The little white balls scattered everywhere. Like children pouring out after a too-long bus ride. He tried to corral them. It did little good. He righted the salt shaker and grabbed a napkin. He surreptitiously swept those rolling escapees off the end of his table.

Then he dried his palms.

The waitress slowed as she walked by. She gave him a "Still waiting, sweetheart?" look. He nodded. She gave him a smile and continued on her way, balancing three plates of (overcooked by 15%) french fries.

The waitress was pretty. He'd give her... mid-thirties. Though, of course, not to her face. In less harsh lighting, she could easily go mid to late-twenties. She reminded him of Annabeth Gish. Kind of. And he suspected that she was going to continue to age well.

Hundreds of trips into a steamy kitchen, clearly was wreaking havoc with her hair, and causing her to constantly tuck it behind her ear. She bit her lower lip a little as she wrote down orders, unleashing the faintest beginnings of a dimple.

Still, she looked like she had some miles on her. But, not the bad kind. Hers were the result of hard work. Yet, she seemed untouched by bitterness. Admittedly, relying on tips factored in, but it was more than that.

She was appealing. Warm.

Or maybe he'd just like any woman who would bring him french fries.

He straightened his silverware. He unfolded the corner of his paper place mat. He reached for the salt shaker, but stopped himself.

He looked at the clock.

He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. It seemed tighter than usual. He wondered, "Why did I wear green? Makes me look washed out." He considered going to his car for his jacket.

He noticed a trucker sitting at the counter. The giant of a man taking a break from his giant of a plate of food to make silent burping faces. The trucker tipped his baseball cap back and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

The trucker had a tattoo on his arm. It looked like "Daisy"... or maybe "Maisy." He wondered if the trucker was still with her. He then watched the trucker open and pour three little bottles of whiskey into his coffee, and suspected that maybe Daisy/Maisy was a thing of the past.

Still, he wondered if the ink was a lasting, loving tribute, or just a painful daily reminder. Perhaps it was both.

As his wonderings faded, he turned his attention back to the clock. And then to the main eating area.

As he fanned himself with the multi-stained menu, he noticed that the diner began to resemble some of that video footage of a street at night. The kind where they mess with the speeds and the lights all blur together.

There was a beauty in this chaos too. Chairs pushed in and out. Waitresses avoiding them, and each other, in a never ending ballet of reassuring gluttony. Classic country music on the juke box seemed, to him, a perfect soundtrack. They were tales of heartbreak and woe, but still catchy. Defiant.

He was beginning to feel some affection for this little diner.

His waitress walked by again. She gave him a smile. A genuine smile. He clearly saw two dimples.

He felt bad that he was about to rob the place.

Labels: short fiction

Sometimes there are days when you are just destined to accomplish big things.

When everything you touch falls right into place.

When you, finally, get a true glimpse into what you are capable of in your finest moments.

Yesterday was not one of those days.

As I refreshed six different Firefox tabs to keep track of NHL Trade Deadline Day, and listened to Jermaine Stewart's 80s classic "We Don't Have To Take Our clothes Off"(while disagreeing with the message), I heard the *ping* of an IM.

It was from Mindy.

Surely Mindy would have something interesting to say.

Instead, she told me to do this quiz.

Mindy is bossy.

So, I did that quiz. And Mindy asked me what the results were.

Mindy is nosy.

The results made me sound a little wussier than I expected. Whatever.

Feel free to do it. Or not. I'm not the boss of you.

(But, any ladies who are "sonnets" or "maids of honor" can, like, totally e-mail me.)

- I lied, he said.
Not for me. It wasn't.
The truth had no upside.
So that the weight would be lifted?
How is that fair?
One person suffering or two?
Easy math.

- I knew, she replied.
You're not that cagey.
I appreciate the intention. I do.
But, who are you to make the decisions?
To ration out the information like crumbs to a bird?
Doing the right thing,
doesn't always mean playing the hero.

- I didn't want you to hurt any more.

- I needed the truth.

- I'm sorry.

- I know.

- I didn't mean --

- Would you do it differently next time?

- No...

- I know.

Labels: word doodles

The Monkey: I want something to eat.

Peter: You get NOTHING.

The Monkey: I'm huuungry.

Peter (looking in freezer): Pizza?

The Monkey: Ah ha. Yeah, Rihanna. Ah ha. Good girl gone bad. Ah ha. Take three... Action. Ah ha.

Peter: Are you going to answer me?

