(Not my best work. Sorry, Ashley!)
No more blogging obligations!
Oh wait...
It is my day on The 'Stache tomorrow.
Curses!
Labels: I guest post, NaBloPoMo
Friday, November 30, 2007
For my last NaBloPoMo post, I guest blogged for Ashley.
(Not my best work. Sorry, Ashley!)
No more blogging obligations!
Oh wait...
It is my day on The 'Stache tomorrow.
Curses!
(Not my best work. Sorry, Ashley!)
No more blogging obligations!
Oh wait...
It is my day on The 'Stache tomorrow.
Curses!
or 
Thursday, November 29, 2007
I woke up this morning with absolutely no ideas for a blog topic.
Well, I had some ideas. But, none of them began writing themselves in my head. Which would have meant that I would have actually had to do some of the work.
Pffft. Sucks to that.
I got an early morning IM from HRC. It mostly consisted of her talking about Canadian chocolate bars. Which was followed by me complaining, "I have nothing to blog about!"
She said that I should blog about how pretty she is. Or about the time when she looked the prettiest.
I rolled my eyes like a 15 year old girl.
You can do that while IM'ing and not get punched.
Score!
So, I said something nice to her. (It was early.)
And she MOCKED me.
!!!!!!
And THEN blamed me because she claims that she learned how to pick on people by watching me.
Which reminded me of the voting I got you folks to do the other day.
The winner was...
I know! I'm as shocked as you.
The masturbation one jumped out to an immediate lead -- not surprising as the history of the democratic process has taught us that pervs vote early -- but, the terrible wife ended up squeezing out a slim victory.
The quote was actually something my uncle said to me last weekend. Then he giggled. Then his wife swatted him.
And then he giggled some more.
You see, I come from a family of pickers.
He is my mom's brother. And he is legendary for his picking.
And for being an outlaw in his youth. He and his friends would frequently tear around in his car -- sometimes with a friend sitting on a wooden chair on the hood. Old people in neighbouring towns would refuse to leave their houses on Sunday afternoons. (For some reason, that was when he raised his biggest ruckuses.)
He got his picking honestly. My grandfather was a picker too. It was great.
Plus, my grandfather would tell people the craziest stories. And then get angry if you doubted him.
He'd convince people that he was his own twin and that his "brother" had died. And then let them give condolences.
An old lady once told him that she hadn't seen him in twenty years. She asked where he'd been. He told her "jail." She asked what for. "Rape and murder."
I know, right? This is my DNA, people.
My uncle has a son.
Yes, also a picker.
It's the family business.
My cousin is very dry. And many people have never heard him speak. He's the kind of person that, if he doesn't like you, he isn't talking to you. AT ALL. Don't bother asking questions.
One of my favourite moments with him was at a party many moons ago. A buddy of mine was trying to get my cousin to drink some sissy drink. All my cousin would say was...
"I like beer and I like rum."
My friend kept trying.
"It tastes great!"
"I like beer and I like rum."
"One sip?"
"I like beer and I like rum."
"Honestly. You are going to love it."
"I like beer and I like rum."
Finally he talked my cousin into taking a swig. My cousin held it in his mouth for about ten seconds. Swallowed. Then looked straight ahead...
"I like beer and I like rum."
It is good to see that the next generation in the family is also good at picking.
You may remember two little chicks called The ACN and The Monkey.
What about me?
Well, I asked HRC for some examples of my picking. She struggled to find any. And when she mentioned things, they just made me sound delightful.
I guess I am the exception in a family of pickers.
And, yay!, I wrote a post.
I even thanked HRC for starting the ball rolling with her "pretty" comments.
Peter: your raging ego and constant need for validation came in handy!
HRC: fists!
Mocking and threats. That is what I get.
Terrible, right?
But, don't feel TOO bad for me.
I told her, "Now that you are engaged, people don't see you as a woman anymore." (As I giggled.)
And then warned her that her itchy eye could be "tiny spider eggs."
I guess she probably shouldn't have mocked me.
Well, I had some ideas. But, none of them began writing themselves in my head. Which would have meant that I would have actually had to do some of the work.
Pffft. Sucks to that.
I got an early morning IM from HRC. It mostly consisted of her talking about Canadian chocolate bars. Which was followed by me complaining, "I have nothing to blog about!"
She said that I should blog about how pretty she is. Or about the time when she looked the prettiest.
I rolled my eyes like a 15 year old girl.
You can do that while IM'ing and not get punched.
Score!
So, I said something nice to her. (It was early.)
And she MOCKED me.
!!!!!!
And THEN blamed me because she claims that she learned how to pick on people by watching me.
Which reminded me of the voting I got you folks to do the other day.
The winner was...
"Terrible thing... I have a wife, yet I have to do all the housework. She can't figure out how to start the broom. She is still looking for the pull cord."
I know! I'm as shocked as you.
The masturbation one jumped out to an immediate lead -- not surprising as the history of the democratic process has taught us that pervs vote early -- but, the terrible wife ended up squeezing out a slim victory.
The quote was actually something my uncle said to me last weekend. Then he giggled. Then his wife swatted him.
And then he giggled some more.
You see, I come from a family of pickers.
He is my mom's brother. And he is legendary for his picking.
And for being an outlaw in his youth. He and his friends would frequently tear around in his car -- sometimes with a friend sitting on a wooden chair on the hood. Old people in neighbouring towns would refuse to leave their houses on Sunday afternoons. (For some reason, that was when he raised his biggest ruckuses.)
He got his picking honestly. My grandfather was a picker too. It was great.
Plus, my grandfather would tell people the craziest stories. And then get angry if you doubted him.
He'd convince people that he was his own twin and that his "brother" had died. And then let them give condolences.
An old lady once told him that she hadn't seen him in twenty years. She asked where he'd been. He told her "jail." She asked what for. "Rape and murder."
I know, right? This is my DNA, people.
My uncle has a son.
Yes, also a picker.
It's the family business.
My cousin is very dry. And many people have never heard him speak. He's the kind of person that, if he doesn't like you, he isn't talking to you. AT ALL. Don't bother asking questions.
One of my favourite moments with him was at a party many moons ago. A buddy of mine was trying to get my cousin to drink some sissy drink. All my cousin would say was...
"I like beer and I like rum."
My friend kept trying.
"It tastes great!"
"I like beer and I like rum."
"One sip?"
"I like beer and I like rum."
"Honestly. You are going to love it."
"I like beer and I like rum."
Finally he talked my cousin into taking a swig. My cousin held it in his mouth for about ten seconds. Swallowed. Then looked straight ahead...
"I like beer and I like rum."
It is good to see that the next generation in the family is also good at picking.
You may remember two little chicks called The ACN and The Monkey.
What about me?
Well, I asked HRC for some examples of my picking. She struggled to find any. And when she mentioned things, they just made me sound delightful.
I guess I am the exception in a family of pickers.
And, yay!, I wrote a post.
I even thanked HRC for starting the ball rolling with her "pretty" comments.
Peter: your raging ego and constant need for validation came in handy!
HRC: fists!
Mocking and threats. That is what I get.
Terrible, right?
But, don't feel TOO bad for me.
I told her, "Now that you are engaged, people don't see you as a woman anymore." (As I giggled.)
And then warned her that her itchy eye could be "tiny spider eggs."
I guess she probably shouldn't have mocked me.
Labels: ACN, HRC, NaBloPoMo, The Monkey
or Wednesday, November 28, 2007
I hate NaBloPoMo.
I really do.
It is sucking all the enjoyment out of blogging.
As soon as something fun becomes an obligation, I am much less inclined to want to do it.
This is EXACTLY why I never became a gigolo.
That and the lack of a retirement plan.
Every day I post something, feel mild relief, and then it is back to the start the next day. And every day it is even harder to come up with something new.
Thankfully there are only three days left in this Sisyphean blogging nightmare. (Two after this post!)
I know, you are all probably thinking, "It was YOUR idea to do it, dumbass."
Firstly, dude... harsh.
Secondly, it seemed like so much more fun in theory than in actual practice.
Like Sarah Silverman.
On the plus side, today is my mom's birthday.
Say happy birthday to my mom, blog people.
I really should write a post about her. But, she is too much of a character. I don't think I could capture her essence. (The three of you reading that have met her can back me up on this.)
So, yeah, this was your post for the day.
Oh, I am also in musicdownloading buying mode. Tell me a song that I absolute need to have playing in my rotation right now. New, old, doesn't matter. I could use a little variety.
I listened to Pearl Jam's "Corduroy" 14 times yesterday.
I really do.
It is sucking all the enjoyment out of blogging.
As soon as something fun becomes an obligation, I am much less inclined to want to do it.
This is EXACTLY why I never became a gigolo.
That and the lack of a retirement plan.
Every day I post something, feel mild relief, and then it is back to the start the next day. And every day it is even harder to come up with something new.
Thankfully there are only three days left in this Sisyphean blogging nightmare. (Two after this post!)
I know, you are all probably thinking, "It was YOUR idea to do it, dumbass."
Firstly, dude... harsh.
Secondly, it seemed like so much more fun in theory than in actual practice.
Like Sarah Silverman.
On the plus side, today is my mom's birthday.
Say happy birthday to my mom, blog people.
I really should write a post about her. But, she is too much of a character. I don't think I could capture her essence. (The three of you reading that have met her can back me up on this.)
So, yeah, this was your post for the day.
Oh, I am also in music
I listened to Pearl Jam's "Corduroy" 14 times yesterday.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
or Monday, November 26, 2007
Thanks to everyone who rocked the vote in yesterday's post. It was close, but there was a winner. However, I don't feel like writing about it. Or the other two. Such are the mercurial whims of a blogger. Are there non-mercurial whims? Whatever. I plan on writing the winning post tomorrow.
Instead, today I am going to post a word doodle of sorts. I am writing something and there is a proposal scene in it. I am trying to get the wording of dude's proposal just perfect. (I may actually post a rough draft for feedback later this week.) So, I decided to jot down some notes about the woman. I want the proposal to really fit who she is and how homeboy feels about her.
I am posting this to show that I can't even make simple notes in point form without it meandering on me...
Hiding behind a veil of faux complexities.
Thinking that it makes her unique.
Hoping.
We all do it.
She somehow makes it work.
The image she puts out
is but a small part of who she is.
Or was.
The image she puts out
is not how she sees herself.
Or ever really did.
Maybe.
He's seen behind the curtain.
He's fucked.
He fills in the gaps with only positives.
He admits that.
Still...
Everyone else pales.
He is almost angered
by people only seeing the image
she puts out.
He knows she'd be spectacular
even in less appealing packaging.
