Steve spends a few minutes pinning the legs of my pants and gives me a reprieve from ball cupping.

“That bird is still saying ‘Where my ho’s at, bitch?’ whenever my dad whistles. My mom couldn’t get the bird to stop so she put a ban on whistling in the house,” I tell him.

“I really thought she’d be more pissed about the ‘Jesus loves me’ one. It was just boring every time your mom said that and it replied, ‘This I know.’ ‘Jesus loves me, f**k a ho’ is much more entertaining,” Drew explains.

The person measuring him tells him to turn around so his back is to me.

“Anyway, back to the subject of strippers,” he yells over his shoulder. “You are drastically underestimating the power of na**d women dancing on poles. That shit could cure cancer or put an end to war if people would open their eyes. Give pole dancers a chance!” Drew shouts with a fist in the air.

“I think you mean ‘Give peace a chance.' And watching strange women gyrate on stage is not going to make Claire less angry with me. I’m pretty sure that is the exact definition of something that is guaranteed to piss off your girlfriend,” I tell him, flinching when a measuring tape is spread across my ass and then as hands glide up and down my legs.

My penis is shrinking. MY PENIS IS SHRINKING!

“Sylvia, come here and make sure you have everything you need,” the owner yells in the general direction of the back storage room as he stands up and wipes his hands on the front of his pants like being in that close proximity to my manhood made him feel dirty. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I feel violated. I’M THE VICTIM HERE. I just want a tux, not go to second base with Steve, the handsy man who sews.

“I think I have what she needs,” Drew leans in and whispers conspiratorially. I glanced up to see a blonde Amazon with a measuring tape draped around her neck walking towards us. You’re probably thinking, “Okay, he has nothing to complain about now. Some hot chick is going to get on her hands and knees and touch him!”

False.

Sylvia the Seamstress is stalking towards me, and I suddenly realize just how many people are in this store with nothing better to do than stare at me while they wait for their turn. The lights shining down from above are making me hot and now that I know everyone is watching me, I’m getting the ball sweats. I want to pull the dress pants and my boxers away from my junk but I have to just stand here like an idiot with my arms out to the side because Sylvia is already in front of me...on her knees...reaching for my penis.

I know she’s not actually reaching for my penis, but my penis doesn’t know that. He’s a simple creature and all he knows is that there is a hot woman assuming the position and reaching for him.

I know this is going to be hard for you to comprehend, my friend, but this does not mean she wants to have sex with us. I know it’s crazy. I know it doesn’t make sense but there it is. Stay strong little buddy, stay strong.

Stop judging me. All men talk to their penises.

Wait! Is the plural of penis, penises? Or is it like the word deer and it’s just penis? I have five penis. No, that’s not right. Maybe it’s peni, long “I” like, “There are too many peni in this porno.”

“Could you stand still please?” Sylvia says in an irritated voice.

If she had sweaty balls and an almost-boner she wouldn’t be so judgmental. Am I right, or am I right?

“Gavin, you almost dressed?” I call into the dressing room, momentarily forgoing my penis grammar lesson to realize my son had gone in there ten minutes ago, claiming he was a big boy and didn’t need any help trying on his tux. I begin to wonder about the brilliance of that decision when I don’t hear a reply. Part of me secretly hopes he lit something on fire in there so we can finally put an end to this trauma. At least it forces Sylvia to finish the hell up and move on to the next victim so I can stop giving my penis pep talks.

“Gavin, are you okay in there?” I yell as I take a few steps in that direction. Gavin steps out of the room then in a crisp, brand new toddler tuxedo. Lucky little shit doesn’t have to worry about Sylvia or touchy-feely Steve. The suit fits him to perfection and I have to say, he is one handsome little boy.

“Wow, Gav. That looks really good on you,” I tell him as I squat down in front of him and fix the buttons he fastened wrong.

“I know. I’m a bad ass, man,” he replies as he turns away from me and looks at himself in the mirror. He holds onto the lapels of the suit coat like he is James Bond the Toddler Years and twists from right to left to get a better look.

“Gavin, don’t talk like that,” I scold.