The Monkey: You had my heart. And we'll never be worlds apart. Maybe in magazines, but you'll still be my star...

Peter goes back to watch hockey.

Labels: The Monkey

Why, Amy Davis? Why?

I haven't been feeling very funny lately.

Some of you may be asking, "Were you ever funny? Really?"

To you, I would say, "Awww. Mean." And I'd make this face :(

Actually, that's not true at all. I'd probably just say, "Fuuuuuck yoooooou" and write you off FOREVER.

I've never really subscribed to that whole theory that criticism can be constructive.

I think part of my problem is that I need a straight man. You know, someone says something. I make a snarky comment. People laugh. Everyone wins!

And by "everyone," I mean me.

And by "wins," I mean has a dismayingly temporary boost in self-esteem.

This is not some obvious plea to get you to say, "Oh Peter, you are funny!" and then send me seductive photos of yourself posing with your Blackberry (or similar device.)

Although...

While I am not feeling very funny, I am still feeling incredibly adorable. So, you know, all is not lost.

Tell me, what are YOU feeling (or not feeling) today?

FYI: If your reply is more than two sentences long, making it have something to do with me will ensure that I actually read it.

Kidding! I'm kidding.

*cough*

*looks around nervously*

Labels: clearly out of ideas for a post

I have a confession to make...

I sang Deee-Lite's "Groove Is In The Heart" in the shower this morning. (Groove was most definitely not in my bathroom.)

Also... I watch American Idol. And Canadian Idol. And I'd probably watch East Timorian Idol.

I like competition. I like when my favourites win. I like raging when my favourites lose.

I am not all that passionate about most reality TV. Not like some people and their Scott Baio. Speaking of.... A month or so ago, my father asked me, "Have you seen that Scott Baio is 45 and single show?" I replied that I had seen a few episodes. He said, "That is going to be you someday!" And started laughing. I had no answer. Spite is not an acceptable reason to get married, is it?

Sometimes my Idol favourites are not 100% based on singing ability. For example, this year it is Future Wife Amy Davis -- who, I think we can agree, is all manner of ha-cha-cha. For the record, I picked her before seeing this picture. Honestly!

I don't like that I don't get a vote.

Originally I had planned to live blog last night's performance night. All 12 boys sang. When the show started, I had the laptop on my lap. Midway through the first song, I put the laptop down beside me. Two notes into the second performer, I put the laptop on the floor, and performed my first of many quick checks of the score of the Ottawa/Philly hockey game. By, the end of the show I was drawing on the notepad next to my bed. Mostly pictures of me with a mohawk. I... don't know why.

When it was over, I conferred with another Idol watcher to see if maybe I was just being harsh. She assured me that "they are all horrible."

I am also moderately enraged that nobody thought to sing "Whiter Shade of Pale." Come on.

Maybe I'll live blog the girls tonight. Maybe.

Or I'll draw pictures of me in a goatee. And possibly rollerskating.

This whole thing has lead me to think about how live blogging would have been cool for other moments in history...

Typical Witch Hunt
1600s
Someplace

"Prudence is up next. With shoes like that? Buckles and shit. Homegirl's a witch. No question. Witch! Witch!

They should sell mead at these things.

Wait! Oh, not Sarah Good! She really knows how to fill out a petticoat. Apparently not a flame resistant petticoat, however...

Anyone else suddenly craving toast?"

McCarthy Era
1950s
USA

"She MAY be a bit of a commie. Possibly. But, that thing she does with her tongue...

I feel like I should send her flowers or something. Red roses too on the nose?

What about choc--

Hmm. Someone's knocking on my door. I wasn't expecting anyone."


The first time I had sex
Sunday, June 14, sooooo long ago
My childhood bedroom

"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO -- Oh, crap. Someone's at the door! No. Sorry. False alarm. Carry on. -- OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

I made up the date. But, the WHOOOOOO is pretty much bang on.

It dropped from too high,
creating tiny twisters of neglect.
Thud filled the corners,
where sound memories were yet to live.
Nothing had a home.
The draft still belonged to another
He dropped it from too high,
creating tiny pangs of regret.
"We have to talk..." filled the corners of his mind,
where her memories used to live.
It sat there.
Looking as if it had always been.
Neon lights through filthy, spider-webbed windows.
A whorish red glow illuminated it now.
Knowingly.
He picked it back up,
creating tiny waves of panic.
"Misc." now filled the back corner of his closet,
where more boxes would eventually go.
One thing had a home.

Labels: word doodles

They say that you never get a second chance to make a first blog impression.