Appealing is the wrong word.
He can't find the right one.
Hiding behind a veil of faux complexities.
Thinking that is what makes her unique.
He knows better.
Instead, today I am going to post a word doodle of sorts. I am writing something and there is a proposal scene in it. I am trying to get the wording of dude's proposal just perfect. (I may actually post a rough draft for feedback later this week.) So, I decided to jot down some notes about the woman. I want the proposal to really fit who she is and how homeboy feels about her.
I am posting this to show that I can't even make simple notes in point form without it meandering on me...
Hiding behind a veil of faux complexities.
Thinking that it makes her unique.
Hoping.
We all do it.
She somehow makes it work.
The image she puts out
is but a small part of who she is.
Or was.
The image she puts out
is not how she sees herself.
Or ever really did.
Maybe.
He's seen behind the curtain.
He's fucked.
He fills in the gaps with only positives.
He admits that.
Still...
Everyone else pales.
He is almost angered
by people only seeing the image
she puts out.
He knows she'd be spectacular
even in less appealing packaging.
Appealing is the wrong word.
He can't find the right one.
Hiding behind a veil of faux complexities.
Thinking that is what makes her unique.
He knows better.
Labels: NaBloPoMo, word doodles
or Sunday, November 25, 2007
I frequently jot down blog ideas on post-its, or save them as a draft e-mail in gmail.
These ideas can be random thoughtlets, actual quotes from others, things I've said, or bits of fictional dialog that I have yet to build a story around.
I currently have three sitting in front of me and I am going to let you pick which one I am going to write about for tomorrow's post.
So, essentially I am just using today's post as an intro to tomorrow's. Is that cheating on NaBloPoMo?
Judges?
Nope. It's fine.
Whew.
Relief.
Here are your choices:
Option #1 - "Touch? This house needs a woman's slap."
Option #2 - "Terrible thing... I have a wife, yet I have to do all the housework. She can't figure out how to start the broom. She is still looking for the pull cord."
Option #3 - "I've always been an overachiever. The first time I ever masturbated, I was fantasizing about a threesome."
To cast your vote you have to e-mail me. (The link dealie is over on the right.)
The reason I am doing it this way, is so that the winner is a surprise.
And also so that if I think of a fun way to write about one of the topics, and it doesn't win the vote, I can just lie and say that it did.
Hey, when you live under my blog's roof, you follow my blog's rules.
So, there you have it. You have the power to decide what my blog post will be tomorrow.
Oooooooooooooooh.
Exciting.
Now, I am going to go watch sports highlights and play Scrabulous on Facebook.
These ideas can be random thoughtlets, actual quotes from others, things I've said, or bits of fictional dialog that I have yet to build a story around.
I currently have three sitting in front of me and I am going to let you pick which one I am going to write about for tomorrow's post.
So, essentially I am just using today's post as an intro to tomorrow's. Is that cheating on NaBloPoMo?
Judges?
Nope. It's fine.
Whew.
Relief.
Here are your choices:
Option #1 - "Touch? This house needs a woman's slap."
Option #2 - "Terrible thing... I have a wife, yet I have to do all the housework. She can't figure out how to start the broom. She is still looking for the pull cord."
Option #3 - "I've always been an overachiever. The first time I ever masturbated, I was fantasizing about a threesome."
To cast your vote you have to e-mail me. (The link dealie is over on the right.)
The reason I am doing it this way, is so that the winner is a surprise.
And also so that if I think of a fun way to write about one of the topics, and it doesn't win the vote, I can just lie and say that it did.
Hey, when you live under my blog's roof, you follow my blog's rules.
So, there you have it. You have the power to decide what my blog post will be tomorrow.
Oooooooooooooooh.
Exciting.
Now, I am going to go watch sports highlights and play Scrabulous on Facebook.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
or 
posted by Peter at 11:33 AM
| Saturday, November 24, 2007
I believe in fate.
I believe in chance.
I believe that is why we ended up at this stop light.
Together.
I trust in love.
I trust in randomness.
I trust in their co-dependence.
Or interdependence.
Something.
I notice that you bite your lower lip when you think.
I notice you singing along to your music.
Britney?
I notice you noticing me.
Finally.
I am excited by your smile.
I am excited by the twinkle in your eyes.
I am excited by you asking me to put my window down.
So, I do.
I wonder what your voice will sound like.
I wonder if my life is about to change.
I wonder what you will say...
"Your travel coffee mug is on your roof, you douche!"
I believe in chance.
I believe that is why we ended up at this stop light.
Together.
I trust in love.
I trust in randomness.
I trust in their co-dependence.
Or interdependence.
Something.
I notice that you bite your lower lip when you think.
I notice you singing along to your music.
Britney?
I notice you noticing me.
Finally.
I am excited by your smile.
I am excited by the twinkle in your eyes.
I am excited by you asking me to put my window down.
So, I do.
I wonder what your voice will sound like.
I wonder if my life is about to change.
I wonder what you will say...
"Your travel coffee mug is on your roof, you douche!"
Labels: NaBloPoMo
or Friday, November 23, 2007
Have you ever written something, but just couldn't get the ending right? No matter what you try, you can't figure out how to translate the joke in your head into something that makes sense for others. This is one of those...
"Crapping crap crap!" Corrie muttered as she banged on her "backspace" key.
Corrie was trying to get her work e-mail holiday auto-reply worded just right.
"Overly nice."
"Not nice enough."
"Too... British."
She was mulling over more possibilities when she heard a knock on her office door.
Before she could even reply, Luke let himself in.
"Hi there," he said.
Corrie has had a teensy bit of a crush on Luke since, oh, 15 seconds after they were introduced.
His boyish smirk just kills her.
Always.
"Corrie... I need a little help," he offered sheepishly.
"Oh yeah?" she responded as she tried to sneakily make sure that she had no lipstick on her teeth.
"It's this new system for expense reports. I'm lost."
"It's not that different, let me take a look," she said as she took the papers from his hand.
"I'm at the point now where I just want to make shit up and say, "The hell with the accounting department,"
"Well, since I AM the accounting department..." she smiled.
"So... bad idea?"
"A little bit." She laughed.
She stood up and walked around to the other side of her desk, and put the papers on the only clear spot.
"Look right here," she said.
Luke leaned in close.
Very close.
Suddenly she froze as she felt his hand touch her cheek and then tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
"Sorry... I just had to do it." he smirked.
She blushed.
A lot.
Even though there were six pens directly to her right, she leaned far out, and across Luke, to grab one from the other side of the desk. She allowed her breasts to lightly graze his arm.
She heard his breathing change.
They looked at each other for a moment. Then he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him.
And they kissed.
The way kissing should be done.
With his left hand, in one motion he pushed everything off her desk. Turns out that is actually much, much louder than it seems on TV.
She didn't care.
He picked her up and sat her on the desk. Never once breaking the kiss.
She tore off his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt.
His hand found her knee and then deftly began making it's way up her thigh, under her skirt...
"Corrie, I am going to need the progress reports."
"What?" she thought.
"The progress reports, Corrie."
She immediately thought that if she knew that he was filing reports on this, she'd have done a better job of shaving her legs that morning.
"Corrie!!"
She suddenly snapped out of her daydream and realized that she was in the middle of the Monday morning meeting.
"Are you with us, Corrie? The progress reports?" her boss said, mostly amused.
"Yes... certainly. Sorry!"
She grabbed them from the pile in front of her, and passed them around the room.
She looked over at Luke, who was, thankfully, toying with his Blackberry and not noticing much else.
She leaned back in her chair. Embarrassed, but still quite flushed in the face.
"The sales projections?"
She unbuttoned her top button to cool off.
"Hello... the sales projections?"
She fixed her hair.
"LUKE!! The sales projections?"
Suddenly Luke snapped out his daydream. He realized that he was in the boardroom with 20 other people.
He grabbed his sales projections and began passing them out. Corrie was chatting with Paula from marketing and didn't seem to notice at all.
"Crapping crap crap!" Corrie muttered as she banged on her "backspace" key.
Corrie was trying to get her work e-mail holiday auto-reply worded just right.
"Overly nice."
"Not nice enough."
"Too... British."
She was mulling over more possibilities when she heard a knock on her office door.
Before she could even reply, Luke let himself in.
"Hi there," he said.
Corrie has had a teensy bit of a crush on Luke since, oh, 15 seconds after they were introduced.
His boyish smirk just kills her.
Always.
"Corrie... I need a little help," he offered sheepishly.
"Oh yeah?" she responded as she tried to sneakily make sure that she had no lipstick on her teeth.
"It's this new system for expense reports. I'm lost."
"It's not that different, let me take a look," she said as she took the papers from his hand.
"I'm at the point now where I just want to make shit up and say, "The hell with the accounting department,"
"Well, since I AM the accounting department..." she smiled.
"So... bad idea?"
"A little bit." She laughed.
She stood up and walked around to the other side of her desk, and put the papers on the only clear spot.
"Look right here," she said.
Luke leaned in close.
Very close.
Suddenly she froze as she felt his hand touch her cheek and then tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
"Sorry... I just had to do it." he smirked.
She blushed.
A lot.
Even though there were six pens directly to her right, she leaned far out, and across Luke, to grab one from the other side of the desk. She allowed her breasts to lightly graze his arm.
She heard his breathing change.
They looked at each other for a moment. Then he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him.
And they kissed.
The way kissing should be done.
With his left hand, in one motion he pushed everything off her desk. Turns out that is actually much, much louder than it seems on TV.
She didn't care.
He picked her up and sat her on the desk. Never once breaking the kiss.
She tore off his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt.
His hand found her knee and then deftly began making it's way up her thigh, under her skirt...
"Corrie, I am going to need the progress reports."
"What?" she thought.
"The progress reports, Corrie."
She immediately thought that if she knew that he was filing reports on this, she'd have done a better job of shaving her legs that morning.
"Corrie!!"
She suddenly snapped out of her daydream and realized that she was in the middle of the Monday morning meeting.
"Are you with us, Corrie? The progress reports?" her boss said, mostly amused.
"Yes... certainly. Sorry!"
She grabbed them from the pile in front of her, and passed them around the room.
She looked over at Luke, who was, thankfully, toying with his Blackberry and not noticing much else.
She leaned back in her chair. Embarrassed, but still quite flushed in the face.
"The sales projections?"
She unbuttoned her top button to cool off.
"Hello... the sales projections?"
She fixed her hair.
"LUKE!! The sales projections?"
Suddenly Luke snapped out his daydream. He realized that he was in the boardroom with 20 other people.
He grabbed his sales projections and began passing them out. Corrie was chatting with Paula from marketing and didn't seem to notice at all.
