Should I Stay or Should I Quit

I was standing at the front door when both my boys came home last week from their first day of school. I was filled with excitement and nervousness. My youngest son is a 6th grader at the junior high, and I greeted him when he got home.

“How was your very first day at the junior high,” I said with more excitement then was probably necessary.

“I’m done dad,” he said very matter of factly.

“What do you mean? You’ve been there for ONE DAY!”

“Yeah I’m done. Not going back.”

About two hours later my older son who is a freshman in high school came walking through the door after a full day of school and two hours of soccer practice (he made the freshman team a week earlier despite not really knowing how to play soccer . . . I don’t have high hopes for the freshman soccer team).

“Well Chase, talk to me. Tell me everything. How was it?,” I asked again with the kind of excitement probably better saved for something a whole lot more important and exciting then completing one day of high school . . . . on a separate note, I may need to find a hobby so that I don’t scare my kids off with my over-zealousness in regards to how they spent their day at school.

“School was good dad, probably going to quit soccer.”

And just like that I had one kid ready to quit school altogether and another ready to quit freshman soccer less than a week after making the team.

I was being challenged. My kids were throwing down, and I needed to rise up. Be the kind of father who sits his kids down and says things like “Winners never quit, and quitters never win.” I needed to be the guy who reminded them that “Once you quit one thing, then you can quit something else, and pretty soon you’ll get good at being a quitter.”

Here’s my chance to actually parent. Do something more than just be the guy who hands his 14-year old kid a bottle of lighter fluid without thinking when he says “Having trouble starting the grill dad.” And for the record his singed eyebrows did grow back.

And yet . . . . is quitting really all that bad? Is giving up a crime? Maybe we simply live in a society that tricks people with false notions of honor for sticking things out. Or for staying.

I say people who won’t walk out of a bad movie, put a boring book down halfway through it (and that’s a shout out to my wife who ROUTINELY complains about her boring books yet WON’T PUT THEM DOWN TO START A NEW ONE!!!) or search for a new porn clip when there’s a dull scene, are not heroes but rather victims of a “staying society.”

We shouldn’t commend those people, but rather ostracize them.

You know that guy in the office who is all bitter because he’s been there for 20 years and has never gotten the recognition he deserves? He’s a stayer!!! You know what stayers get . . . they get a gold watch, a great funeral or maybe a retired number.

You know what quitters get . . . time. They get time. There’s a lot of stuff to try out there, and you may not get to try it if you don’t quit what you’re doing now to pursue something else.

You know what Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg, Bill Gates, Michael Dell, David Geffen, Larry Ellison and Ralph Lauren all have in common . . . well they’re all billionaires and they ALL QUIT college. America is about freedom and opportunity, which I’m pretty sure are just fancy words for quitting.

In fact, the next time I see my kid throw a board game and all its pieces into the air when he’s losing I’m not going to scold him, and call him a “poor sport,” but rather I’m going to commend him and tell him he’s probably the future leader of our country.

My wife pretty much quit giving me blow jobs once we got married, and I don’t think she regrets that decision. Come to think of it my to-do list consists mostly of things I need to quit . . . my landline, dessert, donuts, my porn habit, my cable service.

Obviously my 11-year old son is not going to quit the junior high. And I’m happy to report that my older son has decided to stick it out with the freshman soccer team, and I am convinced that he will be better for it (good work outs, some new friends, and a good way to get involved at a new school). And NO, I did NOT sit my kids down and advise them to turn and run every time things become difficult or unpleasant. All kidding aside, I don’t believe in that.

But I will say that while we may admire stayers, we celebrate winners, and maybe sometimes you gotta quit something before you can win. It’s called risk. Sometimes you have to quit the Cleveland Cavaliers to win with the Miami Heat. Sometimes being a quitter isn’t all that bad. Unless of course we’re talking about blowjobs in which case you’re just a sad, sad, sorry-ass quitter and you should be embarrassed and probably ashamed. Seriously!! Come on!!

I’m trying to figure out what to quit at this very moment so I can win something…anything…but nothing is coming to mind, so I’ll keep working on it.

The Viagra Story

I am always entertained by the comments I get from people after I post a blog. Yes, no doubt the funniest comments are from my mother, but there have been plenty of other funny and touching comments that people have left on my blog page.

But the majority of the comments and feedback I get are from people who just email me directly, and after my last blog I got a number of emails (and even one phone call) from people asking me about the “Viagra Story” I had mentioned.

At first I responded that I had explained the whole taking Viagra on an empty stomach “incident” in an earlier blog, but upon further review I realized that, while I had in fact made mention of this Viagra story a couple times, I had never fully explained it.

So, here it is…

I was in the office, and it was a busy day at work. Before I knew it the lunch hour had come and gone. Other than my bagel and coffee in the morning, the only thing I had eaten was a granola bar that I had gotten out of the vending machine.

But I was too busy to worry about lunch. A big dinner was no doubt in my future as soon as I got home.

I think the phone call came in around 3:00 pm. It was the Series II paddle captain calling to ask me to sub up on his team. I was a Series V player at the time, so this was like a Triple A player getting the call from the big-league club. I gladly accepted the invitation.

Unfortunately I didn’t have my paddle gear with me, so I had to head home first, grab my stuff, and then bust ass to Hinsdale to make an 8:00 pm match. Not quite Mission Impossible, but not an easy task to pull off.

I made the 8:00 pm match with about 10 minutes to spare.

My partner and I lost in about 32 minutes, so my “cup of coffee” with the big league club wasn’t as satisfying as I had hoped, but it still was nice to get the call.

I was back in the car and heading home by about 9:00 pm.

It was a school night, so by the time I got home both the kids were asleep, and my wife was already in bed reading. Since I was fighting a slight winter cold at the time, the first thing I did when I got home was pop two Nyquil. I figured I’d get those things kicking in so that I could sleep better at night. Walked over to the bed and talked to my wife for a few minutes before heading downstairs.

Now the story SHOULD END here. It’s a Tuesday night in the middle of January. It’s about 10:00 pm. I’m sick. My wife’s already in bed. And I haven’t eaten in literally 12 hours. A sandwich, a warm shower, a comfy bed and an alarm set for 7:30 am is how this story should end.

And yet . . . not quite . . . I think I was still riding the high of being called up to play for the II team. For some reason I was feeling good so I went back to the medicine cabinet and pulled out the Viagra that a friend had given to me awhile back. And no there is NO BACK STORY to why my friend gave me Viagra in the first place. It was just one of those things where a buddy tells you he’s got Viagra and you say “Give me some.” You don’t stop to ask why your 37-year old friend has Viagra, you just say “Give me some.” If your buddy says “Hey I have Zebra Cakes,” you don’t stop and ask questions, you just say “Give me some.”