Well, *I* say it. And that is all the damn "they'" that you need.

I am occasionally completely obsessed with the thought of someone finding my blog for the first time. (It also sometimes doesn't cross my mind at all. I'm funny like that.) What will be my top post at that very moment?

Will I be talking about re-enacting STEP UP 2: THE STREETS in it's entirety using sock puppets? Or maybe I'll be trying to figure out which is a funnier excited eating noise: "NOM NOM NOM" or "OM NOM NOM."

I really hope that it isn't this post. Mostly because I am going to discuss...

make-up.

Now, I'm no expert on make-up. It's true. I mean, there was that one time. But, it was college. And, quite frankly, I was looking a little washed-out. Don't you judge me.

Actually, if I am being completely honest, I should remind you about my prize-winning* junior high acting career.

(*Please note that there were no actual prizes won**)

(**Unless you consider building self-esteem and teaching me how to work well within a group to be prizes.***)

(*** I don't.)

I think I've blogged about this before, but am too lazy to go find you a link. Plus, if you haven't already read every single one of my posts, then you are DEAD TO ME.

I tried out for my first play because they were having auditions during recess and it was 137 degrees below zero outside that day. A perk that I wasn't made aware of was that the make-up chicas were the high school cheerleaders. As a boy of that age (and any age, really) I liked this idea. I was very excited about getting to spend so much time, in close proximity, with these hotties in the short green skirts. I was a little bummed when I realized that they wouldn't be wearing the cheerleading uniforms while doing our make-up.

I was even more bummed when I remembered that I would be wearing a mask for the entire play and not needing make-up at all. (My claims that some of my neck could be visible fell on deaf -- and less pervy -- ears.) There was only one solution...

Do more (mask-free!) plays.

And I did.

A good number of you have never been a thirteen year old boy. Lemme tell you, that shit ain't easy.

You're sitting in a chair. Some cute girl is standing with one leg on either side of your thigh (as you thank God for being tall) and leaning in very close to your face. The smell of perfume and hair spray is clouding your mind. In a good way. Suddenly "Hold still," being half-whispered sounds like the single sexiest phrase ever uttered. Somehow a boob lightly brushes your shoulder.

Director: We're on in five minutes.

Peter (voice cracking): I'm going to need ten... and someone to discuss baseball and old lady underwear with.

My least favourite thing was that eye liner pencil dealie. That is NUTS. I had to let someone who spelled "Rowdy" as "R-O-W-D-I-E!" draw on my eye with something sharp?? This really stressed me out. Not enough to kill an erection, of course, but I didn't much like it.

Was there a point to this post?

Nope. Not really.

I am curious about one thing though. I've noticed lately, in Facebook pics and the like, that sometimes women's eye lashes look all separated. They are like a bunch of tiny little fingers waving to me and saying, "Peterrrrr, look how cute we are!"

How exactly does that work? Is it the mascara they use? Genetics? Can anyone accomplish this?

These are the questions that pop into my head.

Labels: it is not really about sex

He stared at his hands.

He stared at his hands and he concentrated.

He stared, and he concentrated, and yet they still trembled.

They didn't tremble a huge amount, mind you. But, he could feel it. And he thought that everyone else could see it.

He hated that.

He liked to think of himself as "cool under pressure." As many people do... until they are put under pressure.

Flight, at least temporarily, had won out over fight and he started walking. West. He thought.

He looked at his shoes. They had seen better days. The sound of his footfalls in the leaves on the sidewalk sounded to him like muffled screams.

The colours of the leaves were merely hinting at what they had so recently been. Aren't we all? Now they were the discarded leftovers of a party that had ended much too soon.

He got to the end of the block and turned around. No. THIS was west.

The walking continued. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes slowly. All very much dependent on the thoughts that were running through his mind at any given moment.

Twenty eight is too young for this shit.

It's too fucking young.

Nobody had warned him that someday the Kevlarian coating of youth would begin to rub off.

The streets were nearly deserted. For this he was thankful. He could only imagine the expression on his face. He couldn't control it.

He hated that too.

He looked up at the sky. He silently cursed the persistent clouds that just wouldn't give the sun a chance.

He stepped in a puddle. He cursed again. Not so silently.

He kept walking. He caught himself almost laugh at the realization that he was so close to completely losing it over one wet sock.

He reminded himself that he was on that suburban street for a reason.

A good reason.

Still, keeping focus was nearly impossible. He looked at people in windows and passing cars and online dating ads on bus stops. He would have switched places with any one of them.