Labels: blooper reel, NaBloPoMo, short fiction
or Thursday, November 22, 2007
So, I don't really feel like posting anything today. I'm not very chatty.
But, it's not you. It's me.
Well, maybe it's a little bit you.
Who the hell knows?
I will tell you that I recently discovered this site: http://songza.com/
I've been using it to track down rare songs that have been tough to find as mp3s.
One of these songs is a Canadian classic, The Gandharvas "First Day of Spring." A song I love to listen to every year on, well, the first day of spring.
I realize that is not today. But, if it makes you feel any better, I did crank GnR's "November Rain" on my iPod this morning. Of course, there are no hard and fast rules, as I also listened to The Cure's "Friday I'm in Love."
I can think of at least two things wrong with that title.
"First Day of Spring" always reminds me of an apartment I lived in during university. (Not THE apartment that I've blogged about in the past.)
We lived on the top floor of a big house that was divided into 5 apartments. And directly below us there was a bit of a Three's Company situation going on. A blonde girl, a brunette girl and a dude of indeterminate sexual affiliation.
The brunette had one of the top ten best faces I have ever seen in real life -- if she was a bit thin. So, I had a little crush on her. And, as was my custom at the time, I was working on my seduction by osmosis plan.
Hoping that by being in the same space, something will just happen.
I know, right?
The male roomie down there had a thing about playing the same song all day long. And one of these songs was, of course, "First Day of Spring." And since I loved it, I was cool with that.
Even my roomies didn't mind. However, one of my roomies was dating a girl... The EVIL Megan that I mentioned yesterday. In the pantheon of people I hate, she'd be nestled between J-Lo and the dude that created "Family Guy."
Megan would often be alone in our apartment, and we later found out she would stomp on the floor like a mad woman any time our underneath neighbours turned their stereo above barely audible.
By the time we found out what she had been doing, the damage had already been done with the neighbours. I tried to explain to the dude that it was our roommate's evil girlfriend stomping, but he still wasn't impressed.
A couple of weeks later, I was arriving at the apartment just as the brunette -- Nicole! Yes, that's it -- was leaving. She said, "Hi. How are you?" I answered "Asparagus" or something... But, at least, she didn't seem to hate me.
I was relieved.
A couple of weeks later, I was parking my car just around the corner from the apartment. Me and two friends got out, in the middle of an argument we had been having for blocks.
And it was about the girls living below us.
One dude was saying that he preferred the blonde.
I was horrified. "What!? Are you out of your damn mind?"
Just as the three of us turned the corner to the front of the house, the third dude loudly said, "I'd fuck the shit out of the both of them."
Then I looked up and saw the three neighbours sitting on the front step. Mouths open. Looking at us.
I opened my mouth to say something as we walked by them and up the stairs, but nothing came out.
However, later that week I was walking home and ran into Nicole a block from the apartment. We walked it together and I even managed a little small talk. "I... I like nice weather."
She didn't seem to hate me at all.
Score!
Not long after this, I was out at the campus bar. I had just finished an exam. It was BRUTAL. One of those deals where everything you were told wouldn't be on it was, and vice versa. I was in a bad mood. I ran into a dude I knew from residence. We were discussing the exam. Loudly. He felt the same as I did. That we had gotten jobbed.
Then something happened.
Because my body and brain were in no way used to staying up all night studying, or attending classes and what not, my anger went to another level.
I was ranting like a lunatic. Vein sticking out of my forehead and all. My friend was egging me on.
I think the last thing I said about the professor was, "I'll fucking kill him, chop him up and encase him in concrete!"
Just then, my buddy looked over my shoulder and said, "Oh, have you ever met my friend Nicole?"
I turned. It was her. She looked traumatized.
Knowing that the universe had won this one, I put my hand on her shoulder, said, "Take care" and wandered off.
Wow. For a dude that wasn't chatty, I can sure ramble, eh?
Anyway...
Happy Thanksgiving, Americans. Enjoy some turkey and football.
And some Gandharvas...
But, it's not you. It's me.
Well, maybe it's a little bit you.
Who the hell knows?
I will tell you that I recently discovered this site: http://songza.com/
I've been using it to track down rare songs that have been tough to find as mp3s.
One of these songs is a Canadian classic, The Gandharvas "First Day of Spring." A song I love to listen to every year on, well, the first day of spring.
I realize that is not today. But, if it makes you feel any better, I did crank GnR's "November Rain" on my iPod this morning. Of course, there are no hard and fast rules, as I also listened to The Cure's "Friday I'm in Love."
I can think of at least two things wrong with that title.
"First Day of Spring" always reminds me of an apartment I lived in during university. (Not THE apartment that I've blogged about in the past.)
We lived on the top floor of a big house that was divided into 5 apartments. And directly below us there was a bit of a Three's Company situation going on. A blonde girl, a brunette girl and a dude of indeterminate sexual affiliation.
The brunette had one of the top ten best faces I have ever seen in real life -- if she was a bit thin. So, I had a little crush on her. And, as was my custom at the time, I was working on my seduction by osmosis plan.
Hoping that by being in the same space, something will just happen.
I know, right?
The male roomie down there had a thing about playing the same song all day long. And one of these songs was, of course, "First Day of Spring." And since I loved it, I was cool with that.
Even my roomies didn't mind. However, one of my roomies was dating a girl... The EVIL Megan that I mentioned yesterday. In the pantheon of people I hate, she'd be nestled between J-Lo and the dude that created "Family Guy."
Megan would often be alone in our apartment, and we later found out she would stomp on the floor like a mad woman any time our underneath neighbours turned their stereo above barely audible.
By the time we found out what she had been doing, the damage had already been done with the neighbours. I tried to explain to the dude that it was our roommate's evil girlfriend stomping, but he still wasn't impressed.
A couple of weeks later, I was arriving at the apartment just as the brunette -- Nicole! Yes, that's it -- was leaving. She said, "Hi. How are you?" I answered "Asparagus" or something... But, at least, she didn't seem to hate me.
I was relieved.
A couple of weeks later, I was parking my car just around the corner from the apartment. Me and two friends got out, in the middle of an argument we had been having for blocks.
And it was about the girls living below us.
One dude was saying that he preferred the blonde.
I was horrified. "What!? Are you out of your damn mind?"
Just as the three of us turned the corner to the front of the house, the third dude loudly said, "I'd fuck the shit out of the both of them."
Then I looked up and saw the three neighbours sitting on the front step. Mouths open. Looking at us.
I opened my mouth to say something as we walked by them and up the stairs, but nothing came out.
However, later that week I was walking home and ran into Nicole a block from the apartment. We walked it together and I even managed a little small talk. "I... I like nice weather."
She didn't seem to hate me at all.
Score!
Not long after this, I was out at the campus bar. I had just finished an exam. It was BRUTAL. One of those deals where everything you were told wouldn't be on it was, and vice versa. I was in a bad mood. I ran into a dude I knew from residence. We were discussing the exam. Loudly. He felt the same as I did. That we had gotten jobbed.
Then something happened.
Because my body and brain were in no way used to staying up all night studying, or attending classes and what not, my anger went to another level.
I was ranting like a lunatic. Vein sticking out of my forehead and all. My friend was egging me on.
I think the last thing I said about the professor was, "I'll fucking kill him, chop him up and encase him in concrete!"
Just then, my buddy looked over my shoulder and said, "Oh, have you ever met my friend Nicole?"
I turned. It was her. She looked traumatized.
Knowing that the universe had won this one, I put my hand on her shoulder, said, "Take care" and wandered off.
Wow. For a dude that wasn't chatty, I can sure ramble, eh?
Anyway...
Happy Thanksgiving, Americans. Enjoy some turkey and football.
And some Gandharvas...
Labels: GO COLTS, half-assed, NaBloPoMo
or Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The other afternoon, I was playing some fetch with Nipper in the yard. I looked up and saw (because of traffic) a car slowing down not far from me. It was a woman driving. I didn't get a good look at her face, but I suppose she had a cute-ish profile.
What I DID notice, however, was what she was wearing.
A turtleneck.
(Not one of those tight, beat poet type deals. A looser... knit one, I guess.)
And, almost without realizing it, I said, "Ooooooh."
I have no idea what in my background has caused me to react this way to that article of clothing, yet here we are. And it is not just the turtleneck itself. It is also the hair being worn up with it.
Now, I know that, as a dude, I'm expected to be all about the cleavage -- and I'm not opposed to it, trust me -- but there is just something about the hair-up, turtle neck thing. It just looks.... cozy. Or something.
And this is not the only type of clothing that gets an interesting reaction from me.
There is a style of button up shirt that I LOVE on a woman.
It is usually white, has a collar, tapers in at the waist, and has 3/4 length sleeves.
Do you know the kind I mean? (I should mention that it is entirely possible that these things have been out of style for a decade. Me and fashion... we met once at a party, but we don't stay in touch.)
I actually really enjoy women in business attire in general.
However, I am also an absolute sucker for a woman in an apron.
I'm a friggin' riddle.
Now, don't go burning bras or me in effigy. I don't want to be served by a woman in an apron or anything. I just find it so... charming. It brings to mind a simpler time. Granted, it was a time without satellite TV, but still... A cute girl in an apron just makes me smile.
In addition to very specific types of clothing, I can also react favourably to a woman's name. (I guess that I don't go in for any of that "a rose by any other name" horseshit.)
That's not to say that a woman's name will make me like (or dislike) her more. However, if someone says "You should totally meet my friend _________" some names will catch my attention more than others.
Off the top of my head...
Lauren
Sarah
Jen/Jenny
Katie
But, these things aren't necessarily constant. Occasionally a name will be ruined, or make a comeback, for me.
For example, I thought the name Meghan was awesome in my youth. But, then I met a hateful Megan, so the name (in all spellings) was ruined. However, I've recently met a Megan or two that have made it seem slightly less evil.
I should be lots of fun to name a kid with. Of course, if the mother is wearing the right shirt, I probably won't put up much of an argument.
I'm a little loony, right?
What I DID notice, however, was what she was wearing.
A turtleneck.
(Not one of those tight, beat poet type deals. A looser... knit one, I guess.)
And, almost without realizing it, I said, "Ooooooh."
I have no idea what in my background has caused me to react this way to that article of clothing, yet here we are. And it is not just the turtleneck itself. It is also the hair being worn up with it.
Now, I know that, as a dude, I'm expected to be all about the cleavage -- and I'm not opposed to it, trust me -- but there is just something about the hair-up, turtle neck thing. It just looks.... cozy. Or something.
And this is not the only type of clothing that gets an interesting reaction from me.
There is a style of button up shirt that I LOVE on a woman.