So I had this Viagra pill, and I decided that Tuesday night at 10:00 pm was the time to take it.

So I did.

And by God about 10 minutes later it kicked in.

Head starts to throb . . . yes much to my surprise it was my HEAD that started throbbing first. Eyes begin to blur, and I know it’s Go Time!

Now I’m not going to lie. Viagra or no Viagra, getting my wife to agree to have sex with me on a Tuesday night was a long shot. Saturday night. That’s my night. I have Saturday night. I occasionally have Friday night. And if for some reason we’ve skipped Saturday night . . . well fuck you . . . wait until next Saturday night. That’s what I have. Tuesday night? Please. I mean unless I’m coming home as a different guy . . . say Brad Pitt, I don’t have Tuesday night.

And yet for some reason the stars were aligned, and the Gods were looking down upon me on this cold, wintry night, for my wife put her book down and gave me Tuesday night sex.

Again the story should end here. I have played Series II paddle, and had sex on a Tuesday night. Cross a few more things off the old bucket list and call it a day.

And yet. . . not quite . . . a full 20 minutes later Little Clay was still full of energy and ready to go. 30 minutes later he was ready to go. 40 minutes later he was ready to go. Of course it’s after 11:00 pm on Tuesday night so there is absolutely, unequivocally, without question NO CHANCE of “Round 2” with the wife. And she is already asleep, so waking her would be a death wish.

So I lay there for a little while longer, and then I do what any normal guy would do in this situation . . . midnight porn.

Actually it’s a night of firsts . . . Series II paddle, Tuesday night sex, and midnight porn. It’s a trifecta. Seriously, I’m having a great night!

I climb back into bed a little while later and try to fall asleep. Unfortunately Little Clay is not quite yet for bed. He’s ready for the Vegas Strip. He’s ready for an orgy. At this point I don’t really know what he’s ready for, but my head is pounding, my stomach is screaming, and I can’t get rid of Little Clay. So I pop two Excedrin Migraine headache pills, put a shirt on . . . only a shirt . . . I know, it’s weird . . . I’m buck naked from the waist down . . . but it’s more comfortable this way . . . and I head downstairs. I need food. I’m convinced some food will help. I find the double stuffed Oreo’s and the milk. I dig in.

It’s 1:00 am.

Little Clay still ready to go.

It’s 2:00 am.

Still ready to go.

It’s 2:30 am.

Panic begins to set in.

How does that Viagra commercial go . . . something about seek medical attention if your erection lasts for more than four hours. When did I take this thing? Was it 10:00 pm? 11:00 pm? I’m frantically trying to retrace my steps to figure out exactly when I ingested this pill. Pretty sure it was close to 10:00 pm. So how many hours has it been? Again I start doing the math. It’s been at least four hours. What do I do?

Three options . . .

#1 – Wake my wife to tell her. No she’s not a doctor, but she’s pretty damn smart so maybe she’ll figure something out. Then again, I can just hear my wife now, “YOU TOOK VIAGRA!?!?!? ON A TUESDAY NIGHT!?!?!?” There’s dumb, and then there’s this. Option #1 is out.

#2 – Drive myself to the hospital. But what type of procedure are they going to do on me? And I can just hear the nurse now “SIR, YOU TOOK VIAGRA!?!?! ON A TUESDAY NIGHT!?!?!” Option #2 is out.

#3 – Divert the blood somewhere else. It seems to me that this is nothing more than a blood flow issue. As in, I have TOO MUCH blood “down there,” and I simply need to get it pumped to other places. How do you do that? . . . exercise. So I started doing jumping jacks . . . pushups and sit ups were out . . . come on, just think about it for a second.

So, naked from the waist down, I started doing sets of 25 jumping jacks. I did four sets of them.

It’s 3:00 am.

Little Clay still ready to go.

I have tears in my eyes.

I’m sick to my stomach.

I’m trying to figure out whether this is hands-down the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I’m trying to think of something I’ve done in the past that is stupider than this. Nothing comes to mind . . . though there were quite a few close seconds.

3:15 am.

I sit down on the couch, and tell myself that at 4:00 am, if Little Clay is still here, I am heading to the hospital.

3:30 am.

I start nervously flipping through the channels.

3:40 am.

I find Jean-Claude Van Damme in the 1994 thriller Time Cop.

Good movie.

Van Damme was great in the early to mid ‘90’s, and this was one of his better flicks.

And then it happened . . . as I sat there and watched the Muscles from Brussels kick ass as a future cop Little Clay went to bed.

I slept on the couch until about 7:00 am.

And I waited days to tell my wife about it. So I learned my lesson. Apparently these Viagra were not your average strength. And I tried it for fun. I’m still not sure I know what they would have done to me at the ER, but I’m just thankful for Jean Claude that I didn’t have to find out.

Balding Sucks!

Call me practical. Or better yet call me a realist. Or simply call me someone who admits defeat. For with each year I get older I become more willing to accept the changes that my body is going through.

Am I necessarily happy about these ongoing changes, hell no, but I have accepted or adopted an “it is what it is” type of attitude when it comes to my aging body.

I am constantly reminding my boys that they should “enjoy their bodies” because “they aren’t going to get better as they get older.” Of course they don’t listen to my advice, but I get it, I’m sure I didn’t listen to my dad when he was telling me this exact same stuff when I was a teenager.

But it’s the sad truth, bodies don’t get better. And while I continue to fight this on some level, I have also started to accept certain undeniable truths.

For instance I have hair growing on my back. I’m not happy about this. In fact I’m rather repulsed by this . . . though probably not as much as my wife is . . . and I do try to fight it by occasionally having it professionally waxed off . . . and I imagine that having your back waxed is simply one level above being kicked in the balls . . . but I am beginning to accept the fact that I simply have hair on my back. I didn’t 15 years ago, but I do today. It is what it is.

My mid section is a whole lot bigger than it used to be, and frankly it’s a whole lot harder to shrink it. Yeah 15 to 20 years ago I could eat whatever I wanted to, and still not gain a lot of weight. Nowadays I eat a pizza and I’m three pounds heavier the next morning. And to make matters worse, in order to lose those three pounds I need to run five miles and bang out 100 sit ups. Like so many people my age I am trying to watch what I eat, and I am trying to get more exercise, and yet I am also beginning to accept the fact that I’m simply not going to have the body I had when I was in my early to mid 20’s. It is what it is.

And I’m even willing to acknowledge and maybe even accept . . . maybe . . . that Little Clay just doesn’t work the way he used to. 20 years ago I was a porn star. If I had to describe my sexual prowess with a song title it would have been The Kinks’ All Day and All of the Night, or U2’s Elevation. Today, I’d go with the Rolling Stones’ You Can’t Always Get What You Want, or Tom Petty’s Free Falling. Yes I’ve tried the little blue pill, and it works . . . especially when you take it on an empty stomach and chase it with a couple Excedrin’s and two Nyquil’s . . . another story for another time . . . but for the most part I’m prepared to accept that this too just doesn’t work the way it once did. It is what it is.