He understood the whole "the devil you know..." business. He got that. But, sometimes, he thought, the devil that you know is just so insidious and unrelenting that the alternatives couldn't possibly be any worse.

He didn't want to die.

This realization -- which wasn't really much of a realization at all -- somehow steeled his resolve. He got his focus back. And he started walking faster.

With a destination.

As he got closer, he felt momentum building. He imagined himself as the hero is some overdirected, underwritten movie. He had been down, but he battled back. The odds looked bad. A happy ending was in doubt. Yet he soldiered on.

Delusions of grandeur clearly being the perfect (and undoubtedly frustratingly temporary) analgesic for his tortured mind.

He turned the last corner and stopped in his tracks.

He lost the feeling in his legs.

That guy was talking to her.

Why?!

No way. Not today.

He picked up his pace. His vision was locked on the two of them.

He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his coat.

He walked even faster.

When he was about thirty feet from them, she glanced over and caught sight of him.

He reached inside of his coat.

Labels: part 3

I had started writing a serious Valentine's Day post. It was earnest. It was heartfelt. And, quite frankly, I fell in love with me a little while reading it over.

But, then I thought, "Sucks to that." And I deleted it.

(Don't you love it when I pull back the curtain and give you some insight into my complex and mysterious thought processes?)

Instead of that, you get this...

Now I'm no relationship expert, but I've been around the block a few times. Yeeeeaaah, buddy. As a guide to all the men out there, here are a few things that you should not write in your v-day card if you hope to get some of that sweet, sweet, and illegal in some areas, loving:

- "I hope that you enjoy these chocolates. But, not TOO much because they say it can cause constipation."

- "I'm sure it's just winter weight."

- "I figured you wore the same size lingerie as my mom."

- "I can tell by all the dishes piling up that you are too tired to cook. So let's go out!"

- "Hooters has a Valentine's Day special."

- "They are coupons! For hugs!"

- "I named my fantasy baseball team after you... Well, after a part of you."

- "I got this verse from an Adam Sandler song."

- "I bought you this wine because I remember what it led to on our first date."

- "Isn't "Laid" by James our song?"

- "I'm wearing my good underwear tonight."

- "I'm wearing your good underwear tonight."

- "You are holding up pretty well for your age."

- "I boned your sister."

Labels: perhaps I should have gone with the serious one

So, this is post #500 here at PeterDeWolf.com. It's been a long strange journey.

Or something.

I've been watching a lot of Barack Obama speeches lately. Which reminds me, if Americans don't elect him president, I give up on all y'all. For real. You should just pack it in. Let England take you back under it's wing. Your little running away from home experiment hasn't worked. Slap the Queen on your money, learn to like tea, and try to figure out what the big deal is with Robbie Williams.

ANYWAY...

Listening to his speeches reminds you of what good writing sounds like. The message. The choice of words. The cadence. It is art. It really is.

But, when I am exposed to great writing, it makes me like my own a little less.
Which, when combined with the big 5-0-0, is causing me to consider making some changes here.

1) I'm thinking about posting less often. This would undoubtedly lead to me suffering from some withdrawal issues. (Which may or may not be offset by me doing some posting on a super secret anonymous blog.) I would try to only post stuff that I am actually happy with. Which, oddly enough, are the posts that get the least comments. Speaking of...

2) I am thinking about getting rid of comments all together. While I LOVE hearing from people, I don't want comments to turn into some kind of... obligation. If I comment on you, you have to comment on me. Or vice versa. Also some people refuse to comment on posts with "too many" comments, while others don't bother commenting if there aren't enough. Madness. The only drawback is that some people who have commented on my blog have become friends. Of course, with no comments, people who really like (or dislike) a post could e-mail me. I'm giving this some serious thought.

3) Getting rid of statcounter completely. Who cares how many people are reading or where they are coming from? That was never the point of my blog.

This list may grow or shrink as my blog continues to go through it's quarter(mid?)-life crisis.

Or I may turn my blog into nothing but a place to post pictures of attractive women flipping the bird.


A random sampling of some of my favourite posts from the first 500...

The Best Day of The Year

Window To Your Sole

"You know... 1%, 2%, 3%..."

Encounters with nature...

Are you ready to rock?

When it all comes out...

Touch

Some people are just touchy.

Big Day

Thanks for reading, suckas.

