Brandon and Melissa haven't been dating for very long. Let's say... three months. She is having some serious health issues. The treatment she is undergoing is causing some stomach.... yuckies. And she is pretty miserable, and stressed, in general.

Melissa is sleeping in the bed. Brandon is sleeping on the floor next to the bed.

It is pretty late. The apartment is very silent.

Melissa has a release of flatulence, with a sheer intensity that you usually only read about in books.

Melissa (frantic whisper): Tell me that you are asleep.

Brandon: I'm asleep.

Melissa: Oh God! OH GOD! You didn't hear that!

Brandon: I didn't hear anything.

Melissa: Why?? Why did you have to hear that?

He gets up and kisses her on the forehead.

Brandon: I didn't hear anything.

Melissa (getting hysterical): I know that you've held my hair while I puked, but--

He kisses her forehead again.

Brandon: I didn't hear anything.

Melissa (crying): You'll never see me as a woman again.

He kisses her forehead again.

Brandon: I didn't hear anything.

Melissa: Oh God! I am hyper... ventilating!

He kisses her forehead again.

Brandon: I didn't hear anything.

Melissa (calming a little): OK. OK. I'm going to be OK. You didn't hear anything?

Brandon: I didn't hear anything.

Melissa: We can go to sleep now.

Brandon gets comfy again on the floor.

Melissa (wiping tears from her eyes): That really was kind of loud.

Brandon: It set off a car alarm three blocks away.

Labels: snippet

Like most of you, I spend a good amount of time checking my visitor stats for my blog. Probably even more so on days when I don't post anything. The reason being that I feel guilty about not posting.

I think things like, "Awww. Person from Bristol, Connecticut, you came all the way up here and I didn't even post anything!"

It actually bothers me.

(Yes, it has already been clearly established that I am all sorts of nuts.)

And, while I have nothing to blog about today, I'll hit you with a few quick thoughtlets. You know, just so your visit wasn't a total waste.

*****

My e-mail addiction may be worse than I previously thought.

Item the first: When I got up at 4 o'clock this morning for a drink, I checked AND REPLIED TO e-mail. I shit you not.

Second... item: As I was slowly waking up this morning, my mind was wandering and, as I completed a thought, I mentally hit a "send" button to finish the process.

(The thought? "I think it would be fun to have a pen pal, if my handwriting wasn't completely illegible.)

*****

Also this morning, I learned this on CNN Headline News:

"When cruising for men in a public washroom, it is important to keep your base wide. The person in the next stall should be able to see the edge of your foot. Then you slowly tap your foot to indicate interest."

God help you if you are a fat dude listening to his iPod.

*****

Late last night, I decided that I would try to write my next post for Burt Reynolds' Mustache -- you should be reading DAILY -- which is due to be posted on Saturday. Instead of something even bordering on funny, it turned into either a short poem or the beginning of a bigger one. In either case, moody 16 year old lesbians everywhere would be jealous of it.

Needless to say, it won't be showing up on The 'Stache.

*****

And, finally, a little exchange between The Monkey and I that might only be amusing to me:

Monkey: Peter, do you have "Hey There, Delilah?"
Peter: I have no idea. I have a lot of songs.
Monkey: You know it. Let me sing it for you.
Peter: It's ok, I can do a sear--
Monkey sings the entire song.
Peter: Oh, I DO know that song.
Monkey: See?! I TOLD you. Can you put it on my CD, please?
Peter: Sure.
Monkey: And "Ridin' Dirty!"

We have a few more slots left in an NFL fantasy league.

E-mail me if you are into it.

Go Colts!

This is totally against my better judgment. But, in the wee hours, in a still mostly asleep stupor, I scribbled this mess in a note pad. And then I got up to try to see the alleged lunar eclipse. It just looked like a regular moon. CURSES! [Please note that Peter shook his fist skyward.]

When I got up this morning I read it, rolled my eyes, and tossed it back on the table. But, then I thought there must be dozens of ways to mock it mercilessly for our collective general amusement. However, I don't have the time.

But you good folks should feel free!

*****

There is a place...

Where the swagger of youth, (mostly) dispossessed by the passage of time, is replaced by a quieter confidence.
Where there's found a sense of responsibility, that was expected but (probably) not guaranteed.
Where you don't regret words unspoken. (bull shit)
Where the hint of potential is (just about) fuel enough.
Where thoughts are put down on paper and then forgotten. (until the next time)

There is a place...

But, I sure as fuck haven't found it.

Labels: lame lame lame

Some of the scenes included would be:

The ACN deciding yesterday morning that I would be "PuppyPete" instead of Uncle Pete. (And that she would be Puppy[ACN.])

Each of us barking. Hers sounding like "Uppp!" (CUTE.)

Me getting head rushes while panting. (Sucky lack of oxygen. Damn you ragweed! Or whatever that yellow horse shit is.)

Her wanting me to eat any food that falls on her "super girl cape" -- like her puppy does at home.

And her wanting me to pee on the lawn. (She still thinks this is a good idea.)

*****

The Monkey demonstrating EVERY dance move in Rhianna's "S.O.S." video -- between feeding The ACN blueberries.

*****

The ACN howling with delight as I hammered my shoulder into the edge of an open door and called it a "wooden bastard."

*****

Me getting the munchkin dressed this morning. (Blue capris with matching blue and white shirt -- she picked 'em.)

