A little over a year ago, I wrote this...

You hear it on the news all the time.

"Worst drought in years."

George is all too familiar with it. It seems as if he hears it every single year now.

Saying that George was at the end of his rope would be casting a much too optimistic light on the situation.

George would be the first to tell you that even though he was raised for farming, he wasn't meant for it.

Still, he is the fourth generation to be farming this land.

And that is the only thing that keeps him setting his alarm clock for 4:00 am every morning. (Not that he is ever alseep when it rings.)

Well, that and the memory of his father coming in after dark every night. Hobbling badly. Forcing a smile for his only son.

George went to college. The state university, of course. He was the first of his extended family to graduate. George was "nudged" into studying Economics because his father thought it could help with the farm.

George is forty. His father has been dead for ten years. George still makes every decision based on what his father would do.

It's not as if he could even sell the farm if he wanted to. This isn't the movies. There are no evil landbarons wanting to drill for oil or build strip-malls on the land.

He wouldn't want to sell anyway.

Not really.

Even though watching sports on his satellite dish is no longer drowning out the nagging voice of cognitive dissonance, and his hatred for the land on which he lives and works is growing clearer by the day.

His one respite are his weekly trips into town for groceries and supplies.

He is just one of many farmers that make the weekly trip. But, he is the most popular.

At least amongst the town ladies.

George still looks as though he could pass for twenty-five, and is constantly given fresh-baked pies by lonely townswomen.

He sometimes wonders why they never make cakes.

The ladies also slip pieces of paper with their phone numbers under the pies.

George is flattered by the attention. And he is kind to everyone.

But, George gave his heart to another many years ago, and still hasn't figured out how to get it back.

It was his senior year in college. Her name was Stephanie.

She knocked him on his ass.

They were inseparable for the entire year. But, with graduation looming, and a few glasses already emptied, she broached the subject at the campus bar. She was sitting directly scross from him. He remembers what she was wearing. He remembers that fucking "Time of My Life" song from DIRTY DANCING playing.

"What are we going to do after graduation?"

He wanted to think that she was talking about what party they would attend.

But, he knew better.

She had a job lined up in Chicago. He was expected to go back to the farm.

She never asked him to go with her.

He wasn't sure if it was because she knew he couldn't do it, or because she just didn't want it bad enough. He hoped it was the former.

She still sends Xmas cards. Pictures of her with her lawyer husband and gorgeous kids. He was happy for her.

Mostly.

George got up at the same time as always this morning. He did exactly what he did every other day.

He went to look at the fields. And that is when he saw it...


George hadn't cried since he was a toddler. He had no idea what he was experiencing. The strange burning in his eyes. A feeling in his nose that, if pushed, he'd describe as "feeling like you spent too much time around fiberglass insulation."

George smiled.

For the rest of the day, he did the exact things he did every other day. Still, they felt different.

That night, for a change, he took out his father's old records and put on some Johnny Cash. A train was rollin' down to San Anton as George whipped up a batch of his mother's special recipe fried chicken.

Johnny walked the line as George cleaned up his dishes.

George glanced over at his fridge. Lined up neatly - and held in place by magnets from various farm insurance companies - was every slip of paper with a phone number from a lady in town.

George stared at them.

"Noy yet," he decided. "But soon."

Labels: johnny cash is cool, reruns are lame

The ACN told her mommy not to pack her a lunch today. She was going to buy her lunch in the cafeteria. A fish burger, she had decided.

Apparently, at some point, there was a change in plans.

Because, when she got home, her mommy and daddy read her little book (that teachers and EAs leave messages in) and it turned out that The ACN and her lunchtime EA (educational assistant) ordered in Chinese food.

Not TOO spoiled.

Labels: ACN

While I am posting here less often (off to a good start, eh?) I think that I will try to do a better job of commenting on all of your blogs.

And not just quantity of comments.

I want to absolutely ROCK your blog comment-receiving asses and blow your mind-holes.

I want to leave the kinds of comments that keep you up at night. Chuckling. Or thinking.

I want to leave comments that make you repeat them to friends over cocktails, or during proctological exams.

I want you all to want to have my giant sports-addicted Canadian babies. You don't actually have to have them, you just have to WANT to. You have to feel it in your loins. Do girls have loins? What the hell ARE loins?

I want you to make me t-shirts (tiaras and sashes too) that indicate that I am your favourite commenter. EVER. Even though that will just make more of your readers come to my blog and read my half-assed excuses for posting less often. Which will, of course, fill me with self-loathing and guilt.

I want to write comments that make you hug your neighbour. Maybe linger a little too long. Cop a feel. Whatever. Follow your bliss.

I want you to squeal when I comment as if it was Kirk Cameron leaving you a message. Or, you know, someone that wasn't a teen idol twenty years ago and is now making Christian adventure videos.

I want to change the world with my comments.

I also want the ragweed to fuck off.

You know who I hate?

People that write a blog post about how they don't post as much anymore.

And Nazis.

They are poops.

That being said, this is a post about how I haven't been posting as much (quantity or quality) and might not be for a while.

I'm working on a bigger project. Something from which I've posted bits in here. And I FINALLY have a good handle on what I want to do with it. It went from novel to screenplay to moderately obscene nude puppet show back to novel.

I'm starting to make some actual progress.

Of course, now that I posted this warning, I could end up blogging like a mad man every day for the next month. You never know with me. I'm like a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, wearing enigma pantaloons and hiding under a bed.

The lovely Molly got engaged yesterday! Go over and bask in the reflected glow of her rock. (The also lovely Clink got engaged months ago and I didn't congratulate her in here!)