Labels: state of the blog union

Just a blank page.
It's not a lack of words.
It's a refusal to be open to the initial inspiration.
It's an inability to remember how it was done
so many times before.
It's a paralyzing fear that the thing is gone.
No crush-caused ebullience.
No unrequited-based (relative) poignancy.
No heartbreak-induced gallows humour.
Only the word kryptonite that is indifference.
It's self-imposed pressure.
It's expectations echoing only in your head.
It's silly, but powerful.
It's a paralyzing fear that the thing is gone.
But, it's not.
It's
Just a blank page.

The ACN was visiting this weekend, but had to go home a day early because of a storm.

Poooooooooop.

However, we did have lots of fun and lots of cuddles. And I learned some valuable lessons:

1) When Uncle Pete feeds you yogurt, it doesn't taste as good as it does when others feed it to you.

2) It is fun to tell Uncle Pete that you definitely want the strawberry yogurt and to make him take it out of the fridge, before changing your mind. It is also lots of fun to do this with peach, vanilla and field berry.

3) Uncle Pete is too slow at changing The ACN's clothes. (Especially when she giggles and kicks her feet.)

4) Uncle Pete is a giant goof.

5) 3 & 4 are related.

6) Anytime socks are put on or taken off of The ACN, a foot rub must occur. And The ACN decides when the foot rub is finished. (I already knew this, but I was reminded.)

7) The ACN think it's very funny when you carry her over your shoulder and spank her butt while saying, "Bum drum! Bum drum!"

8) The ACN won't let you read "MOLLY MOOSE: NEW FRiENDS, FULL BELLY" to her, but you can read "THERE'S A MONSTER AT THE END OF THIS BOOK" a half dozen times. (The Grover version!)

9) Of the thirty or so Webkinz that The ACN doesn't have, there on only four that she doesn't want. Three of which are frogs, for some reason.

10) Green sparkly toenail polish? CUTE.

Labels: ACN

I've been thinking about something for a long time and have come to a conclusion. And now I want to share that conclusion with you. I'm good like that.

Well, "a long time" is not exactly accurate. I've been thinking about it for about ten minutes. But, "a long time" makes it sound better and it's considerably more dramatic than "I've been thinking about this since about halfway through my pancakes."

Sometimes in life you are faced with irrefutable evidence. While at other times, you just know. You know? You know.

This is a bit of both.

I feel like I can say, with a reasonable degree of certainty, that...

Fred Flintstone suffered from erectile disfunction.

It's true!

Let's look at the facts:

1) Dude was mad CRANKY. And not just a little moody. That's the kind of rage you only get when the pterodactyl in your pants is no longer flying.

2) Motherfucker stopped his car with his FEET. Why not take it to a mechanic to get the breaks fixed? He was afraid it would make him seem less manly. (He was totally right.)

3) He almost never touched his wife. And Wilma is HOT. Don't deny it. And she's a redhead. You know what that means. I mean, I don't personally. I've avoided them like the plague. But, I hear things.

4) He was more than obsessed with being a great bowler. He was clearly trying to compensate for some other shortcomings. Personally, I would have started with cutting out that twinkle-toes dance he did before releasing the ball, but that's just me.

5) The Great Gazoo. So, he has a "little friend." A little friend that he was obsessed with. A little friend that he called "Great." Come on. And he felt like he had no control over this little friend and that this little friend treated him with nothing but disdain. I got a C- in PSYCH 1200 and even I figured it out.

6) He was frequently distracted and worried about "something." How else could Barney steal the Fruity Pebbles from you know who?

I hope that I didn't destroy any of your childhood memories. I just thought that this information might help explain his boorish behaviour. As well as why Wilma never lets him back in after the cat puts him outside for the night during the closing credits. I mean... What's the point?

Drop back in for tomorrow's post...

Smurfette: A big dirty whore

Labels: it's Friday

There was an hour long gap on Tuesday afternoon where The Monkey wasn't going to have any adult supervision. And when they couldn't find that, her mom called me (Monday night) and asked me to hang out with the twerp.

Tuesday morning, around 8ish, my phone rang. It was The Monkey.

In one breath...

"Hi. Can I ask you a question? Peter, you know how I am going to your house when I get off the bus? Right? Wellll when I tell the bus driver that I want to go to your place he tries to make me go on another bus. I don't know anyone on the other bus. I don't want to go on the other bus. So can you pick me up at Nanny and Poppy's house? [Switches to favour-asking voice.] They'll leave the front door unlocked so you can go right in."