It is usually white, has a collar, tapers in at the waist, and has 3/4 length sleeves.
Do you know the kind I mean? (I should mention that it is entirely possible that these things have been out of style for a decade. Me and fashion... we met once at a party, but we don't stay in touch.)
I actually really enjoy women in business attire in general.
However, I am also an absolute sucker for a woman in an apron.
I'm a friggin' riddle.
Now, don't go burning bras or me in effigy. I don't want to be served by a woman in an apron or anything. I just find it so... charming. It brings to mind a simpler time. Granted, it was a time without satellite TV, but still... A cute girl in an apron just makes me smile.
In addition to very specific types of clothing, I can also react favourably to a woman's name. (I guess that I don't go in for any of that "a rose by any other name" horseshit.)
That's not to say that a woman's name will make me like (or dislike) her more. However, if someone says "You should totally meet my friend _________" some names will catch my attention more than others.
Off the top of my head...
Lauren
Sarah
Jen/Jenny
Katie
But, these things aren't necessarily constant. Occasionally a name will be ruined, or make a comeback, for me.
For example, I thought the name Meghan was awesome in my youth. But, then I met a hateful Megan, so the name (in all spellings) was ruined. However, I've recently met a Megan or two that have made it seem slightly less evil.
I should be lots of fun to name a kid with. Of course, if the mother is wearing the right shirt, I probably won't put up much of an argument.
I'm a little loony, right?
or Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The blind goes up.
Blinking.
Blinking.
Coming into focus.
The harbour is so flat.
Glassy.
Orange and red leaves from the other side
Reflected so perfectly.
Idyllic.
Serene.
Looking right.
Further.
The sun shining off of the lighthouse.
So bright.
Looks almost Photoshopped.
But, it's not.
Or a camera trick.
But, it's not.
Looking further right.
Open ocean.
Seas are choppier.
A little.
There is one wave.
Bigger.
Whiter.
Angrier.
Longitudinal and transverse motions fighting.
For control.
So close to the mouth of the harbour.
Too close.
Moving.
Threatening to come in.
Closer.
Closer.
...
Just missing entering the harbour.
The calm remains.
For now.
Blinking.
Blinking.
Coming into focus.
The harbour is so flat.
Glassy.
Orange and red leaves from the other side
Reflected so perfectly.
Idyllic.
Serene.
Looking right.
Further.
The sun shining off of the lighthouse.
So bright.
Looks almost Photoshopped.
But, it's not.
Or a camera trick.
But, it's not.
Looking further right.
Open ocean.
Seas are choppier.
A little.
There is one wave.
Bigger.
Whiter.
Angrier.
Longitudinal and transverse motions fighting.
For control.
So close to the mouth of the harbour.
Too close.
Moving.
Threatening to come in.
Closer.
Closer.
...
Just missing entering the harbour.
The calm remains.
For now.
Labels: half-assed, NaBloPoMo, word doodles
or Saturday, November 17, 2007
Because my birthday is Sunday, The ACN came back down to celebrate it with me. This time she brought her mommy and daddy and Nipper.
You may remember that the last time Nipper came down, we got into a tiny bit of trouble... when we destroyed my mother's living room.
This time my sister decided not to bring the toy that we used for our campaign of destruction. Something called a "Kong."
However, when my sister unpacked when she got here, she opened a bag with the dog food and leash and found the...
KONG.
Apparently Nipper took it and dropped it into the bag before they left.
You gotta respect that kind of dedication to causing trouble.
I think that Nipper has developed a crush on me. She follows me around, carrying toys for us to play with. If I am busy, she gives me indignant little barks. And if that doesn't work, she puts her head down and gives me a puppy pout.
She's clearly been well coached.
[The Monkey JUST called from her grandparents' house.
Monkey: Were you up?
Peter: I've been up for hours.
Monkey: (in one breath) You probably haven't been up for hours but you've been up for a while I guess Is [The ACN] there I only saw the car this morning I was walking back to my house the door was locked and my dad was trying to get sleep so I came back here and was going to call him but they all told me that he'd be mad if I woke him up but I'm not afraid of my dad I want to go visit [The ACN] before I go to the craft show is she going to the craft show? My aunt is calling in I gotta go.
*click*]
Speaking of my birthday (we were, scroll back!) where are my damn cards and gifts?
You suck.
Because it is crazy to have to blog on my birthday, I have a special guest poster lined up for tomorrow. It is the ex formerly (and currently, really) known as HRC.
Her birthday is in a couple of days, so, to return the favour, I'll be guest posting for her.
Which, let's face it, is some pretty good incentive for her to say nice things about me tomorrow.
**********
Edit to add: A little pre-craft show cuddling.
You may remember that the last time Nipper came down, we got into a tiny bit of trouble... when we destroyed my mother's living room.
This time my sister decided not to bring the toy that we used for our campaign of destruction. Something called a "Kong."
However, when my sister unpacked when she got here, she opened a bag with the dog food and leash and found the...
KONG.
Apparently Nipper took it and dropped it into the bag before they left.
You gotta respect that kind of dedication to causing trouble.
I think that Nipper has developed a crush on me. She follows me around, carrying toys for us to play with. If I am busy, she gives me indignant little barks. And if that doesn't work, she puts her head down and gives me a puppy pout.
She's clearly been well coached.
[The Monkey JUST called from her grandparents' house.
Monkey: Were you up?
Peter: I've been up for hours.
Monkey: (in one breath) You probably haven't been up for hours but you've been up for a while I guess Is [The ACN] there I only saw the car this morning I was walking back to my house the door was locked and my dad was trying to get sleep so I came back here and was going to call him but they all told me that he'd be mad if I woke him up but I'm not afraid of my dad I want to go visit [The ACN] before I go to the craft show is she going to the craft show? My aunt is calling in I gotta go.
*click*]
Speaking of my birthday (we were, scroll back!) where are my damn cards and gifts?
You suck.
Because it is crazy to have to blog on my birthday, I have a special guest poster lined up for tomorrow. It is the ex formerly (and currently, really) known as HRC.
Her birthday is in a couple of days, so, to return the favour, I'll be guest posting for her.
Which, let's face it, is some pretty good incentive for her to say nice things about me tomorrow.
**********
Edit to add: A little pre-craft show cuddling.
Labels: ACN, NaBloPoMo, The Monkey
or Friday, November 16, 2007
I am not usually one to discuss news or current events in this space.
Mostly because I am pretty self-absorbed.
However, sometimes a story is just SO huge that a person can't not bring it up.
And I don't mean the Barry Bonds thing, because, let's face it, unless they make being a sac de douche a felony, he won't spend day one in the hoosegow.
Sadly.
I think a few months of him having to watch his own huge acne-riddled back in the shower would be good for him.
What I am, of course, talking about is Lindsay Lohan and the rough 84 minute stretch that she did in the pokey.
84 minutes.
Seriously?
Why not just make her sit through a screening of JUST MY LUCK? It is 103 minutes long and twice as painful.
In tribute to poor LL, here is a short list of things that I have spent more than 84 minutes doing:
Like your Mom.
Mostly because I am pretty self-absorbed.
However, sometimes a story is just SO huge that a person can't not bring it up.
And I don't mean the Barry Bonds thing, because, let's face it, unless they make being a sac de douche a felony, he won't spend day one in the hoosegow.
Sadly.
I think a few months of him having to watch his own huge acne-riddled back in the shower would be good for him.
What I am, of course, talking about is Lindsay Lohan and the rough 84 minute stretch that she did in the pokey.
84 minutes.
Seriously?
Why not just make her sit through a screening of JUST MY LUCK? It is 103 minutes long and twice as painful.
In tribute to poor LL, here is a short list of things that I have spent more than 84 minutes doing:
- Your mom. (Come on. It was too easy. And just sitting there. Like your mom.)
- Showering. (I once sang the entirety of Journey's Greatest Hits and didn't get out until the hot water heater spit the bit.)
- Crafting an e-mail reply to Clink describing how I feel about Anna Friel on "Pushing Daisies." (I apparently know a lot of different ways to say "I LOVE her.")
- Trying to get sideburns even.
- Playing Scrabulous on Facebook (x1000)
- Learning to play "Sister Golden Hair" on guitar. And then never picking one up again.
- Trying unsuccessfully to forget that my mother's cell ringtone is "My Humps."
- Sitting in a jail cell. (When I was a kid, my grandfather was the local jailer. He used to lock us in for fun. And sometimes got sidetracked before letting us out.)
- Pondering why Lo doesn't get more burn on "The Hills."
- Trying to convince myself to hit "publish" on this. Stupid NaNoBloMo. It makes everything seem like a chore that you don't want to do, yet feel obligated to.
Like your Mom.
Labels: half-assed, NaBloPoMo
or Thursday, November 15, 2007
I learned something a long time ago.
Being tried as an adult sucks.
I also learned that...
Blogging is weird.
Over the past few days, I've been discussing blogging and the blogworld in general with two of my bestest blog friends. We've talked about how it seems to have changed. We've talked about jerkface, pussy-assed anonymous commenters.
Even the way in which I "met" these two awesome blog chicas is kind of odd. I discovered one through the blogroll of a NY musician. The second one discovered me through Indie Bloggers. And they were already friends. Weirder still is that the first one has been reading the blog of an ex of mine for years, so she already knew far too much about me.
Blogging is weird.
Take a look at your own blogroll. As in real life, you'll see some that are friends of friends. But, then there'll be some that you noticed leaving a nice/funny/sexy comment on another blog and you followed them home. You commented on them. They commented on you. You know how it goes. You may even be reading this because I saw your user pic someplace and thought that you were just so impossibly hot. We all have at least one of those on our blogroll.
Blogging is weird.
The blogworld sometimes has a high school vibe. Lots of cliques. Even in high school, I never felt like I fit in one. I always thought that the cool kids saw me as a smart kid. And the smart kids saw me as a class clown/slacker. And since I played basketball around the clock, I assumed that I got some votes as a "jock." (Of course, as long as I could date the girls I was interested in, I really didn't care.) Even on the day I graduated, a group of us were awarded "Certificates of Merit" for keeping a certain average in a specific group of classes. As we were being called up on stage for the certificates, the guy behind me in line leaned in and said, "Wow. I had no idea that you were smart."
I also don't feel like I fit into a blog clique. I am private and don't like sharing personal information. (Except for ACN stories -- she is too cute for me NOT to gush about.) And I don't like recapping my days for my readers, because, well, I've already lived through it. I am already bored with it and want to move on to something creative. So, I'm an almost daily blogger that doesn't like to share personal information or talk about his day to day activities.
Blogging is weird.