This got me to thinking about engagements in general.

I'm a fairly competitive hombre from time to time. And one of those times would be when asking a woman to marry me. I would absolutely NEED my future bride's engagement story to be better than that of all of her friends/family/sworn enemies.

That would be my gift to her... you know, for having to put up with my ass.

Even if she doesn't want it, she's gettin' it. I want my grand romantic gesture, dammit! It just seems like it would be fun. Being all sneakypants. And what's more enjoyable than giving someone a ridiculously priced gift?

I've been thinking about proposals a lot lately.

No, not for those reasons.

Though it COULD happen. Who are you to doubt me? Surely I can wear down some woman's resolve and get her to throw caution and common sense out the window.

I've been thinking about proposals lately because I am writing something with a big proposal scene in it. However, this proposal totally goes down the crapper. But, in order to really get a good payoff from the clusterfuckation, I want the proposal itself to be awesome.

Perfect, even.

So far I've decided that, in my mind at least, there are two things necessary for a perfect proposal.

1) It has to be very personal.

2) It has to be a surprise.

Personal shouldn't be a problem. When I am into a chica, I remember EVERYTHING. It is crazy. 3rd grade teacher's name. First pet. If she tells me, it sticks.

And yet I refer to everybody else (male or female) as "dude" because I can't be bothered to even remember their name.

My brain is a scary place.

Also, I think I am pretty decent at applying said gobs of information to gift-giving -- or , at least in theory, to proposal-planning -- situations.

(I think I may have just wore out my "-" key.)

Now, the surprise part seems like it would be a bit dicier.

Firstly, that would mean that I'm picking out a ring.

And this would have to be by myself. If I received input from her friends or relatives, then I couldn't take full credit.

I'm taking full credit, people.

But, hopefully, studying her jewelry and paying attention to her style and tastes for our entire relationship will give me the guidance needed.

I think I can do it.

Probably.

I do have some concerns about my own ability to keep it all under my chapeau. In general, I can keep a secret like the bastard lovechild of a mobster and CIA agent. But, when it comes to presents, I get a little...

"I know something you don't know. Tee hee hee hee."

With manly giggles, of course.

My biggest fear is getting the right ring size without tipping her off.

I've given this much thought.

I've considered using my stealth-like stealthiness to measure her finger with a piece of string while she slept.

I've considered the possibility of stealing an old ring from a jewelry box. But, what if it is an old ring because it doesn't fit anymore? I don't have to tell you that would be quite a kick in the jiggers.

I've even given some thought to "accidentally" lopping her finger off while cutting vegetables, sneakily measuring it, then packing it in ice and rushing her to the hospital. But, what if we hit traffic and she lost her finger forever? I'm guessing that homegirl would be maaaaaaad.

Needless to say, that this part of the plan is still a work in progress.

You know, I also have no idea which hand the ring goes on.

Huh.

That seems like something I should figure out, eh?

Especially before any finger-lopping takes place.

Labels: writing with a blinding sinus headache

"There's a certain way that sunlight wraps around a beautiful woman,"
He thought, as he fixed his hair in the overly Windexed store window.
It's like they absorb it and then let it shine back out through their pores.
Even brighter.
Exponentially so.
And then they come into even sharper focus.
Or maybe it's just that everyone around them blurs into the background a little.
It almost wasn't fair, considering the leg up they already had on the rest of us.
But, he wasn't complaining.
She'd be there soon.
The very thought of which had him grinning like a fool.
Everyone's had crushes, but she was one of those that you remember.
Ten years later.
She's also the type that you regret not approaching.
And so...
But, this was not the first time that he had decided to do it.
It was the second attempt.
Well, the third, maybe.
Soooo, this was the fourth morning that he had rehearsed his speech.
He had the words just right.
This time.
And he had on his lucky shirt.
He would not be denied.
He slowly made his way to the front of her favourite coffee shop.
He checked his watch.
He looked south, and saw her a block away.
Hair blowing in the wind.
She got closer.
PERFECT dress.
Closer still.
He couldn't stop smiling.
Until...
"Why is that guy holding her hand?!?!"
stupidpoppedcollaronhisgolfshirtpunchabledaterapistface!
He was shocked.
He is not sure what he looked like, but he felt pale.
Sickly, even.
His stomach felt strange.
Not sore.
Rather like it wasn't there any more.
And yet he might puke.
He walked away.
Quickly.
Never looking back.
Two blocks later, he realized he was going the wrong way.
He was nowhere near where he had parked.
He was frazzled.
But, even in his current state, he knew that he didn't want to risk seeing THAT again.
He's have to take side streets to get back to his car.
He took the next left, narrowly missed stepping in dog shit.
He looked up, to get his bearings and noticed a random stranger.
She was wearing sunglasses and buying a paper from the newsstand on the corner.
Huge infectious smile.
"Hmmm." he thought.
"There's a certain way that sunlight wraps around a beautiful woman..."

