My son has what we call in the business, a problem “shutting the ole submarine hatch.”

Eight out of 10 times the boy goes to pee, he will undoubtedly come strutting out with his zipper wide open to the world. If he were John Holmes, he would have felt the breeze and nipped that little zipper problem in the bud a long time ago. But he’s only seven, and he’s packin’ heat the only way a seven-year-old can, and has no idea his junk has only one more layer of clothing to surpass before getting a front row seat to the world outside.

So I let him know…:

• “Hey Grayson, the cucumber has left the salad my friend.”

• “Grayson! You’ve got a security breach at Los Pantaloons.”

• “Whoa there slugger, Paul and Mary aren’t here so put Peter away!”

• “Hey man…you’ve got a hole in your jeans!”

The list is long, but they all leave the boy screaming, “awe come on!!” and buckling over to quickly zip his cage up while looking around to gage the level of embarrassment he should feel.

And the messed up thing—I swear the shit is becoming contagious. I kid you not, a few weeks ago I went to spend the day with the executive director of a potential job I may get, and that’s when the zipper-down-bug struck.

I’d been there at least two hours. I’d leaned back in my chair, arms on my head all confident during conversation. I’d crossed and uncrossed my legs many times. I stood at one point to talk on the phone for a couple minutes, pacing back and forth. It wasn’t until well into the meeting, when I was doing another kicked-back movement that I happened to look down and notice my zipper had its “O-face” on.

Yeah, it wasn’t just a half-way unzip, or an unzip with a small little pooch of a hole showing…no…it was as if I’d stuck a pencil in there to prop it open as wide as it could go, hung bedazzled banners around it and shone spotlights from all angles.

I dropped the Cool Hand Luke look like a bad habit and went into, doubled-over-I-look-like-I-may-shit-myself-if-I-don’t-find-a-bathroom-NOW look—which, in retrospect, is significantly worse than letting my potential boss know that I was sporting green skibbies that day.

Continuing to act interested and engaged, I nodded, took notes and dropped mad ideas. And, when the time was right, I said, “I’m gonna take a quick break and be right back.”

This nightmare has happened two more times to me, the most recent was a couples days ago at the Museum of Science and Industry when I discovered a docent checking out my “junk.” Out of habit I lightly brushed myself to get a quick blind-man’s read on why the stares, when I felt the dreaded openness.

The boy and I will survive. We’ll make it through this tortured time in our lives. Although, it does leave many questions unanswered.

• Why the hell is this dreaded disease so contagious?

• Will the boy eventually wear his button-fly’s open?

• Will that problem then head north and leave him with the horrific disease of Leaving-Your-Shirt-Half-Unbuttoned-So-Everyone-Can-See-The-Wolly-Mammoth-On-Your-Chest.

• If so, will he be destined to wear gold chains and rings, too?

• Will my son become a hack bowler, drink only Budweiser (a sincere plug to this wonderful company who should definitely be advertising on my blog), and comb his hair straight back?

• At what age do people stop telling your zipper is down?

• And, why, when it’s so much fun to say, “Hey, cowboy, wanna put the gun away?”



My son’s obsession with the Wii has helped me realize I ask the wifey for sex WAY too much.

Every day I hear the car door slam quickly followed by the pitter patter of feet running and the high-pitched tones of children giggling and laughing. One of them usually slams themselves against the front door in the heat of victory over being the first to the house. A key rattles in the keyhole as the wifey yells “JUST A MINUTE GUYS!!! BACK-UP!!”

The front door opens unleashing a flurry of flying book-bags, coats, shoes, and a flustered wifey. The girl tears-ass upstairs to immediately change into her jammies. The boy? Like a bloodhound he drops to all fours with his wet slobbery nose just inches from the floor and begins sniffing for any scent that ultimately leads him to me.

Within seconds he’s spazzing-out on my lap saying, “daddy can we play Wii? Please? You said yesterday we could play Wii and we didn’t even get to play that long so I wanna play longer this time and will you play with me please daddy? Wii daddy? Daddy! Wii!”

Every day this happens. And I love spending time with the kid and playing Wii, but the incessant and persistent asking to play Wii drives me up the wall. First thing in the morning. First thing when he gets home. Before dinner. After dinner. In the grocery store. Picking him up from school. Wii Wii Wii fucking Wii!!!!!

Then, like a fresh splash of clean oil on a broken down 1950s engine, my brain starts to work and it hits me! “Holy shit! This must be how the wifey feels about me asking for sex constantly!!! Oh my baby jesus…I have got to STOP doing this to her or I’ll never have sex again!”

The more I think about it the more I start to shudder at the thought of how completely annoying and unattractive my “game” has been over the past….oh shit…over the past decade. In a panic I grabbed a sheet of paper, a pen, and dropped some Mr. Wizard knowledge into a chart to compare my son’s Wii obsession with must-mount-wifey-now obsession. Here’s a few examples of what my brain managed to contemplate.  

