by Brad Garrett
One way in which parents attempt to teach compassion is by buying a pet. We think it will teach them responsibility, but we all know how that turns out. The first pet I ever bought for my kids was a hermit crab. It’s either that or the carnival goldfish, which has the life expectancy of a hiccup. After unsuccessfully dropping fifty dollars at the Ping-Pong-ball-goldfish-toss, we headed to Petco.
These days it appears to be okay to decorate hermit crab shells using various types of (what I’m hoping is) nontoxic paint. Ours had a tiny lighthouse and beach painted on its shell, I guess to make him even more homesick for his better days. We purchased the hermit habitat along with the food, the tiny sponge that needed to remain wet, “special” sand, and a ceramic sailboat: again to remind him of his life a few weeks ago at Martha’s Vineyard. The whole setup cost around eighty dollars. If we could have just won that fish . . .
The kids named him or her Shelly, and they used to fight over whose room it would sleep in. Until they stopped arguing and agreed to share, Shelly would sleep in my room. That arrangement lasted only a couple of days. What I didn’t know was that these fuckers are nocturnal and scrape and scratch around at night. Me being a light sleeper, Shelly soon became a kitchen dweller.
What the guy at the pet store never bothered to mention was that hermit crabs grow out of their shells. Apparently, a bigger shell needed to be purchased and put in the tank for Shelly’s inevitable move on up to the east side. Honestly, if the clerk had shared this info on the day of purchase, I probably would have looked at him strangely, like the cynical guy I am, because let’s be honest, who the hell would think that a hermit crab would need a newer, bigger shell? Dogs don’t grow out of their coats, right?
Sure enough, after about four months, we find one morning over breakfast that Shelly has vacated her shell. Have you ever seen a hermit crab sans shell? You may never eat popcorn shrimp again. Horrifying. At this point I had no idea about the crab needing new digs. We assumed she was stepping out to get some fresh air, and figured she’d go back in her shell at night, like all good crustaceans. Unfortunately, this didn’t happen. Once a hermit crab leaves a shell, it never returns. Kind of like the ghetto. Mind you, this was before Google, so we thought all was okay until the next day, when we noticed that Shelly had lost a leg. The day after that, another leg was gone, and so on. It was like Hanukkah, Sopranos-style.
Shelly was failing, and the cage began to smell like Red Lobster. When the kids were in school, like most good parents, I rushed to the pet store to inquire why the crab was shedding appendages. I was hoping they would grow back, like a lizard’s tail. No such luck for Shelly. They explained to me what they failed to explain the first time around. A new Shelly was purchased, along with a larger spare shell. Painted on her shell were palm trees and a coastal sunset.
* * *
Recently, I found myself in a public restroom at a restaurant with another dad who had a teenage son. After the teenager peed, he went to leave and the father said, “Aren’t you going to wash your hands?”
With that typical teenage attitude, the son said, “The sign says you only have to do it if you work here.”
My son, Max, is sixteen and my daughter, Hope, is fifteen, and I have to say, I have loved every stage of their childhoods. I changed their diapers and took the feeding shifts at night and reveled in the process. My nipples still hurt. Those early days are when the real bonding happens, so it’s important for fathers to take part in caring for their kids early on.
All things considered, I’m surviving the teenage years quite well. Their mother and I do all we can to keep them busy and keep them talking. Trust is the key in any parent-child dynamic, but trust must be earned, and it’s hard to balance that with the certain amount of privacy they need and deserve. Sure, we’ve had our difficulties, like all families, but my best times are when they’re by my side. My excitement for their future revolves around their discoveries and growth as young, positive-thinking individuals empowered by their self-esteem and the willingness to pursue careers fueled by love and passion for whatever they choose. These are my desires and wishes for my children.
In closing this chapter I want to mention that I started my own nonprofit organization called Maximum Hope Foundation back in 2000. We provide immediate, practical assistance to families who are caring for a child with a life-limiting illness, and we’re doing some pretty amazing work nationwide. To learn more, please take a moment to visit our website (www.MaximumHopeFoundation.org).
