I've Got 99 Problems & My Zipper Is 1

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?”



Can We Pleeeeease Have Sex?

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.”

('’)