Pete: "You are the cutest little twerp EVER. You look just like me.*
ACN: Yeah.
Pete: Is Uncle Pete cute?
ACN: Yeah!
Pete: Do you love Uncle Pete though?
ACN shaking head no.
Pete: Whaaaaaaaah!! *sniffle*
ACN: Hee hee hee
Pete: Do you like making Uncle Pete cry?
ACN: YEAH!!!!!!

(* In my defense, I grew up in a house where every day my father would comb his hair in the bathroom mirror and yell to my mother, "My God... you are SO lucky to be married to someone as handsome as me.")

*****

Me making two mixed CDs for The ACN. Her laughing and screeching happily to something called "Crazy Frog." (I think it includes subliminal messages, "Cheer or we'll whack Elmo.") And a mixed CD with songs that she and The Monkey enjoyed this week -- including "Smack That."

*****

Me trying to give The Monkey's Mom a CD I burned for The Monkey Dad with a buttload of Johnny Cash songs. The Monkey Mommy saying "Oh no... I HATE Johnny Cash." And then The Monkey staring at her seriously, before singing in a deep voice, "I fell in to a burnin' ring of fire..."

Labels: ACN, The Monkey

This'll be the post where you'll probably notice that as the little twerps wear Uncle Pete down, he becomes less and less able to properly tell the story of their many adventures.

I'm just about at the "Girls funny... Peter tired..." point. But, I'll try.

Because she had so much fun yesterday morning, the ACN wanted to go see The Monkey at her grandparents' house pretty much as soon as she got up this morning. Though today I convinced her to take a bath and get dressed. We call that progress where I'm from. And, probably where you're from too.

This time the visit mostly involved listening to loud music and more eating of string cheese. (First they made Uncle Pete run home for Dora the Explorer cookies -- which were quickly waved off -- and then to The Monkey's house for the string cheese.)

At one point, The (ten year old) Monkey was messing around on YouTube. Watching music videos, concert footage, etc. She found some old stuff, including a clip from an episode of "The Ed Sullivan Show."

She watched and listened for about a minute.

Then she looked at me. Then back at the monitor. And then back at me again, before saying...

"You know... Elvis Presley... he was pretty hot."

I cracked up.

A few moments later, she was singing an Avril Lavigne song, including a part where she was wondering aloud why her boyfriend doesn't understand why ONCE A MONTH she doesn't even want to hold his hand.

I wanted to leave.

When we eventually did, we again took The Monkey with us. That was 11 am. As I am typing this section, at 6:23 pm, the little turd is still here. But, I must admit, she has been pretty awesome with The ACN. Pushing her around in Chair-y. Brushing her hair while they watched "Elmo's World." She has been a pretty kickass big cousin.

However, The Monkey is still The Monkey.

A couple of hours ago, she looked at me and said, "I could be a model." (This was moments after she punctuated one of her many statements to me with an arcing finger snap thingy.) And, like a shot, she was up and out of her chair and strutting around the kitchen.

She walked back and forth, throwing what will eventually be hips from side to side. She tossed her head and made her hair fly with each turn. This went on for about five minutes. The ACN watched and smiled the whole time.

The Monkey asked if it was a good fashion show. The ACN said, "Yeaaah!" Then The Monkey asked me and I said, "It was the best modeling performance I have ever seen... in this house."

"Good! Now I'll do an encore!"

"I don't think we need a --"

"Too bad! Encore!"

It actually turned out to be three -- very distinct -- encores.

Encore #1 -- This one involved a subplot of an evil model manger approaching, as she rushed to put on a button-up shirt (over the two shirts she was already wearing.) And it included the classic quote, "She couldn't even get her shirt on... she must have been on drugs."

Encore #2 -- This one was completely in French. While The Monkey IS bilingual, she mostly said, "Oh, mon dieu" while putting her long hair up on top of her head and pouting her lips.

Encore #3 -- With running commentary that included, "This one starts slow... but then it turns to ROCK!" A quick few steps, a power turn... and then she began singing "Smack That." Yes, THAT is the one I mean.

To be honest, even if there had been an Encore #4 that involved her hitting me with a rolling pin, I would still like the little shit. A few hours earlier, she invited The ACN to go visit her kitty cat named "Cassie." The ACN was very excited, so we went over. The Monkey repeatedly held the kitty up with one hand, taking The ACN's left hand in the other and helping her pet it. All while The ACN flashed the biggest, cutest, happiest smile I have ever seen.

Girls funny... and sweet.

Peter tired.

Labels: ACN, The Monkey

This morning The ACN decided that she wanted me to take her to visit The Monkey at her grandparents' house.

However, The ACN was still in her jammies. I can be a fairly persuasive dude, from time to time, and figured that I could talk her into getting dressed, but she was having none of my charm.

So, we went over with her in her jammies. When we arrived, The Monkey opened the door... also in her jammies. It just felt like a bad sign.

Within moments they were on The Monkey's grandmother's computer and playing Webkinz. Over the past couple weeks, I've raised 10,000 in Kinz Cash.

Within 3 minutes, there was a 1000 left.

And what was I doing at this point?

I was standing beside them feeding ACN pieces of string cheese.

Spoiled? Naaaaaaw.

A little while later, they were playing some other pet adopting website dealie. And I was kneeling beside ACN, still feeding the cheese. I get up, letting loose an "Ouch" or two. The Monkey grins at me and asks, "Getting old?"

I GRRRRR. They both giggle.

I walk out to the living room and am there for 14 seconds when I hear "Unc!"

I go back into the room and see them both sitting there smiling quietly. I know that they've been up to no good. I look at the computer screen.