However, I am having trouble accepting IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM that I am beginning to bald. I am NOT willing to simply say “it is what it is” when it comes to balding. I can deal with the hair on my back. And I can deal with the larger mid section, and if absolutely necessary I can even deal with the dysfunctions “down there,” but I am NOT ready to deal with OR ACCEPT going bald.

In my opinion balding hits the triple-crown . . . it makes me look old, it makes me look ugly and it makes me look like I’m dying. Balding does not have the charm of sun-beaten wrinkles nor the wisdom and class of gray hair. It doesn’t even have the acceptability of flab. No, balding is like watching a body decompose. If you want to scare someone in a movie you create a villain with hair so thin you can see patches of scalp through it. Do you think Freddie Krueger would have worn that hat if he’d had a luxurious mane underneath it?

Sure some guys can pull it off. Hell some guys can look downright “bad-ass.” Think Kojak and Bruce Willis and Michael Jordan or every UFC fighter. But I am not a bad-ass. I’m more balding accountant or monk.

Worse yet, I’m only balding in one place . . . on the top of my head. Which means I’m not going to be fully bald any time soon, but rather partially bald with hair on the sides and back of my head. That actually could be worse than being fully bald.

I think balding is as close as I will ever come to understanding what it’s like to be a woman and constantly worrying about how I look or how I’m perceived.

Balding is my big butt. My wrong make-up. My butchered bangs. My top that doesn’t match my skirt. My other things that women are always complaining about that I’m not really listening to. But now I too see pictures of myself and I cringe. I look in the mirror now and see my good looks slipping away . . . and my looks weren’t that good to start with . . . so imagine my horror!

The other day I went on line to look up sites for balding. Just to see what’s out there. Hey call it “misery loves company.” As you can probably imagine there are 1,001 sites on how to stop it, cure it, fix it, over-come it, and so on and so on. But I also found one site called “Bald Men Are So Ugly!” This site contains comments like “I would rather have sex with a 500-pound dude or a guy with a tiny wiener.” Or “They do in fact look like pig fetuses.” Of course I don’t think the retorts from some of the bald guys helped. The most creative one I could find . . . and I had to look hard for this one . . . was “You should admire my other bald head.” If that’s the best come-back I can someday hope for . . . I’m in trouble.

Furthermore, despite what some of these websites claim, there appear to be no good solutions to balding. From what I can tell Propecia is about as good as it gets, and yet one of the main side effects is sexual dysfunction . . . which is just as bad as going bald!!!!

You know I sit around and talk about “the good old days” a lot. Probably more than I should since I think sitting around reminiscing about the “good old days” makes you sound a lot older than you really are. But certainly when it comes to my body, and my physical appearance I do find myself thinking back to the “good old days,” and I just wish there was a way to know you’re in the “good old days” before you’ve actually left them.

Because I would have enjoyed having hair on my head instead of my back A LOT MORE had I realized that it was all going to come to an end.

A Birthday Blog for my Wife

I haven’t done many things right in my life. Looking back, I can’t say I’ve ever actually finished something I started, and even if I try, I usually screw things up at the last minute. However as I celebrate yet another birthday with you I cannot help but reflect on how things have worked out the way they have.

Even those who seemed to do everything right along the way have had some kind of obstacle to overcome, and usually there was someone there to hoist them up, allowing them to continue. Reflecting on the past, who knows how many years, there is only one reason I am actually a fairly productive member of society (and there are certainly different levels of “production,” so just work with me here). And today is her birthday.

Babe you stood by me when I wasn’t doing anything worth standing beside . . . let’s see pretty much my entire college career, the Knauz car sales days, the whole softball umpire “incident,” and so on . . . really do we need to go on? . . . can we just leave it at “you walked with me down every dark alley and dead end, never making an issue of the point that I was a blind man trying to choose my own direction?”

You have believed in me when there wasn’t much to believe in . . . I’ve already mentioned the whole 6-year college stint, right? And you have pushed me to persevere even when I was ready to give up . . . though keep pushing, because I’m really good at giving up . . . so seriously fucking push!!!

At the risk of sounding “cliché,” I couldn’t have done any of this without you . . . . and honestly that’s sincerely meant as a compliment even though I recognize that some people may not consider that to be much of an endorsement since I haven’t really done much. But I’m thinking there’s a gutter with me in it if you’re not here. So how’s that?

You have been laughing at my childish humor way before Dan started laughing at it, and you have enjoyed my writing way before Brian started enjoying it. You seem genuinely interested in talking about my day even though I could very well have the most boring job on the face of the earth. Seriously on most days I have to force myself to stay awake while working . . . though some of that could have to do with that AWFUL mattress your dad gave us . . . I’ve never felt anything like this . . . no wonder he gave it to us . . . he sure as shit didn’t want it anymore. We need a new mattress. And fast.

It’s amazing that the satisfaction I feel when I do something right . . . which is not often . . . pales in comparison to the joy I experience when you rest your head on my shoulder. You can make my heart melt just by touching my hand, and any fears or doubts I may have vanish when you look at me with your hazel eyes . . . I think they’re hazel. They’re not really green, and they’re not really brown. Frankly after 20 years I still have no idea what color your eyes are, but they ease my fears. How’s that? And if we’re going with full disclosure here . . . I still fear prison rape, and dark rooms, and there’s not a damn thing your dazzling green/brown/hazel eyes can do about it . . . BUT ALL OTHER FEARS leave when you look at me.

You could take away my job, my health and all things I value as long as you still love me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Okay that too may have been a tad strong. I may be “reaching here a bit.” Let me rephrase that . . . you could have my job. Again it’s painfully boring. So take the job. My health . . . hey I’m 42 years old . . . I’ve had a root canal procedure TWICE now in the SAME tooth in less than a year. My lower back hurts almost on a daily basis (I blame that fucking mattress). I don’t really think the stress fracture in my foot ever healed. And I’m pretty confident I broke a rib a couple weeks ago hitting fly balls to the baseball team. So how good is my health anyway? Take it. But “all things I value.” So you’re taking my flat screen? My cable box? My central A/C unit? And my Zebra Cakes? Shit. That seems like a lot to give up. . . BUT . . . I’d at least consider it. How’s that?

I can’t imagine that I’ve always been easy to live with. As I said, I tend to screw things up. But perhaps the most valuable thing you have given me is a desire to continue to try to be better . . . well that and sex. That whole willingness to have sex with me is pretty “valuable.” Actually in terms of “value” I don’t know if you can really put a value on sex.

