Exactly a year ago I wrote this post...


It was on this very day, many years ago, that I met her.

I can hardly believe how many years ago it was, to be truthful.

It was during my second year of university. My buddies and I went on a road trip to a town about an hour away from school. Our friend was at an agricultural college there. I think that he had mostly gone there because it was a small school and he could play basketball for them. But, he also liked plants... and stuff.

The first night of the visit, we hit a local bar. I want to say that the place was called "The Yard" or "Scotland Yard," but that is totally a guess.

Once inside, my friends immediately bee-lined for the bar. Drinks were ordered. Drinks were consumed. It was officially "on."

I stood back, surveying my surroundings. Not the classiest joint I'd ever been in. But, the male to female ratio seemed decent enough. The speakers were blasting the dance music of the day - which, oddly enough, sounds exactly like the dance music of every day - and some guy was informing us that he liked to move it, move it. He liked to mooooove it.

Apparently this hombre was all about the moving it.

I was still looking around when something caught my eye. A group of girls standing off to my left were laughing and having a great time. My gaze met the gaze of one of the girls. And I said...

"Wow."

Outloud.

Seriously.

You know how you hear horseshit about "sparkling eyes" and how "bright her eyes were?"

Well, I finally got it.

I was captivated.

Now, it's important to note that I was firmly entrenched in my "I only date short, cute blondes" phase.

This girl was a tall (must have been 5'10!!!!) and a brunette. But, she was so very cute.

In fact, she was that devestating combo of pretty/cute. Something that is far more rare than it ought to be.

I looked towards my friends to see if they had noticed her. Since she wasn't at the bottom of a glass, they had not.

I began thinking about how I was going to play this. I decided on "the funny, but mysterious, stranger from out of town."

Then I realized that I didn't know how to do that.

So, minutes turned to hours. I was still hanging with my friends. She was still laughing and dancing with hers. We caught each other looking many times. I gave her the half-grin. She smiled back.

What a smile.

"Holy shit," I said, being drowned out by Shaggy singing "Oh, Carolina." (This was before anyone outside of his family actually knew who he was.)

When the song ended, she made her way towards the bar. As she walked past me, I said "Hi."

Yes, I am THAT smooth.

I said it in a mocking "well, it's about damn time" tone.

She immediately shot back with a "Hello" that really meant "I was sicking of waiting for your ass to do something."

Then we both smiled.

As pretty as she looked from across the room, from up-close she was just gorgeous.

I totally forgot where we were.

And I'm not entirely sure what I said to her. But, I remember feeling like I was doing a good job. She was laughing. I was imagining picking out China patterns with her.

She was a volleyball player. She asked me if I liked the sport. I said, "Of course." (I hate it.) She said, "No you don't." I laughed. She asked, "Do you at least like volleyball players?" I replied with "Ask me in an hour."

She was funny. She was smart. Very quick. She called me on things. I LOVED it.

I am unsure of how long we talked there by the bar. But, if I had to pick a moment to be stuck in - GROUNDHOG DAY-style - that one would certainly get much consideration.

Her friends began yelling for her to join them. They were toasting something or arguing about something. She rolled her eyes to me. I am not sure what a swoon feels like, but I think I had a little one.

She said, "I have to go check on the kids. Come find me later."

I said, "Definitely."

I totally checked out her bum as she walked away. It made me weep a little.

I turned back to my friends, who continued to be oblivious to the whole thing. One of them hugged me and asked if I was having a good time, while his face was two inches from mine. I said, "Yeah." And I really meant it.

Now, this is where it gets a little hazy for me. We decided to leave the bar. I have a faint recollection of someone from my group having an issue with a dude in another group. We may have been tossed out. Or I may be combining the events of two or more different nights into the same memory.

In any event, as we were leaving, I walked over to her and asked where she was going later. She gave me the name of a local pizza joint.

The moment we got outside, I started trying to convince my friends that we had to go there. Now, getting a bunch of drunk dudes to eat pizza is not exactly like negotiating a middle east peace agreement, but getting them all going in the same direction at the same time is no small feat.

After some puking, some arguing and a crowded taxi ride, we ended up at the pizza place. We ordered our food, and after an eternity of watching the door, I saw her walk in.

She looked even better under bright flourescent lighting. (Which, as Newton's 17th Law proved, is pretty friggin' rare.)

I immediately went over to talk to her. It felt as natural as it had in the bar.

She mentioned taking a walk over to the little park across the street from the pizza place. (Mainly because her friends were staring and making kissy-faces at us.) I quickly agreed.

We found the park bench with the least amount of pigeon crap. I took off my jacket and let her sit on it. And we talked.

No, we really talked.

It was amazing.

The give and take. Guards were down. Embarassing things were admitted.

It is rare that a 19 year old guy is thinking beyond immediate gratification, but I could really see myself with that girl. Long-term.

Just then, the clouds parted and we were lit by a full moon. It was beautiful.

She looked at me and said, "I am having a really good time."

I replied, "Me too."

And then I turned into a werewolf and ate her.

Every year at this time I think about that girl. And I miss her.

She tasted like veal.

Labels: Happy Halloween

And today it is featuring a little Peter Classic.

(You may have already read the piece here.)

"It's not you, it's me," she said.

And he believed her.

Mostly because she is a huge fucking mess.

He felt guilty for thinking that.

And then he felt justified because she rocked such a cliché on him.

And then he felt guilty for that too.

As he ran, Stars' "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead" echoed through the ear buds of his iPod.

Not by design.

Honestly.

He ran the same route every single day. He could do it on auto-pilot.

Luckily.

This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin.
Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in.

It could have been worse.

The last of his walls was just days from coming down.

He would have been completely unguarded.

Against her.

He knew better.

It's not as if he wanted his heart to get it's ass kicked.

Probably.

Maybe.

He tried to run fast enough so that people couldn't see him.

He caught himself thinking, "It's her loss."

But, he didn't want to be THAT guy.

Even if it was true.

He could see the positives.

He could.

Like with every other failed relationship, he had learned something.

Though he found more solace in that when he was younger.

He arrived home. He stretched on the sidewalk.

He went in for a drink. Strawberry Melon Powerade sucks.

He stared in the bathroom mirror. He shook his head and managed a little smile.

He knew better.

He got undressed. He got the shower temperature just right. He got in.

It was time to wash it all off and get a fresh start.

"Maybe the next one..."

Labels: fiction, It REALLY is

The Monkey just made me set up an entry for her in my cellphone address book.

The includes a picture of her sticking out her tongue for photo caller ID.

She also made me download Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry" for her very own ringtone.

And then she made me play it over and over as she danced around the kitchen and sang along.

So, yeah, a pretty typical visit.

Labels: The Monkey

Before peterbedtime last night I watched "My Name is Earl" and then an episode of "The West Wing."

As I drifted off to sleepies, Earl had me thinking about karma and then fate. Those thoughts began merging with stuff from "The West Wing" episode, which was about a super collider. (You know, I also read a mess of Kipling poems last night. Apparently they didn't really take.)