13
Adam and Eve Had No Chance
Whether or not you believe in the Bible, the story of Adam and Eve proves that even God Himself doubted the long-lasting union of He and She. Sure, He made a big deal about marriage, but if He thought people were naturally designed to stay together, He wouldn’t have needed to make such a big deal of the whole “bound for eternity” thing. It also appears that “the man upstairs” is living single there among the clouds, which drives home my point. I could be wrong, but I’ve never heard of a Godette or Mrs. God, and if the most powerful being in the universe decides to remain unattached, there must be something to that. He’s obviously not buying the “Till death do you part” crap. Therefore, neither do I.
Poor Adam and Eve were doomed from the start. “Don’t eat from this tree; watch out for that snake; don’t touch my fig leaf.” Fucking rules that were impossible to follow out of the gate. And they paid for it dearly “in the beginning,” just like the Good Book says.
It’s amazing that we live in a country where same-sex marriage is such an issue when opposite-sex marriages fail 85 percent of the time. We have more in common with our own genders than we do with our opposite, meaning the chips are stacked against us early on. We’ve covered the “power of the pink” and the innate differences between men and our great rulers, the broads. When I became a father, my hypothesis about the sexes became more concrete than ever. Our inherent gender conflicts are deeply rooted in our DNA.
Most little girls by age three or four are fascinated with caregiving and nurturing. Their first toy is usually a dolly or stuffed animal that they bring to tea parties with their other toys or playmates. They get a stroller or a highchair for their baby; the baby is coddled, bathed, and fed; and their tenderness is purely instinctual. Boys, on the other hand, spend the first seven to eight years of their lives (twenty if they’re Catholic) holding on to their penises. Sometimes it’s for fun, or out of habit, or perhaps a natural reaction to feeling anxiety at the zoo. Or the airport. Or Hickory Farms. They have a death grip on their little buddy and are never really sure why.
Here’s a transcript of a conversation at the mall between my seven-year-old son, his mom, and me:
Me: Why are you holding your penis?
Son: You mean right now?
Me: Yes. And on and off for the last few years.
Ex-wife: What’s the big deal, Brad? Relax.
Me: I’m very relaxed. Not relaxed enough to hold my member for the better part of the day, but relaxed nonetheless. Do you have to pee, son?
Son: No. I’m good.
Me: Okay, great. Then give it a rest. Let it breathe . . .
Son: But it itches.
Me: Maybe that’s because it’s allergic to your hand?
Ex-wife: Are you serious? What are you, jealous?
Me: Of what?!
Ex-wife: Just leave it alone.
Me: Tell him to leave it alone.
Son: It’s my wiener!
And therein lies the rub, no pun intended. It is indeed his wiener. The only organ that will burn through his finances, promote insane decisions, and wreak continuous havoc. And as a young boy, he already knows this. That’s why we guys hold on to it for dear life. Because in a few years, it will be set free and unmanageable, never to return again, gone forever as it rules over its cousin, the larger head, from its ironically smaller, lower throne.
* * *
The fact is, we’re born pre-wired. Pre-wired for success, death, rashes, mu
ltiple marriages, heart conditions, asscancer, schizophrenia, lactose intolerance, bunions, penal curvature, addiction, baldness, incontinence, and excessive earwax. It’s also the reason a colonel in the army can have a son who’s a florist. Yes, I believe that trait is predetermined genetics as well.
I am not an expert on anything, and I’m sure by now that has become very clear. Yet I do believe that I’m a very old soul. Over my past lives, I have had countless failed relationships on four different continents, in six separate eras, including Ancient Rome, Pre-Plastics, Disco, and one specific occasion wherein I overheard Henry Ford make some anti-Semitic remarks to my mistress while fixing her steam engine.