#1

The boy NEVER wants to play Wii alone. He’s emphatic that I join him every time and gets upset if I beg him to just play by himself for a bit.

I get upset and throw a temper-tantrum when the wifey’s answer to my sex request is, “why don’t you just go upstairs and take care of yourself?”

#2

When I play Wii with the boy, he has to sit right next to me with arms touching. So while I’m maneuvering Mario through his maze of snapping turtles and angry walking mushrooms, I get poked and prodded by the fidgety mini-me who’s wedged his body next to mine.

The wifey will be laying on the couch comfortably and peacefully and I’ll slowly climb my cumbersome 6’3” frame in between her and the back cushions causing the blanket to get all fucked-up, pushing her forward so she has to put an arm down to keep herself from falling off and I grab her ass while saying, “hey there little lady. Wanna fool around?”

#3

After playing Wii for a while with the boy I’ll make the announcement, “OK bud, five more minutes and then we’re done.” That’s always followed by a whiney, high-pitched, “awwwweee…come-on daddy! We just started playing. I don’t wanna stop in five minutes. Pleeeease?!”

The wifey and I will be in the middle of one of the most amazing sex sessions of humankind with birds chirping louder, rays of sun beaming brighter, and all is right in the universe when she’ll say, “we should go ahead and wrap this up.”

And I’m all, “Awwwweeee…come on honey!! But we just started! I don’t wanna stop, pleeeeease…just a little longer?”

After completing this exhaustive list I felt ashamed. I felt how a fly must feel after finishing therapy for obsessively flying around a cow’s ass for many years—empty and full of motivation to just apologize endlessly. And, I knew that’s just what I had to do.

So, I walked over to the wifey who had just stood up to go upstairs to bed and I threw my arms around her and hugged her passionately. And before I could utter the first sympathetic apology she said, “Fine! Let’s go upstairs and do it.”

('’)

So a kick-ass lady-friend of mine on Twitter, @nuckingfutsmama, and I were asked by the sexy, lovely, and talented @toywithme on Twitter, author of the blog “Toy With Me,” to do a collaborative post for her. I can only guess it’s because the last collaboration @nuckingfutsmama and I did, “The Bumpit, the Snuggie & a Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” was one of her most favorite things she ever read causing her to print it out for all her family and friends as holiday gifts, to wallpaper her house with it, and to paper mache the most perfect vibrator with.

“Toy With Me” is a blog geared primarily towards lady readers filled with hilarious, in-depth, thought-provoking, and just all around damn good writing about all aspects of sex. She has four regularly contributing writers and often accepts guest posts. I couldn’t recommend taking a gander through her phenomenal blog any stronger.

The super-mom @nuckingfutsmama is the mother of twins and wifey to a man who apparently loves dressing as a Russian on weekends and relaxes in the most ridiculous Christmas sweaters ever knitted together by little old ladies held captive by Santa. Check out her blog here and enjoy the ride of the hilarious insanity that makes her nuckingfuts.

On to the Collaboration

My partner in crime, Ms. @nuckingfutsmama and I have tossed together another lovely story entitled Let’s Get It On. I have written “The Husband” lines. She, of course, has written “The Wifey” lines. It’s nookie-night at the bustling family of four’s house and the journey of the two love birds coming together for the wondrous act of love making is captured, line-by-line, for your enjoyment in this kick-ass collaboration.

Hope you enjoy! Click here to read Let’s Get It On.

It’s been some time since I last updated on my current situation.

The summary…Big-eared, gap-toothed freak gets job in Chicago, lives in empty house on air mattress alone in Chicago while his family tries to sell their house in Virginia, four months later said family moves to Chicago, freak works at new job for exactly18 months before being given a choice to stay at half the salary or leave and get full salary for three full months…gap-toothed freak decides to leave after searching soul and talking with friends, colleagues and family.

December 1, 2009, was the first day of unemployment and the beginning of a pretty incredible internal journey. I woke up and had nowhere to go. The kids went to school, the wifey headed off to her job, and there I was…disheveled, hung-over from feeling sorry for myself the night before, scratching myself, and looking around the house thinking, “OK…now what?”

I had a brief explosion of support from my kick-ass Twitter peeps. I pimped my resume far and wide, and met and talked to some really great, helpful people.

This is a really bad comparison, but I imagine this is kind of what it’s like when you lose someone close to you. You find out who your true friends are and they rally around you. And, for a short time you feel like you can conquer the world. But then they leave because they have their lives to live. They have their families to take care of…

Then I found myself one early morning seven weeks later standing there, disheveled, hung-over from feeling sorry for myself the night before, scratching myself, and looking around the house thinking, “I have absolutely no place in this life.”

What used to be 5 a.m. daily runs have turned into 6:45 a.m. snooze-bar workouts.