Suddenly I was seeing us all as particles being flung together at the speed of light. Some particles sticking together. Some repelling each other. Some writing pointless blog posts that clearly show why they were a physics major for only one semester.

And then I fell asleep.

I dreamed that I was fighting off criminals who were trying to break into my house during a snow storm. (I always kick ass in my dreams.)

When I woke up this morning, my first thoughts were about random chance. In life. In love.

How any choice, at any time, can lead to you meeting someone.

I don't necessarily mean "the one."

It could be a friend that inspires you to take a risk. It could be an enemy that teaches you something about your own weaknesses.

And you have no way of knowing that it's coming.

I think that's my favourite part.

You could go to the post office to send a parcel and meet the person that challenges you to create a work of art.

You could be in a restaurant and meet someone who recruits you to do the charitable work that, in large part, defines your life.

You could receive a friend request on Facebook from someone who ends up being a huge part of your life for decades.

Any day. At any time.

"I'll wait for the next elevator."

"I don't feel like going out, but I'll just go make an appearance at this party."

Cool, right?

When I wake up on rainy mornings, feeling more than a bit stabby, these are the kinds of things that I try to focus on.

The stories yet to be written.

I guess that I just like possibilities.

Hmm. Someone new just added me as a friend on Facebook.

Hi, chica.

That's a lovely shirt. The colour looks GREAT on you.

So, yeah, confession time again. I've got some hang-ups, sweetie.

Many of which I am trying to deal with, you know, so that they won't be issues in the future. For you. That's just the kind of future husband that I am.

Some of these hang-ups are just too strange and specific to even mention. We'll let them be surprises.

But, I'll give you this one. 'Cause you're nice. I'm assuming.

First, a little back story... (This IS my blog after all.)

You know how you sometimes develop a crush on a TV character?

You do know, right? Tell me it's not just me.

Please.

Anyway.

I have a little crush on the Donna Moss character on "The West Wing."

She has the girl next door thing going. She represents doing the right thing and for the right reasons. She is always hopeful. She's loyal. She's smart. She's saucy. And when she shows up in a scene, it just makes the scene... better. She has a glow. A presence.

Like any other TV addict, I can't really tell the difference between actors and their roles...

I should actually touch on the TV addiction for a moment. Here's the thing, I am not going to want to talk to you while watching TV.

At all.

Not a word. I'm a little OCD about dialogue. I'll even rewind a show to make sure I don't miss anything. The way I see it is that writers worked hard picking the exact right words, so we should pay attention to them.

On the plus side, if there is anything you need massaged while I am watching TV, just put it under my hands. Back, feet, head, whatever.

And I will talk all you want before or after the show. I'll even pause it for you, if there is something you want to discuss immediately. Even though I might grrrr a little about it. Literally. It is best to use the "Sweetie... shut up and pause your show for a minute" maneuver. Do not reach for the remote. It's like getting between a mama bear and her cub.

Plus, unlike 99.9% of the male population, I'll realize that sometimes you just want to vent about what's going on and that you don't require me to try to fix it.

See? I'm more than just poor fashion choices, obsessive TV watching and strange, not yet revealed hang-ups.

Where were we?

Oh yes...

Like any other TV addict, I can't really tell the difference between actors and their roles. So, when they show up on different shows, or in movies, I have a hard time adjusting.

However, I was very excited last week when Donna Moss (or Janel Moloney) showed up briefly in the final scene of "Brotherhood."

So, I was more amped than usual to watch this week's episode. And I didn't have to wait long to see her. Within seconds there she was.

And there she was naked and having... *whispers* s-e-x.

I never saw Donna Moss do THAT on "The West Wing."

And this is where the hang-up came in.

You are probably thinking, "What? A good girl can't have sex? Does it destroy your image? You are such a prude, DeWolf!"

That's not my hang-up. At all. And you have a bit of an attitude. Why are we getting married?

I am a proponent of nice girls throwing down in the boudoir.

While it was a bit "Oh my..." seeing an actress you've watched for years suddenly appear naked, she could have been having sex with a goat for all I cared. And not one of those sexy goats. It could have a beer gut and hardly be able to complete a full "baaaaah" without breaking out into a smokers cough.

You know the type?

After all the sex -- and after she wore the shit out of a wife beater! -- she peed.

In front of dude.

AND WITH ME WATCHING.

And there's my problem.

I know, I know. It's a normal, natural bodily function.

I just don't want to see it.

The only thing I remember from LEAVING LAS VEGAS is Elisabeth Shue peeing. (And Nic Cage drinking like he could be from one of the branches of my family tree.)

I'm nuts. I know! Lame right?

It's not even one of those charming quirks where you can say something like, "Awww Peter is trying to wear Pumas to our wedding." Or "Peter is wearing my underwear and installing a trapeze above the bed. How cute!"

I will hold your hair while you puke. Clean up after you get sick. Take care of you while you are fluish and yet...

I'm going to need you to lock the door when you pee.

Actually, would you be amenable to separate bathrooms all together?

We have to fight... We have to fight to keep the mystery alive.

Also, where are we on those Pumas? Total deal breaker? Black would match the tux. I'm just sayin'.

Love,
Peter

- ps I also have a HUGE crush on Emily Procter's character on "The West Wing." I don't have to tell you that it made Season 2 awwwwkward.

- pps I am typing this up in g-mail as a draft e-mail. And g-mail is showing me ads for things with names like "Get Your Ex-Wife Back." Clearly Google knows waaaay too much about me.

Labels: not satisfied with this one

Inspired by airam's swearing twerps post...

When "The Monkey" was three, a group of us were hanging out at my uncle's house. The Monkey and her mommy were ready to leave. They were standing on the back deck, waiting for the daddy.

The mommy was muttering something I couldn't make out as they came back in to get him. The Monkey heard it though.

The little twerp walked right into the middle of the room full of people, put her hands on her hips, and in her best mommy-mimicking performance asked,

"Where's that fucking Steve?"

Labels: The Monkey

I was writing a post for today, but, I could not get it right. I may give it another shot tomorrow. However, the lack of a post for today was stressing me out. So, while shooting the poop with Molly, two sentences popped into my head. They were followed by an idea to give myself 15 minutes (it was 10 at first, but I am yappy) to try to create a moderately entertaining short story.

And this is what I came up with...

------------

It wasn't the worst break-up in the history of break-ups.

Though how depressing a book would THAT make?

They dated for three years.

"We dated for four years," he told a friend.

What? I was close.

"She's a no good, dirty, lying sack of shit ho bag," his friend gently reminded him.

"Don't hold back on my account," he replied.

"But, I did."

"Wait... She's a sack AND a bag?"

He cared about her a lot. He didn't see the break-up coming.

At all.

According to iTunes, he listened to Bob Dylan's "Shelter From The Storm" 739 times in a month.

His family was worried about him. Especially his mother.

"I was up all night writing a country song," he told her.

"Sounds like a good outlet for your pain," his mom encouraged.

"I DON'T WRITE MUSIC."