I am a member of the Mile High Club if you count masturbation. I’ve only had crabs once and I deserved it. I lost my virginity two weeks shy of my fifteenth birthday to a gorgeous twenty-eight-year-old woman who was simultaneously having a high-profile affair with a married D.C. politician. This became big news on the Hill and landed her in Playboy. I was introduced to the gal by my dad, which was odd, but in his defense, he was dating her girlfriend, and I looked nineteen, and one thing led to another. Okay, yeah, it’s still odd. But it’s greatly appreciated.
I’ve been in love six times, lived with four women, and been cash-poor more than a dozen times. My cohabitating experience is vast and my mistakes have been stellar, but I can’t stress enough that the only way you can survive marriage is by being fuckin’ honest with yourself before saying “I do.” Are you getting married because it’s what you want? Or do you feel pressured by external forces to take that leap? Are you prepared to risk your physical freedom, your fortune, your sexual frequency, your privacy, your power, and your ability to choose your own clothes, food, and weekend activities? Once you’ve determined your true level of commitment, if you still decide to move forward with the union, then you must realize the importance of being “only as honest as you need to be” with your partner. Ignorance is bliss indeed, and it may end up being the only bliss that your relationship contains. Don’t feel the need to tell your soul mate everything. You need to tell your cell mate everything. Big difference.
Women invented weddings, of that I am sure. That’s why you’ve never seen a magazine called Groom. The flowers, the dress, the invites, the music, the food, the seating arrangements—how many of the guy’s ideas are incorporated? Where are the foosball, buffalo wings, and topless caterers? I rest my case. And most guys will say they don’t care about that stuff. If you don’t care, why do it at all? Because you love her so much you want her to be happy, right? Happy for how long, is the question. Meanwhile, you look like you’re dressed for a funeral. Interesting, isn’t it?
The bachelor party was designed for one reason: to remind you of what you’re leaving behind. FUN. Fun with friends, booze, and broads without a curfew—the very fiber of what makes us men! Is she worth it? Maybe. Forever worth it? I think you know that answer. In other words, she’s the “one and only” today. And that’s great. But do me one favor when you’re walking down the aisle and everyone in attendance knows you don’t have a shot in hell of lasting into the next decade: bring half of the shit you own down the aisle with you. Just to be proactive. She’s gonna get it anyway, so you might as well save money on movers. Bring a U-Haul, not a limo.
* * *
Something helpful that middle age has taught me is to agree with my significant other more than ever. Not because I’ve lost my balls but because I don’t have the energy to debate the obvious, and knowing I’m right without having to verbalize it is enough. This concept is rather advanced and more of a female tactic, but since they’re usually smarter, let us learn from that and steal the idea. As we age, I feel honesty loses its value anyway. My recommendation is to save it for the witness stand. And by your fifties, your memory is a crapshoot at best, so what is honesty then? It’s simply what you remember. Or better yet, choose to remember. “I don’t remember that” said by a middle-ager is not only valid but probable. Say it in your thirties and you’re dead.
Think back on the biggest fights you ever had with your spouse. Most likely they started from someone being brutally honest. What the hell for? To gain brownie points? To feel superior? To relieve guilt for that sedative you slipped your mother-in-law? Fuck that. Most folks are allergic to the truth. Find that shit out before walking down the aisle, because you’ve got a sure death sentence if you don’t. Your only other option is to memorize the following comments, which can be used on an as-needed basis (they’re unisex unless otherwise noted):
“No, you don’t look fat in that dress/jacket.”
“You’d never know your brother/sister is schizophrenic. He/she is a delight!”
“I try not to eat red meat.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Size doesn’t matter.”
“I have to stay late at work even though I miss you madly.”
“You’re ten times cuter than your best friend.”
“Why in the hell would I cheat on you with someone not nearly as pretty/handsome? Come on!”
“Karen has big tits? I didn’t notice.” (For men/lesbians only.)
“You’re much better endowed than that NFL player I dated.” (For women/gay men only.)
“Let’s sleep in the guestroom and give your uncle with anal leakage our bed.”
“You’re just better at doing it.”
“I’m proud of you for trying.”
“We need to get away. Soon.”
“Oprah’s the shit./The Godfather is the shit.”