Labels: i see why it had been in the draft folder for so long

There isn't much wind, my friend.
And when there is, you won't find many answers blowing in it.
(One of) The problem(s) with the world right now
is that there isn't a new Bob Dylan.
(Years too late) punk rockers sang about an American idiot.
And thirty-something (at least) country chicks didn't want to back down.
The former's fan base was getting too old to care (the right way.)
The latter's fan base only put their guns down long enough to boo.
Not much of a revolution.
But, what if there WAS a new Dylan?
A twenty-something chanteuse with a voice and a conscience.
And a song.
What a song.
A beautiful and heart-breaking tale of an Iraq war veteran that lost both legs to an IED.
A veteran that returned home to a son that saw Michael Moore as more of a hero than his old man.
To a daughter that just wants piggyback rides from her daddy again.
To a wife that is going to take the kids and move back in with her parents because the Paxil is just not getting it done for her anymore.
What if this song had the power to cross cultural, racial, economic and even (some) political divides?
What if many, many people could feel something special happening?
A real change.
Maybe even a mania.
Would WOULD happen?
It's simple, really.
Within days, Republican hatchet men would dig up the story about how she let the high school QB finger fuck her in a '97 Ford Ranger, behind a fast food restaurant, when she was 17.
Karl Rovians would be flocking to call her a "Wh0re" in her MySpace comments.
"Christians"would work themselves into a lather because she and Mr. QB weren't wearing rings when he decided to do a little digit spelunking, all the while scratching their heads in consternation because they couldn't figure out how to have a protest bonfire with mp3 files.
The Democrats would howl at the mistreatment... and then likely do little to fix it if given the chance.
But, what if she somehow managed to withstand the slings and arrows? What if she was made of greater stuff?
What if she could somehow turn down the millions of dollars offered to use her song in a commercial to sell tampons? (The ones with cardboard applicators!)
Well, then the media would grow tired of her as a story. They would shift their focus, instead, to Britney Spears' comeback album "Emotional C-section Scars."
And we'd read and watch and, God help us, listen.
Maybe we'll never have another Dylan.
But, whose fault is it?
Politicans? Sure.
The media? Yes.
Our own? Absolutely.
Still, I think that Britney Spears has to shoulder some of the blame.

Labels: remember that everything in here is a first draft

Everybody in The ACN's class has to bring in five items tomorrow that represent who they are. The items are to be placed in a paper bag. (Presumably the teacher will pull out each item to show the class.)

These are The ACN's items:

- picture of The Monkey (no doubt posing sillily.)
- nail polish (She LOVES having her toe nails painted.)
- wooden purse (her other grandmother just brought it home to her from the Dominican)
- Pink (Not the spiky-haired pop singer of the same name, but The ACN's stuffed animal. Pink is a puppy. And he is actually blue. His first name was, in fact, "Blue." Not sure why she changed it... Pink/Blue/Orange was brought into the family a few years ago when The ACN had her first surgery on her legs. Pink spent the entire time in The ACN's hospital bed. The nurses even gave Pink his own hospital bracelet, which is still on his front paw.)

AND
- a picture of Unc!!

When I was told of my inclusion, I said, "You're not going to tell the kids in your class that Unc is a pain in the butt, are you?"

"YEAH!!!!"

Labels: ACN

Have you grown sick of people asking, "Are you STILL single?" But, at the same time, due to coming out of a bad relationship, being damaged in general, or having no patience at the moment for the horseshit involved, really don't want to be in a relationship?

Then we have the service for you!

Insignificant Others.

It's like the John Hughes-ian "girlfriend in Canada" taken to the next logical step.

This is not your Daddy's fake relationship service.

Sign up with us and we'll match you with a suitable Insignificant Other immediately!

You and your IO will call and e-mail each other at set times to keep your pesky friends and family satisfied.

You can send each other cards and presents at work to keep co-workers from becoming suspicious.

Your IO will be located a long distance from you.

Our studies have shown that this works best. If you try it with a local, you'll be tempted to meet for a few drinks, which will lead to a game of nudity chicken, and then invariably to you waking up in each other's underwear with your foot in the kitty litter box.

Nobody wants that.

Least of all Miss Whiskerpants.

Admittedly, our award-winning service is not much help to you in the boudoir, but Skype is free, so follow your bliss. You know what I'm sayin'.

Here are but a few of the benefits of using Insignificant Others:

Don't want to attend that wedding shower this weekend? Simply reply, "Sorry, but Esteban will be calling then! It is his only free time this week. No es bueno. But, what the fuck are you going to do?"

What the fuck are you going to do indeed?

And what if you'd like the have an entire weekend all to yourself? Claim that you are flying to "the coast" to see your Insignificant Other. Then you are free to watch football all weekend, or a "What Not to Wear" marathon, including the episode with the kindergarten teacher from San Diego named Leigh that really didn't need any help at all because she was already super cute.

It's really that simple!

What if you get to the point where people start with the "When can we meet him?" "Is he going to move here? Are you going to move there?" crap? Simply get rid of him or her all together!

"Esteban is no longer with us..."
"Oh no! I'm so sorry to hear that!"
"Well, he died like he lived... gored by a bull."

No fuss, no muss.

That will buy you 6-8 good months of no questions. But, once they start again, we'll have another candidate for you.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll find that when you are not obligated to, that you don't mind listening to him telling you that Joey Harrington is killing his fantasy football team, or hearing her talk about how the crazy slut in accounting is, like, totally stealing her look.

Insignificant Others.

It ain't love, but it ain't bad.

Labels: blog infomercial

I occasionally care too much what people think. But more often than not, I realllllly don't give a shit.

And I apparently don't have a middle setting. Odd, that.

I especially don't give a shit what people think when it comes to playing with The ACN. I will do just about anything to get a laugh from that kid. Proof of this would be the numerous things I have worn on my head for her general amusement. Hand towels, mixing bowls, her shirts, Xmas bows, and (unused) pull-ups to name but a few.

One of the things that seems to tickle her the most is when I yell at various objects. Furniture. Walls. Stuffed animals for pinching bums. The telephone for ringing. Her wheel chair for trying to roll away on us.