Someday you and I will renew our vows . . . it’s not really high on my list of things to do, but I’ll at some point I’ll give in, and here’s pretty much what I’ll say . . .

You are by far the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. All kidding aside you are the one thing that has worked out exactly the way I had hoped it would. Deep down, past my joking around, I treasure every part of you. I love how smooth your skin is. I love that you don’t expect me to notice your new haircut. I love when you pretend to be mad when I pinch your butt . . . you are pretending, right? I love that you’re a great mom. I consider it an honor that I’ll grow old with you. I don’t know why you picked me . . . nor do most of your friends . . . but I’m sure glad your VW Cabriolet broke down in my driveway after our first date. Just knowing that you had to come back the next day to get your car got me excited.

So I love you, and Happy Birthday, Kirsten

If Only My 14-Year Old Would Talk

It was inevitable. My wife and I have been preparing ourselves for this for some time now. Our 14-year old son has officially stopped talking to us. It’s part “I’m too cool for you guys,” and part “you guys just don’t understand me anymore.” But the days of him just plopping down on the couch next to us and chatting are done. And we now pretty much have to force him to tell us anything about his day during family dinners, and he doesn’t say much.

Now, that’s not to say he’s giving us the full silent treatment. Far from it. He loves to tell us when he’s hungry, which is pretty much every two hours. And he loves to tell us how much he dislikes school. He’ll actually go on and on about that. And he still asks us for money, and when we say “no” he likes to carry on about how unfair things are. If his pals are over, he and his buddies won’t shut up about whatever it is that they’re talking about, but long, insightful conversations between he and his parents are done for at least the time being.

And that’s okay. That’s what being a teenager is all about. I understand it. I don’t think my son is a whole lot different than any other 14-year old. But his silence has left me with nothing but guesses as to what he may be thinking about or what he might want to say . . . you know if he were actually talking to us. He’s pretty much forcing me to put words into his mouth.

And I think this is what he’d like to say . . .

• Dad, thanks for coaching my baseball team. It’s my last year playing house league ball before heading to the high school, and I just want you to know that I think it’s really cool that you’re coaching my team. Sure we’re off to an 0-for-4 start, and I’m not sure you’ve put a good line-up out there yet, but it sure is fun having you in the dugout. All my friends think you’re funny even if they don’t think you drafted a good team. Oh – and they like that you bring doughnuts to practice. As long as you keep feeding them doughnuts they won’t care if we don’t win a game.
• Mom, thanks for coming to my games. Spring baseball is brutal with average game-time temperatures in the low 50’s on most days, but I really appreciate your support. Yes I know you aren’t always paying attention to what’s going on in the game, and are pretty much there to hang out with your friends, but I do like it when you yell “Go Chaser” . . . even though you’ve yelled that twice when another kid was at bat. Also, please bring snacks to the next game – I’m starving after these long games.
• Dad, I know I’m still two years away from getting my driver’s license but I appreciate your on-going efforts to teach me the rules of the road. But enough about people not using their turn signals. Please stop bitching about that. At this point if I see a turn signal I’m just going to assume it’s a factory defect and NOT an indicator that the car in front of me is actually turning.
• Mom, dad’s right, you’re not a good driver. I’m car sick. And by the way, use your turn signal.
• Dad, mom’s right, you can’t pull off Abercrombie & Fitch anymore. It’s getting embarrassing. And what’s up with the hoodies? I know you grew up listening to Eminem, but you’re not an angry white rapper. And seriously, be better than the Gap.
• Mom, you’re an awesome cook, but you’re pushing the envelope with those grilled vegetables. Basically, going forward if dad’s not eating it, I’m not eating it.
• Dad, seriously don’t eat those grilled vegetables. I had just one bite of the squash and it tasted like dick infused with balls.
• Mom, I know my baseball games are cold, but did you really need the turtle neck, the sweatshirt, the fleece, the rain poncho AND the stadium blanket? You were like a Chilean miner buried underneath all that stuff. We couldn’t see you.
• Dad, mom was just trying to be nice when she told you not to wear a baseball hat. Your head has the proportions of a Styrofoam peanut. It is what it is, man.
• Mom, thanks for helping me with my homework. You continue to amaze me with how much stuff you know.
• Dad, seriously did you even go to school? How can you not know some of this stuff? Boy, thank God you married mom. Without her help on my homework I’d be screwed.
• Mom, when the time comes you and I are NOT going to have “the sex talk.” There is just no way this is going to happen. I’ll talk to dad about this. And please stop asking me if there are any girls I like at school.
• Dad, do you really know anything about sex? Is there a book I could read?

Honestly, I’d just like him to say – “you aren’t so bad, even though I no longer want to spend time with you or talk to you…I know this parenting thing is hard, and I try to make it harder at times, but pat yourself on the back. I don’t think you’ve screwed me up too badly. I’m on track to end up as a reasonably polite, productive member of society.”

That’s all I want.

Just Another Birthday

Ask pretty much anyone when they stopped believing in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, and they’ll be able to tell you exactly how old they were when they stopped believing. Hell, some people can tell you exactly where they were, who they were with, and how the conversation went down when they realized that Santa Claus was not the guy responsible for leaving all those cool gifts under the tree.

But ask someone when they stopped celebrating their birthday, and they don’t have a good answer for you. Sure, maybe they’ll tell you that they stopped having parties at age 12, or they stopped getting presents from their relatives after 13, but no one can pin point when they stopped celebrating birthdays.

And I think that’s because some people truly stopped celebrating them at a young age, while others continue to celebrate it each and every year.

As for me, I think I stopped really making a big deal of my birthday when I was 13 or 14. By then my parents were done having parties for me, and uncles and aunts figured they were done sending presents. Now obviously I made a big deal of turning 16 and 21, but that really had little to do about my actual birthday as opposed to what new privileges I now had as a result of turning a year older.

Nowadays my birthday is simply another day in the week . . . other than a few “milestone” birthdays where my wife throws me a party.

This was not one of those years. So when it rolled around a few weeks ago (on a Sunday) I treated it like any other Sunday.

Started the day with a paddle match with some friends. My partner and I won in three sets. I thought I played quite well, but I will admit there were a few games halfway through the second set where I missed a number of forehand drives. My partner did not miss an opportunity to remind me of it when he said “Well, we were doing quite well until you started playing like Clay Whipple.” He didn’t know it was my birthday. I’m at least 60 percent sure he wouldn’t have made that snide comment had he known it was “my special day.” Okay, I’m 50 percent sure. But a good start to the day – always like a good paddle match, and winning makes it even better.