I drink more than I should at night because…well because fuck it, I don’t have to work tomorrow.

I didn’t shave or cut my hair for weeks and was introduced by the wifey to the term “beard funk.”

My son was sitting on my lap the other day and reached out and poked my stomach.

I find myself regularly and randomly telling the cat secrets and make him “pinky-swear not to tell!!”

After interviewing for what would be my dream job, I got an email letting me know they’re “pursuing another candidate.”

Last week I spent the day with the executive director of a great organization here in the Chicago suburbs. I’ve worked with her since I’ve been in Chicago and she wanted to discuss a new position being created that she wants me to take. She has to go through the motions associated with advertising it, but when all is said-and-done, she says the job is mine. Of course I won’t consider it mine till the paperwork is signed and I’m on board, but still it’s a huge relief.

And as phenomenal and fortunate as that is, I’m still here in this spot. The spot where I’ve stood since the day I was let go. Watching life pass by each day. A ghost of me interacting with my family and friends. Self pity lurking in every corner ready to be grasped as an excuse when needed.

So why am I not happy with this very fortunate news? And I realized, I’m ecstatic with the news, I’m just not happy with myself and how I’ve handled this situation. And even more so—I think I’ve been waiting for someone to come by and pick me up, fix things, show me the new course to follow, then pat me on my ass and say, “now go get em tiger!”

But life doesn’t happen like that. Life’s going to continue with or without me—that much I have learned. And I’ve got such a great group of family and friends—but they all have their lives to lead too.

All you parents out there who’ve seen Nemo 4,398,219 times remember the scene when Marlin and Dory are with the turtles riding the East Australian Current and little Squirt gets tossed out into the still water. Crush, the father, says, “let us see what little Squirt does flying solo.”

It’s time for me to move off this spot. It’s time for me to cut the hair, trim the beard, get back in my regular routine, and leap back into the wild ride of the current of life I’ve ignored for too damn long. No one’s going to come out there and grab me and pull be back in. I’ve gotta do it on my own.

The wifey and I have been watching the Showtime series Weeds like it’s crack. And during that time I’m watching teenage girls hooking up and can’t help but shudder at the thought of my precious little angel ever…OK, I just threw up in my mouth.

Anyway, during one such episode, I hit the pause button and said to the wifey:

Me: “Seriously…Macy can’t ever have sex.”

Wifey: “Here we go…”

Me: “No seriously…guys are assholes. She’s gonna get some douche that’s gonna totally hit on her and view her as a conquest and then bolt leaving her and us with a damn baby.”

Wifey: “Our daughter is not a mountain you idiot. She’s not something you ‘conquest’.”

Me: “You know what I mean. Like, take you for an instance. You were all new to the school…with your sexy tight white jeans… You came walking into class that first day and immediately I’m throwing on my hiking gear, phoning home to let mom know I’m headed out for a multi-month expedition and lining up my Sherpa’s.

Wifey: “You seriously liked those white jeans?”

Me: “Boy Scout’s Honor – I still have those jeans in a super secret hidden spot and touch them often.

Wifey: “Number one, you were never a Boy Scout and number two, you’re a sick bastard.”

Me: “I love when you talk dirty to me.”

Wifey: “Really? You’re gonna be THAT dad and deprive our daughter of a great teenage childhood all cause you think the entire male population thinks like you?”

Me: “Sweety…the entire male population thinks with their dicks!”

Wifey: “At what point does that change cause you’re 34 and I see no shore-line off in the distance!”

Me: “You’re feeling awfully frisky tonight…you wanna ‘go’ woman? You seriously want me to take off my shirt right now don’t you?”

Wifey: “Just don’t hold our daughter back from living her life and learning life experiences. We need to just make sure we remain involved, communicate, and teach her life lessons.”

Me: “Are you reciting an After School Special to me right now?”

Wifey: “Seriously…let her learn, experience and become a woman.”

Me: “Baby jesus I love when you talk like that. How can you be all calm and just sit there when I’ve just taken my shirt off for you?”

Wifey: “Oh baby, you look hot. Oh baby, I must have you now. Oh baby, oh baby.”

Me: “One day you’re gonna wish you were much nicer to me.”

Wifey: “So sum it up …what exactly do you want for Macy?”

Me: “I want every one of her dates to walk in the door and see me cleaning my gun. I want them to shake my hand, sit for at least 5 minutes with me, and give me the respect due to appreciate the fact you’re taking out an amazing piece of my soul and heart.”

Wifey: “That’s sweet honey, but pretty far-fetched. But you know what? I’m with you…cause she deserves the respect.”

Me: “Yeah she does. Let’s chest bump to that shit!”

Wifey: “Ummm…I gotta pee and will be right back for that chest bump…I promise!”

Me: “So awesome…I’ll be right here waiting baby! Miss you already!!!”