I replied," Ye *yawn* ssss"

3 o'clock came and I was standing in her grandparent's living room watching Much Music. I heard the bus stop out front. A while later, she came strutting out the door. She had a backpack, the size of which I haven't seen since I watched a documentary about climbing Everest. Her lunch bag thing swung from her arm. And she had her jacket hanging over one shoulder.

In Canada. In early February.

She sauntered up to the front door.

The Monkey: Yo.

Peter: Why aren't you wearing your jacket, goof?

The Monkey: Oh, Larry gets pissed off.

Peter: What? Who?

The Monkey: The bus driver. He doesn't like waiting. He closes the door and pretends he is going to leave if I take too long.

And dude has a point. She does not rush. EVER. She is on her own schedule. I can remember putting her on the bus occasionally when she first started grade primary (kindergarten, Yankees) -- her parents left very early for work -- and she took her time even then. She'd walk on the bus. She'd stop at three or four different seats to say "Hi" to people, before finally choosing a seat. Then she'd slowly take her backpack off and ease her way into the seat -- as the bus driver stared in the mirror and wondered why he didn't become a plumber.

Her getting home from school was even worse. She'd always be sitting at the back of the bus. Her bags and jacket were always on another seat. Sometimes more than one seat. She always dropped something. And she was ALWAYS dancing and singing along to whatever song was currently in her head.

Nothing has changed.

Then I made a rookie mistake.

Peter: Uhm. You have a pretty long bus ride. When you were getting close to home, why didn't you put on your jacket?

The Monkey: Well...

We were already in my house when she finished the explanation.

It involved differential algebra, global warming stats, and what I can only assume was a little bit of elementary Swahili.

I set her up at the kitchen table to do her homework. I went to my computer. 4 minutes later she walked in carrying her scribbler. (Note book?)

The Monkey: So, I am doing my English homework.

Peter: You don't say.

The Monkey: I do! Listen to what I have for an answer...

Then she read me the answer to the question. Then the question. Then two more questions and two more answers. Then a one page note that her teacher wrote on her book report.

And then her book report.

Peter: You're not actually reading me your book report are you?

The Monkey: What?

Peter: You are not reading me your entire book report.

She ignored this and started reading it.

When she finished, I told her that she had done a good job. She smiled and started singing that annoying "Lollipop" song from the 60s.

Including the *pop* parts.

She went back to the kitchen table for another twenty minutes or so.

Her mom called and asked how she was doing. I gave her the update. The Monkey wanted to talk on the phone. Of course. So, she started gabbing with her mom. And then she started squealing.

She hung up the phone and started clapping and jumping.

The Monkey: She got me Hannah Montana: One in a Million!! Yay me!!!!!!! Whoooo! Peter, can you get me something to eat?

Peter: What would you like?

She looked around a bit, then in the fridge.

"OK...." She clasped hands together and broke into a big evil smile. "I have FOUR ideas."


I am featured on IndieBloggers today. It's something I wrote ages ago, but is one of my favourites. And it marked the beginning of my love affair with my "enter" key.

Labels: Indie Bloggers, The Monkey

She only ever cried in the shower.

Sure, she'd get upset in other locations. Her eyes would begin to sting. But, the tears wouldn't come. She wouldn't let them.

It seemed OK in the shower. Water washed away the tears. Nobody was any the wiser.

It was like it didn't happen.

She wasn't crying that morning. Though it would have been understandable if she had been.

As she dried off, she noticed the bags under her eyes. To her, they seemed more pronounced than they had on the previous day. She thought that her boobs looked great, but still...

If someone had asked how she was doing, the only way she could have thought of to describe it was, "like a top beginning to wobble while still spinning towards the edge of the table."

But, no one ever asked. She always seemed... "perfect."

She lifted her toilet seat up and then put it back down. It had been so long since a man had been in her house, she wanted to make sure that it still worked.

As she got dressed, she realized that she had been without a boyfriend for eight months and 14 days. And that ex... he wasn't a good guy. A very not good guy.

She double-checked to make sure that her pepper spray was in her coat pocket.

She did have a blind date last month. Her first impression was that the guy had the overly gelled hair, leather string with weird stone around his neck, and lean punchable face of a part-time ecstasy dealer.

And the night went downhill from there.

Half-dressed, she marched to her fridge and started writing something down on the erasable board stuck to the front of it. She wrote an anonymous blog with three friends and sometimes jotted blog ideas down on this board.

Today she wrote: "Sick of shoveling horse shit in other people's mental parade."

She planned on telling her friends that she didn't know what it meant.

That would be a lie.