Sometimes she decides that she just doesn't want to eat lunch for me. For no other reason than to make me suffer a little. I ask her if she would eat lunch for anyone else she knows... individually, and they all get a big "No." And a grin. So, I ask if she'd eat lunch for a stranger walking by. She says, "Yeah!"

And then I yell out the window things like, "Hey, lady with the ponytail! Come feed this little monster!"

The ACN HOWLS.

I, of course, yell it just loud enough that the person hears it and looks around, but not so loud that they can understand it.

Usually.

But, by far, her favourite of my bellowings is when I yell at her...

Poop.

Sometimes an ACN eats too much string cheese and, well, you know how it goes...

(Maybe this little story will balance out the ACN post from the other day.)

So, when poop doesn't arrive in a timely manner, Uncle Pete yells at it.

"Hey, poop! Get out here, you little shit! Bum, if you are listening, send that poop out!! Poooooooooooooooop! Come on... be good poop. I'll buy you ice cream, poop."

Occasionally I do it in the accent of a snooty French maitre d'.

I... am not sure why.

While it may not always convince poop to come out, it rarely ever misses with giving the ACN some laughs.

And occasional giggle-farts.

Labels: ACN, giggle farts

dmbmeg has come up with an inspired blog idea. She and Blythe are doing a little something called...

BLOG OF LOVE

Apparently it is based on the premise of "Rock of Love." (Which I still haven't found on Canadian TV, yet have been very curious about because of Clink's numerous mentions. )

I'm not sure how the drafting process went down, but each have 15 or 16 dudes on their respective lists. And I was luckily enough to be included on dmbmeg's list. (I'm choosing to ignore the fact that I am listed AFTER one dude that is a perv and another that's a raging jackass.)

I also have no idea about the rules. But, I'm assuming that I'll have to put out for one or both of them at some point.

If you check out the comments, you'll notice many of the dudes kissing ass and pleading their feeble cases.

Pffft to that.

That's not how I do business.

I don't compete for the affections of women. If they can't tell right away that I am vastly superior, then I am going to have some serious questions about their judgment and taste in general. (We call that "reason #764 why I am still single.")

Still, kudos to dmbmeg for a kickass blog idea.

And that was not ass-kissing.

Seriously!

I don't like your tone.

I have been sooo friggin' blog blocked lately. I even posted something yesterday, decided that I hated it, and yanked it down. (Though Molly did get in a comment!)

I am working on something else right now, so I think all my decent writing material/energy/mojo is being used there. It's a finite pool, folks. VERY.

But, I feel guilty.

So, I am going to try to whip up a little something for you now.

If you've been reading here for a while -- or even, say, a week -- you've probably noticed that there is at least one topic that always starts the rambling...

The ACN.

I am going to warn you that this story is about poop. And lots of it.

So, if you don't like poop, you should move on.

The story begins 4 or 5 years ago, but I am not telling that part yet.

We are going to begin an hour ago...

My sister called and told me that The ACN might be coming down with a bug. The twerp told her teacher and/or EAs that she wasn't feeling well. She was doing a bit of coughing and felt a bit warm to the touch. At that point, my sister said that she was still giggling and eating and seemed to be OK. It was just a heads up from my sister, in case I didn't feel comfy munchkin-watching this weekend while she was sick, even though my sister knew there was no way in the world that I would have said "no."

I said "no" once 3 years ago. I was sick in bed and absolutely miserable. I really couldn't get up.

I STILL feel guilty.

Honestly.

In addition to not being able to say no, my family (and beyond) have learned that they can get me to do just about anything if they tell me that the ACN wants me to do it.

"Peter... [the ACN] wants you to sing Eddie Grant's "Electric Avenue" while wearing a ball gown and smacking yourself on the ass with a badminton raquet."

And I'd do it, too.

And now I feel like listening to that song.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, squirty is feeling a bit sickies. However, she did tell my sister that Uncle Pete will make a "good nurse" for her this weekend. Something she feels pretty secure in saying since, over the years, she's peed, pooped, puked and sneezed (including directly into my mouth more than once) on me numerous times.

As promised/threatened, let's focus on the pooped part.

Also, as mentioned, let's travel back in time.

When poodle pop was born, she had a perforated bowel, and ended up with an ostomy bag for the first year of her existence. (Hearing her scream as the glue from it pulled her skin off took a good ten years off of my life.)

So, for a year, I didn't go anywhere near that area.

I was Uncle Pete, but not UNCLE PETE yet. I would carry her around all day to get her to stop crying. Seriously, I'd keep walking until someone took her away from me and made me sit down. But, I wasn't yet a full-service Unc.

Even after the surgery to get rid of the ostomy (when my father claims they put the stink in her poop) and get things back to normal, I wasn't having anything to do with poopy diapers.

I would change pee diapers. And the ACN loved that. She giggled with delight as I struggled to figure out how to put them on her. She especially loved when I'd stop and ask her if Unc had any idea what he was doing. She'd shake her head "no" and howl.

At that point, my babysitting was done in short spurts. Because, if she pooped... well, somebody better be nearby.

Until one day...

Because I wasn't full-service, my folks were doing the munchkin wrangling one weekend. It was a Friday morning. I remember it as if it was yesterday... I guess the end of your innocence is like that.

My mother told me that she and my Dad had eye appointments to go to, and that I should watch squirty. She said, "We'll be back in an hour." I gave her a look. It takes a half hour to get to the eye doctor. That's one way. Plus, they each had an appointment. And yet she was going to be back in an hour. Now, I'm no stranger to my mother's attempts at bending time, but this was special, even for her.