Got home and made myself a bagel sandwich and a cup of coffee. Read the sports. As many of you know – that is my usual routine – nothing different. But I would argue that all bagel sandwiches are special. And the Tribune sports page is my idea of a good time. So not a bad day so far.

Both my boys wished me a happy birthday and then argued about who said it first. I’m not sure who technically said it first, but I know my wife was a distant third in saying “Happy Birthday.”

The weather turned nasty by about noon, so I used that as an excuse to lounge around on the couch and watch TV. I found a men’s rugby 7-on-7 tournament on TV, and watched it for hours. I literally don’t understand this sport at all, but I am intrigued by it. Mostly because the men who play it are real men. From what I can tell they are the toughest men in the world. I can’t even fathom being this tough.

I mean I know I’m not a real “guy’s guy.” I don’t camp. And I mention that because I think that’s my barometer to determining whether you’re a “real guy” or not. If you can go outdoors, pitch a tent, make a fire, cook food over that fire, and wake up in one piece the next day you’re a dude.

I can’t do any of that. I don’t even own a tent. In fact come to think of it, I don’t even own a sleeping bag which means even if I did own a tent I’d have to borrow someone’s sleeping bag just to go camping, and I’m not entirely sure whether that’s even socially acceptable. Can you borrow a friend’s sleeping bag? You’re really tucked into those things. Isn’t that like borrowing someone’s underwear??

And honestly, for me, in the ranking of shelters . . . tent barely edges out no tent at all.

But there is a MAJOR DIFFERENCE between being able to do “manly” things like pitch a tent and catch a fish and start a camp fire and field dress a wound and playing 7-on-7 rugby. We’re talking about two totally different kinds of men here. Of which I’m neither. But still these rugby guys are Neanderthals. I’m really intrigued by it. So I enjoyed watching the rugby on TV, although I could do without the reminders that I’m not that tough.

Later that night my wife made one of my favorite dinners, as well as a homemade birthday cake. Even better! Last year she used a mix.

My mom joined us for dinner and cake. She gave me a card with $42 dollars in it. I took the $42 dollars. I don’t know why. Should I have given it back to her? Was it meant as a joke? Hey $42 dollars buys a couple large pepperoni pizzas. A guy doesn’t turn down a couple free pizzas, does he??

After getting the boys down my wife offered to have sex with me. I took her up on the offer. Because like the pizzas . . . does a guy turn down sex?? I don’t think so.

Hey, I may not be able to do manly things like camping, and I’m certainly no rugby player, but I’m man enough to know that when someone offers you free cash and sex . . . you take ‘em.

So in the end, maybe I’m still celebrating my birthdays – and I’d have to say it was a pretty good day.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell . . . How Much You Make

About once a month I get together with one of my buddies for dinner. It’s just the two of us, and we typically meet up at a local burger joint. Nothing special and certainly nothing fancy. Just the two of us catching up, and sharing a couple laughs. We’d probably get together more often but he is single, has no kids, has no commitments outside of work, lives in the city, and dates a variety of women . . . which basically means we have nothing in common. I sometimes wonder how we communicate with one another. I have trouble going 20 minutes without telling some silly story about one of my kids, and I suspect he has trouble going 20 minutes without telling me some lurid story of how he had sex in the back of a BMW with some girl last Tuesday night. I find myself sometimes staring at him with the same kind of bewilderment that a young child experiences when he first walks in on his parents having sex. Sort of shock and awe all at once.

But in addition to this International Man of Mystery type of lifestyle he seems to lead, the thing that I am always trying to figure out is just how much money he makes and/or has. I’m convinced it’s substantial with bank accounts in both Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. I’m positive he spends at least part of his day managing his own money while trying to figure out which companies or businesses he wants to do a hostile takeover of.

Then again, my friend could very well make sixty-five thousand dollars a year, and carry a five figure credit card balance on his Visa card. I honestly have absolutely NO IDEA!! And not because I don’t know this guy. I do. He’s been a good friend of mine for close to 10 years now. But the thing is guys just don’t talk about money. Specifically they don’t talk about how much they make or how much they’ve saved. Literally this subject is off limits between guys. Whether it’s good friends, brothers or fathers, guys DO NOT compare notes when it comes to money.

Now we’ll tell each other about genital warts, prostitutes, prostitutes we got genital warts from, prostitutes we’ve given genital warts to, and prostitutes who got genital warts from other prostitutes at a particularly good bachelor party, but we won’t tell each other about our salaries.

We’ll tell each other about how often we’re having sex with our wives, what position our wives like, what position our wives don’t like, what our wives used to do before we got married and what our wives no longer do now that we are married, but we won’t tell each other how much we’ve saved.

We’ll share x-rated emails we’ve gotten from co-workers with our friends, we’ll gladly share porn with our friends, we’ll talk about crazy family members with our friends and we have no problem talking about our kids and their issues or problems with our friends, but we won’t tell our friends about our tax bracket.

It’s way too personal. More so than the number of women we’ve slept with. Hell that number we’ll gladly talk about, and in fact we’ll typically inflate that number, but we’re not going to talk about salaries with even our best friends.

Now guys certainly give away hints as to their salary and/or net worth. If a guy is driving around in a brand new Porsche you can assume that he’s having a good year. And if a guy is building a new house or adding a big addition onto his current house you can make the assumption that he’s strung together a number of good years. But then again I walked into a car dealership just 16 months ago and leased a forty thousand dollar automobile by simply signing my name on a piece of paper. Literally I remember the salesman asking me what I did for a living and I said “I’m unemployed,” and his next question was “do you want heated seats in the car?” And though obviously banks have really cut down on their lending practices, just four or five years ago you could probably get a bank to loan you a half million dollars just by flashing a smile. So the nice car and the big house are not always a tell-tale sign of someone having a good year. Based on the car I drive and the size of my house most people would assume that I’m doing well, and three days ago I took $30 out of my son’s wallet to pay for dinner . . . and I’m now paying my son back in small installments.

For men, money is for establishing dominance. The guy with platinum status gets on the plane first. The rest of us board after the people with small kids or those accompanying disabled travelers. It’s why we say things like “Would you drink your own piss for $500?” Everyone has “a price,” and most guys want to figure out what the other guy’s “price” is.

We idolize Mark Zuckerberg and Warren Buffett, and we ABSOLUTELY LOVE IT when a hot-shot athlete declares bankruptcy. Nothing makes us feel better then when some famous football player who was cooler than everyone else, and who drove around in Lamborghinis and who got more action than the best porn stars, goes belly-up. Those bankruptcies restore a little bit of fairness to a frustrating game with random rules. I mean how else can you explain the guy who created the Angry Birds app making WAY MORE than a dedicated nurse or teacher? You can’t.