"Uhm... poodle, did you name your cat 'Shitty the kitty' by any chance?"

The ACN morphed into Barney Rubble and "ah hee hee ah hee hee hee"d.

I fed some more cheese.

On the next similar site, they adopted a cat and named it "Peter."

And then they made it pee on a bed.

Since the little turds were having so much fun together -- mostly torturing me -- I asked The ACN if she wanted to invite The Monkey over for lunch. (Take out.) I took the squeals of delight as a yes.

I asked The Monkey if she would get dressed. However, the selection of clothing she had at her grandparents' house displeased her in some way. So, I had to take two pajama-clad goofs to The Monkey's house for her to find suitable clothing.

Eventually we made it back to my place, talked The ACN into letting The Monkey pick out an outfit for her too -- "It's a SKORT, Peter!" -- and then they immediately got on my computer. Back to Webkinz World.

A few minutes of unnerving silence later, I heard "Unc!" I walked into the room and saw that they had just finished making a Webkinz movie. Based on the gleeful looks of anticipation on their little mugs, I was assuming that it was more Anti-Uncle Pete Propaganda.

And I was right.

The film opened with a pretty puppy princess standing next to a rugged-looking, eye patch-wearing, bear pirate.

It is called "Uncle Pete!"

Princess: Oh no! It is the meanest boy in the world. It is...

Pirate: I am Uncle Pete.

Princess: Please don't hurt me, meanie!

Pirate: I just like to scare people, I don't like to hurt them.

Princess: You are mean.

Pirate: I won't hurt you.

Princess: I don't know. I think you might hurt me.

Pirate: If I did, you would just run home.

Princess: I have to go. Thank you for not hurting me. Bye!

Pirate: Bye.

Then I looked at a smiling ACN. I asked, "Is Uncle Pete really a mean boy?" She said, "Yeah!" I fake sniffled. And she couldn't hold back a "HA! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

I am trying to convince them to take a little nap.

Pray for Mojo.

EDIT: The nap idea didn't fly.

The ACN arrived in town a little while ago.

Her first act was to tell me that she didn't want to be here, demand that I put her back in the car, and then giggle her little bum off.

Moments later, while I was stealing kisses from the little goofball, her Mommy was yammering on about something or other. Eventually I recognized a word that sounded familiar and said, "Wait... when is Mom & Dad's anniversary?"

"Today."

In my defense, I am BRUTAL with anniversaries. But, I am pretty good with birthdays! It's true. Last month I sent a Facebook message to my 11th grade girlfriend because I remembered her birthday. (And NO she didn't have it listed in Facebook, so I didn't see it on my main page.)

That's pretty good, right? Right? Fine. I suck.

My sister quickly realized that if one male in the family forgot, it was possible that two had. So, she called my Dad's cell. He was out sailing.

I could only hear her side, but what started out as, "Do you know what day it is today?" quickly turned into "You're as useless as Peter!"

To which I replied, "Hey! *I* wasn't at the wedding."

And then I did a little quick math to confirm.

My sister volunteered me and the ACN to make a card for him. Then she called him a bad husband and got off the phone.

So, twerpypants and I got some construction paper and her pack of "Pip Squeak" markers. We were ready. The plan was to make two cards. One to my folks from all of us. And the other to my mom from my dad.

We started the first. ACN and I wrote it out. When we got to the "from" part, I asked, "Are we going to write everyone's names out?" She shook her head. I asked, "Just write "All of us?" Nope. "Is it just from you?" "YEAH!!!"

So, we wrote her name on it and then drew a little present and coloured it in.

It was time for the second card. I put the piece of paper in front of her and she immediately began shaking her head, "No." And vigorously.

Uncle Pete: We have to make a card from grandpa. He forgot.

ACN shakes her head.

Uncle Pete: He's going to get in trouble.

ACN: Yeah.

Uncle Pete: We should make him a card, punkin.

ACN shakes her head.

Uncle Pete: Do you want Grandpa to get in trouble?

ACN: Yeaaaaaah!

Uncle Pete: You don't want to help him?

ACN shakes her head.

Uncle Pete: Because he's a bad boy and should have gotten a card?

ACN: YEAH!!!

I even tried a different angle a little while later.

Uncle Pete: Can Unc make the card?

ACN shakes her head.

Uncle Pete: If I make the card, are you going to get mad at me?

ACN: (Serious face.) Yeah.

Uncle Pete: Are you going to throw a (switches to French accent) fit de hissy?

The ACN CRACKED up.

She loves this phrase for some reason. She actually seems to enjoy it anytime I switch randomly into French. (Or fake French, apparently.)

I didn't push the card issue, because we had already had a bit of a rhubarb earlier on. I checked my e-mail and got yelled at. Then she gave me the, "Dude, you best not let your gmail OCD interfere with me being lavished with attention!" look.

I better end this post here. I am supposed to be earning "Kinz Cash" for her on webkinz.com right now. I don't have to tell you how much trouble I'll be in if she wakes up tomorrow morning and there isn't enough cash in there. Eeeeep.

Oh, and there still hasn't been any card made for Grandpa.

Labels: ACN

Here is another in the continuing series called, "How does Peter's mind work?" Or maybe it's the first in the series. I don't know. I can't keep track of all of my various to'ings and fro'ings around here. Regardless...

I am working on a screenplay right now. And I am trying to figure out the back story for our happy couple. So, I sat down with a pad of paper and a pen. At the top of the first page I wrote, "But, how did they meet?"

What follows is what I quickly churned out. (That doesn't mean that this will ever be included in anything, of course.)

