Chapter One
By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong. - Charles Wadsworth
I’m playing catch with my teenage son. He has his mother’s blond hair. It’s a typical July day in San Diego—warm, bright sunshine, and not a cloud in the sky. The only sounds are distant birds and the slap of baseball against mitt. Little stinker has quite an arm.
“No curve balls,” I warn.
“I know. So, Pop,” he asks as he hurls a four-seamer.
*BZZZT, CRACK*
Ouch.
“Yes?”
“I’ve been kind of seeing this girl at school.”
“Seeing her or seeing her?” I pry as I toss the ball back a little harder.
*PFFFT, SLAP*
Not bad for sixty-seven. The old man still has it.
“You know, seeing her. Anyway, I was at her house last night, helping with calculus.”
“Uh huh.”
*BZZZT, CRACK*
“Her parents called her downstairs, so I did some exploration.”
“And, what did you find?”
*PFFFT, POP*
“Well, since you’re always warning me to avoid bedside tables, that was the first place I looked.”
Oh, Jesus.
“And?”
“What’s a butt plug?”
*BZZZT, DINK, BONK* — Curve ball, square in the nuts.
“Argggh!”
I double over and feel as though my balls have shot out my ears.
“Honey. Wake up.”
Who’s shaking me?
“Mormon. Hey.”
Oh, it’s Bea.
“You had a bad dream, sweetie.”
I check my package. All good. “Phew, that was a strange one.”
“Tell me.”
“I was playing catch with our son.”
“Really? We haven’t determined that it’s going to be a boy, have we?”
“Well ...”
“OK, I’ll play along. What did he look like?”
“A cross between Wayne Gretzky and the most beautiful woman in the world,” I tease as I boop her nose and give her a kiss.
“Aw. And, his name?”
“Pippino.”
“What?”
“Pippino. If we have a boy, that has to be his name,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Ha, ha. You’re silly.”
“I’m not kidding. It’s an Italian tradition. My first son must be named after my father, Pippino Silveri.”
“No freaking way.”
Is she serious?
“Yes, freaking way. I’ll wrestle you for it,” I say as I attack her. She giggles. “How do you manage to smell so good in the morning?”
“Don’t change the subject, mister. Our son will not be named Pippino.”
“Resistance is futile,” I warn as I tug down on the waistband of her pajamas. “Do you hear that, Pippino?” I speak into her pelvis with my fake Italian accept. “You mamma, she’s ashamed of-a you name.”
“I think it’s going to be a girl, anyway.”
“Ah, Pippina!”
We laugh and wrestle, which naturally turns into morning sex. No better way to start the day. I’m thankful her morning sickness subsided, but I never realized women get hornier when pregnant. I’m definitely going to need assistance.
Chapter Two
I love you, not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. – Roy Croft
After good-morning nookie in my lover’s condo, Bea hits the shower and I hit eggs on the side of an omelet pan. Once again, I’m derailed by the clinking of spoon against coffee mug. The beast rises.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Ms. Aspinwald,” I greet and bow.
“French toast.”
“Huh?”
“I’d like French toast with cinnamon butter.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer blue berry muffins with a side of rabbit?” I sneer. I can hardly look at her since she defiled my glove.
“You do realize, Blobber, that this wedding isn’t going to happen.”
“It most certainly is going to happen. Didn’t you get the invitation? This Saturday, Coronado Beach, noonish. Guests are encouraged to bring covered plates. I could sign you up for deviled eggs.”
“Chris is a powerful man. I don’t know if you’re more brave or stupid ... I’m betting on stupid.”
“You know dillweed has a girlfriend, right? Annie, I believe, was her name. Innocent thing with horrible taste in
By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong. - Charles Wadsworth
I’m playing catch with my teenage son. He has his mother’s blond hair. It’s a typical July day in San Diego—warm, bright sunshine, and not a cloud in the sky. The only sounds are distant birds and the slap of baseball against mitt. Little stinker has quite an arm.
“No curve balls,” I warn.
“I know. So, Pop,” he asks as he hurls a four-seamer.
*BZZZT, CRACK*
Ouch.
“Yes?”
“I’ve been kind of seeing this girl at school.”
“Seeing her or seeing her?” I pry as I toss the ball back a little harder.
*PFFFT, SLAP*
Not bad for sixty-seven. The old man still has it.
“You know, seeing her. Anyway, I was at her house last night, helping with calculus.”
“Uh huh.”
*BZZZT, CRACK*
“Her parents called her downstairs, so I did some exploration.”
“And, what did you find?”
*PFFFT, POP*
“Well, since you’re always warning me to avoid bedside tables, that was the first place I looked.”
Oh, Jesus.
“And?”
“What’s a butt plug?”
*BZZZT, DINK, BONK* — Curve ball, square in the nuts.
“Argggh!”
I double over and feel as though my balls have shot out my ears.
“Honey. Wake up.”
Who’s shaking me?
“Mormon. Hey.”
Oh, it’s Bea.
“You had a bad dream, sweetie.”
I check my package. All good. “Phew, that was a strange one.”
“Tell me.”
“I was playing catch with our son.”
“Really? We haven’t determined that it’s going to be a boy, have we?”
“Well ...”
“OK, I’ll play along. What did he look like?”
“A cross between Wayne Gretzky and the most beautiful woman in the world,” I tease as I boop her nose and give her a kiss.
“Aw. And, his name?”
“Pippino.”
“What?”
“Pippino. If we have a boy, that has to be his name,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Ha, ha. You’re silly.”
“I’m not kidding. It’s an Italian tradition. My first son must be named after my father, Pippino Silveri.”
“No freaking way.”
Is she serious?
“Yes, freaking way. I’ll wrestle you for it,” I say as I attack her. She giggles. “How do you manage to smell so good in the morning?”
“Don’t change the subject, mister. Our son will not be named Pippino.”
“Resistance is futile,” I warn as I tug down on the waistband of her pajamas. “Do you hear that, Pippino?” I speak into her pelvis with my fake Italian accept. “You mamma, she’s ashamed of-a you name.”
“I think it’s going to be a girl, anyway.”
“Ah, Pippina!”
We laugh and wrestle, which naturally turns into morning sex. No better way to start the day. I’m thankful her morning sickness subsided, but I never realized women get hornier when pregnant. I’m definitely going to need assistance.
Chapter Two
I love you, not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. – Roy Croft
After good-morning nookie in my lover’s condo, Bea hits the shower and I hit eggs on the side of an omelet pan. Once again, I’m derailed by the clinking of spoon against coffee mug. The beast rises.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Ms. Aspinwald,” I greet and bow.
“French toast.”
“Huh?”
“I’d like French toast with cinnamon butter.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer blue berry muffins with a side of rabbit?” I sneer. I can hardly look at her since she defiled my glove.
“You do realize, Blobber, that this wedding isn’t going to happen.”
“It most certainly is going to happen. Didn’t you get the invitation? This Saturday, Coronado Beach, noonish. Guests are encouraged to bring covered plates. I could sign you up for deviled eggs.”
“Chris is a powerful man. I don’t know if you’re more brave or stupid ... I’m betting on stupid.”
“You know dillweed has a girlfriend, right? Annie, I believe, was her name. Innocent thing with horrible taste in
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