There was one guy on her mind though. And she was thinking about him as she got dressed. He lived many hundreds of miles away. But, he excited her. A lot.

She flipped open her laptop. "He is in a different time zone and he gets up early, so..."

Her gmail inbox was full. But, there was nothing from him.

She was surprised by how much that bummed her out. It wasn't as if they were "dating."

She noticed a couple of other e-mails and quickly closed her laptop.

She went to her living room to find her briefcase. She peeked out the window to get a feel for the weather.

"Hmm. The neighbours bought a new truck?"

She put on her coat. She grabbed her briefcase. She stood in front of the full length mirror.

A mirror that she would swear to you was being used to "open the room up a little." But, it was really just there to let her check her game face once more before leaving the door each morning. And she did have a professional game face. She was named her high school prom queen while her parents were embroiled in the angriest and most public divorce in the history of her hometown.

She smiled at herself in the mirror.

"ABC. Always be composed." Her mother's voice lived in her head.

She walked out the door and her phone rang immediately. She fished it out of her pocket. It was work. She gave dating advice to a co-worker -- and ignored irony -- as she walked towards the sidewalk.

She looked up and saw some neighbours. One had a puppy on a leash.

She "Awwww"ed out loud.

"Excuse me?" a male voice from behind interrupted her puppy thoughts.

She turned around.

He continued, "Dana... Are you Dana Patterson?"

"Yup. That's me," she said, with the practiced smile, as her hand found the trigger on the pepper spray in her pocket.

Labels: fiction, first drafts, second parts

The funniest pick-up line I've ever heard some drunk dude use at a party is:

"I've got a blanket and a big back seat."

That amused me.

However, I found it considerably less amusing that he mentioned it to my sister.

I am not a pick-up line guy. Or a line guy. Fiiiiine. Or even a pick-up guy, if you must know. Jerks.

Mostly I just kind of hang back and "act" like Snarky Q. McSarcasmo.

Then there is the very rare appearance of Sincere J. O'Verlyhonest.

Sincere J. O'Verlyhonest says whatever pops into his head. He might say something like, "Wow. You're kinda gorgeous" without thinking about how the person might feel about this news, or the setting, or any potential good or bad results.

I don't let him out very often.

Snarky Q. McSarcasmo is always around. But, I have been trying to train him to be less of a jerkface. He almost never goes on ten minute rants any more when someone asks him if he likes "Family Guy."

It's a journey.

An old story that sums up Snarky pretty well, took place in university. I was out at a bar with a friend of mine that was visiting from out of town. I was dancing with a girl. She was cool. Saucy. Very, very pretty. Things were going surprisingly well.

Then she mentioned that she had just graduated from a rival university. Snarky bit his (my?) tongue.

But, then she said something else about her school. Something that just BEGGED to be commented on.

Everything stopped. Everyone was frozen. It was silent.

Suddenly Angel Snarky and Devil Snarky appeared on each of my shoulders.

Angel Snarky: Peter, look at her. She's stunning.

Devil Snarky: You HAVE to say it.

Angel Snarky: She seems very nice too.

Devil Snarky: You'll never forgive yourself for missing the chance.

Angel Snarky: You are better than this.

Devil Snarky: You're twenty. You're not going to marry this chick. Besides, you are going to LOVE telling this story to your friends.

Angel Snarky: Fuck it. Dude's right. Give 'er shit.

So, I said it. And she turned and left.

I immediately told my friend and we laughed like fools.

And then I grabbed a slice of pizza and walked home alone.

I have to be honest though. If I would have known I'd have a blog at some point, I wouldn't have even delayed saying it for as long as I did.

It really is a journey.

**********

Do YOU have a go-to line?

I once used "I like your nose." (Successfully!!!)

Labels: crap you post when you haven't posted in a few days, i see why it had been in the draft folder for so long

1) My sports addiction may have reached new levels. I am giving serious thought to joining an Argentinian soccer/football fantasy league. I'm not kidding. I'm a little scared. Hold me.

2) SO blog blocked. I've written three posts in the past two days and they all sucked and were stuck in the draft folder. Bleeeeech.

3) Obama!

4) Tina Fey (and, by extension, 30 Rock) is about 40% as funny as people think she is. What? Humour is subjective? No. No it's not.

5) Why is Dire Straits' "Romeo and Juliet" stuck in my head?

6) [You can write #6. Tell me something.]

Labels: blog blocked

The Monkey and her parents were visiting earlier.

The Monkey told me about her starting Tae Kwon Do classes tomorrow.