But all this curiosity, and even jealousness, can hurt friendships. After all, men friend for life. I have high school and college friends whose incomes are probably wildly different than mine. Women make new friends continually at every stage of their lives. So if you piss one friend off, they are easily replaced. That’s not true with guys.

So while I am dying to know how much my friend makes, I am not going to ask . . . EVER. In the end I respect his privacy or secrecy surrounding this one subject. Heck when all is said and done a guy’s income is not the only thing he keeps from his pals. Guys cry, but most certainly don’t admit it. Hell, I had to leave the room at the end of Marley and Me (when Owen Wilson’s character tells Marley he’s the best dog in the world right before the vet puts him down . . . literally, I almost fell apart in front of my wife AND son . . . later when my son asked me where I went I told him I had a bad stomach and had to run to the bathroom). Guys read chick magazines, but we don’t admit it (is there any better bathroom reading material than People Magazine???). We watch chick flicks and/or chick TV . . . I loved Sex in the City . . . and the first season of Desperate Housewives. We occasionally refuse sex. I said occasionally, and there are usually VERY SPECIFIC CIRCUMSTANCES surrounding that refusal . . . like I just had a vasectomy six hours ago . . . but it does happen, and when it does we don’t admit to it. And we occasionally like girly drinks . . . is there anything better than being on a beach in Mexico sipping a Pina Colada?

And by the way . . . if you were to read NOTHING BUT THAT LAST PARAGRAPH you’d assume I was incredibly effeminate. I’m not, but that’s why we don’t admit that kind of stuff to other dudes. And reading this blog, you might think I make no money at all . . . you’ll never really know, will you? I certainly won’t tell.

A Shitty Day . . . Literally

Like a lot of people during the holiday season, my wife and I are watching our budget.  We’ve got a long list of Christmas wishes to fulfill.  Throw in a ski trip or two for my oldest, and maybe a weekend family get-away during the holiday break, and we’ve got a lot of stuff on our “radar,” so we are doing our best not to spend money unless we absolutely have to.

My wife’s comment of “Remember Clay, no unnecessary spending today,” is becoming almost as common as my comment of “Babe, any chance of having sex later tonight?”

So when water started leaking in through our floor drain in the laundry room last week I chose not to call a local plumber.  First of all the water leak was very small (a hand towel could soak it all up . . . and yes, I probably shouldn’t have used our white hand towels for this job), and it only seemed to happen when we ran the shower in our boy’s bathroom.  Not a big deal.  Obviously at some point I’m going to have to call a plumber, but I decided the problem was small enough where I could wait until after the holidays.

On Monday of this week I was surprised to find a much larger pool of water on the laundry room floor.  Now my wife had taken a shower prior to going to work, and I had run a load of dishes overnight, but I did not anticipate the amount of water that I found when I went to the laundry room.  Hand towels did not cover it, and instead I had to use BOTH of the bath towels that were down there . . . on a separate note I think it’s safe to say that we’re going to need a fresh set of towels soon.

But again I chose not to call a plumber even though my wife asked me to do just that.  I can do a whole lot more than keep up with a leaky floor drain for the next 30 or so days.  A plumber is going to charge me eighty bucks just to come out and tell me that I need pay $500 to have my sewer line rodded.  I’m not paying for that right now.  I’ll keep up with this.  I’ll check it on a daily basis.  I’ll keep a fresh set of towels close by.  I’m not going to be defeated by some floor drain leak.  Not when we’re less than 30 days from Christmas.  I’m on this.

It seems irony has a sense of humor.

The noise coming from the laundry room was loud enough to startle the dog from his usual perch on the chair in front of the living room window.  I got up from the table where I was enjoying my sports page and coffee, and along with the dog, went downstairs.  I could actually hear water coming up from the floor drain as I stood in the basement looking at the laundry room door.  I looked down at the dog who looked back at me as if to say “Don’t fucking open that door, dude.  Just turn and run!”

But despite the look from the dog, I opened the door anyway.  To say that there was a fair amount of water coming up from the floor drain is like saying that I like sex.  It’s a major understatement.  I paused for only a second before heading in.  The water was everywhere.  It was not bubbling up through the floor drain, but streaming upwards.  And before I go any further there are a few things you probably should know:

• It was SEWER WATER.  You know what they say . . . if it looks like shit . . . and smells like shit . . . it must be shit . . . well yeah.
• We do not actually have a floor drain, but a floor cap where the drain should be.  I didn’t put the cap there. It was simply there when we bought the house.  On two other occasions when water has seeped into the laundry room I have taken the floor cap out and the water has receded back into the drain.
• And I was wearing socks.  Athletic ankle socks to be exact.  Not sure why.  I knew what was probably behind the door when I first went downstairs, and yet it never dawned on me to put shoes on.

For a brief moment I simply stood in the middle of this ever-expanding pool of water.  I was like a field general taking inventory on what needed to be done and in what order.

• Get ski clothes off the floor.
• Get all the food we just purchased at Costco off the floor.
• Remember next time to listen to your wife and put the food ON THE SHELVES!!!  Damn.
• Find the large pliers to remove the floor cap.
• Keep the dog out of the laundry room.
• Protect the basement carpet.  That’s my perimeter.  Don’t let the water infiltrate the basement.
• Don’t panic.

Started grabbing ski coats and snow pants and chucking them into the basement.  Grab the boxes of candy bars, granola bars, cereal boxes, poptarts boxes, family sized bags of chips, and canned soup and jammed them onto any available shelf I could find . . . and Jesus, no wonder we’re trying to save money . . . we’re buying bulk food like we’re starring on the National Geographic Channel’s “Doomsday Preppers!”

Grabbed the pliers off the work bench and removed the floor cap.

You know, people tease me that I like to exaggerate.  I think most good story tellers exaggerate at least a little, and I pride myself on being at least a decent story teller, so okay, I exaggerate a bit.

But know this . . . when I say a six-foot stream of SHIT WATER shot out of the floor drain like a geyser in Yosemite National Park . . . maybe, it was really a four-foot stream of SHIT WATER.

I not only was hit SQUARE IN THE FACE with this stream, but was covered in it when it came raining back down.  I was literally covered in shit.  I was frozen in fear.  The dog was barking loudly as he slowly backed up in the basement.  I’d like to think he was barking to tell me to get out of there, but I think he may have been barking to say “Don’t come out, stay in there, you dumb son of a bitch!”

A new priority list came over me.

• Get the floor cap back in.  Of course the floor cap exploded within that geyser-like stream, so at this point the cap’s whereabouts are unknown.
• Call my wife.  Yes, she’s at work in Chicago, but for some reason I feel like I should be on the phone with her.  I don’t know why.  Like a dying man wanting to be surrounded by family before he takes his last breath.
• Don’t think about the shit water that is burning my eyes, dripping from my ears, and leaking out of my nose.  Adding human vomit would not help the situation.
• Grab a plunger.