(My mother is an absolute character. I could write dozens of posts...)

I ignore my mother's assumption that they'll somehow find a rift in the time-space continuum and say, "Fine." And then I look at the ACN and say, "No pooping, you!" and she giggled.

So, my folks left. ACN and I were cuddling on the couch. She had just finished breakfast. She was still only... a year and a half old, or so, and liked her naps. My hope was that she'd fall asleep and I'd watch a movie until my folks got back.

But, thirty seconds after my folks left, the ACN turned her little munchkin face to me and gave me the biggest smile ever. I thought it was a bit weird, but oh so cute. Then she looked away, pointed her little toes, and let loose with something evil out of her bum.

I heard it first. It sounded like an angry dragon.

I felt it start filling the diaper, which was against my forearm.

And then I smelled it. I... don't have the words.

I sat up straight. This caused her bum to fall directly into my hand.

And I felt her diaper expanding and expanding.

"Oh GOD!!!!!!" I yelled. Which scared the ACN for a moment... until she saw my face and began giggling again.

I grabbed the phone with my hand that wasn't currently supporting a ticking poop bomb. I dialed my Dad's cell #. "The cellular user does not have his phone on."

"You old bastards!!!"

More giggles.

"Uhm... [ACN.] Unc is going to have to change your poopy bum."

I've never seen a child with a bigger smile.

I went to get up off the couch, which caused her shirt to go up a little and that was when I first noticed it...

There was poop smeared on her back, way past the top of the diaper.

"That's not supposed to be there," I said.

Yes, more giggles.

Then I looked at her pants and saw the poop coming right through the material along the edges of where the diaper was.

And then I looked at my own pants.

"It looks like Unc is going to have to change his own poopy pants too."

"Hee hee hee." She could not have been any more excited.

I had NO idea what to do next.

I purposefully didn't learn how to change poopy diapers. They can't make you do what you don't know how to do, right? Suddenly my brilliant plan of (mostly) faked incompetence wasn't looking so hot.

"Munchkin, do you know what to do?"

Giggles.

So, I took a deep breathe. Which I quickly regretted when the smell hit me again.

I wandered towards the bathroom. It seemed like the place to go when you are carrying a poopmachine that has exploded over itself AND you.

I decided that she seemed much more relaxed about having poop on her than I did. So, I did what any sensible person would do...

I put her in the bathtub. No water, of course.

I said, "Don't go anywhere." And I scrambled to find clean clothes to put on.

Ideally I would have grabbed a shower, but I already put her in the tub. And I didn't have BBQ tongs big enough to move her again. So, I pulled the shower curtain closed so she can't watch me change. (More giggling.) I do what I can with a washcloth and a small sink, and then throw on some clean sweats and a t-shirt. Oh yeah, my shirt took a bit of a beating during the transfer of munchkin to the tub.

I pull the shower curtain open. She is still smiling.

"OK. I'm clean. That was step one."

I am holding my dirty clothes in my hand. I have no idea what to do with them, so I chuck them in the bath tub too. Then the wash cloth I used goes with them. I look at the towel I used to dry myself with and decided that it came too close to poop, so it was going in the tub too.

I remember that I had dropped my shirt on the bathmat -- yup, tub with with mat too.

It is now getting pretty crowded in there, but the ACN is loving it.

I should note that this entire time, I am rushing around like mad. And if you know me, and most of you don't, I typically travel at a much more laid-back rate.

Now it is time to remove (and possibly burn) The ACN's clothing.

I slowly take off her pants, which could not be more filled with poop. I cough a couple times and toss them down the other end of the tub.

I'm now staring at the business end of that diaper -- which is truly having it's tensile strength tested by the mass of yuckiness inside of it. I have no idea what to do with that thing.

So, I run and grab a plastic grocery bag out of the recyclables. Fuck Al Gore. He wouldn't be so smug if he was in my shoes. (Wait, I threw them in the tub too.)

I slowly removed the diaper. I'm not going to lie, as much poop stayed on her as came with the diaper.

"This is not right at all..."

I stuffed the diaper in the plastic bag and tied the top of it as tightly as I can.

I have no idea where my mother might store heavily shit-filled diapers.

(Ignore the switching of tenses in this post. I am still traumatized.)

So, as any of you would do, I ran to the back door and tossed it onto the driveway.

I just... I just didn't want to be in the same house with it.

So, I returned to the ACN. She was still smiling. I started removing her shirt. I already knew that the poop was up her back a little. But, as I rolled her shirt up further and further, I saw that it went ALL THE WAY up to the back of her neck.

I paused a few moments to wonder where she had been keeping all of the poop to begin with, before gently removing the short. Somehow I managed not to get any in her hair. Or mine. No, really. That was a genuine possibility.

I tossed the poopy shirt in the tub, near the ACN's toes, and stared at my poop-caked niece. She looked back, clearly anxious to see what hilarity I might cause next.

The next step, clearly, was to wash the poop off of her. The tub seemed like a good place to do this, but the tub was already filled with a three foot pile of shit-filled clothes and towels...

The sink!

So, I scooped up the twerp, trying so hard not to get her poop against me, and held her with one hand over the sink. I used the other hand to get the water just the right temperature... and then spashed water with my free hand at her little butt.

This turned out not to be nearly as successful as I had anticipated.

So, I grabbed a towel that was hanging next to the sink -- possible for decoration. I wet it and used it to start wiping her down. It didn't take long to get pretty pooped up. So, I chucked it in the tub and grabbed the towel from the other side of the sink. I lather, rinse, repeated.