“Nice suit, little dude,” Drew says as he walks up behind Gavin and ruffles his hair. “Mine looks better though.”

Gavin turns around and looks up at Drew with an angry look on his face.

“I’m going to put corn and hot sauce on your wiener, and then I’ll hit you in the face with it. Hit you in the face with your corny wiener.”

“Dude, you are an angry little man,” Drew tells him as he shakes his head.

“You’re a juice bag!” Gavin yells.

“Okay, time-out. Both of you. Gavin, go put your other clothes back on.”

Gavin sticks his tongue out at Drew and turns to run back into the dressing room. I stand up to face Drew and fold my arms in front of me.

“What? He threatened my wiener. He’s lucky I didn’t throw down fisticuffs with him. And just because he said ‘juice bag’ doesn’t mean we don’t both know what he was really thinking. That kid is an evil, evil genius, and I never want to be left alone with him. So, strip club, yea or nay?”

~

“It needs to be tomantic…tmotmantic…ramtantic…dude, it needs to be all loving and shit,” Jim states as he goes to sit down next to me on the couch, missing the cushions by about six inches and landing on his ass on the floor.

After all of the fittings are over, the girls take Gavin up to the shop so they can help Claire with some last minute orders, and Drew and Jim decide to stick around our place until they are done. Somehow the topic of my proposal to Claire is brought up and after rehashing the debacle from the Indians game, we all need copious amounts of liquor.

Since Drew’s proposal during a ball game idea has gone straight to the shitter, Jim decides it is his turn to try and make this thing work.

“WHY IS THERE A DR. SEUSS CONTACT IN MY CELL PHONE?” Drew yells from his spot sitting Indian-style in the middle of our kitchen table.

“You need candles and you need a violin and you need your shoes shined and a guy in a tux with a white towel thing over his arm and OOHHHH! You need a piano. Chicks dig a guy that can play piano. Can you play the piano, Carter?” Jim asks, finding his way back up to the couch and sprawling across the cushions, kicking me repeatedly in the process.

“Yes! I can play the piano!” I shout.

Why am I shouting?

“I’m not talking about your little Casio keyboard where all you have to do is press the “demo” button and then pretend you’re really a piano prodigy,” Jim says with a roll of his eyes.

“Whatever, asshole. I can fake-play the SHIT out of “Cherish the Love” by Kool and the Gang. You don’t even know. You DON’T. EVEN. KNOW.”

I rest my head on the back of the couch and stare up at the ceiling wondering why it's moving.

Ceilings shouldn’t move, should they? If ceilings moved, floors would be moving. We’d never be still like broccoli. We’d constantly be moving like in a funhouse. Funhouses are creepy. Funhouses have clowns. Clowns are always moving because they’re out to get you and eat your face while you sleep. I wonder if a moving ceiling could kill a clown.

“I DON’T EVEN FUCKING LIKE GREEN EGGS!” Drew shouts from the kitchen, still staring at his phone in anger.

“On my keyboard I used to know how to play “London Bridge is Falling Down” and “Chop Suey”.

Heh heh. I said Chop Suey when I meant Chopsticks.

“Chop sueeeeeeeeey, chop sueeeeeeeeey!” I sing.

“London Bridge is a SWEET song! Wait, I know! You should take her to Paris and propose. That’s where London Bridge is, right?” Jim asks, grabbing the bottle of tequila off of the coffee table and taking a swig.

“I don’t know. Carmela went to Paris and was all depressed and shit. I don’t want Claire to be depressed when I propose.”

Jim stared at me blankly.

“Who the f**k is this Carmela person? Are you cheating on Claire? I will FUCK YOU UP!” Jim yells.

“Dude, simmer down. Carmela Soprano. Remember? Tony sent her to Paris with her friend Ro so she could ‘find herself’. It really was a beautiful gesture on his part since he was banging the Russian chick with one leg,” I state.

“Hey, f**k face. You know these people only live in your television, right? THEY. AREN’T. REAL,” Jim argues.

“Take it back,” I whisper menacingly. “Take it back right now.”