I soundly believe that you can fix pretty much ANYTHING with duct tape and a plunger.  I swear by this.  Okay maybe a Swiss Army knife too.  And a lighter.  And some gauze.  And maybe cable television.  And a naked woman.  But let’s focus here.

So I grab the plunger and start plunging at the floor drain.  Literally I’m PLUNGING THE FLOOR DRAIN!!  Think about that for a moment.  41 years old.  College-educated.  Husband.  Father of two.  Home owner.  And I’m plunging a floor drain.  Not sure what part of this story will bother me the most a week from now . . . but the plunging of the floor drain is certainly in the running.

And I think that’s when the utility sink exploded with everything that we had ground up in the kitchen disposal last night.  I mean, I can’t be certain about it, but I know it wasn’t shit.  It was definitely food coming up out of the utility sink.

The dog flinched for a moment, and then took off up the stairs.  I never saw him again.  At this point and a new list of priorities came over me.

• Panic

However, as luck would have it, the explosion in the utility sink stopped the explosion coming up from the floor drain.  Who knew the two were connected.  Maybe they’re not supposed to be.  Hell, maybe that’s the problem in the first place.  Suddenly it became very peaceful in the laundry room.  There was no water coming up from the floor drain, just water running back into it.  And there was nothing exploding out of the utility sink.

I stood perfectly silent as if any movement might set off the demons in my plumbing again.  I watched as water, crap . . . I’m pretty sure literally crap . . . and pieces of what I believe were pasta . . . floated past my feet . . . yeah, still in socks . . . and into the floor drain.

When all the water had receded, I found the floor cap, and jammed it back into place.

I’m thinking at this point that I should have called the plumber when my wife asked me the first or second time.

This Guy Stuff is Hard

My son’s 8^th grade class is getting ready for their trip to Washington D.C.  This is an annual thing for the 8^th graders, and it’s a big deal.  The school has been doing it for years, and almost all of the kids come back with fantastic stories.  Of course as you can imagine it’s a bit of a logistical nightmare as there are close to 100 13-year olds, many of whom have never been more than a few miles from home without their parents, traveling around D.C. seeing everything from the Lincoln Memorial to the Ford Theatre to the Smithsonian and even the White House.  A small army of volunteer parents help coordinate the trip as well as chaperone the whole thing.  Frankly, it sounds just awful to me.  If my choices were to help lead a group of 100 8^th graders around D.C. for a weekend or spend the weekend being waterboarded, I would choose waterboarding.

But my neighbor is one of those people acting as a chaperone for the weekend, and he’s been filling me in on some of the behind-the-scenes work that he and his fellow volunteers have been doing for the past few months.  And I guess one of the biggest headaches is pairing the kids up so that they have roommates.  It seems that there are A LOT of girls who simply cannot room with one another because though they were best pals yesterday, today they can’t stand one another.  Yes, I think there are a few boys who also made a big deal about roommates, but I guess it was a bit out of control on the girl’s side.  At one point my neighbor said, “Just be happy you aren’t a girl.”

And that comment hit me.  I mean that’s certainly not the first time someone has said that to me, but why is it so tough to be a girl?  Seriously.  You think it’s easy being a guy?  Let me tell you there’s NOTHING easy about being a guy.  Hell, it can be downright humiliating.

We’ve got to make up names for engine parts simply because we’re supposed to know what’s going on under the hood of our cars.

If we cry, we’re a wimp.  If we don’t cry, we’re insensitive jerks.

If we put a woman on a pedestal, and try to protect her from the “rat race,” we’re called male chauvinists.  If we stay home and do the housework, we’re sissies . . . and I speak with a great deal of experience on this one, so just trust me here.

If we mention how nice our wives look, we’re accused of having ulterior motives, or worse yet they call us liars.  Of course, it’s called male indifference if we don’t compliment our wives at all.  And try complimenting a female co-worker . . . that’s called sexual harassment.

If we appreciate the female body, and we like looking at it in sexy lingerie we’re probably called perverts.  If we don’t like the female body . . . well, we’re gay.

Buy her flowers . . . again we’re “after something.”  Don’t buy her flowers, and we’re not thoughtful.

If we want sex too often, we’re oversexed.  Don’t want it enough, there must be someone else.

We have to like pro football.  Oh sure, we can hate hockey, and we can find baseball too boring, and we can probably get away with  not camping, and we can even call a handyman every time the toilet is plugged  up, but we have to like pro football, and that’s just not fair.  Women don’t have to like high heels, push-up bras, lingerie, or make-up.  Hell, women don’t have to like babies!!!  But WE HAVE TO LIKE FOOTBALL.

Happy wife . . . happy life.  Unhappy wife . . . stone-cold misery for the rest of your life.

Need I say more?

But I think the biggest issue with being a guy is making friends with other guys.

It’s not easy, and it can be as embarrassing as trying to convince your wife that “this has never happened before.”

Women make new friends all the time.  And that’s because women are always doing stuff that requires large groups.  They get drinks.  They have book clubs.  They go out to nice restaurants.  They shop.  They get their nails done.

Men hardly do anything.  Okay we golf, but quite often you only need one other guy for that, and since NO MAN can golf without betting, typically one of you is pissed by the 5^th hole, and usually not a single word is spoken on the back nine.  I actually played golf once with three other guys, and one of them LITERALLY WALKED OFF THE COURSE on the 13^th hole.  He was just done.

Even if you run into another guy at a party, strike up a conversation with him, and realize that this guy has exactly the same interests as you do, what do you do next??  We’re guys.  We don’t have playdates.  We don’t meet up for coffee.  No one hands out business cards anymore (not that you would ask for one).  So at best you get the guy’s cell number so that you at least have the option of sending him a text.  But what do you say in that text?  “Hey, it’s Clay from the party last weekend.  If you ever want to go get a drink or grab dinner and NOT have sex with me, give me a call sometime.”  I don’t think so.  It’s not that easy.

My neighbor and I meet up for breakfast occasionally, and other guys who have run into us at the breakfast place make fun of us since we’re just having breakfast together as opposed to having a “breakfast meeting,” which is apparently the only acceptable reason for two-unrelated men to get together.  And another friend and I occasionally go out to dinner and even a movie together, and our wives make fun of us by calling our get-togethers “date nights.”  Seriously you can’t win.

Listen, I know men don’t need friends like women do.  When women have a problem or just want to chat, they talk to their friends.  When men have a problem, we solve it.  Or we simply ignore the problem, and hope that a woman will fix it . . . or maybe that’s just me.  Whatever.

We do things alone.  We deer hunt.  We play on-line poker.  We watch porn.  We could spend a week alone in the woods and be perfectly happy . . . or again maybe that’s just me.