This probably explains why I have thousands of handwritten pages of notes in my bedroom collecting dust.

----

Brandon excuses himself from the table and makes his way over to the bar.

Brandon: (to the bartender) Two whiskey sours and a shot of tequila, please.

Brandon loosens his tie and unbuttons his top button. As his drinks arrive in front of him, he notices a gorgeous brunette sitting with a friend next to him. He smiles. She smiles back. He downs the tequila and quickly makes the "one more" sign to the bartender.

Brunette: Good date?

The second tequila arrives and Brandon shoots that down too.

Brandon: It's been... interesting.

Brunette: First date?

Brandon: Blind date, even.

Brunette: Ouch.

Brandon: I suspect that at some point doctors removed her spleen so that there'd be more space to fit all of that evil into her.

Brunette: This is Gina. I'm Melissa.

Brandon: Hi Gina. Melissa. I'm Brandon. So, what are you ladies up to tonight?

Melissa: We're on our way to a boring work party. Want to come?

Brandon: More than you could ever imagine. Wait... you don't work in a meth lab do you? Screw it. Nevermind. Let it be a surprise.

Melissa: What about your date?

Brandon: Oh yeah... One sec. I'll handle it.

Brandon walks over to the heavily made up blonde at the table. He passes her two drinks and then salutes her and walks back to the bar.

Brandon: OK. Let's roll.

Melissa: What did you say to her?

Brandon: I told her that I left my herpes meds at home.

Gina: That would have worked on me.

Brandon: I was kidding... I have my Valtrex in my pocket.

Melissa and Gina look at each other eyes-bulgingly and start towards the door.

Brandon: Kidding! I'm kidding. I only know "Valtrex" from the TV ads. Seriously! (Beat.) Hey, wait up!

Labels: the gift that keeps on giving

I'm also a bit of a dork.

This post combines both. Two'fer!

I've always had a fascination with storms. Hurricanes, tornadoes -- well, you know what storms are.

I even thought about becoming a meteorologist at one point. This was just after I had extricated myself from my university's engineering program (What was I thinking?) But, it was before I realized that majoring in physics probably wasn't going to fly either. (Seriously... had I even met me?)

It is important to note that, at the time, I was rocking 6 tonnes of styling gel in my hair and both of my ears were adorned with an alternating line-up of diamond studs and gold hoops. I'm just saying that it's probably best not to put too much stock in my judgment at the time. (Although I stand by the cowboy boots. Completely.)

So, yeah, I am the guy that watches all of those storm shows on Discovery. I don't think that there is a single second of tornado footage that I haven't already seen. I've even done some research into those storm chasing vacation dealies.

As mentioned, me = huge dork.

As you might imagine, in my role as crown prince of the geeky, I've been following this Hurricane Dean stuff pretty closely. And, while I am very sympathetic to the plight of all of those in it's path, I still find myself watching it with... I guess, a detached interest.

It's not like watching a movie, obviously, but watching CNN and reading cnn.com from the comfort of your home certainly takes away from the reality of the situation. You know?

Well, at least it did, for me, until I saw this photo from a church/shelter in the Dominican Republic.


The little noggin on the rainbow pillow... Come on.

And now I feel like a giant ass for being intrigued by something that could put such a little twerp in danger.

Sometimes snippets pop into my head. Pieces of stories that I don't really want to tell. However, I only have so much room in my giant noggin, and have to get these (rough) snippets out to make room for new ones. So, I occasionally type them up and foist them upon you unsuspecting blog readers.

You're welcome.

-----------

He stood, straightening his coat, outside of the posh west side restaurant, when he saw it approach.

It was a 1978 Cadillac Seville. Two tone black and gray. Immaculate condition. The street lights reflected off the polished spoked rims.

He almost drooled as the car pulled in, slowly, and came to a stop directly in front of him.

Some would tell you that they preferred the "Elegante" model that began production the next year, but he was most definitely not one of them.

Much to his pleasure, the engine sounded as good as the rest of it looked.

He couldn't help but smile at the little old lady behind the wheel.

She didn't notice.

He ran to the driver's door and opened it for her. He was immediately hit in the face by the smell of her perfume. As his eyes watered, he flashed back to his own grandmother. She wore the same, or a very similar, perfume. It was the kind that smelled like a strong soap and left an unpleasant taste in your mouth, and a coating on your tongue.

It was by Avon, if he remembered correctly, and called "Charisma."

He tried to decide if it was more embarrassing that he remembered the name of his grandmother's perfume at all, or the fact that he remembered it because "charisma" was one of the attributes of Dungeons & Dragons characters.

He pushed both thoughts out of his mind.

"Ma'am, can I give you a hand?"

"Yes, please." She said in a strong voice, very much belying her tiny stature.

She took his hand and gingerly swung her legs out of the car.

He got his first look at her face. Too many years in the sun had given her the visage of one of those apple dolls. Brown. Wrinkled. But, mostly pleasant.

And her eyes were sharp. Shiny, even.

"I have a bad leg," she offered, but not apologetically.

He let her use him for support as she got to her feet and steadied herself.

Her right hand immediately shot to her head, as if making sure that her hair was still perfectly coiffed.

It was.

Next she checked her outfit.

Not a wrinkle.

She nodded at him. More of a "I'm ready now" than a "Thank you," to be sure.

He smiled again.

She reached back into the car to get her cane. Even it looked polished and perfect.

As soon as the cane touched the ground, he knew to let go of her arm.