If you blog for long enough, at some point somebody is going to e-mail you to tell you that they have a raging crush on you. It is going to seem very odd to you that somebody can get to this point without even having exchanged e-mails or IM messages with you. It is going to seem very odd to you until you find yourself reading the post of a woman, becoming smitten with her words, and wanting to know her thoughts on, well, everything.
Blogging is weird.
It is hard, for me anyway, to gauge what kind of post might connect with readers. Today I could have churned out a half-assed post on relationships, while asking a few questions, and received thirty comments. Or I could have spent hours pouring everything I have into writing the (somewhat) heart-breaking short story that is bouncing around in my head and received three comments.
Blogging IS weird.
Yet here we all are.
Being tried as an adult sucks.
I also learned that...
Blogging is weird.
Over the past few days, I've been discussing blogging and the blogworld in general with two of my bestest blog friends. We've talked about how it seems to have changed. We've talked about jerkface, pussy-assed anonymous commenters.
Even the way in which I "met" these two awesome blog chicas is kind of odd. I discovered one through the blogroll of a NY musician. The second one discovered me through Indie Bloggers. And they were already friends. Weirder still is that the first one has been reading the blog of an ex of mine for years, so she already knew far too much about me.
Blogging is weird.
Take a look at your own blogroll. As in real life, you'll see some that are friends of friends. But, then there'll be some that you noticed leaving a nice/funny/sexy comment on another blog and you followed them home. You commented on them. They commented on you. You know how it goes. You may even be reading this because I saw your user pic someplace and thought that you were just so impossibly hot. We all have at least one of those on our blogroll.
Blogging is weird.
The blogworld sometimes has a high school vibe. Lots of cliques. Even in high school, I never felt like I fit in one. I always thought that the cool kids saw me as a smart kid. And the smart kids saw me as a class clown/slacker. And since I played basketball around the clock, I assumed that I got some votes as a "jock." (Of course, as long as I could date the girls I was interested in, I really didn't care.) Even on the day I graduated, a group of us were awarded "Certificates of Merit" for keeping a certain average in a specific group of classes. As we were being called up on stage for the certificates, the guy behind me in line leaned in and said, "Wow. I had no idea that you were smart."
I also don't feel like I fit into a blog clique. I am private and don't like sharing personal information. (Except for ACN stories -- she is too cute for me NOT to gush about.) And I don't like recapping my days for my readers, because, well, I've already lived through it. I am already bored with it and want to move on to something creative. So, I'm an almost daily blogger that doesn't like to share personal information or talk about his day to day activities.
Blogging is weird.
If you blog for long enough, at some point somebody is going to e-mail you to tell you that they have a raging crush on you. It is going to seem very odd to you that somebody can get to this point without even having exchanged e-mails or IM messages with you. It is going to seem very odd to you until you find yourself reading the post of a woman, becoming smitten with her words, and wanting to know her thoughts on, well, everything.
Blogging is weird.
It is hard, for me anyway, to gauge what kind of post might connect with readers. Today I could have churned out a half-assed post on relationships, while asking a few questions, and received thirty comments. Or I could have spent hours pouring everything I have into writing the (somewhat) heart-breaking short story that is bouncing around in my head and received three comments.
Blogging IS weird.
Yet here we all are.
or Wednesday, November 14, 2007
There is a little house on a hill.
And nobody ever goes near.
Unkempt yard.
To say the least.
(Brown) grass so long that it is falling over and killing itself off.
Maybe gravity and mother nature care.
A little.
More wooden shingles on the ground than the house.
By a large margin.
Kids claim it is the home of a witch.
As kids do.
Adults just turn a blind eye.
As busy adults do.
If you walked inside, the smell would hit you
Like a punch.
Indescribable.
If you tried...
Mold, feces.
Despair.
For the number of empty cat food cans,
You'd expect the cats to be better fed.
No.
So many of them.
If you walked inside, the image would hit you
Darkness, cobwebs.
Neglect.
Wrapped in a decaying shawl,
She sits in the shadows.
She stares at the world outside.
A world she is not a part of.
And hasn't been for years.
Car headlights going by, lighting the dust in the air.
And briefly illuminating her face.
Her eyes almost dance.
The only real life in this place.
Old newspapers fill any surface that will hold them.
On a dust-covered caked mantle sits medals.
Many.
And a photo of a young woman in a WWII army uniform.
You recognize the eyes.
Next to it stands a very yellowed newspaper article in a frame.
That which is legible says,
"Army Nurse Saves Eight at Battle of..."
There is a little house on a hill.
And nobody ever goes near.
And that's a shame.
Note: I jotted this down on paper and was going to post it for Remembrance Day. And then I forgot.
Plus, it's kind of a downer.
And nobody ever goes near.
Unkempt yard.
To say the least.
(Brown) grass so long that it is falling over and killing itself off.
Maybe gravity and mother nature care.
A little.
More wooden shingles on the ground than the house.
By a large margin.
Kids claim it is the home of a witch.
As kids do.
Adults just turn a blind eye.
As busy adults do.
If you walked inside, the smell would hit you
Like a punch.
Indescribable.
If you tried...
Mold, feces.
Despair.
For the number of empty cat food cans,
You'd expect the cats to be better fed.
No.
So many of them.
If you walked inside, the image would hit you
Darkness, cobwebs.
Neglect.
Wrapped in a decaying shawl,
She sits in the shadows.
She stares at the world outside.
A world she is not a part of.
And hasn't been for years.
Car headlights going by, lighting the dust in the air.
And briefly illuminating her face.
Her eyes almost dance.
The only real life in this place.
Old newspapers fill any surface that will hold them.
On a dust-
Many.
And a photo of a young woman in a WWII army uniform.
You recognize the eyes.
Next to it stands a very yellowed newspaper article in a frame.
That which is legible says,
"Army Nurse Saves Eight at Battle of..."
There is a little house on a hill.
And nobody ever goes near.
And that's a shame.
Note: I jotted this down on paper and was going to post it for Remembrance Day. And then I forgot.
Plus, it's kind of a downer.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
or Tuesday, November 13, 2007
If it wasn't for NaBloPoMo, you folks would not be getting a post from me today.
I am feeling pretty miserable. Feels like I am swallowing razor blades. And I have that itchy paining earache thing. You know, the one where you want to shove sharpened pencils in each ear. I probably won't though. Plus, I have all the other fun cold symptoms.
So, this post may suck.
The ACN was sick this past weekend. And because she learned that it is good to share...
I told her last night on the phone that she gave me her cold. To which she replied:
"*snuffle snuffle* tee hee hee *snuffle*"
I just had a cold last week or the week before. Curses!
Whenever the little squirt is sick here, I am going to get it. It's not because my immune system is letting down the team. It is because I am constantly getting or giving hugs, kisses or cuddles. In fact, my sister is always giving me crap because The ACN's hair "always looks greasy!" because I can't even walk by her without giving her a kiss on the noggin.
I just shrug and tell her that is what she gets for making such a cute kid.
And then ask, "Don't you think she is really starting to look like me?"
Which always gets many groans in reply.
Though sometimes The ACN will get my back. But, only when she wants me to do something for her.
For example, this weekend:
Unc: So, you DON'T want to send me back to the Unc store anymore?
ACN: *shakes head*
Unc: You want to keep me?
ACN: Yeah!
Unc: You love me again?
ACN: YEAH!!!
Unc: Is it because you want me to play Webkinz with you?
ACN: *sheepish grin* Yeeeeah.
I got in trouble this weekend for "stealing" kisses. I asked if I could have a kiss, she refused, and I took one anyway. Shocking, I know. And she was not going to stand for it. I actually had to give back the kisses. And since I "MWAH" loudly when taking them, I figured that I had to "HAWM" when putting them back.
She quickly figured out that I was sneakily getting two kisses for the price of one and put a stop to that practice.
Still, I wonder if that gambit has any practical dating applications.
When she arrived, she almost immediately started to sneeze. I knew that was a bad sign. The next morning, she informed me that she had a sore throat. At first I thought it might be a ruse to get to eat a bunch of popsicles, but she was clearly not feeling well. (I figured it out by asking if something was sore. She said, "Yeah." Then I asked for each body part until I got to the right one. She REALLY doesn't like it if you take too long to get to the right one.)
Still, she was a little trooper. She handled being sick better than I am handling it right now. She was still playful. I am all GRRRRRRRR.
Saturday night she felt especially yucky. Around 1:30 am cries were starting to wake me up. They were followed by an angry "Unc!" or two. She had her "Don't even try to pretend you can't hear me, you big goof!" voice on.
So, I went to her bedroom. I asked if she wanted to have a sleep over in Unc's room. She replied with a sad, sick little, "Yeah." So, I scooped her up and...
She sneezed on my cheek and neck. I said "Thanks" and she giggled a little. (She also learned early on that wiping your nose on Unc's shoulder is easy to do and lots of fun.)
We didn't sleep much. She sneezed all night, and I constantly wiped her nose. She was a pretty miserable little poodle.
The other day, my Dad was giving The ACN a glass of milk. Company dropped by, and my Dad started telling a story. The ACN yelled at him for another drink. He picked up the glass and brought it to her lips. She shook her head and start laughing. He was confused, but tried it again. More laughing and head shaking. He tried it a third time and she was giggling loudly now.
He looked down and realized that he was trying to give her a drink from his own glass.
Luckily The ACN knew that rum and coke was not what she needed to fight her cold.
I am feeling pretty miserable. Feels like I am swallowing razor blades. And I have that itchy paining earache thing. You know, the one where you want to shove sharpened pencils in each ear. I probably won't though. Plus, I have all the other fun cold symptoms.
So, this post may suck.
The ACN was sick this past weekend. And because she learned that it is good to share...
I told her last night on the phone that she gave me her cold. To which she replied:
"*snuffle snuffle* tee hee hee *snuffle*"
I just had a cold last week or the week before. Curses!
Whenever the little squirt is sick here, I am going to get it. It's not because my immune system is letting down the team. It is because I am constantly getting or giving hugs, kisses or cuddles. In fact, my sister is always giving me crap because The ACN's hair "always looks greasy!" because I can't even walk by her without giving her a kiss on the noggin.
I just shrug and tell her that is what she gets for making such a cute kid.
And then ask, "Don't you think she is really starting to look like me?"
Which always gets many groans in reply.
Though sometimes The ACN will get my back. But, only when she wants me to do something for her.
For example, this weekend:
Unc: So, you DON'T want to send me back to the Unc store anymore?
ACN: *shakes head*
Unc: You want to keep me?
ACN: Yeah!
Unc: You love me again?
ACN: YEAH!!!