"Ohhhhh..."

He knew that she wasn't the best girlfriend ever. She was self-absorbed. Vain. Not overly kind. She quoted from "Sex and the City" entirely too much.

And she wouldn't scratch his back.

He LOVED a good back-scratchin'.

He couldn't reach the sweet spot by himself. He had pretty short arms. Like a dinosaur.

And this made him feel underappreciated. Like a dinosaur.

He couldn't concentrate at work. This lead to him making a teensy screw-up.

It might have involved a microwave and a pacemaker. A little bit.

He got fired.

And one night, while watching "Matlock" at 3 am, he hatched a plan.

He was going to sue her.

He was going to strike a blow for everyone that has ever had their heart broken.

He was going to show her that she can't be so cavalier with someone else's feelings.

He was going to never watch "Matlock" again.

It blows. You ever try to watch that sumbitch?

Seriously.

So, he found a heart-broken lawyer to take his case. The heart-broken lawyer found a thrice-jilted judge to try it. The thrice-jilted judge found a dry cleaner that had been left at the altar.

But, that has very little to do with our story.

The trial began. He could barely look at the harpy. Witness after witness told his side of the story. The judge looked very sympathetic.

One day on lunch break, he bumped into the court stenographer. He noticed her long nails. He said, "Wow. I bet that you could really scratch a back with those things." She gave him a quick free sample, smiled and went back into the court room.

For the rest of the trial, he could not keep his eyes off the stenographer. Her nimble fingers recording for history just how badly he had been treated.

His ex and her lawyer told her side of the story.

Grown apart.
Met when they were young.
Wanted different things.
She was a complete floozy.

He may have misheard the last one.

Then, on the last day of the trial, just before the judge was to deliver his ruling, he stood up -- much to the shock of his lawyer. The lawyer gasped. Partially because his boxers shifted on him in a most uncomfortable way. Though, still, the moment WAS shocking.

He told the judge that he was no longer mad at his ex and wanted to call the whole thing off.

The judge went along with it. It turns out that he had a raging ebay addiction (miniature pony figurines mostly) and, honestly, wasn't really a very good judge at all.

So, he left the courtroom hand in hand with the stenographer. He was smiling for the first time in months.

His ex was relieved. She got in her car and headed for home.

Two blocks later she ran into a cement truck (and would spend 6 months in a full body cast.)

Yeah, he had cut her brake line.

"What do you think Carrie and Miranda would say about that, bitch?"

This is my 400th post!

What Peter says: O Muse! Where would I be without you? Eyes that create an immediate sense of peace when looked into. A smile illuminating everything around. Whither doubt. Locks of hair falling into position to perfectly frame your face. That face. The inward curve above your hip reminding me that anything is possible. Anything. The comet tail of creative energy that you leave in your wake. In it's simplest, most basic form, you ARE inspiration.

What Peter means: It's super fun and helpful to show off for a pretty girl!

I woke up Saturday morning with a good deal of energy. I was going to accomplish a whole mess of crap.

I was a man on a mission.

I showered. I shaved. I got prettied up.

Then I looked out the window and it was all rainy and crappy.

Deeeeflate.

Everyone in Peterville seemed to be busy doing something, though nothing that appealed to me.

None of you jerks were even online.

So, I decided that it would be "National Watch Some of the 50+ Hours of Crap That You Have Recorded On Your PVR Day." (You heard me, Megan.)

It didn't really matter that I have 80 hrs of space on the machine.

This is the type of thing that you can decide to do when you are single. If you want to piss a day away watching horse shit, you totally can.

Freedom, baby.

You can also spend an hour some day trying to decide what your name would be if you were an action film star.

Not that I've ever done that.

Wolf Peterson.

Bad ass, right?

(If I ever became a Mexican wrestler, I'd be "El Lobo Grande.")

The first hour I spent watching an NBA exhibition game between the Raptors and a team from Lithuania, that had been played 3 days earlier, and for which I already knew the final score.

That is hardly gathering ye rosebuds while ye may.

While scrolling through a seemingly endless list of recorded programs, I decided on the pilot of "Journeyman." (This may or may not include spoilers. I haven't written it yet. Plus, you know, it aired a month ago.)

I knew nothing about this show, other than it involved time travel, starred some dude who seemed like he should be from the U.K., and featured the fifth hottest woman on the planet*.

(*Based on my own very scientific formula.)

The star dude IS from Scotland. He was in TRAINSPOTTING. Which, I just remembered, I have somehow never seen.

There are certain movies that I just never end up watching. There can be any number of reasons for this.

Some include:

FORREST GUMP -- I don't like movies where actors play mentally disabled characters. And it beat PULP FICTION and SHAWSHANK for the Oscar that year. Duuuuude. (This is also why I never watch awards shows anymore.)

DIRTY DANCING -- Just 'cause.

A girlfriend almost got me to watch it once. I was... 17? We were on the couch. The FBI warning was on the screen. I decided to use my manly wiles to seduce her as a means of getting out of watching it. I went to put my arm around her and, in some odd slapstickian maneuver, got her earring stuck in my sweater. The more we tried to unhook it, the worse it got. Eventually she managed to extricate herself from the situation. As she was in the bathroom, trying to stop the bleeding, I swapped out DIRTY DANCING for another movie.

The earring thing was completely accidental.

It WAS!

I ended up enjoying the "Journeyman" pilot. I didn't looooove it, but it was decent.

I did, however, learn one valuable lesson from it:

Involuntary Time Travel Would SUCK!

I am sure we'd all love to go back in time and change things for the better. Warn the Americans about Pearl Harbour. Tell John Lennon to wear a bullet proof vest. Beg Van Morrison to never write "Brown-Eyed Girl."

But, this dude has no control over it. He's in the present and then *boom* 1989. (Seeing the guy at the newsstand with the Zach Morris cell phone was priceless.)

And the time travel always happens at the most inopportune times.

I am sure that it would be even worse for me.

I'd suddenly be back in the middle ages.

I'd start chatting with a busty, blue-eyed bar wench.

"Is that a chastity belt in your pants or are you just happy to see me?"

"Oh, good sir... tee hee."

I'd consider, and then reject, the following pick-up lines:

"Could I interest you in private jousting lessons?"

"You wanna see if you can pull Excalibur out of my pants?"

"There'd be nothing torturous about being on YOUR rack."

I'm better than that.

Then I'd settle on:

"Let's grab some mead and head back to your place to fool around."

Once back at her abode, we'd go through the requisite chit chat.

"You don't have the plague, do you?"

We'd get closer...

"Yow... movies really downplay the lack of disposable razors in the midde ages, eh?"

And then *boom* I am back in the present...

And likely still typing this post.

Labels: I really don't make the most of the ability to use tags for my posts

The ACN has a very loose top front tooth. The neighbour tooth already fell out last week. This one is not even in the right spot any more. The Mommy was jiggling it yesterday. The ACN told her Mommy to pull it out. The Mommy tried. It bled. The ACN cringed. The Mommy asked if she wanted her to stop. The ACN shook her head "No." Finally The Mommy gave up.