And then chucked that towel in the tub.

She was pretty close to clean at this point, so I did a little more hand splashing and called it done.

Then I realized I had no way of drying her. So, I held her dripping over the sink with one hand, as I leaned waaaaaay to my left (being 9 feet tall helped here) and opened to bathroom closet. I could only reach the hand towels, so I grabbed a half dozen or so of those.

I used two to dry her, and wrapped her in the other four.

I gave her a hug... and chucked the two drying towels in the tub.

I looked around at the bathroom.

The tub now had a four foot pile of clothing and towels.

There was a good half inch of water on the floor.

And I didn't care.

I carried munchkin around a bit. Just holding her and regaining my composure. She got squirmy and her towels were dropping one by one across the kitchen floor.

I took her into her room and picked an outfit and got her dressed.

A couple hours later, my folks returned.

As they came in the back door, my mother was asking, "What is in the bag in the driveway?"

My dad saw the munchkin sleeping on my lap on the couch and shushed her.

Nobody noticed the fact that I had the glazed expression of someone that had just returned from 'Nam.

My father looked down at the ACN and whispered, "Awww. So cute."

My mother followed the trail of towels across the kitchen, picking each one up. She carried them into the bathroom and...

"What the fuck happened here??"

And that is how I learned how to change poopy diaper.

Labels: ACN, more poop, poop

I'm been writing about the little goofballs a lot lately. Probably because they've been around a lot lately. And this is my blog. So there.

That would be a pretty silly opening if, in fact, I didn't spend time with them this weekend, eh?

Well, I did!

There was a scheduling snafu and the ACN needed a babysitter. So, I was on Unc duty again. As I will be next weekend. Best Uncle EVER.

I should warn you that I am still a little bit tuckered out today. Even after a good night sleep. (I also feel a little like someone beat me with a sack of doorknobs while I slept.) And the words... they are not flowing. I'm considering stopping this right now and doing it in point form. Don't expect any funnies.

As usual, The Monkey was also over. She was great with The ACN, of course. And she was in her full Monkey splendor. I'm no expert on step dancing (she travels and performs in a group) but I am relatively sure that none of their routines involve the Beyonce style booty-shaking she was demonstrating for us. I could be wrong though.

I think I mentioned in a previous post that The Monkey had wanted me to make her a CD full of music. She wrote out FIVE pages of songs that she wanted on it. So, I did it for her. I brought it over to her when she was in the pool. I put it on a deck table. The only other thing on the table was her glasses. Then I went home.

This weekend I asked if she was getting any use out of the CD. And she said, "Oh... that. I never did find it." I explained that it was sitting on the table, right next to the glasses that she needed to get home. She shrugged and tuned me out by starting to sing Rhiana's "Unfaithful."

At some point during the weekend, the TV got switched from my college football game to "Zoey 101." It stars Britney Spears' little sister. It's a little spooky to watch. It's like you already know what the chick's future looks like. You want to warn her. It's like if you could go back a few years into the past and tell Larry Craig, "Stick to Craigslist, homey. For real."

I'm not sure if I've mentioned him in here before, but we have another little cousin. Let's call him The Turkey. He's 11. He was a preemie too, so he is a tiny little dude. And a red head. And a character.

He lives out west, but when he visits, he ALWAYS makes his presence known. He makes The Monkey seem quite quiet and reserved.

During a recent visit, The Monkey was off doing Monkey-type things. So, The Turkey was spending the day home alone with his grandmother. His aunt (my cousin) called me to see if I could entertain him for a few hours. Preferably by getting him outside and off the computer. So, I went to get him, armed with offers of playing catch or soccer. But, every one of my ideas was met with "Or we could go rent some video games."

He clearly felt much stronger about the issue than I did.

I said, "Fine, let me go grab my wallet." He replied with, "I have money, big guy. Come oooooooooooooooooooon." And then he punched me on the arm. Well, since I am almost literally twice as tall as he is, he kind of got on his tip toes and punched me on the forearm. (This is the same kid that once challenged me to a fight by saying, "Put up your dukes, pretty princess.")

We hopped in the truck and took off. Now, the drive from my house to the video store takes... like a minute and a half. Give or take. In that time, he told me 14 completely unrelated stories.

We got into the place and his eyes lit up. I asked if it usually took him a long time to pick a game. He said, "No. I am VERY quick." Then he went to the nearest shelf of video games and started looking at every. single. one. And for each he had a story. "My friend has this one!" "You can't find this anywhere in Calgary." "Peter, are you listening??"

A half hour into this process (literally), I noticed something written on one of the games. I asked, "Dude... are these for the PS3?" "Yeah." "Don't you have a PS2 at the house." He replied, "Yeah," as if I was asking the stupidest questions ever. I replied the only way I could, "I'm going to kick you in the ass." He chuckled and then went to the PS2 shelf. Where the process of looking at every game started again.

Almost an hour into the visit -- including 15 minutes of me going, "Pick a game. Pick a game. Pick a game" -- he picked a game.

He tossed it onto the counter and realized that the place also sold ice cream. Of course, he didn't know which flavour that he wanted. I was relieved when this part only took 5 minutes. He ordered a medium. Then he complained that the dude was putting in some extra ice cream. The dude, also the owner, said, "Don't worry. I am only charging you for a medium." The Turkey was unconvinced, but relented.

With his ice cream and game on the counter, he reached into his pocket for his money. He pulled it out and put it on the counter.

All TWO DOLLARS of it.