Unc: Is it because you want me to play Webkinz with you?
ACN: *sheepish grin* Yeeeeah.
I got in trouble this weekend for "stealing" kisses. I asked if I could have a kiss, she refused, and I took one anyway. Shocking, I know. And she was not going to stand for it. I actually had to give back the kisses. And since I "MWAH" loudly when taking them, I figured that I had to "HAWM" when putting them back.
She quickly figured out that I was sneakily getting two kisses for the price of one and put a stop to that practice.
Still, I wonder if that gambit has any practical dating applications.
When she arrived, she almost immediately started to sneeze. I knew that was a bad sign. The next morning, she informed me that she had a sore throat. At first I thought it might be a ruse to get to eat a bunch of popsicles, but she was clearly not feeling well. (I figured it out by asking if something was sore. She said, "Yeah." Then I asked for each body part until I got to the right one. She REALLY doesn't like it if you take too long to get to the right one.)
Still, she was a little trooper. She handled being sick better than I am handling it right now. She was still playful. I am all GRRRRRRRR.
Saturday night she felt especially yucky. Around 1:30 am cries were starting to wake me up. They were followed by an angry "Unc!" or two. She had her "Don't even try to pretend you can't hear me, you big goof!" voice on.
So, I went to her bedroom. I asked if she wanted to have a sleep over in Unc's room. She replied with a sad, sick little, "Yeah." So, I scooped her up and...
She sneezed on my cheek and neck. I said "Thanks" and she giggled a little. (She also learned early on that wiping your nose on Unc's shoulder is easy to do and lots of fun.)
We didn't sleep much. She sneezed all night, and I constantly wiped her nose. She was a pretty miserable little poodle.
The other day, my Dad was giving The ACN a glass of milk. Company dropped by, and my Dad started telling a story. The ACN yelled at him for another drink. He picked up the glass and brought it to her lips. She shook her head and start laughing. He was confused, but tried it again. More laughing and head shaking. He tried it a third time and she was giggling loudly now.
He looked down and realized that he was trying to give her a drink from his own glass.
Luckily The ACN knew that rum and coke was not what she needed to fight her cold.
or Monday, November 12, 2007
Thanks to the lovely and talented Sharnee from suckmylolly.com, I have a new design.
Oh, click over from bloglines and google reader, you lazy shits.
I LOVE it.
And I did not make it easy on Sharnee.
This is how things went down...
Peter: I want a new design for my site.
Sharnee: That's what I do.
Peter: The green... displeases me. *dismissive hand wave*
Sharnee: What do you have in mind?
Peter: More... black and white-ish.
Sharnee: OK. And?
Peter: Where do you think butterflies go in the rain?
Sharnee: I'm not sure...
Peter: And the main font... I want it to suck less.
Sharnee: Can you be more specific?
Peter: *considers* No.
Sharnee: OK...
Peter: And I want hula girls!
Sharnee: You want hula girls on your blog template?
Peter: Blog template?
Sharnee: Seriously, any more details you could give me would really help me out and --
Peter: I was at the crib, sittin' by the fireplace, drinkin' cocoa on the bear skin rug. The door bell rang. "Who could it be?" Thought to myself, then started to shrug.
Sharnee: Uhm... I am just going to toy with it for a bit. I'll e-mail you some ideas.
Peter: The government!!
And she still created exactly what I was looking for!
Oh, click over from bloglines and google reader, you lazy shits.
I LOVE it.
And I did not make it easy on Sharnee.
This is how things went down...
Peter: I want a new design for my site.
Sharnee: That's what I do.
Peter: The green... displeases me. *dismissive hand wave*
Sharnee: What do you have in mind?
Peter: More... black and white-ish.
Sharnee: OK. And?
Peter: Where do you think butterflies go in the rain?
Sharnee: I'm not sure...
Peter: And the main font... I want it to suck less.
Sharnee: Can you be more specific?
Peter: *considers* No.
Sharnee: OK...
Peter: And I want hula girls!
Sharnee: You want hula girls on your blog template?
Peter: Blog template?
Sharnee: Seriously, any more details you could give me would really help me out and --
Peter: I was at the crib, sittin' by the fireplace, drinkin' cocoa on the bear skin rug. The door bell rang. "Who could it be?" Thought to myself, then started to shrug.
Sharnee: Uhm... I am just going to toy with it for a bit. I'll e-mail you some ideas.
Peter: The government!!
And she still created exactly what I was looking for!
Labels: NaBloPoMo, new template
or Sunday, November 11, 2007
There is something you should know about Uncle Pete...
He's a bit of a messy feeder.
So, after breakfast, when he was getting the ACN changed, some food fell out of her jammie pants.
His reaction of, "Dude... butt toast?" made her laugh.
A LOT.
*************
The Monkey's family went to a funeral Saturday morning, so she came over to hang out with The ACN.
At first this involved a lot of playing Webkinz online and making fun of Uncle Pete.
And then lots of giggling.
Eventually, the Monkey couldn't keep the music inside and just had to start singing.
In French.
My gentle reminder that "We sing in English in this family!!!!" only caused her to raise the decibel level about 50 points and incorporate some dance moves.
She strutted and danced around The ACN in chair-y. The ACN squealed, laughed and sang some back-up.
The ACN wouldn't let me throw The Monkey out.
I asked more than once.
My continued complaints about the French music eventually worked. She stopped.
For three seconds.
Then she launched into Rhianna's "Unfaithful."
She sang EVERY SINGLE WORD.
I asked The ACN if The Monkey was a good singer.
"YEAH!"
Then The Monkey sang "Life is a Highway." Despite the fact that it was released five years before she was born, she also sang every word. And she worked in some of her got-to air guitar moves.
Because, as she recently told me, "You can never have too much air guitar, Peter."
She completed her three song set with Aerosmith's "Don't Wanna Miss A Thing." There was much emoting and every time she sang "you" she stopped and pointed at me.
That kid is loony.
He's a bit of a messy feeder.
So, after breakfast, when he was getting the ACN changed, some food fell out of her jammie pants.
His reaction of, "Dude... butt toast?" made her laugh.
A LOT.
*************
The Monkey's family went to a funeral Saturday morning, so she came over to hang out with The ACN.
At first this involved a lot of playing Webkinz online and making fun of Uncle Pete.
And then lots of giggling.
Eventually, the Monkey couldn't keep the music inside and just had to start singing.
In French.
My gentle reminder that "We sing in English in this family!!!!" only caused her to raise the decibel level about 50 points and incorporate some dance moves.
She strutted and danced around The ACN in chair-y. The ACN squealed, laughed and sang some back-up.
The ACN wouldn't let me throw The Monkey out.
I asked more than once.
My continued complaints about the French music eventually worked. She stopped.
For three seconds.
Then she launched into Rhianna's "Unfaithful."
She sang EVERY SINGLE WORD.
I asked The ACN if The Monkey was a good singer.
"YEAH!"
Then The Monkey sang "Life is a Highway." Despite the fact that it was released five years before she was born, she also sang every word. And she worked in some of her got-to air guitar moves.
Because, as she recently told me, "You can never have too much air guitar, Peter."
She completed her three song set with Aerosmith's "Don't Wanna Miss A Thing." There was much emoting and every time she sang "you" she stopped and pointed at me.
That kid is loony.
Labels: ACN, NaBloPoMo, The Monkey
or Saturday, November 10, 2007
The ACN (Adorably Cute Niece) is here for the weekend. So, expect shorter posts than usual. Little chick does NOT like sharing me with the computer.
At all.
I was trying to get a good pic of her missing front teeth, but she kept giggling, turning away and putting her hand in front of her mouth.
This is the best of the lot.
*******
She seems to be coming down with a cold. Sore throat. Lots of sneezies.
And it may have been affecting her mood a bit yesterday morning...
Unc: Your Mommy said that you were very excited when she was telling your bus driver that you'd be visiting Uncle Pete today.
ACN shakes her head.
Unc: You weren't excited?
ACN shakes her head.
Unc: Are you happy that you are here now?
ACN shakes her head.
Unc does a loud (mostly) fake *sniffle*.
ACN giggles.
Unc: You want to go home?
ACN: Yeah.
Unc: Want me to leave you on the side of the road for the gypsies?
ACN: YEAH!
Unc: Your mommy and daddy are working. Is Nipper going to take care of you at home?
ACN: (Pondering for a few moments.) Yeah.
Unc: He's a puppy!!!
Then she made me text her mommy to tell her that she wanted to go home -- as she giggled and giggled.
Unc: So, Unc is a bad unc?
ACN: Yeah.
Unc: No.
ACN: Yeah.
Unc: No!
ACN: Yeah!
UNC (bellowing skyward): NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
ACN shrieks with laughter.
*************
A little later, we decided to go for a walk. We put on her little pink boots. We tucked in her shirt. We started to put her arm in her winter coat and then...
We had a bit of a rhubarb.
She did not want to wear a coat.
It was too cold for her to go without one.
And there was yelling. And there were tears.
But, I held firm.
Still, I knew she wouldn't forget it...
Hours later, I was giving her some milk. She burped. I asked her to give me the sign for "excuse me."
She shook her head "no."
I said "Yes."
She shook her head.
I said, "YES."
And then it escalated.
There was GRRRRRRing. (Me.)
There was screaming. (Her.)
Her Irish temper really came out.
But, eventually, we solved things. I won't get into the fine print of the cease fire agreement, but suffice it to say there was no clear winner...
I fed her Cheesies (Cheese-Its) 45 minutes before dinner and then put myself in time out.
At all.
I was trying to get a good pic of her missing front teeth, but she kept giggling, turning away and putting her hand in front of her mouth.
This is the best of the lot.
*******
She seems to be coming down with a cold. Sore throat. Lots of sneezies.
And it may have been affecting her mood a bit yesterday morning...
Unc: Your Mommy said that you were very excited when she was telling your bus driver that you'd be visiting Uncle Pete today.
ACN shakes her head.
Unc: You weren't excited?
ACN shakes her head.
Unc: Are you happy that you are here now?
ACN shakes her head.
Unc does a loud (mostly) fake *sniffle*.
ACN giggles.
Unc: You want to go home?
ACN: Yeah.
Unc: Want me to leave you on the side of the road for the gypsies?
ACN: YEAH!
Unc: Your mommy and daddy are working. Is Nipper going to take care of you at home?
ACN: (Pondering for a few moments.) Yeah.
Unc: He's a puppy!!!
Then she made me text her mommy to tell her that she wanted to go home -- as she giggled and giggled.
Unc: So, Unc is a bad unc?
ACN: Yeah.
Unc: No.
ACN: Yeah.
Unc: No!