Then she demonstrated her pre-existing maddish skillz. This involved her walking back and forth in the living room, throwing punches and saying "Wichita! Wichita!"

Then, "I'll use my nunchuks. And then... Wichita! Wichita!"

Her Dad and I discussed KARATE KID, which, of course, led to her dancing around saying, "Wax on. Wax off. Wax on. Wax off."

A few moments later...

Monkey's Dad: This is for SELF-DEFENSE.

Monkey: Uh huh. Yeah. Wichita! Wichita!

As they were leaving...

Monkey (threateningly): Wait until after my class tomorrow.

Peter: You better take more than one class, you little turd."

Monkey: I'll only need one class to beat ya! You'll be my practice dummy!

Peter: You're my every day dummy. (Not my best work. I was tired!)

Monkey: Well, you're my every HOUR dummy and --

Then her parents pulled her out the door with them as they left.

Labels: The Monkey, Wichita

I don't normally post on Saturdays. But, today I decided to make an exception.

I have realized that yesterday's non-post upset some people.

Poor Susie was shaken TO HER VERY CORE.

I received tear-stained e-mails. I received drunken sobbing voice mails. Including one where she was trying to order a pizza. Which seemed a bit odd.

So for Susie, and all the Susies out there, here is a post.

Since it is Super Bowl weekend, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention something about it.

Remiss and bitter. Very, very bitter.

When my beloved Colts lost, I said smell you later to the NFL and flipped it off over my shoulder as I walked away.

I'm ragey like that.

I decided that I wasn't going to pay attention to the sport at all until the draft in April. But, then I realized that the Colts don't have a first round pick this year. My reaction sounded something like this:

"SCHMERONK!!!!!"

(It may help to imagine me making two fists and gritting my teeth.)

I recovered just in time to hear news that Coach Dungy might retire.

Thankfully that wasn't the case. I am not sure what would have happened to me. I would have had nothing to believe in. I might have robbed a bank or joined a gang or become a Republican.

I don't even want to think about it.

I'm not actually going to watch the Super Bowl -- or the 73 hours or pre-game horse shit*.

(*Gmail spellcheck accepts "shit" as a word! But, not "Spellcheck.")

I can't risk the possibility of seeing Randy Moss win a Super Bowl.

Some of you are probably saying "Watch it for the commercials!" I would consider that. Maybe. But, my Canadian satellite dish company replaces American commercials with Canadian ones. Even when I am watching it on Fox! I am not even sure how that is legal, but it is what it is. And if I really want to watch ads that were too expensive to produce and air, yet don't really inspire many people to change their opinion about the product or service, I am sure they'll be on youtube.

"Hmmmm. You know, these two busty ladies wrestling in a fountain in their bikinis have really convinced me that the beer sitting in the background DOESN'T actually taste like evil and hate."

As the game gets closer, I am starting to get a good feeling about the Giants. Maybe I am naively optimistic. (Maybe??) Maybe I just love an underdog. But, I think they have a shot. One good hit on Baby Maker Brady and he could tweak his injured ankle. Then all bets are off.

Speaking of bets... I might consider wagering on the Giants.

Not cash though.

I feel like I have a problem gambler living inside me. I have an addictive personality and I take losing personally. That's a recipe for disaster right there.

I'll end up like Ben on that episode of "Felicity" when he starts betting on college basketball with that little bookie dude, and then some big meatheads have to beat him for not paying up.

Not that I watched Felicity.

*whistles and looks around nervously*

I'd lose a bet and then try to make up for it by betting twice as much on the next game. I would be a mess. Britney Spears' dad would have had to start making my decisions for me.

That's not good for anybody.

So, I am not watching the Super Bowl.

But, if the Patriots win, I'll be getting very different e-mails from Susie...

And the thousands of other people from New England that I've talked smack to during this football season.

I should probably shut off my phone and laptop Sunday night.

Go Colts!

Labels: sports and poop

It would be here.

But, I didn't.

So, poooooop.

Don't take it personally. It's not because I don't love you. I mean, I don't. But, that's not the reason.

I'm sure you have some good qualities though. In theory. I've never known you to cause any kind of genocide, for one. Of course, I haven't known you for that long. And I didn't talk to you much during November. And I'm pretty self-absorbed.

If I wrote a post today, you'd be enjoying it right now. But, I didn't. I didn't because I am selfish and jerky. And because you smell.

I didn't mean that.

I'm not really selfish and jerky.

Labels: I got your label right here