I started laughing. "That's all you have?" He was eating a spoonful of ice cream by this point. "Yep."

The total was 8-something.

I passed him back his two bucks -- which he put in his pocket with a shrug -- and shoo'd him towards the door.

I looked at the owner -- who thankfully is a friend -- and he was cracking up. I asked him if I could bring the cash up a bit later. He was cool with it.

On the drive home, The Turkey told a dozen more stories. He ate, maybe, three spoonfuls of ice cream.

As we pulled into the driveway, he said, "I've had enough ice cream."

The Turkey is also entertaining around the pool. On his most recent visit, as I arrived poolside and saw him floating on an air mattress wearing a pink shirt and colorful shorts, he immediately yelled at me, "Heeeeeey Pete! REAL men wear pink. Pffft. You're not a real man." I hadn't said a word!

Though him wearing clothes around the pool is a definitely step in the right direction. The year before, he decided that he did not like having wet clothes on him. At all. So, as soon as he stepped out of the pool, he dropped his swim shorts. THEN he would yell for his mother, or whoever, to go find him some dry shorts.

After many speeches about how he could no longer walk naked in mixed company, of varying ages, he started ducking behind a deck chair to change. Of course, this never stopped him from yelling, "Get a good look, ladies!"

We fully expect him to do time at some point.

The reason I bring him up is that there is talk that he and his family might be moving back this way in the nearish future. If that happens, I might have to start a separate blog just for the adventures of the little squirts.

As for the littlest squirt, The ACN was, as always, very entertaining this weekend.

Here is a sample of an hour on Saturday morning:

- the first half hour involved me walking out the back door numerous times, doing a lap around the truck, and then coming back in as a different unc. You see, she decided that I was a bad unc and had to be sent back to the "Unc store." (Presumably located in the driveway.) However, no matter what name, or silly voice, I used, she was displeased. Probably because all the uncs looked surprisingly like me. Finally she agreed to take me back, as long as I behaved better.

- then I had to give Spotty (the new Dalmatian webkinz stuffed animal) a "dry bum." This involved wiping his butt with a kleenex. And then placing a second kleenex on him as a pull-up. ACN LOVED this. (Spotty, because he is new, had to sleep with me the night before. The ACN wanted to make sure that he wasn't a bed-wetter or a night time bum-pincher.)

- then the ACN said that I needed a kick in the bum, so I had to kneel on the kitchen floor as she giggled and booted me from chairy.

But, it is not all trade-ins at the Unc store and butt kickings for me. The ACN's other grandmother bought her a little silver chain and matching locket. She told her Daddy that she wanted to put a picture of me in it! Awwwwwww.

Of course, by now she could very well have decided that she instead wants a picture of her puppy, her bus driver... or a bag of Cheetohs.

Labels: ACN, The Monkey, The Turkey

are we really doing this? i think we are. the door is closed. oh my... we're kissing... we always kiss... but, has it always felt this good? mmmmmm. my shirt is being unbuttoned. my shirt. unbuttoned. his is being pulled over his head. are those my hands doing it?? my shirt is off. why is it so bright in here? stupid blinds. i haaaaate you. uhm, where did my skirt go? and what the hell are my hands doing? we're almost naked... no. we're naked. i'm naked. and now i'm on my bed. so bright in here. just like that show i saw on light pollution and-- hey now... oh... i haaaate my breasts... ok. he likes my breasts... i think he reaaaallllly likes my breasts. and they clearly like him. i can handle this. i can... what are you doing? dude... stay up there in the north dakota, minnesota area. uh oh... yeah, that feels like south dakota. ok. let's stay there for a while. there is plenty to see in south dakota. there's the national presidential wax museum... his lips are definitely in iowa now. hey! that tongue is in nebraska. oh great, kansas now... wow. missouri enjoyed the crap out of that... seriously, man... it's a big country... oklahoma is giving me goosebumps... he is going to stop, right? or take a little break. i think he is. yes he is. and -- deep in the heeeeart of texas!!!! oh my god... oh my god... am I purring? i am definitely purring. gotta remember to be quiet. the neighbors. thin walls. oooooooh. i don't care. i don't caaaaaaaaaaaaare. what the fuck? does he have two tongues? how is he...? wow. have to stop balling up bedsheets in my hands. thread count too high... sweet banana fuck!!! how did he get so good at this... hmmm... how did he get so good at this? oh, who gives a shit?? has my back ever arched like this before? and then the... uhm... i can't remember what i was just thinking! he is giving my amnesia. oh my... goooooooooooooooooooooooood... oh, no. don't be looking up at me with that little smirk. i just growled. i totally just growled. that was not very ladylike. he -- oh... i think he liked that sound. increasing. intensity. blowing. mind. why do i feel like giving him my atm pin number? oooooooooooooooooooh.. ahhhhhh. holy crap. holy crap. holy crap. look at me. look at me!!! there you go. these eyes.. yes, them.... they are giving you permission to land. keep looking... uh huh.... there you go. now. now. nooooooooooooooooooow!!!... oh... my...

WOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

it's still really damn bright in here.

Labels: i have no idea where this shit comes from either

You almost forget where you are for a moment. But, a high-pitched laugh brings you back to reality.

You see food on a table. You hear some generic music. You see a gathering of people that will never be mistaken for a United Colors of Benetton ad.

You wonder if they still make those ads.

You are smack dab in the middle of a "party."

And you probably haven't said anything in fifteen minutes. People are beginning to look at you.

What the fuck do they want?