ACN: Yeah!
UNC (bellowing skyward): NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
ACN shrieks with laughter.
*************
A little later, we decided to go for a walk. We put on her little pink boots. We tucked in her shirt. We started to put her arm in her winter coat and then...
We had a bit of a rhubarb.
She did not want to wear a coat.
It was too cold for her to go without one.
And there was yelling. And there were tears.
But, I held firm.
Still, I knew she wouldn't forget it...
Hours later, I was giving her some milk. She burped. I asked her to give me the sign for "excuse me."
She shook her head "no."
I said "Yes."
She shook her head.
I said, "YES."
And then it escalated.
There was GRRRRRRing. (Me.)
There was screaming. (Her.)
Her Irish temper really came out.
But, eventually, we solved things. I won't get into the fine print of the cease fire agreement, but suffice it to say there was no clear winner...
I fed her Cheesies (Cheese-Its) 45 minutes before dinner and then put myself in time out.
or Friday, November 09, 2007
(This post is only for people 12 and over.)
A couple of days ago...
The Monkey: Admit it, Mommy. YOU are Santa Claus.
Her Mommy: OK. Fine.
The Monkey: Mommy! I can't believe that you've been lying to me. *sad face*
Her Mommy: That is what all parents do.
The Monkey: I guess that means that there is no Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy either.
Her Mommy: Sorry.
The Monkey: That makes sense. There was that one time...
Her Mommy: I know the one you mean.
The Monkey: I left my tooth under the pillow and it was still there the next day. No money.
Her Mommy: I just forgot.
The Monkey: It seemed weird.
Her Mommy: Sorry.
The Monkey: But, Mommy, you go to bed when I go to bed. How do you do it?
Her Mommy: I get back up in the middle of the night.
The Monkey: You do that for ME?
Her Mommy: Yes.
A few seconds pass.
The Monkey: Well, I guess I won't be getting my laptop for Christmas if YOU are Santa.
A couple of days ago...
The Monkey: Admit it, Mommy. YOU are Santa Claus.
Her Mommy: OK. Fine.
The Monkey: Mommy! I can't believe that you've been lying to me. *sad face*
Her Mommy: That is what all parents do.
The Monkey: I guess that means that there is no Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy either.
Her Mommy: Sorry.
The Monkey: That makes sense. There was that one time...
Her Mommy: I know the one you mean.
The Monkey: I left my tooth under the pillow and it was still there the next day. No money.
Her Mommy: I just forgot.
The Monkey: It seemed weird.
Her Mommy: Sorry.
The Monkey: But, Mommy, you go to bed when I go to bed. How do you do it?
Her Mommy: I get back up in the middle of the night.
The Monkey: You do that for ME?
Her Mommy: Yes.
A few seconds pass.
The Monkey: Well, I guess I won't be getting my laptop for Christmas if YOU are Santa.
Labels: NaBloPoMo, The Monkey
or Thursday, November 08, 2007
I was chatting with my life-long friend Mel the other afternoon. Well, "life-long" is not exactly true, as we met when we were five. And "friend" might be a bit of a stretch, since she's a pain in the ass.
Hi, Mel!
She has recently started reading my blog again. She's having fun trying to guess who all the unnamed people are. And likely giggling about how much of a giant goof I am.
I was telling her how hard it was to come up with post ideas for this NaBloPoMo business. So, she started reminding me of some of the stories from our childhood. Most of which involved my sister and I brawling over something or other. (Always HER fault!)
I've already touched on the battling ways of our youth.
However, I did forget to mention the game of Monopoly where I tore the board in half and beat my sister over the head with it. If memory serves, it was because she tried to pay me 30-odd bucks all in ones. Since I was fairly certain that there wasn't an exotic dancer square anywhere in the game, I was not standing for that disrespect.
There was also a bit of a checker fight. Which was, as it sounds, a fight involving checkers. Though I don't think we had even tried to start a game. The checker fight (and there may have been more than one) devolved into a shoe fight.
My sister stood across the room and threatened to throw one of my mother's shoes at me.
I smiled.
"So, here's the thing... I throw harder than you. I have better aim than you. You are going to toss it and maybe hit me on the leg. But, I am going to pick it up and nail you in the head. You don't want that."
I smiled again.
Of all the things my sister hated about me as a kid -- and there were MANY -- I am guessing that my smugness was right up there. Personally I felt that it made me seem delightfully impish, but whatever.
She threw the shoe. It hit my knee. Without standing up, I grabbed it and drilled her in the side of the head with it.
She cried. I said, "Well?"
I occasionally have freakishly good aim. Usually when spite or cockiness are involved. When I was a teen, I once got banned from shooting basketballs into a tiny rim at a carnival/fair. I won 5 prizes in a row. The dude told me, "Get the fuck out of here." I don't think he was ever breast fed. I decided not to ask because I make it a policy never to argue with dudes sporting what can only be described as self-inflicted prison neck tattoos.
I stand by that policy.
Not long after the checker fight, my sister did get some revenge, by swinging a lamp cord at me and embedding the prongs into my thigh. Which, I think you'll agree, is pretty ingenious use of what she could get her hands on.
(How many of you are now considering taking extra steps when it comes to birth control?)
When we were young 'uns, Mel's mom and my mom would also take us on yearly trips. Every March Break (spring break for you dirty Americans?) they'd drive us someplace to stay in a hotel. Halifax. Sydney. Prince Edward Island.
And every year they'd make the mistake of seating my sister and I next to each other in the back seat. (Remember that this was before every car had separate DVD players and headsets, and also before you were allowed to drug your kids for any old reason at all.) We'd all leave the driveway and within five minutes...
"Her knee is too close to my knee."
"He is hitting me with his elbow."
"She is harshing my zen!"
Then we'd have to pull over and the moms would put Mel between us.
Five minutes later you'd hear Mel...
"Stop throwing punches over me!"
And then the grumbling would start in the front seat.
"Fucking kids."
"Last trip EVER!!!"
Which would make us giggle, because they'd say it every year.
Especially if we were eating in a Chinese restaurant and I was trying to burn chopsticks and then used a wooden skewer dealie to flick a cookie-less fortune into the bee-hive hair do of an old woman at the next table.
Hypothetically speaking.
Mel also reminded me of what I think might be her favourite Peter/sister of Peter story...
It was before Christmas. We were still pretty young. We were playing the old "If you tell me what I am getting, I'll tell you what you are getting" game. We had tried this game pretty much every year. And every year we'd fight over who went first. This year was no different. But, even as a wee child, I would always strive for détente.
"Dear sister," I said. "There's been far too much fussin' and fightin'. But, I have an idea..."
The plan that I outlined for her was this:
We would each take a piece of paper. We would write down one present that the other was getting for Christmas. Then we would fold the pieces of paper and toss them into the middle of the room. And then we'd pick up the other's paper at exactly the same time. Mel would referee.
My sister, after some consideration, accepted the terms.
We took paper. We took pens. And we wrote.
We folded and tossed the notes into the middle of the room.
Under Mel's watchful eye we each picked up the other's note.
I unfolded mine, and in my sister's writing saw, "hockey net."
I was excited!
My sister unfolded the one I wrote and read...
"You'll find out at Christmas."
Hi, Mel!
She has recently started reading my blog again. She's having fun trying to guess who all the unnamed people are. And likely giggling about how much of a giant goof I am.
I was telling her how hard it was to come up with post ideas for this NaBloPoMo business. So, she started reminding me of some of the stories from our childhood. Most of which involved my sister and I brawling over something or other. (Always HER fault!)
I've already touched on the battling ways of our youth.
However, I did forget to mention the game of Monopoly where I tore the board in half and beat my sister over the head with it. If memory serves, it was because she tried to pay me 30-odd bucks all in ones. Since I was fairly certain that there wasn't an exotic dancer square anywhere in the game, I was not standing for that disrespect.
There was also a bit of a checker fight. Which was, as it sounds, a fight involving checkers. Though I don't think we had even tried to start a game. The checker fight (and there may have been more than one) devolved into a shoe fight.
My sister stood across the room and threatened to throw one of my mother's shoes at me.
I smiled.
"So, here's the thing... I throw harder than you. I have better aim than you. You are going to toss it and maybe hit me on the leg. But, I am going to pick it up and nail you in the head. You don't want that."
I smiled again.
Of all the things my sister hated about me as a kid -- and there were MANY -- I am guessing that my smugness was right up there. Personally I felt that it made me seem delightfully impish, but whatever.
She threw the shoe. It hit my knee. Without standing up, I grabbed it and drilled her in the side of the head with it.
She cried. I said, "Well?"
I occasionally have freakishly good aim. Usually when spite or cockiness are involved. When I was a teen, I once got banned from shooting basketballs into a tiny rim at a carnival/fair. I won 5 prizes in a row. The dude told me, "Get the fuck out of here." I don't think he was ever breast fed. I decided not to ask because I make it a policy never to argue with dudes sporting what can only be described as self-inflicted prison neck tattoos.
I stand by that policy.
Not long after the checker fight, my sister did get some revenge, by swinging a lamp cord at me and embedding the prongs into my thigh. Which, I think you'll agree, is pretty ingenious use of what she could get her hands on.
(How many of you are now considering taking extra steps when it comes to birth control?)
When we were young 'uns, Mel's mom and my mom would also take us on yearly trips. Every March Break (spring break for you dirty Americans?) they'd drive us someplace to stay in a hotel. Halifax. Sydney. Prince Edward Island.
And every year they'd make the mistake of seating my sister and I next to each other in the back seat. (Remember that this was before every car had separate DVD players and headsets, and also before you were allowed to drug your kids for any old reason at all.) We'd all leave the driveway and within five minutes...
"Her knee is too close to my knee."
"He is hitting me with his elbow."
"She is harshing my zen!"
Then we'd have to pull over and the moms would put Mel between us.
Five minutes later you'd hear Mel...
"Stop throwing punches over me!"
And then the grumbling would start in the front seat.
"Fucking kids."
"Last trip EVER!!!"
Which would make us giggle, because they'd say it every year.
Especially if we were eating in a Chinese restaurant and I was trying to burn chopsticks and then used a wooden skewer dealie to flick a cookie-less fortune into the bee-hive hair do of an old woman at the next table.
Hypothetically speaking.
Mel also reminded me of what I think might be her favourite Peter/sister of Peter story...
It was before Christmas. We were still pretty young. We were playing the old "If you tell me what I am getting, I'll tell you what you are getting" game. We had tried this game pretty much every year. And every year we'd fight over who went first. This year was no different. But, even as a wee child, I would always strive for détente.
"Dear sister," I said. "There's been far too much fussin' and fightin'. But, I have an idea..."