She began to slowly, but steadily, make her way around the front of the car. Even while using a cane, her shoulders were back and her head was up high.

He couldn't stop staring at this proud woman. He wondered what she had done as a career. He figured school teacher. And a strict one.

He thought about children of her own that she may have raised. Grandchildren too. He knew that none of them got away with any shit. For any reason. Like, ever.

The doorman tipped his hat and smiled wide at her when she arrived at the door. She gave him a nod and continued in.

He slid in behind the wheel of her car, moving her seat back as he did.

He smiled again. He hoped that he himself would have such independence, and strength, when he was well into his eighties.

He close the door and put the car into gear.

He then pulled quickly out of the parking lot, onto the mostly empty city street, and began removing his fake valet's jacket as he steered the car towards his favourite cross town chop shop.

Labels: no idea where this came from

We had a fight.

It doesn't happen often. Mostly because I am a spoiler and generally reward bad behaviour.

But, we did have a fight.

And we haven't spoken since.

She has probably forgotten all about it. She can do that. However, I am not very good at forgiving or forgetting. I come from a family with red headed Irishmen that were known to write-off siblings for the most minor of infractions and not speak to them for decades.

Literally.

Still, she'll act all sweet and ask me for a favour at some point today. And I'll give in.

Oh, did I mention that "she" is The Monkey?

Here's the story:

As I've mentioned in here before, the monkey's grandmother babysits her during the summer months. The grandparents (my uncle and aunt) have a pool. The monkey is part fish. She LOVES to swim. However, her grandmother is not comfortable lifeguarding. So, since my schedule is the most flexible, I get "the call." Which pretty much always goes like this:

*phone rings*

Peter: Hellloooo.

Monkey: Hello. *hee hee* Can you guess why I'm calling?

Peter: Who IS this?

Monkey: PETER!!!!!

Peter: What's up, squirt?

Monkey: Do you know what I want?

Peter: You want me to buy you beer?

Monkey: Yuck. No.

Peter: You want to borrow money?

Monkey: NO. I have money.

Peter: You missed me?

Monkey: Ha! No.

Peter: I don't want to play any more.

Monkey: PETER!!!!!!

Peter: You want me to watch you while you are in the pool?

Monkey: Yes, please.

Peter: OK. Give me ten minutes.

Monkey: Five minutes?

Peter: Fiiiiine.

Just to be a shit, I take a few extra minutes before making my trek over to the house. I change my gmail status to "Be back in an hour, suckers." I grab a bottle of water, throw on a baseball cap (gasp!) and head out.

When I arrive, she is ALWAYS standing in the driveway, in her bathing suit, trying her hardest to look like she is being patient while she waits.

I wrote about a typical pool experience with The Monkey here:

Now, I should explain that "watching" the monkey in the pool is not just simple lifeguarding. It is truly an interactive experience. And there is no way that I'll be able to properly explain it to you here. You'd have to go through it yourself. And you'd come out of it profoundly changed. We'd be like two Vietnam vets when we met. Our eyes would tell everything that needed saying.

The experience begins as soon as you arrive. Her little feet come running out of the house. She tosses a towel over one deck chair. She flings her swim goggles on the deck. She runs to the side of the pool and dips her toe in. Then she starts giggling, rips off her glasses and tosses them on the deck table. You stop them before they slide off the other side.

She runs back towards the pool at top speed and...

Takes 15 minutes before she actually gets in.

Monkey lifeguarding takes patience, dear readers.

Eventually she gets in. Then she goes "Ooooh. Oooh. Ooooh!" and starts shivering. I ask if the water is cold. And she always says, "No" while looking at me like I'm completely insane. You would think that I would learn. You would think...

As is often the case with the monkey, your role in the experience usally involves judging of some sort. And more often than not, poolside judging involves grading "cannonballs" and "Johnny Ass-crackers."

She recently told me to "give me a score up to 10%." I was confused. She continued, "Like 1%..2%..3%.. up to 10%!" I asked, "Do you mean you want me to score it on a scale of 1-10?" She dismissed me with the wave of a hand and said, "Yeah, that. Whatever."

The hand wave was a cold reminder of how far I've fallen in the grand scheme of things. I was once her favourite person ever. When she was a tyke, she'd make me carry her everywhere. As soon as she learned to dial a phone, she'd call me just to chat. Once, when she had an accident and split her lip, her mommy and grandparents couldn't get her to stop crying, she made them call me. I had to rush over. She stopped crying immediately, and took a half hour to share the harrowing tale with me. (Essentially it was "Ran too fast and fell.") Now I am someone to reach the top shelves and a smartalecky necessity when you want to swim when your parents aren't home.

I am getting wiser though. I have realized that the trick to dealing with the monkey's (so far undiagnosed) OCD is to keep giving her higher scores each time. Because there is no way the little loon is going to stop until she gets a perfect ten. And she needs a perfect ten in each different thing she does.

Yesterday's judging was of her "routine." Now, I bought that story when I had to judge step-dancing and hip hop routines, because she takes classes in those things. But, I am relatively sure that she has never taken a "swim randomly around the pool while narrating your own actions" class. Though if I asked, she'd swear that she has.

So, her routine was:

Step #1: Swim vigorously - almost angrily - across the pool.
Step #2: Swim back the same way - pausing briefly to shoot a dirty look at Peter to make sure he is watching.

I said, "Nicely done!"

She quickly came back with an annoyed, "I'm not done."

She repeated steps #1 & #2 from two or three different spots until she was completely exhausted. Then she explained that she was getting out of the pool to "take a breather."