"Did you want Mommy to take it out so that you'll get another $10 from the tooth fairy?"

"YEAH!!!!!!!!"

Labels: ACN

Something weird has happened with my blog lately.

More people have started reading it.

I know! I'm as surprised as you.

In the past couple of weeks the traffic has doubled. It has gone from "not much" to "yeah, still not much, but definitely more." (Those are scientific blog tracking terms, don't concern yourself.)

I have no idea why this happened (or if it will last.)

I don't feel like I've changed anything.

I don't think that I am being linked in more places.

Just one of those things, I guess.

When I first started blogging, I assumed that I would be embraced by tens of thousands. That people would start offering me money, book deals, nude photos and marriage proposals. And that it would be GLORIOUS!!!!

OK. That's not actually true.

Well, not entirely...

I just wanted a place to practice writing without censoring myself, and to quiet the voices in my head. And if I somehow managed to find a small group of loyal blog friends, that would be awesome.

And the plan has worked out amazingly well.

So many of you leave kickass comments. I actually feel guilty that I am not a better commenter. A big reason is that I read many of you inside bloglines.

A bigger reason is that I am very lazy and easily distracted.

But, don't think that I don't appreciate you!

All of you.

I love my little blog.

Sometimes too much...

In a dream the other night I uttered the phrase, "Yeah, I think we've all been cock-punched by love at one time or another." And INSIDE THE DREAM thought, "Wow. I should blog about that."

Man, I hope I am not the only one that stuff like that happens to.

At one point, I did wonder what I could do to increase traffic. However, I kind of settled into not having a huge following. I embraced it.

My blog started feeling like one of those endearing little dive bars to me.

Not the super sketchy kind. But, the type where you can bring a gorgeous blond socialite type and teach her how to play pool while Ozzy Osbourne plays on the jukebox. (Hopefully only Clink knows what I am talking about.)

Hmmm. If my blog IS said dive bar, I am not sure if that makes me the sage bartender, dispensing charming small town advice. Or the drunk regular telling the same stories over and over.

Maybe the bastard spawn of their forbidden late night love.

Wow. This one is clearly getting away from me.

Because of the new traffic, I have decided that my site needs a major face lift. I have to get rid of the prison cafeteria tray green colour scheme.

I have a few ideas. Nothing for sure. I might even ditch blogger.

Any freakishly skilled web designers out there?

So, in conclusion...

Thanks for coming out. I really appreciate it.

Labels: two posts on the same day

Amanda wants to know about our weaknesses...

Pleasing others. (Only sometimes, really.)

Addictive personality.

Big dreams.

(Senseless) Guilt.

Routines.

Enjoying reclining too much.

TV/Sports/Movies.

Expectations. (For both myself and others.)

Patience. (Both a lack and an overabundance.)

People that need help. (For whatever reason.)

Fear of not accomplishing all the things I have planned.

I tend to see the best in people. I assume that their intentions are pure. So, if they cross me... I really don't take it well.

To be a "good guy," I can and will put up with a lot of shit. To a point. It has a lot to do with motives. If I feel like someone is knowingly screwing with me... I become cold. VERY cold. They are dead to me. Their families, friends, and pets are dead to me. You don't come back from that.

Women... rocking a ponytail, taking care of a child, sans make-up after a long day, who occasionally wear this style of shirt, who are extremely intelligent and arty/soulful/"deep," being open and honest with me, pouting... mostly jokingly, letting me spoil, making me feel like I can let my guard down, who let their guard down with me, who can sing, who can't sing but do it anyway, who can quote from The Simpsons (as well as many other TV shows and movies), that love their families almost to a fault, who are kind and thoughtful and loyal, who are good friends, who are positive in general, and women who make me feel more like myself with them than I do without them.

I will never display my entire true self in a public blog.

Labels: I'm a giant girl

Dear Future Wife,

Hi. How are you? You are looking well today. Hair all shiny-like.

So, you are the last woman standing, eh? Good for you!

However, there is something that I feel I should warn you about...

You are going to have to dress me.

Not literally. But, you proooobably should be in charge of picking out my clothes.

Since I find good fashion sense so sexy in a woman (I know, I know...) I am going to assume that you have it.

But, I also hope that I had the forethought to end up with someone patient.

VERY patient.

The kind of person that would say, "That Mother Theresa was a bit of a hot head, right?"

Future Wife -- Can I call you Future Wife? -- I only own one pair of shoes that can't be used to play a sport. And they are old and shitty.

It's a bad scene, lady.

Left to my own devices, I am going to rock jeans, a t-shirt and a baseball cap. Every chance I get.

Remember when we first met and you asked why I was still single?

Yeah.

Despite all of this, I'll be more than willing to offer up my input on your fashion choices AND expect you to at least listen.

Remember what I said about patience?

You could choose to see me as a blank canvas?

Maybe?

Even when you are sweet enough to pick out clothes for me, I am fairly like to fight you on it. At least initially. And my complaints may be oddly specific and obscure.

"I'm going to look like Guy Smiley in that shit!"

Sure, pummeling me is an option at that point. However, the best way to handle it is with a...

"Sweetie... You are a boy. You don't know anything about fashion. Now shut up and try it on."

This will make sense to me. "Hmm. True enough. OK!"

It should be noted that the "Sweetie... shut up" move should be a frequently used arrow from your quiver of dealing with Peter.

When I do try on your outfit I'll probably love it. "I'm... GORGEOUS!" I'll even admit that I was wrong to fight you on it.

Sometimes.

An ex -- who had grown tired of my many old (originally) white t-shirts -- ended up buying me a whole mess of clothes one Christmas. She even "taught" me how to wear them.

"You can wear this with this. Or this. OR even this with this AND this!"

There was talk of "layers." My eyes glazed over. It's not like I don't recognize the difference between what looks good and what doesn't... I just don't give much of a shit. She was very excited though.

"You look SOOOO good."

And then she hugged me for ten minutes.

Me: "Uhm... What's the deal here?"

Her: "I... just want to remember this moment."

She's long gone now, but the nice clothes still remain.

And when my jeans and old t-shirts are dirty, I sometimes even consider wearing them

I thought it was only fair to warn you about this, Future Wife. Though I do make up for it in other ways.

I think.

Godspeed.

Love,
Peter

- ps How's about you skip the blog posts about how much sports I watch? We have to let some stuff be a surprise, right?

So, I tried to make a little video post last night. But, my old webcam was being an asshole.

It's kind of sad because I felt pretty yesterday.

Instead, I am going to write about what I was going to talk about.

Yeah, a bunch more rambling text from me.

Yay!

If you have seen any of my vlogs before, you may be thinking how unrehearsed they look. Soooo natural.

Maybe you should sit down for this part...

I generally outline what I am going to talk about. I sometimes even use notes.

I'm like a 14 year old boy calling a girl for the first time. Voice cracking. Reading over cue cards that I spent hours preparing, before finally saying...

"So... don't you just hate mean people?"

Crickets.

