aren't sharpening their fangs for me.

Labels: Health, Hygiene, Physical