I don't know if you knew this, but it came as a complete surprise to me when I found out that "taking a breather" meant blowing down into your bathing suit top to make it puff out. Then repeatedly jumping back into the pool to make the suit stick to her body so that the trick would work better.

The first time she did it she yelled, "Suuuuuper woman!"
The second time she said, "Body strength!!" (Don't ask me.)
The third time she kind of forgot where she was going with it and said, "Suuuuper... gir--woman!!"

She eventually tired of this - or caught her breath - and went back to just running and jumping into the pool. Each time she'd yell "Cowabunga!" when she was in midair. However, one time she couldn't remember and ended up yelling "Columbia!" just before she hit the water. I cracked up completely.

Then her mommy arrived home and I was off the clock. I said "goodbye" and walked down the steps. The monkey's grandmother told her to thank me. So the squirt saucily said, "Ohhhh thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaank you, Peter." I laughed and started down the driveway. Then she ran down the steps and yelled to me again, "Peter, thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaank you. Oh thank you."

As I reached the bottom of the driveway, she came out their front door - after running, soaking wet, through the house - and she yelled "Byyyye, Peter. I looooooooooooooove you!" And then giggled.

When she becomes a teenager, we are all probably going to have to leave town.

This visit, however, didn't go as smoothly.

I arrived as Cranky Pete, and didn't really feel like playing an active role in all of the reindeer games. I wanted to just relax in a deck chair and let her do her thing.

She was, in no way, a fan of this idea.

At first she tried to go along. She swam to point in the pool closest to me and proceeded to repeatedly do as many flips as she could on one breath.

Monkey: Was that four?

Peter: Yup.

Money: It was only three.

Peter: Why did you ask me?

*Monkey rolls eyes*

She got bored with this. Quickly.

She asked me to toss her the volleyball so she could catch it or swim for it.

I said, "Nope."

She asked again. I refused.

We repeated this process a few more times.

Now, she knows me, and realizes that I am going to give in at some point. But, she was more than a little annoyed that I would have the gall to not immediately do whatever she wants.

She swam to the ladder and climbed out of the pool.

"Are you going to get all cranky now because I wouldn't play catch?" I asked.

She shot me the dirtiest look EVER.

A lesser man would have wilted, but thankfully I have decades of experience with pissing women off.

She walked past me, making sure not to look at me, and picked up her towel.

I continued, "Awwww. Look at the crankypants."

If you are guessing that she didn't like that, you would be right.

She ran at me and tried to hug me to get me wet.

I laughed and held her off.

I grabbed her arms and pretended that I was going to toss her into the pool. (I would never do it.)

She got madder. She grabbed me and tried to throw me in the pool. Then she laughed for a second when she had the "I'm a smurf and he's a giant" realization.

She swung her towel at me. So, I grabbed it from her hands and tossed it into the pool

I gave her the "THAT. JUST. HAPPENED" nod.

She gave me the "But, you are the grown-up" open-mouth stare.

I replied with a "Whoever said I was mature?" shrug.

She gave me the "I am ENRAGED!" eyes popping out of her head look.

Then I scratched my ear. It wasn't part of any "look." It was just itchy.

I sat back in my chair.

She ran to the side of the pool and proceeded to use her hand to splash me.

So, I tossed her swim goggles into the middle of the pool.

She gasped. And then splashed me again.

So, I tossed her nose plug into the middle of the pool.

She gasped louder. And then splashed me again.

So, I tossed one of her flip flops into the middle of the pool.

She stopped splashing me.

I started laughing.

"Truce?"

This brought out the return of the dirty look.

Might have been a stink eye.

I told her to hop into the pool and grab her stuff.

It was like I had kicked her cat.

In her decade on this crazy planet, she has never been more insulted.

"NO, Peter."

"Just grab the stuff. Your grandmother is home now, and I have things to do."

At this point I remembered that she was also from this crazy family of stubborn redheads.

Her main excuse was "It's too cold! I'm COLD, Peter." Which was followed by her searching herself for anything resembling a goose bump. Even though it was hot out, and even though she'd swim in the pool if it had icebergs in it.

So, long story... long. I ended up leaving there without making up with her.

However, despite the advice of The Dixie Chicks, The ACN told me on the phone that I had to make nice and apologize to The Monkey.

So, at some point today, I'll have to go over and apologize.

But, if she gives me any attitude, I am throwing everything she owns into the pool.

Labels: could have used a stronger ending, pool, The Monkey

Most of you know me as "Peter the guy that writes mostly half-assed and fictional blog posts -- though some are "fictional," have a basis in truth and are being used as a way for him to vent without reallllllllly admitting to having big boy thoughts and/or feelings."

And, let's face it, we all heart that lanky bastard.

But, on the rarest of occasions, he goes to bed at night and wakes up as...

Cranky Pete.

And that is never good.

Regular Peter usually wakes up, "Good morning. How are you today?"

Cranky Pete wakes up, "Fuck *yaaaaaaaaawn* off."

Cranky Pete has no patience. Cranky Pete's fuse is about *this* long. (Please note that Peter's thumb and forefinger are smushed together.)

Because this would be an odd preamble otherwise, I admit that I woke up as Cranky Pete this morning. Even worse, I woke up as Hungry Cranky Pete -- a militant offshoot of regular Cranky Pete.

Mamas hold your babies tight, this is never a good thing.