“FUCK YOU, SAM I AM!” Drew screams at his phone, holding it up in front of his face.

“And anyway, I think they moved London Bridge. It’s in Arizona or some shit like that now,” I explain as I took the bottle back from him and rest it on my thigh.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?” Jim yells right in my ear. “London Bridge is in Arizona? When the f**k did this happen? Does London know about this? The queen has got to be pissed.”

“It was on ‘Real Housewives’ so you know it’s true,” I state.

“Orange County or Atlanta?” Jim asks.

“Orange County, what the f**k is wrong with you? Does anyone even watch Atlanta?” I argue.

“YOU AND YOUR STUPID RED AND WHITE STRIPED HAT! FUCKING CATS DON’T WEAR HATS!” Drew screams in frustration before throwing his phone against the wall.

What the hell are we even talking about? I feel like I’m going to puke. And why the f**k is Drew meowing in the kitchen? Do we have a cat? Oh fuck, did I forget to feed a cat? Claire’s going to kill me if I murdered her cat.

The last thing I remember before passing out is Jim telling me in a moment of drunken brilliance that Claire would marry me if I fed her lobster and that we should call the queen and ask her if her she would trade us some Grey Poupon for the bridge she doesn’t know she lost.

9. No Nut Shots Before Lunch

The muffled vibrations of my cell phone from its spot under my pillow forces my eyes open. I blink the sleep out of them, pull my ear plugs out of each ear, and slide my hand under my pillow to answer the phone.

“Jesus, Claire. What the hell is that noise? It sounds like a monster. Is there a monster in your house?”

I chuckle at Jenny’s question and roll over onto my back and look over at Carter who's fast asleep next to me.

“No, there isn’t a monster in my house,” I whisper. “That growling snort you hear is Carter snoring.”

Once again I thank the good Lord for blessing me with the best earplugs in the world. Not something people typically give thanks for, but I am pretty sure God felt slighted because he is only remembered for the big stuff. I firmly believe there is a special place for me in heaven because I remember to thank him for Southern Butter Pecan coffee creamer and Coochy Cream shaving gel.

“Wow, he really needs to get that checked out,” Jenny informs me. “You know, I read something the other day that maybe he should try. It said taking those relaxative things for a few days will make your whole body healthier. Maybe that would fix his sinuses.”

“Did you say relaxative? Jenny, what the hell is a relaxative?”

I fling the covers off of me and sit up in bed so I can wake up a little more and be able to talk to her with a clear head. I doubt it will help, but here’s to hoping.

“You know,” she says with a huff, “R-E-L-A-X-A-T-I-V-E.”

The fact that she feels the need to enunciate the word like I am the one with the problem and my inability to understand is irritating her makes me want to shank her.

“I heard the word. I just don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I complain as I get out of bed and stretch before making my way out into the hall.

“You know, those pills you take to flush out your system. Relaxatives.”

I open Gavin’s bedroom door across the hall from our room and peek in on him. He was still out, lying on his back horizontally across his bed with his head hanging off of the edge. There’s no way that can be comfortable but I'm not about to move him back up to his pillow and run the risk of waking him up before I've had my coffee. I shut the door quietly and go back to dealing with Jenny while I head to the kitchen.

“I think you mean laxatives,” I tell her with a sigh. “And they aren’t really supposed to be used to flush out your system. Where the hell did you even read that about snoring?”

“Google. So you know it’s true. Tell Carter to try it and you can thank me with chocolate when it works,” she replies.

I stop in my tracks in the kitchen doorway at the sight before me, unable to even formulate a reply to Jenny about how making Carter shit his brains out most likely would not stop his snoring.

“So anyway, I was calling to ask you if Drew was still at your house. I got a text from him last night as I was leaving your shop that the Cat in the Hat told him he should spend the night. I have no idea what that meant, but as long as I got the whole bed to myself I didn’t care.”

After the girls had helped me put together the huge chocolate and cookie order last night for a wedding today, we all left to go home. Gavin had fallen asleep in the car so when I got in the house, I bypassed the kitchen and went straight down the hall to his bedroom and then put myself to bed next to a snoring Carter.