Oh, yeah. You are supposed to be funny. That's your role here. You actually listen for a minute, hear your spot, and drop a moderately off-colour masturbation quip.

It gets some howls of laughter. One polite chuckle. One iffy look from Judgy McJudgeburger. And a half-smile/half-pretending to be shocked look from a blond. You shoot her a little smirk.

Just because...

Well, you just do.

And then they all go back to whatever they were discussing. A woman's right to choose, "The Secret" on DVD... or Swedish porn. You've completely lost track.

You turn to your left, hoping that the conversation going on over there might be more interesting.

It's a group of women giggling at a story being told be a tall brunette. From what you can ascertain, it involves an early morning drive of shame, and a dude not being able to find "it" with two hands, a map and a compass.

Pass.

You turn another ninety degrees.

A group of yuppy guys are complaining about having too many ivory backscratchers... or something. You hold back a "Sweet fuckin' Christ" and a cock punch when one jokes that maybe he should have turned down his "huge" raise because of all the taxes he now pays.

You turn another ninety degrees.

Three couples -- that look freakishly similar -- huddle together. One woman cackles about forcing her husband to get a vasectomy, or he wouldn't be allowed to touch "all of this" anymore. The other two women smile broadly, while the men sip their drinks in an uncomfortable shared silence.

You wonder if it is possible to will yourself to become stricken with temporary hysterical deafness. And then you remember that there is another ninety degree turn...

Over the top of the group of people that you are "talking to" you see her.

She is standing by the food table.

You are not normally one to notice eye colour, but hers are just that striking.

She catches you looking. She smiles.

You consider excusing yourself from your group, but "Meh" it instead and just walk over to the food table.

There's some small talk. Introductions and whatnot. Not your favourite thing in the world, but a necessary evil.

"Are you a friend of the lady of the house?" she asks -- her voice less pleasing than you had hoped.

"Nope."

"The man of the house?"

"Nope."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I just wander the neighbourhood in hopes that someone is playing some Kelly Clarkson. That shit's like the siren's song to me."

"The what's what?" she asks.

Before you can answer, she "tsssks" loudly.

"She KNOWS that I'm on a diet."

You immediately know where this is going.

Your eyes glaze over in the flurry of "carbs," "hips" and "spin class."

"Bathing suit season is just around the corner," she chirps. (You've never hated a voice more.)

"Uhm... It's September."

"It's never too early to start!" she says happily.

You grab her and start force-feeding her handfuls of salt & vinegar potato chips, while yelling "Embrace the curves! They are sexy! THEY ARE SEXY!!!"

OK. You don't actually do that.

"Well, Shelly, it's been nice to meet you. See ya," you say, already walking away.

"It's Stacey!"

"That's super," you say over your shoulder.

You stand, by yourself, in the middle of the room.

Suddenly you are flashing back to being called that horrible high school insult "stuck up" in your youth.

You finally realize that "thinking you are better than everyone" probably looks a lot like "feeling like a man without a country."

And so you leave.

You arrive home. A home that has never looked more inviting.

The cooling effect of naught but boxer briefs under a ceiling fan set to "absolutely fucking frantic" allows you to really relax for the first time all night.

You hit the power button on your remote control.

"This is Sports Center."

Your phone rings.

You hate your ringtone.

You look at the screen.

You recognize the name, if not the number.

"Hiiiii. This is a VERY nice surprise."

You suddenly realize that it's been your favourite night in a long time.

Labels: subject line is a Tragically Hip lyric

The ACN is starting grade one today.

Eeeeeeeep!

I'm excited. I really am. But, because I am me, I am a wee bit stressed.

Though not nearly as stressed as I was last year. (Of course, fighter pilots in a combat zone aren't as stressed as I was last year.)

Everything I said last year is still true. (So, just go read that, lazies!) When I asked her about school last night on the phone, she again told me she was excited. And, once again, there were squeals of absolute delight.

SO cute.

Hopefully I'll have some pics of poodle pop's big day to post later.

UPDATE: The ACN wouldn't let her Mommy go with her to meet the teacher because she's a big girl now. Ha!

Labels: ACN

You always remember your first encounter with someone special.

While it may be imperceptible at first, it changes you.

The way that you smile involuntarily, late at night, when memories of small things she did come rushing back on you. You hope that the darkness hides the truth, a little, even from yourself.

The way that just knowing that someone like her exists gives you hope. In your darkest hours, you didn't think that they made them that way anymore.

You know, without question, that she is one of those that will be on your mind for a long time -- a very long time -- no matter how things go.

Even if you wanted to, you couldn't fight against this tide.

Not that you'd really want to.

You actually give yourself a moment to sit and think about it. You let your guard down enough to enjoy. You lean back and genuinely appreciate.


And then she's done with you.


It's better to have loved and lost, they say.

Bull shit.

You know who says that?

Defeatists.

People without the nerve to go for what they want. People that live in the past. People that don't want to risk it any more. Or can't. Or just won't.

They didn't deserve it in the first place.

They didn't respect it.

This has happened to me, and I am not taking it at all well.

I can't believe I am typing these words...

Carly Rae Jepsen has been voted off of Canadian Idol.

Wow. That hurt more than I expected.

I've never been a fan of democracy.

It's horse shit.

That the vote of someone that actually cares what Tom Cruise's kid looks like is equal to my vote...

Madness, I say.

Carly Rae Jepsen is no longer on Canadian Idol.

And we are all the poorer for it.

I... I'm going to need a moment.

Labels: I have officially run out of blog topics

It is my turn to man the fort over at The 'Stache today.

Labels: the stache