That was, of course, a hypothetical situation.

*cough*

However, the tics and obnoxious facial expressions in my vlogs... all ad libbed! For real!

This is what I was going to talk about in my vlog:

I was going to start by mentioning that I realized how crappy the resolution is on my cam. Then I was going to make some joke about not thinking that my mug could stand up to the scrutiny of a hi-deffer webcam.

This was going to segue into me pointing out various scars and telling their stories.

Middle of forehead -- When I was 4, my grandparents lived next door. It was after 8 one stormy winter night. I was with my grandparents watching the Peanuts Christmas special ("Mrs. Claus is a Whore, Charlie Brown") and, if history is any indication, being treated like the boy king of Nova Scotia.

Explaining just how spoiled I was would take a whole series of blog posts.

At some point my parents decided that they could again put up with my annoying little ass and called for me to come home. I'm assuming that my grandmother bundled me up like a 3 foot mummy and pointed me in the direction of my house. Again, it was 50-100 feet across a lawn to my back door. I don't actually remember any of this, but from family legends I have been able to piece together the main points of the story.

My father was watching for me out the back door. As my little legs got to the top of the steps, he opened the door -- just as a huge gust of wind blew up. The door swung out of his hand and the handle hit me in the middle of the forehead and sent me flying through the air. I landed flat on my back in the driveway.

Cut open forehead. Stitches.

Eeep.

And for years I believed that story. But now... thinking and writing about it... My Dad was -- and still is, really -- a big burly dude. It would have taken quite a gust of wind to tear the door out of his hand.

Hmmmm.

Is it too late to call child services on that one?

Probably.

Back of ear -- I've watched a good number of different sports played with balls. But, I have never seen one that involved trying to kick the ball out of a dude's hands AFTER he is tackled. And, if such a sport did exist, I am relatively sure that it wouldn't involve missing said ball and practically tearing off his ear. This is what my friend did to me.

I was twelve. My ear was smaller then. 7 stitches covered a lot of ground. Ears are not supposed to come away from the rest of the head like that, I'm pretty sure.

Of course you wouldn't see this scar unless we were being a little closer than a vlog. You know what I'm sayin'? You KNOW.

Top of noggin -- (Peter points to it.) This one I got playing basketball in high school. I took an elbow. Which I probably deserved, since one of my favourite things was throwing elbows. Get a rebound. Swing elbows wildly to clear space. You could legally crack people. It was way more fun than I should admit.

The referee checked me for a concussion and stuff. I think I played the rest of the game, because I only got stitched up when I got back to my town. I really don't remember this very well at all. Perhaps he should have checked more closely for that concussion.

Bottom lip -- When I was... 14? Maybe. Something in that area. I was playing street hockey near my house with my cousin and a friend. I was being all Wayne Gretzky behind the net. I passed the ball out to my cousin and he took a hard slap shot. Which, of course, missed the net and smashed me in the mouth.

Most of you have never seen an orange hockey ball, much less been hammered in the pie hole with one. Let me tell you... not very pleasant. Plus it was very cold out. So, the ball was half frozen and even harder than usual.

I spit out a little piece of tooth and was surprised by all the blood that joined it.

I'm still missing the little piece. I think it looks badass!

So, yeah, stitches in my bottom lip.

I should mention that I had only recently gotten my braces off. My mother lost her mind and bought me a mouth guard the very next day. She went all GOB Bluth on me.

"You think I spent $3000 on braces just to have you lose your teeth playing street hockey? Come on!"

She demanded that I wear it when playing basketball.

"You think I spent $4000 on braces just to have you lose your teeth to an elbow? Come on!"

She was everywhere.

"That girl you are dating looks a little loose. Wear your mouth guard. Come on!"

So, that was going to be my vlog post.

I hope that you read it in an (alleged) Canadian accent.

No. It's true.

But, I'm not nearly as bad as I used to be.

I remember in high school when my favourite team got bounced out of the NBA playoffs, in a particularly heart-breaking manner, I got a call from a basketball teammate. All I heard was, "Blah blah blah Lakers won! hee hee hee."

I replied with, "Uh huh.... Yeah... FUCK OFF!!!" and threw the phone across the room.

My father looked at me for a few seconds and said, "Wrong number?"

I'm a kinder gentler Peter now.

However, sports can still get to me.

Saturday night, after The ACN went to bed, I grabbed ye olde laptop and got comfy to find out what was going on in the world of sports.

I saw that #1 ranked (in college football) LSU was in a tough game against Kentucky. (Kentucky?!?) And I saw that my team, Cal (Berkeley), was not playing on TV up here. Even though they were RANKED #2!!!

I was not happy.

However, I am a pretty glass is half full of lemonade made from lemons kind of hombre. So, I went to SI.com and got the automatically updating box score thing rocking.

Cal was already down to Oregon St.

Again, not good news. But, Cal is an offensive juggernaut. No biggie.

I then realized that it was Saturday night, I am Canadian, so I should be watching hockey anyway. It's like a rule. Since I am an Ottawa fan, and my dish has the channel in Ottawa that shows Saturday night games, I flipped to it and found...

Toronto vs. Pittsburgh.

Whaaaaaaaaaaa?

Now, I think it's great that Sidney Crosby was playing a game in Canada on a Saturday night. The little dude is a fellow Nova Scotian, so I have nothing but respect. However, Ottawa is the best team in the league. This channel is from Ottawa. And yet...

So, the universe wanted to toy with me a bit. Fine. I am determined.

I remember that the NHL Network shows something called "NHL on the Fly." Which is essentially hours and hours of live look-ins at games, as well as highlights and news. It kicks a lot of ass. So, I flipped over to the NHL Network and found...

A "Classic Series" episode featuring the Rangers and Islanders from the late 70s.

"Well played, universe," I said.

Around this point I saw that LSU had somehow managed to lose. In triple overtime! (A game that I couldn't watch up here either. Curses!)

This meant that all Cal had to do was beat unranked Oregon St. to cruise to the #1 ranking.

Which meant they'd also be #1 in the first BCS rankings!!

(Am I really rambling this long about sports in a blog with a readership that has been skewing mostly female for a while now? Apparently so. Why do I hate success?)

The Cal game went back and forth. Cal would score and take the lead, but then couldn't find a way to stop Oregon St.

Seriously? Oregon St.?!?

Long story short (HA!)...

Cal ended up losing the game.

And I was bummed.

Now, I wasn't as depressed as Seth was in that episode of "The O.C." when he was is his bed with the covers over his head and he was listening to Boys II Men's "End of the Road." (You're trying not to let it get stuck in your head. You are trying not to remember the words and -- oooopsie. There you go. My gift to you.)

But, I was... bummed.

Would referencing "The O.C." seem less girly if I told you that it was one of the episodes when Marissa was dabbling in the lesbianic arts?

A little?

Bah.