“I feel you’re safer in your car.”
“You’re right.” (Optional add-on: “As usual.”)
This is how you keep it together later in life. Can you do it? Do you want to? Because bottom line is, you’re gonna need to. It’s our early-in-life ego that makes us think we’ll get through it on our terms. Or that we’ll change them. There are no terms, and there is no changing, there are only rock-hard rules. If you don’t know this by midlife, I suggest you get ready to write a big, fat check.
Luckily, later in life, libido starts to diminish. But rarely does this happen at the same time as your partner’s. When the sex goes away or takes on different forms known as the “appreciative hand job,” the “dutiful quickie,” or the “incoherent blow job,” all bets are off. At that point you need to turn your attention to the garage, the pantry, or ESPN. Can you do that? Are you ready? Can you act excited about her scrapbooking? Your level of enthusiasm may be directly proportional to how much genital attention you’ll receive, so you’d better learn to bump it up, my friend. Will you be able to throw on that neon-yellow sweater because that same mother-in-law you roofied is coming over for Easter brunch? She bought it for you, bitch, so you better man up and put it on just to make your life flow easier. And as we learn in our later years, it’s all about the flow, Joe.
I’ve made a few enemies when it comes to expressing my thoughts on marriage. I do believe in true love; I do believe that some folks are meant to be together; I do not believe in “till death do us part.” This is not pessimism so much as it is an acknowledgment that we continue to evolve, grow, decay, change, and fall in and out of love. If you both do these things in the same direction, simultaneously, good for you. But it’s highly unlikely. I’m sorry, but I need more than a promise to get through the long haul. Divorce is at an all-time high for a reason: marriage is hard as shit. True, some people are more monogamous than others. I wish I were one of them. The fundamental issue is that women want security and men want excitement. Sure, women may want excitement and men may want security, but usually, they fall lower on the respective scales of importance. I’m a die-hard romantic. I’m also a relentless flirt. It’s not that I don’t believe in commitment; it’s just that I think we place too much value on ceremonial bullshit and not enough on the reality of human nature.
The bottom line is, if you want to give any long-term relationship a shot, memorize those quotes above and practice them often to se
e how they land. It won’t be easy at first, and if you say any of them with a grin, you’re screwed.
So much for Adam and Eve. It’s obvious that if they really existed, we would all be inbred disasters looking very much alike and adept at playing the fiddle. I’ve only found three states in the nation where these characteristics are prevalent. I need more evidence than that.
14
Celebrating Your E.D. During Your Midlife Crisis
It shouldn’t surprise you by this point that I believe the midlife crisis is an extension (or nonextension) that originates from the loins—or, more technically, our old friend the penis. In our early years he works too fast, in our prime years he wants to work too much, in our later years he refuses to work even when we beg, and in our final years he’s just praying for good health insurance. Erectile dysfunction, or E.D., as it’s known to the underworld, is broken into three major categories: Premature Ejaculation; Non-Erectus Minimus; and Curvature Morphesus, which is the least common of the three but also the most valuable. With Curvature Morphesus, you have to enter your partner from a forty-five-degree angle at a high rate of speed. But let’s cover the first two, since they are more prevalent in the Caucasian world.
Premature Ejaculation and Non-Erectus Minimus are commonly referred to by women as “I wasn’t even close to being done” and “Oh, so now you’re not attracted to me anymore?” The life span between the decline of one and the onset of the other can be mere moments. If you are currently in that legendary, blissful in-between space, please, for the love of God, go out and take advantage of it as much as you possibly can.
Due to the fact that these conditions are quite natural over the course of one’s lifetime, it’s unfortunate that they get such a bad rap. Perhaps because the topics are a little too close to home? Granted. I recall that once during a specific interlude in my youth, I reached orgasm so quickly that I actually time-traveled. I opened my eyes, and suddenly I was a young knight getting my steed a drink from a moat, and my lady was running off with a stable hand. By the same token, I now have to pop two Cialis just to find my dick in the shower.