But still we need guy friends, because guy friends are great.  Fun stuff happens when a group of guys go out.  Shenanigans ensue.  Road trips happen.  Or at least it does in Hollywood “buddy flicks.”  Without guy friends we basically become video game-playing, internet-surfing, sports-watching homebodies, and that’s not good.  Again I speak from experience here.  Sure, when we go out with pals there’s a chance we’ll end up in a Mexican prison, but at least we’d have a story to tell.

So stop with the “it’s hard to be a girl” stuff.  Yeah, I know junior high girls can be self-centered, hormonal messes.  I am thankful that I don’t have one – I can see the household discord already.  But being a guy is no walk in the park.  Or maybe that’s just me.

A Letter To Jack

Like a lot of couples, my wife and I didn’t dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’ before deciding to have kids.  Sure we definitely discussed some things . . . in fact I specifically remember asking her just how many times she thought we’d “need” to have sex before she got pregnant .  I could have sworn she said “a lot”, and yet I got her pregnant on literally the first try . . . I still feel like I was sold a rotten bag of goods on that one.  But we didn’t have every single aspect of raising a child covered before she and I started trying, which again lasted just one afternoon (on a coffee table during Kerry Wood’s major league debut – true story).

But one of the things she and I definitely reached an agreement on was that I would NOT be responsible for helping the kids with their school work.  I was not a good student, and that is an understatement.  I went to school to socialize, swim, look at girls and eat lunch, and not always in that order.  My wife, on the other hand, was a straight-A student who went on to graduate from Notre Dame.  She’s wicked smart.  I’m a total moron.  It took us about four seconds to agree that she would be in charge of helping the kids with their school work, while I simply promised not to reveal just how dumb I really was to the boys . . . though I think I may have given it away the day they caught me peeing in the utility sink in the laundry room.

However, this all changed last week when my wife asked me to write a personal letter to my 5^th grade son that would be shared with the class.  Now of course this isn’t really HIS homework, as the instructions for this letter specifically state that a parent needs to write it, but it’s still my first real school assignment, and it can be a poem, a letter or any other type of creative form used to talk to my child so that the class can learn more about him.

Cool.

So, of course the first thing I did was email the teacher and asked for an extension.  Seriously, I’m not about to get this done on time.  Please.  It doesn’t all change.  I’m still an awful student and totally incapable of turning in assignments on time.  This letter was due on Friday the 7^th.

Now that the extension has been granted, I’ve got a blank slate in front of me.  I could go in any number of directions here, and there are certainly plenty of directions to choose from.

Maybe this letter is nothing more than some fatherly advice.  After all I’ve made no secret of the fact that I believe parents have an obligation to pepper their kids with as much advice as possible.  Throw as much shit at the wall as you can, and eventually some of it sticks.  That’s my philosophy on advice.  So maybe this letter is nothing more than . . .

Respect your elders.

You will occasionally (sometimes more than occasionally) have to do things you don’t want to do.  Just don’t let it become a career.

Use an electric razor.

Send your mom a card or an email on her birthday.

Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. 

And don’t be afraid to swing at a ball on the outside of the plate. 

Exercise regularly.  It’s easier now to make it a habit than it will be when you’re older.

Don’t pass on an opportunity to top off your gas tank.  Running out of gas is an awful feeling . . . and frankly it’s embarrassing.

If you find a woman anything like your mom, don’t let her go.  They simply don’t come any better than that.

Get plenty of calcium.

Stretch.

Remember these words . . . ‘In five years will this matter?’

Avoid snobs, and don’t be snobbish yourself.

Until you move out of my house “Because I said so,” is a legitimate reason for doing what I say.

Then again maybe this is an opportunity to give him some advice regarding something that will no doubt frustrate him like nothing he’s dealt with before . . . girls.  Maybe this letter is nothing more than . . .

Sex isn’t as much fun with a condom, but peeing without it burning is.

When it comes to arguments with the opposite sex . . . remember you have the right to remain silent, anything you say WILL be misquoted and then used against you.

When it comes to the birds and the bees . . . remember, the bees sting.

80% of what happens in porn movies does not happen in real life.  And the other 20% probably won’t happen to you.

That advice will probably get me sent to the principal’s office (or at least a lot of angry calls from parents). Then again, maybe this letter isn’t a bunch fatherly advice.  Maybe this is simply an opportunity for me to tell his 5^th grade class a little about the kid that I like to call Happy Jack.  Maybe this letter is nothing more than . . .

I assume most of you know Jack pretty well.  After all, most of you have been in school with Jack since kindergarten.  You probably know Jack as the friendly kid who loves to goof around, hang around with friends, and is maybe even a little spacey.  Jack tends to ask a lot of questions partly because he’s curious and partly because he’s not always paying attention to the world around him.  We like to tease Jack that he seems to be living on “Planet Jack,” and as with most things in life, Jack takes our good-natured kidding in stride.  After all, one of Jack’s best qualities is his sense of humor.  He’s a funny kid with a laugh that can light up a room.  One of my favorite things to do is stand in the next room and listen to him laugh at one of his silly TV shows.  It’s hard not to smile when Jack’s laughing.

Of course, it’s not all fun and games with Jack, as he’s one of the most competitive kids I’ve ever met.  Since I know a number of you have been on soccer or baseball or flag football teams with Jack, I know you’ve probably seen that competitive fire before.  Now, no one likes to lose, but Jack hates it.  In fact I think Jack may hate to lose more than he likes to win.  Unfortunately, Jack sometimes likes to blame the umpires or referees when his team loses a game, but win or lose, Jack is always a great teammate and friend.  He’s quick to compliment a teammate after he makes a good play, and he’s just as quick to console a teammate after a strikeout and remind everyone that “we’ll get them next time” after a loss. 

Jack’s not just competitive out on the athletic field, but in pretty much anything he does.  In fact, get Jack involved in a game of Gin or Go Fish or Uno and you’ll see the cardshark in Jack come out.  He can spend all afternoon playing card games with anyone who’s willing to take him on.  And no one enjoyed this more than his Grandma Sharon.  Grandma Sharon could play card games with Jack until literally neither of them could shuffle a deck of cards anymore. 

When Grandma Sharon passed away three years ago, Jack, like everyone else in the family, took it hard.  However, he held up just fine.  In fact, Jack smiled and even let out that trademark laugh of his a few times during the funeral when funny stories about his Grandma Sharon were shared by other family members.  When the funeral was over Jack was the first person to find his mom.  Jack grabbed his mom’s hand and said “Don’t worry mom, it will be okay.”

For just one day, I would give anything to be on Planet Jack.  It must be a wonderful place.

Yeah, that’s what this letter should be.