There was a moment in that episode that I really liked. Seth & Ryan were sitting in a boat in the living room. (They had their reasons.) And Seth drops the news to Ryan that their exes (both women) were now dating. Even though the love of Seth's life was getting ready to fly off to Europe with her pretty boy new boyfriend, and even though Ryan's wife-beater-wearing heart was being broken because his new girlfriend was leaving him and moving to Chicago, these unlikely best friends took a moment and pondered the image of their two exes together. And they smiled.

Sometimes you just have to embrace being a dude.

This post is pretty testosteroney today, eh?

Oh, Ottawa ended up winning 3-0 on Saturday night, so that put me in a better mood before sleepies.

Did I just say, "sleepies?"

Moving on...

Why do I cheer for Cal, you ask?

Or you would if you were still reading.

I honestly don't have a very good reason. A number of years ago, just after he was hired, I saw a piece on Coach Tedford and he seemed like good people. He had overcome odds of some sort -- which usually sucks me in. So, since I was a college football free agent, I just started following them. I am also a big fan of offensive creativity in football -- which was clearly on display during the Aaron "Fucking Retire Already Brett Favre!" Rodgers era. Tedford is a wizard.

So, even though I don't personally know anyone who went there -- except for Ryan on "The O.C.!" -- I am a Cal Bears fan.

You like how that all came full circle? That's good writing right there, people.

One of my great regrets in life -- along with not asking that Naomi chick out in university, and the brush cut in grade 11 -- is not having gone to a big U.S. college where sports is huge. My school's girls volleyball team was good, I suppose. While girl volleyball players are hotter than other female athletes, for some reason, I kind of hate the sport.

I should mention that because of her, her, him and him, I've recently been following Iowa's football team.

How about the rest of you? Did any of you go to a school with a team that I could embrace and follow a little?

I don't trust people who don't have a gmail account.

There, I said it.

Still using Hotmail instead of gmail is like watching a black and white TV when someone is offering you a plasma.

Still using Yahoo is like staring at cave paintings. I briefly used Yahoo as my primary e-mail... when I was Pennsylvania Amish. I shouldn't mock, as I hear they make lovely ladies in those parts.

And wagons.

I love the way gchat/google talk works for chatting too.

I'll admit that I used AOL IM at one point. It... it seemed like a good idea at the time. The only decent thing was that you could set your "Away" message. I would usually use a quote from HARDCORE LOGO, "I can't come to the phone right now, I'm eating corn chips and masturbating." Which was a complete lie.

I don't eat corn chips.

I even used Yahoo chat. It was the only thing that my gf at the time could use at work. I hated myself a little inside. (For Yahoo, not the girlfriend.)

And I do still use MSN Messenger. Mostly so that The ACN can use her webcam to show me what she made in school, what she got as a present, what she is eating for supper and so that when I ask if she misses Uncle Pete she can shake her head "no" and giggle like mad.

I even installed the Google Talk stand alone program. The benefits of which are...

Well, I'm not entirely sure.

It does allow you to send "voice mail" to other users. I've never done it. And I'm not sure why I wouldn't just grab my phone and call the person instead. But, I'm a boy and easily impressed by superfluous technological dealies.

And nice legs.

It also allows me to automatically and obnoxiously tell everyone on my friends list what song I am listening to at that particular moment.

"Peter, are you listening to REO Speedwagon?"
"You didn't see nothin'!"

Tommorrow's Topic: I think everyone without a PVR* should be hunted for sport.

(*aka DVR -- Happy, Megan?)

Just a quick update:

As we were settling in to play some post-breakfast Webkinz online, The ACN got a call from The Monkey. The Monkey had purchased a present for her, so we had to go over right away.

The ACN refused to put on shoes, instead opting for her furry pink princess slippers.

I think we've all been there.

When we arrived at The Monkey's grandparents' house, we ended up next to the computer so that The Monkey could play us music on YouTube.

Again.

There was lots of Rhianna, Fergie and even a Carrie Underwood song. I think it was "Don't Forget to Remember To Let Jesus Take The Wheel."

The ACN's favourite song was Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry."

They may not, but sometimes Big Uncs are tempted to.

The Monkey also decided that she wanted to play the "karaoke versions" of some of the songs so that she could do the singing instead of the original performer. The ACN supported this and sang along. That was VERY cute.

Eventually I convinced them to let me pick a song. I picked "Bastards of Young."

The Monkey: But, it has a bad word in the name.

Me: Yep. I like bad words.

The Monkey: Why?

Me: Because they are cool.

The Monkey: They are NOT.

Me: Did you know that this song is twenty years old?

The Monkey: And that's why it sucks.

We are back at my place now, all three of us. Well, four now. We brought The Monkey's "Build-a-bear" bear. Her name is Vanessa.

Vanessa owns more clothing than I do. I am not kidding. And we brought it all over with us.

Vanessa owns a pair of Skechers. Pink panties with a hole for her tail. Vanessa owns a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey jersey. (Booo!) Vanessa owns little pink movie star sunglasses. Vanessa owns a pink leather purse. "Every girl HAS to have a purse, Peter."

And, apparently, she owns a pink camouflage two piece bikini.

I am SO glad that I didn't wear mine today.

[HAHA! The Monkey JUST walked up to me holding a pair of white men's bikini briefs. "Peter... my mom put my dad's underwear in with Vanessa's clothes!"]

The goofs are currently watching "Hannah Montana" (which The Monkey says with a southern accent for some reason) and turning the living room into "Vanessa's bedroom."

And now I'm being summoned to check out their progress.

Labels: ACN, The Monkey

I was just reading about Jamelah's sufferings with her back and it reminded me of my own past back issues. (By "just" I, of course, mean a month or so ago.) I think I've written about them in here before, but, quite frankly, I can't imagine anyone reading my posts for long enough to to have seen it. And who reads archives? (Though you should TOTALLY read mine. They'll change you, man.)

The tale of woe starts simply enough. This young Cape Breton boy starts school at Dalhousie University in Halifax. (A school he essentially picked because the school colours were black and gold and also because, "Dude... six thousand women.")

(And I'll put as many sentences in parentheses as I desire.)

(So there.)

Frosh week was going well. I was making friends and doing my thing. I, much to the delight of my frosh leaders, tried to incite a little brawl with members of a rival dorm. ("Smith House? Shit House, motherfuckers!" -- That's clever wordplay right there.) I didn't get the nickname "Flounder" or attend a single toga party, but I was fairly content.

I had heard rumblings of a certain late night annual ritual, but mostly ignored them -- as I do with anything that displeases me. Then Wednesday night I heard a knock on my door. I looked at my clock. 3:00 am. "Screw that noise," I thought and rolled over.

Then louder knocking.

My skittish roommate -- this roomie had his stomach pumped 3 (at least) times during frosh week and tried to off himself on pills after Xmas -- asked, "What are we going to do? What are we going to do?" as he almost jumped out of his bed.

I said, "We go back to sleep. We go back to sleep."

The knocking became louder, and much more impatient.

"Pretend we aren't here," I whispered.

"We know you are in there, DeWolf!"

I recognized the voice to be a bar-brawling goon frosh leader. Before I could reply...