The plan that I outlined for her was this:
We would each take a piece of paper. We would write down one present that the other was getting for Christmas. Then we would fold the pieces of paper and toss them into the middle of the room. And then we'd pick up the other's paper at exactly the same time. Mel would referee.
My sister, after some consideration, accepted the terms.
We took paper. We took pens. And we wrote.
We folded and tossed the notes into the middle of the room.
Under Mel's watchful eye we each picked up the other's note.
I unfolded mine, and in my sister's writing saw, "hockey net."
I was excited!
My sister unfolded the one I wrote and read...
"You'll find out at Christmas."
or Wednesday, November 07, 2007
I was recently asked to give a male perspective on something. Which I did. But, I disclaimered it by saying, "Yeah, but I am not a typical dude."
And I didn't mean because when I am watching "Pushing Daisies" it frequently stresses me out that Chuck and Ned are standing too close together and I want to push Emerson Cod in between them.
I meant it in a good way.
At least I try not to be a typical dude.
Of course, I still have my boy behaviours...
This all reminded me of a story.
And now I will tell it. Otherwise that would have been the shittiest intro ever.
Picture it... Nova Scotia, Peter's high school days.
I was sixteen. I was dating a girl. She was a year older than me. She was nice. She was cute. And while I wasn't crazy about her, she seemed to like me a lot. Which is something I admire in women.
I should say that it's not that I disliked her. She just didn't... excite me. And I don't mean sexually. There was just nothing about her personality that really, well, excited me. You know how you meet someone and there is something they do, or don't do, or think that knocks you on your ass and makes you want to follow them around as if they were the Grateful Dead? Yeah, I didn't find that.
One day I was doing some volunteering for a political campaign. (Yes, I was rocking the vote long before P-Diddy. Of course, he narrowly beat me to the idea of taking entire pre-existing songs and rapping over them. Though I once did a little freestyle over "Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" that would BLOW. YOUR. MIND.) I was in the campaign office and the door opened. A couple of girls walked in. And then a third...
A recurring moment in my fiction writing is when a dude sees a woman for the first time and is completely bowled over.
Well, this was the first and only time this has really happened to me. A complete stranger walks in and I immediately think, "Hi. You are my next girlfriend."
She was blond and gorgeous.
She smiled at me. I smiled back.
And then I knew that I was breaking up with my girlfriend.
I figured the best thing was to do it immediately. So, the next day I rocked the old classic, "We have to talk..."
She started crying immediately. But, I somehow managed to power through. I explained that it just didn't feel right. That it was nothing she had done wrong. Etc. She asked if there was someone else. I tried to lie. I suck at lying.
And then she had her say on the issue.
I am not sure how much time passed, but I suspect it was a good half an hour. (Knowing me at sixteen, I was probably thinking two things: 1) "I wonder what new girl is doing." 2) "I'd love some chicken fingers.") She cried. She yelled. She swore. At one point I think she accused me of assassinating Archduke Franz Ferdinand. And then there was more swearing and yelling and crying.
Finally she finished. She wiped her nose. She stared at me silently for a few seconds before saying...
"I guess I probably should have gone down on you, huh?"
Whaaaaa?
I just shrugged and managed not to say, "Well, that is a lovely addition to any repertoire, really."
And that, my friends, was that. I was a free man.
But, because I believe STRONGLY in a post break-up waiting period, I didn't do anything for a while.
Then I started hanging out with new girl. I adored the crap out of her. And after the proper waiting period was over... I waited another month before making my move. I'm incredibly slow and lame like that.
Of course, during that month, she and I were spending a lot of time together. And when we weren't together, we talked constantly on the phone. For EIGHT HOURS one night. And, yes, I was still waiting for a sign that she liked me. ("And why aren't you married, Peter?" they ask.)
I remember the night that I made my move with stalker-like detail. I remember the temperature outside. I remember what the moon looked like. I remember the sound of crickets. I remember what she was wearing. I remember the kiss. I remember her exhaling afterwards and giving me the "It's about damn time!" look. I remember me shrugging and giving her the "I'm a goof. Part of my charm?" face.
A few weeks into our official dating, she ran into the ex in a restaurant bathroom. And the ex told her...
"Peter... he's a typical guy."
New girl told me that and I was outraged. It bothered me sooooo much.
The ex was also saying all kinds of other shitty stuff about me around town.
[As an aside that makes me sound like even more of an ass, I'll tell you what happened to new girl. We dated for a year or so. But, then seventeen year old Peter started getting phone calls and attention from every sexually liberal woman in the county. His girlfriend was awesome, but Peter wanted to sow his wild oats. Peter broke up with her. Of course, he was still crazy about her. The very next night, one of these women approached Peter, lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke in his face and said, "We should get together tomorrow night." Peter immediate realized, "I've made a huge mistake." Which Peter compounded later when a Threes Companyesque series of events led to him asking out new girl's friend. So, Peter spent months staying up at night, kicking himself in the ass, listening to depressing music and eating double-stuffed Oreos. "You know, Peter Cetera and the boys from Chicago were right. Being without you DOES take a lot of getting used to. *crunch crunch crunch*" I gained 15 pounds. I tried to tell people I was bulking up for basketball season because I was the shortest starting center (like 6'2" at the time) in the history of basketball. They asked why I didn't just lift a lot of weights. I replied, "I considered that. I did. But, if it's all the same with you, I'm just gonna try to skate by with whatever God given talent I can muster up. Cool? Super." This aside has really gotten away from me, eh?]
To this day, I won't talk to that ex. I saw her a few years back in a lobby and turned my head and kept walking. DEAD TO ME.
To be completely honest, I really don't remember a single one of the mean things she was saying about me.
But, I'll never forget "he's a typical guy."
And I didn't mean because when I am watching "Pushing Daisies" it frequently stresses me out that Chuck and Ned are standing too close together and I want to push Emerson Cod in between them.
I meant it in a good way.
At least I try not to be a typical dude.
Of course, I still have my boy behaviours...
This all reminded me of a story.
And now I will tell it. Otherwise that would have been the shittiest intro ever.
Picture it... Nova Scotia, Peter's high school days.
I was sixteen. I was dating a girl. She was a year older than me. She was nice. She was cute. And while I wasn't crazy about her, she seemed to like me a lot. Which is something I admire in women.
I should say that it's not that I disliked her. She just didn't... excite me. And I don't mean sexually. There was just nothing about her personality that really, well, excited me. You know how you meet someone and there is something they do, or don't do, or think that knocks you on your ass and makes you want to follow them around as if they were the Grateful Dead? Yeah, I didn't find that.
One day I was doing some volunteering for a political campaign. (Yes, I was rocking the vote long before P-Diddy. Of course, he narrowly beat me to the idea of taking entire pre-existing songs and rapping over them. Though I once did a little freestyle over "Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" that would BLOW. YOUR. MIND.) I was in the campaign office and the door opened. A couple of girls walked in. And then a third...
A recurring moment in my fiction writing is when a dude sees a woman for the first time and is completely bowled over.
Well, this was the first and only time this has really happened to me. A complete stranger walks in and I immediately think, "Hi. You are my next girlfriend."
She was blond and gorgeous.
She smiled at me. I smiled back.
And then I knew that I was breaking up with my girlfriend.
I figured the best thing was to do it immediately. So, the next day I rocked the old classic, "We have to talk..."
She started crying immediately. But, I somehow managed to power through. I explained that it just didn't feel right. That it was nothing she had done wrong. Etc. She asked if there was someone else. I tried to lie. I suck at lying.
And then she had her say on the issue.
I am not sure how much time passed, but I suspect it was a good half an hour. (Knowing me at sixteen, I was probably thinking two things: 1) "I wonder what new girl is doing." 2) "I'd love some chicken fingers.") She cried. She yelled. She swore. At one point I think she accused me of assassinating Archduke Franz Ferdinand. And then there was more swearing and yelling and crying.
Finally she finished. She wiped her nose. She stared at me silently for a few seconds before saying...
"I guess I probably should have gone down on you, huh?"
Whaaaaa?
I just shrugged and managed not to say, "Well, that is a lovely addition to any repertoire, really."
And that, my friends, was that. I was a free man.
But, because I believe STRONGLY in a post break-up waiting period, I didn't do anything for a while.
Then I started hanging out with new girl. I adored the crap out of her. And after the proper waiting period was over... I waited another month before making my move. I'm incredibly slow and lame like that.
Of course, during that month, she and I were spending a lot of time together. And when we weren't together, we talked constantly on the phone. For EIGHT HOURS one night. And, yes, I was still waiting for a sign that she liked me. ("And why aren't you married, Peter?" they ask.)
I remember the night that I made my move with stalker-like detail. I remember the temperature outside. I remember what the moon looked like. I remember the sound of crickets. I remember what she was wearing. I remember the kiss. I remember her exhaling afterwards and giving me the "It's about damn time!" look. I remember me shrugging and giving her the "I'm a goof. Part of my charm?" face.
A few weeks into our official dating, she ran into the ex in a restaurant bathroom. And the ex told her...
"Peter... he's a typical guy."
New girl told me that and I was outraged. It bothered me sooooo much.
The ex was also saying all kinds of other shitty stuff about me around town.
[As an aside that makes me sound like even more of an ass, I'll tell you what happened to new girl. We dated for a year or so. But, then seventeen year old Peter started getting phone calls and attention from every sexually liberal woman in the county. His girlfriend was awesome, but Peter wanted to sow his wild oats. Peter broke up with her. Of course, he was still crazy about her. The very next night, one of these women approached Peter, lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke in his face and said, "We should get together tomorrow night." Peter immediate realized, "I've made a huge mistake." Which Peter compounded later when a Threes Companyesque series of events led to him asking out new girl's friend. So, Peter spent months staying up at night, kicking himself in the ass, listening to depressing music and eating double-stuffed Oreos. "You know, Peter Cetera and the boys from Chicago were right. Being without you DOES take a lot of getting used to. *crunch crunch crunch*" I gained 15 pounds. I tried to tell people I was bulking up for basketball season because I was the shortest starting center (like 6'2" at the time) in the history of basketball. They asked why I didn't just lift a lot of weights. I replied, "I considered that. I did. But, if it's all the same with you, I'm just gonna try to skate by with whatever God given talent I can muster up. Cool? Super." This aside has really gotten away from me, eh?]
To this day, I won't talk to that ex. I saw her a few years back in a lobby and turned my head and kept walking. DEAD TO ME.
To be completely honest, I really don't remember a single one of the mean things she was saying about me.
But, I'll never forget "he's a typical guy."
Labels: high school Peter, NaBloPoMo
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