Cranky Pete immediately grabbed some pseudo gingerbread cookies and starting driving them into himself. (They weren't "real" gingerbread cookies because all versions of Peter are on a fairly restrictive diet, for reasons that are too mundane to get into.) Cranky Pete likes these cookies. You all would probably find them a bit bland, but Peters have the taste buds and eating habits of a four year old...

Do you have a problem with that?

I didn't think so.

This morning these cookies reminded Cranky Pete of something else that pisses him off.

The universe enjoys fucking with the Peters.

It's true.

Peter is introduced to various (store bought) yummy foods that he enjoys. But, as soon as he admits that he likes them, the universe takes them off the market. Honestly. This has happened dozens of times already. It is almost funny at this point.

Almost.

Peter even found a nice baker lady that lives an hour away. She made all kinds of yummy stuff that a Peter was allowed to eat. Peter placed two orders with her. And then one day mentioned how excited he was to have found this woman and her baking skills. A few days later he placed a call to order more treats (biscuits and waffles!) and she told him that she was having health problems and wasn't baking anymore.

!!!

Apparently the universe was willing to strike this poor innocent woman down just to deprive me of something that I enjoyed. (Apparently I am also bouncing back between "Peter" and "I" in this story.)

It would seem that the universe enjoys showing me things that I'd love but can't have. So far this includes the aforementioned foods, additional seasons of "Arrested Development," the Ferrari from "Magnum P.I.," 100 inch plasma screen TVs, women and Necker Island.

Scientists are still unsure as to what the universe has against Peter.

After the cookies, Cranky Pete grabbed an apple. He went to take a bite and noticed that it looked a little different. The bottom was where it belonged, but the stem was sticking out to the side at a 45 degree angle.

Even though he is perpetually filled with rage, Cranky Pete found this to be an endearing little fruit snack quirk.

Then Cranky Pete wondered how the other apples had treated this one.

Golden delicious, yes. But, tolerant of differences?

This made Pete even crankier.

Cranky Pete grabbed a paper towel and polished up his little apple. (Not a euphemism!!) The apple was unique. Special.

Cranky Pete thought about taking a picture of this apple to celebrate it's individuality.

But, he ate it instead.

What? I told you he was hungry.

Also, it should be mentioned, Cranky Pete tells pretty shitty stories.

Maybe I should have led with that point.

Bah.

Labels: cranky pete

Dude #1: How goes the whole getting over your crush thing?

Dude #2: I've come up with a new plan. Every time I think of her and smile, I hit myself in the nuts with a meat tenderizer.

Dude #1: Ouch.

Dude #2: Yeah. I still think she's awesome... But, I haven't had a steak in three weeks.

Labels: fiction

(OR "I knew it had gone horribly awry as soon as I started typing.")

It's funny how the aging process can gloss over some of the things from your childhood. Maybe it is just repressing. Maybe the brain needs to do this to cope.

But, sometimes it is better to remember.

Sometimes we need to look at these things closely and learn everything that we can. Doomed to repeat history and all of that. Because oftentimes there was a lot more going on under the surface than our young minds could have possibly understood.

And frequently we don't find out the truth until many years later.

This was the case at the recently completed Muppet Show reunion special.

It seemed a pretty typical night in the Muppet Theater. Decades later, everything felt basically the same.

The show had just ended. The guest star, Elton John, was off doing body shots with some of the stagehands.

A group of cast members, not including Miss Piggy, were gathered in Kermit's dressing room when the frog entered. He was wearing sunglasses that would make Mary-Kate and Ashley say, "Those are some pretty big fucking shades right there."

Kermit: Oh, hello.

Scooter: Kermit... There is something we'd all like to talk to you about.

Kermit: What's going on?

Scooter: Sit down.

Kermit takes a seat. He glances around the room at this large group of his friends.

Scooter: It's just that... When something has been going on for a long time and... Uhm.

Swedish Chef: Yorn desh born, der mitt de gitt der gue bitt. Orn desh, dee born desh, de umn børk! børk! børk!

Scooter: A little harsh, but well put. Kermit, we know that Piggy has been beating you.

Kermit: That's a lie! I fell down the stairs.

Gonzo: Kermie, there is nothing to be embarrassed about. Relationships are hard. Me and Camille are going through a rocky patch. I mean, I didn't even know that a chicken COULD get genital herpes.

In the corner of the room Rowlf plays "dum dum dum duuuuum" on a piano.

Gonzo: I travel a lot... As a stuntman, you know. My latest act is I try to steal a tray of chicken wings from the Baldwin brothers. It's terrifying...

Everyone begins talking at once, trying to talk over each other.

Scooter: Quiet!

Everyone stops except for...

Janice: And it's not my fault that you have a tiny penis, man.

Silence.

Dr. Teeth: Tiny?! Even a 747 would seem small if you landed it in the Grand Canyon.

Scooter: Can we get back on topic, please? Kermit, Dr. Bunsen Honeydew couldn't be here. He's got another couple of years on his sentence.

Kermit: That BALCO case was a bitch, eh?

Beaker: Meep meep meep!

Beaker rolls up his lab coat sleeve and shows his "Free Honeydew" tattoo.

Scooter: Stay strong, Beak.

Kermit: You even invited Animal?

Animal: Animal same qualifications as Dr. Phil. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Animal begins chewing on the coffee table.

Scooter: So, Kermit, I think the thing to do is to immediately get you out of that house.

Kermit: (voice cracking) But, where would I go?

Scooter: Statler and Waldorf have generously offered to let you stay in the guest room of their condo.

Kermit: Really?

Kermie sees the old dudes sitting off in the corner.