"And don't fucking make us come in there." The second voice was the goon's even scarier sidekick. (Note: I still think that guy might have been Satan. Dude's eyes glowed red! Though I think he was also something of a pot head, so that might explain that...)

Even though I had only known these dudes for three days, I knew lunatics when I saw them. (I also spent the next two years in the dorm trying to get either of these dudes to laugh. I got Satan to smile once!)

And then one of them started hammering the door with an aluminum baseball bat.

"So, yeah, I guess we're getting up," I said, as I looked for my shorts and frosh t-shirt.

I opened my door with a "Boys! How the hell are ya?" Which was promptly answered with a "Get the fuck outside."

"I think I'm just going to get the fuck outside..."

Outside I saw that all on campus students were gathered, divided by house. I found my group (Cameron House!!!!!! Whoooooooooooo!!) and made my way over. Our sister floor from the large female dorm was there with us as well.

"Let's go!" one of the frosh leaders yelled, and suddenly we were all walking down the street. This middle of the night tour lasted for-freakin'-ever, and involved visiting, and paying tribute to, all of the favourite eating and drinking establishments of past Cameron House residents.

And they made us sing.

This included singing to a favourite bar. (Scoundrels, we hardly knew ye.) We sang New Kids on The Block's "Step By Step." With solos.

I was Step 4. You know, with the giving you of more.

I KILLED it.

Not really.

Our tour continued. For some unknown reason, at a random intersection, one frosh leader decided that our sister floor chicas should not have to walk across it. We men of Cameron House would carry them.

When it was announced, the fellas flocked to the women. It was like a feeding frenzy. Since I've never been one to compete for women, I laid back a bit and let things calm down. Then I saw a girl who seemed to be doing much the same thing. I slowly walked towards her. As I got closer I thought, "Hmm. You are little and cute."

I gave her the upward nod.
She smiled.
I did the "You wanna do this thing?" sideways head jerk.
She nodded.
She introduced herself. (Jessica?)
I pointed to the "PETE" written in black magic marker across the chest of my frosh t-shirt.

I should tell you that one of the things I was most looking forward to about college was the potential for getting a cool-assed nickname. I had seen ANIMAL HOUSE many times, people.

When I arrived that first day at college, our frosh leaders were having a few snifters and passing out the t-shirts. They'd make you put it on and then one of the guys would come up with a nickname and write it on your chest.

As I waited my turn, I saw guys coming out with some pretty funny names. I was excited. When I stepped into the room and slipped on the T, the marker was passed to a little blond dude. He couldn't have been nicer... or sobererer. I knew that wasn't a good sign. After a two minute discussion about whether I preferred Peter or Pete -- I had no preference -- I was branded as "PETE."

I was a bit disappointed. However, that was tempered a few minutes later when a dude walked out with "PAP SMEAR" written across his chest.

OK, back to the walking tour...

I don't remember a lot about "Jessica," other than her hair lived in the dirty blond/light brown neighbourhood and she was rocking a kickass ponytail.

So, I picked her up and started walking across the intersection. At the halfway point, I realized I wasn't speaking and said, "So... do you come here often?"

In my defense, it was like 4 in the morning and in the middle of frosh week.

She laughed.

In her defense, it was like 4 in the morning and in the middle of frosh week.

I was thinking that I had found a cute walk buddy and the rest of the night might not be so evil.

When we got to the other side, I gently put her down on the sidewalk. She did a little half bow. I tipped my baseball cap. (Yes, even back then.)

Then she got a sad look on her face. I turned to see what she was looking at. One of the girls was left by herself on the other side of the street.

Jessica said, "That's my friend ngrjengre."

Of course I replied, "One sec, I'll go get kjfhrjwnfw"

I started jogging across the street and the closer I got I realized something.

Now, I want to put this as delicately as possible...

Do you know the Jim Croce song "Roller Derby Queen?"

You don't?

Jim Croce is awesome.

Anyway, in the song, he says about said Roller Derby Queen that "she was built like a 'fridgerator with a head."

The girl on the sidewalk was at least 5'11 and very middle linebackeresque.

I looked back over my shoulder at Jessica, who was now all smiley-faced. And when I turned back, I found out that ngjrenjklgj had gotten excited and ran and launched herself towards me. When I caught her I was completely off balance and felt a *POP* in my lower back.

The pain hit immediately.

I carried her about 3/4 of the way across the intersection before whimpering, "Far... enough... man... down..." and putting her down. She ran the rest of the way over to Jessica -- who looked at me all hunched over in the middle of the street. I saw a trace of compassion in her face, which quickly turned back into a smile when I waved her off and she and her friend ran to catch up with everyone else.

Five minutes later they made us all roll down Citadel Hill.

Ouch.

Weeks later when I went home for a visit, my back was still pretty wrecked.

My family tried to get me to go to a doctor. But, Peter no like doctors. I won't even watch ER. For real. All things medical kind of freak me out. This doesn't include sexy nurse costumes. *cough*

Although, to be truthful, my sister and cousin becoming nurses kind of ruined that classic male fantasy for me.

Curses!

So, my reply to the "Go to the doctor, moron!" requests was my usual, "Our bodies are wondrous things. They know what they are doing. They heal themselves."

"Peter, you just got your leg blown off by a bazooka."
"Our bodies are wondrous things... It'll grow back, I'm sure."

My back hurt for a full year. But, now I know to lift, and to catch flying women, with my legs.

So, it all worked out, right?

[If this wasn't so long already I'd tell a side story about when I cracked my tail bone playing hockey on a lake over Xmas break that year and refused to go to the doctor because, "What are they going to do, cast my ass? Come on." Sonofabitch still hurts if I sit in the same position for too long.]

The point of this post?

Hmmm...

That sometimes being a nice guy bites you on the ass.

And that no one has ruined sexy French maid costumes for me.

Labels: seemed funnier in my head

Have you ever wondered what would happen if we combined my guilt over not posting for a few days, my almost gleeful willingness to embarrass myself on this site, my being briefly awake at 4 am the other night listening to monsoon rains when an idea struck, and my inner 14 year old girl?

Wonder no longer...


A fairly standard empty threat,
Was now filled to over-flowing.
Cheeks that usually would be wet,
Are without any streaks showing.

What of those peaceful eyes?
The ones that soothed his soul.
What of that lovely face?
That now takes on another role.

Inevitability.
It's the word that comes to mind.
Responsibility.
Yet a fear of being left behind.

But, he'll get just the right words.
And she will never leave.
The perfect turn of phrase,
Will be like a pulling on her sleeve.

Heaping appealing future visions,
With the best of memories past.
Fingers crossed for favourable decisions,
He doesn't know that die's been cast.

Labels: dug out from the draft folder

I think, in general, I'm not a bad fella.

If there is a good guy route and a bad guy route, I typically take the good guy one.

More than half the time anyway.

Sometimes I'll go on a shooting spree across three provinces, but who amongst us hasn't?

But, something dawned on me recently.