Statler: Sure. We have the room.

Waldorf: Yeah. The only danger people should face from pork is from eating it.

Statler: Speaking of... you have some on your face right now, sweetie.

Statler brushes it off Waldorf's face.

Waldorf: Your hand is like a loofah!

Statler: You didn't complain last night.

Waldorf: Last night I was hopped up on arthritis medication.

Swedish Chef: Børk børk børk?

Statler: And THEN some.

Scooter: On that note, let's get Kermit out of here.

Rowlf plays getaway music on the piano as everyone gives Kermit a quick hug and they all head for the door.

Soon Rowlf is playing the piano alone in the room. He's doing a little Amy Winehouse when Piggy comes storming in.

Piggy: Where's my little Kermie?

Rowlf stops playing. He thinks for a few moments.

Rowlf: There was a bunch of people here. I think they may have gone bowling.

Labels: REALLY could have used a rewrite

The summer in Peteville brings lots of old friends home from far off lands. And it is (usually) nice to see them. Conversation always turns to everyone who is married, having kids, etc. And then I am asked...

"How come you're not married yet?"

What I think: "I guess I am just waiting for... awesome. I want her friends to call her "the sweetest person I know." I want her to be brilliant... and to make me want to be smarter. I want her to be funny. You know, in that clever way that is far, far too rare. And I want her to be cute... SO cute that it breaks your heart a little each time you look at her."

What I say: "Clean living, motherfucker. Clean living. Whooooo!"

I'm considering growing a beard because the drugstore was out of my brand of shaving cream.

Labels: I gotta get back to real posts soon

This chick and I have formed an exploratory committee to see if there would be enough interest in blogville to start up a Fantasy College Football League.

We'd probably run it through CBS Sportsline.

And don't be afraid of that chick. She grows on you. Now, when I see her online, I feel slightly less of an urge to put my hands over my junk and back slowly out of the room.

(If we can't find enough people to do a college pool, we'd consider doing one for the NFL. Go Colts!)

Comment or e-mail if you'd be into it.

A girlfriend once told me, "I hate it when you are sarcastic."

I recently told this story to an unholy grouping of friends and family. It was, obviously, met with a great deal of laughter and a "Was it her first day meeting you?!" And led to me saying, "I know, right? Why not ask me to be 5'7"?"

If memory serves, after my giggling subsided, my reply to the girlfriend in question was, "Yeah... I can see this all ending very badly for you."

I am not overly huggy.

Despite the fact that I rock a t-shirt that says, "Have you hugged my t-shirt today?"

Occasionally someone will ask me:

"Peter, why do you think that you are so great?"

To which I'll invariably reply:

"Because I'm fucking delightful, you asshole."

However, another answer could be:

"Blame my parents."

You see, when I was but a wee tyke, my folkses put this picture up in our living room.




Yes, the little dude with the flowing blonde locks is me.

And, though you can't tell from this pic, the photo is a hair under 3 feet x 3 feet. So, yeeeeah, it's a pretty big photo.

[As an aside I should mention that there was never any glass in the frame. My parents knew that somehow, if there was, someone would get their head chopped off. Good call by them as that sucker came flying off the wall many a time.]

This photo was placed in the middle of the living room wall, near a light source, and 8 feet from a picture window overlooking the main street in my town.

And we never, ever closed those curtains.

I've seen huge museums that didn't do as good a job of showing off a piece.

And by "huge museums," I mean moderately sized art galleries.

And by "moderately sized art galleries" I, of course, mean 25 cent back-alley peep shows.

One girl I took home in high school stared transfixed at it the first time she was at the house. I asked her what the deal was. She told me that she had seen this photo so many times driving by in her life that she always wanted to know who was in it. (I don't remember if solving the mystery, and me being the famous picture kid, was enough to convince her to let me touch her goodies...)

My sister lived in jealousy of the photo for so long that when she got her high school grad picture, she had to get one quite a bit bigger than my grad pic. It must have been cold there in my shaaaadow.

When I was a kid, my grandparents lived across the street from me. It was a great haven away from my sister, chores or food that I didn't want to eat. (Which was, essentially, anything healthy.)

So, you would think that it would also be great for getting away from that picture. Except for the fact that as soon as you entered their living room, and looked above their TV, there hung the same picture. The same size and everything.

The only difference was that it was in colour, so it REALLY caught the eye.

When I was a little kid, I misunderstood a conversation between my parents and thought that we were broke. Like live in a cardboard box broke. And not a fancy cardboard box, like the ones that would have been used to transport fancy pieces of European furniture with far too many consonants in their name. A few days later was my first cub scout meeting. When we got to the part where they told us how much the uniforms cost (like $30?) I was sure that it would bankrupt my family completely -- and that maybe someone would try to make me eat Spam. (!!!) So, I decided that I wasn't going to join, even though I really wanted to make and race the little bastard cars. I told various people that I didn't want to join because I'd have to wear that scarf.

And shockingly they bought it, even though it should have been obvious to EVERYONE that I would have rocked the shit out of that kerchief-looking son of a bitch.

My cellphone ringtone is Xzibit saying, "Your phone's ringing. Answer your phone. Pick it up, man. It is pissing me off."

For those keeping score at home, I am still a full-grown man.

I like my french fries cooked medium-well.
I like my women smart and funny.
I like my family comedies starring Ice Cube.

It is my turn over at The 'Stache.

I am going to close comments here. But, definitely not because I want you to go over there and leave them, thus boosting my already healthy ego. That would just be tacky.

*ahem*