I finally saw KNOCKED UP -- Hellafied, I totally get the hotel/chair joke bit that you did now! -- and realized something during the birth scene. Actually I re-realized it, since the first time I realized it was during DR. T & THE WOMEN. (Horrible movie.)

I don't actually ever want to see a baby... coming out.

If I witnessed that in real life... It would just be bad bananas all around.

Don't get me wrong, if I do impregnate some unsuspecting woman, I don't want to be one of those fathers who was out playing golf during child birth. I don't even want to be one of those fathers watching sports in the waiting room. (Maybe if it was the playoffs...)

I want to be in the delivery room.

Absolutely.

But, would it be wrong if I remained above the equator at all times?

Squeeze my hand all you want.

Scream obscenities at me.

Blame me for everything you can think of.

No problem! I've been in relationships before.

Just don't make me watch the actual event.

Even if this IS a bit of an issue, I think that I could maybe make up for it before and after.

I expect to be an insane spoiler during pregnancy. Middle of the night ice cream run? I'm on it! Back rubs... foot rubs... picking up the hemorrhoid cream? I'm your huckleberry. Kill a drifter because he looked at you the wrong way? Get me my tarp and lye.

And after the twerp comes home, I can do my share of night feedings. And, after a rough start, I am now totally capable of changing diapers filled with just about anything. I'll be completely hands on.

I love kids... I just don't want to greet them at the door.

Is that so wrong?

Also, if I could stare into your beautiful eyes for a few extra seconds while they wipe some of the glop off the little bundle of joy, would that be cool?

Did I go too far?

Because I'm not one of you lucky anonymous bloggers, I don't usually talk about too many "real" things in here. But...

I have an ex-girlfriend that is driving me out of my mind.

This chick, man...

I honestly don't even know where to start.

[I've just been informed by Jen that I have to make it clear that this is NOT about her. That she is always ever so lovely and just delightful to have around. And that my family, especially The ACN, LOVE her and that her urine cures the bird flu.]

[While Jen has a blog of her own, she wants to stay all anonymouspants lest I have a stalker. And now Jen is laughing at that. I should have asked if Jen was drinking wine BEFORE telling her what I was blogging about.]

[Now Jen wants me to say that her blog is full of niceness about me. Aren't you all glad that this post ISN'T about her?]

[Jen: And mention that I'm pretty?]

Back to Crazy McStuckinthepast...

And it's not like we JUST broke up. When we called things off, Gerald Ford was in his second year as president and Glen Campbell's "Rhinestone Cowboy" was topping the charts.

OK, maybe it wasn't that long ago. But, it was, like, a year and a half.

Now, I adore me as much as the next person, but, dude... let's move on.

I don't want to get too deeply into how we started dating, just because I suspect this post is going to be kind of long anyway. I will say that it is not a good idea to start a relationship with someone based on: a lifelong curiosity about Italian girls, cute glasses, boobs.

Also, when you meet someone who is going through some personal stuff they may appear to be deep, introspective and to have a bit of an artistic soul. However, when they work through that stuff, you may find out that their actual personality makes you want to tear out your own hair and stuff a pillow with it.

Our conversations typically went a little something like this:

Her: I don't really GET blogs, Peter.

Me: Get? What the hell is there to get?

Her: Can you make money with it?

Me: Why must you turn it into something dirty? Clearly I have a blog because I am in love with my own thoughts and want to foist them upon unsuspecting people online.

Her: I just don't DO blogs. Or Facebook.

Me: ......

Her: Can I shut the TV off so that we can talk in peace?

Me: I loathe you.

Her: I hate it when you are sarcastic.

Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Her: I don't get it.

[Some of that was fictionalized... but much less than you'd think.]

Eventually, it was clearly time to call things off.

So, we did.

Yay!

HOWEVER...

Things didn't seem to end. Not completely anyway. Still got a lot of e-mails. And quite a few phone calls. (At one point I just started turning my phone off at night.)

There was lots of me saying, "You do realize we are broken up, right?"

And now our e-mails go a little something like this:

Me: Maybe we shouldn't communicate for a while.

Her: You know, maybe we shouldn't communicate for a while.

Me: Or we could do that.

Her: So, I guess I'll talk to you on special occasions or if I need your expertise.

Me: See ya.

3 days pass.

Her: So, this is a link to my friend's imdb.com page.

Peter's head explodes.

Her: [something aggravating.]

Me: Seriously... I am THIS close to reporting you as spam in gmail and calling it a day.

Her: Hahaha! You love me so much!

As of the typing of this post, I am hoping that we are embarking on another of our quiet periods. But, I've seen it all before.

I've tried being nice. I've tried being a little less nice. I've tried being borderline rude. I've tried being pretty damn blunt.

Nothing seems to work.

Hmmmm. I wonder if I introduce her to my Insignificant Other, if that will help.

Or I'll just have to move and change my name.

[I'd also like to add that just because I have one crazy ex, and another tipsy one helped write the intro to this post, that doesn't mean I have baggage. For real!]

Labels: Rhinestone Cowboy

- When The ACN arrived on Friday, as usual, she got her mommy to honk the horn repeatedly until Uncle Pete ran out to get her. When I took her out of the car, and started getting my hugs, she informed me that she wasn't happy to be here and that she wanted to go back home. (Giggling the entire time.) Her mommy told her that they were staying. So, The ACN decided that she wanted me to make her a sign with the name of her town on it and hang it around her neck, and then put her in Chair-y and roll her to the side of the road so she could hitch hike home. (Then lots of giggling.)

- Uncle Pete got Nipper (The ACN's puppy that you can see in the picture) into a bit of trouble before Thanksgiving dinner. Nipper likes playing with this weird, hard rubber toy. It is meant to be an outside toy, but Nipper doesn't understand that. And, as we've learned, neither does Uncle Pete. In my defense, I asked The ACN if I should keep throwing the toy for Nipper to chase, and The ACN said, "Yeah!!" Which, obviously, carried more weight with me than the rest of the family saying things like:

"That is not for in the house!"
"You are going to wreck something."
"Peter, that dog is destroying the hardwood floors."

Plus, Nipper is a furry con artist. She'll bring the saliva covered toy and drop it on my lap and then put her puppy head on my leg and stare up at me with big brown puppy eyes. How do you refuse that?? I think The ACN tipped off Nipper that I'm the sucker in the family.

Anyway, I was feeding The ACN some string cheese with one hand and playing fetch with Nipper with the other. As always, we had a few close calls with the toy and/or Nipper running into glass doors on entertainment cabinet dealies. These things happen.

Then Uncle Pete tossed the toy a little higher than usual and Nipper jumped up and deflected it with her nose. The toy changed directions and went sailing over the top of the TV. However, it hit a collection of figurine dealies that my mother is attached to. One of them broke. It was the special "grandmother" one too. My mother was someplace south of impressed, but shockingly blamed Nipper. She said some bad words. (My mother, not Nipper.) Though none amused me as much as...

- Quote of the Weekend: When my mother found out that my father decided that everyone should go sailing an hour before my sister's birthday dinner...

Labels: ACN