I told you this jacket was bad-ass.

100% Ninjarific Nylon

Don't fuck with my classic style. It's one-of-a-kind.

Yesterday I pulled into my neighborhood Chevron so I could let them empty my wallet into my gas tank. As I stood there, watching the total climb past forty dollars, waiting for the attendant to strangle me with the hose from his pressure-washer and put me out of my misery, I looked around at the other people washing their windows and filling their tanks.

There was tall, skinny girl in her over-sized pickup. More than likely it belonged to her under-sized boyfriend. There was middle-aged real estate agent lady in her Chrysler LeBaron. I figure she got it right after she changed her name from Kitty to Karen. Which got me thinking, "Why are so many Cake songs about cars or driving?" Perhaps it's a fetish.

Then there was black girl in the Subaru Outback. She was pretty enough but not stunning. Nevertheless she stood out among the other customers. That's because she must have been one of the seven black people who live in Utah who aren't here on a sports scholarship. Sorry, I was channeling my father-in-law for a second there.

My mother has an aunt who looks like Doris Day. I hardly ever see her except at weddings, funerals and Bear Lake once or twice a year. She's old now but since she buys hydrogen peroxide by the tanker-load, she still looks just like Doris Day. I like her almost as much for that reason as anything else.

I was delighted when Aunt Doris and her husband, Uncle Spence meandered over from their cabin two-doors down to chit-chat. They've always been two of my favorite people. They always have nice things to say and seem genuinely interested in how I'm doing and what's new in my life.

I took a break from the great and important storm door project to have a drink of water and catch up with them. I heard all about their grandkids. We talked about how far out the lake still seems to be and longed for the old days when we could step right out the back door and right on to the beach.

When I was a kid, I looked forward to Memorial Day every year. It didn't matter to me if it wasn't yet really warm enough for outdoor activities. This was my first good chance to get to Bear Lake, do some waterskiing and get that first base-coat of sunburn that you've just got to have if you're going to keep yourself properly crispy for the summer season.

This weekend, while I did get to family cabin at Bear Lake, it was only for part of the day Saturday... to install some storm doors. As an adult with kids of my own who trash... err... use the place, I feel somewhat obligated to help with the upkeep. Besides, the men on this side of the family are notorious for being useless in matters of home repair and other such manly things. Without me, the only work done on the place would be anything that could be done with flathead screwdriver and a thirty-year-old pair of slipjoint pliers.

This old house needs more than storm doors.

This is, I believe, exactly one metric buttload of toilet paper.

How many boxes in a buttload?

The last time I was inside a Mormon church was to submit my resignation of membership to the local Bishop a year and a half ago. Well, I guess that was the penultimate time. The actual most recent time was just a couple days ago.

Beth's pre-school graduation had been planned to be held at a nearby park. The threat of rain which never came put a damper on those plans. The always-thinking-on-her-feet teacher, Miss Caroline, quickly arranged for the event to be held at her ward house. She even managed to displace a blood drive. Not a problem though, since in this town there's always another church no farther than a block away.

And though I've made a deliberate effort to avoid specifically Mormon activities, I wasn't put off by attending this event at a Mormon church since this wasn't a church event. Though you wouldn't have known once you walked in the door.

As much as Donna is able to hold a grudge, she knows exactly how to show me when she's over it.

Last night, she came to bed in her Kasey Kahne t-shirt and Hanes Her Ways. I knew she meant serious business. Without hesitation, we got right down to it. She actually even kissed me while we made love, so I know she meant it.

Then today, right as I got back to my desk from lunch, I heard the theme song from The Office from my back pocket. It was Donna calling.

Donna made her first visit to this site yesterday.

Since then, she's done quite a bit of reading. She's hurting and I don't blame her. My only hope is that she comes to know that these posts are only a thin slice of what is complete about my thoughts and feelings. In the meantime, this is blowing up in my face and I'm just going to have to deal with it.

I'm confident we'll make it past this though. We've been through much worse and come out better for it.

My dearest wife, best friend and lover,

Almost a year ago I began writing privately on this blog. I wrote, and have written almost every day since, honest and revealing details about our lives, my feelings and my experiences. Some of the things I write are painful and angry. Others are light and humorous. An examination of my writing here will reveal a cross-section of the highs and lows of our lives as well as some experiences from my youth.

In order to protect you, our family and our privacy, I invented an online persona, an alter-ego. Pete Dunn is my online voice. Through Pete I have found expression and creativity. Pete has taught me about myself and our relationship.

As Donna and I stood naked in front of the mirror I couldn't help but notice the remarkable shape she has whipped her body into lately. Every morning she is up at six to exercise. She's watching what she eats and generally taking care of herself. She looks good. I mean... really... good.

I look... well... not as good. My waist is still in the thirties and no one would describe me as fat. It's just that I'm pretty damn gooey. Basically, she could kick my ass.

As I stood there admiring her refurbished body she asked me how the amateur photography class I took the day before had gone.

While enjoying the sun yesterday near the fountain at my favorite local outdoor mall I watched the parade of people. It must have been my lucky day because in the course of thirty minutes I photographed a drunk, angry Indian cursing at himself, a midget walking a chihuahua and three smoking hot nurses. It was almost like I was living in a Don Rickles routine.

Don't believe me?

In about two seconds he'll be pushing over innocent and unsuspecting signs.

I may have exaggerated a bit yesterday. I didn't do it on purpose. I hope you forgive me. See, it's just that I totally underestimated how scatterbrained and absentminded a twelve-year-old girl is capable of being. I know... what was I thinking?

It turns out that Megan's purse wasn't stolen after all. In fact, it wasn't even really lost. Megan is just blonde... err... blind. Her purse was actually sitting in her friend's dad's car on the seat exactly next to where she sat riding home. Her cell phone quietly vibrating away, set to silent.

I blame myself. I should have guessed, really. Anytime I ask Megan where, for example, the remote control is and she says, "I don't know. I can't find it", I know to look right where, if it were a snake it would have bitten her.

Megan is no idiot. Sort of.

She's already wisely learned that Target is a cool place to shop with all her other tweeny-bopper friends. She's also learned that the Starbucks at Target is a cool place to buy a refreshing beverage. What she hasn't learned is how to pick up her purse after paying.

When her friend's dad dropped her off back at the house and she climbed from the car she exclaimed, "Oh craaaaap. I think I left my purse at the store."

Perhaps the most unfortunate headline of all time:
Prostitute Killed In Hoe Attack

I'm just sayin'.

Beth added a couple more Star Wars action figures to her collection the other day. Since then she's been carrying around the folded ad booklet that came with the set as if it were a precious and rare new book of scripture. Like Robert Langdon with the dainty and delicate "Diagramma Della Verita" in the breast pocket of his Harris Tweed.

She pulls it out of her pocket, unfolds it and studies it for more details she may have missed the last four-thousand-ninety-six times she read it. Then she carefully and meticulously folds it back up and jams it back into her pocket. Once in a while she will show us something new from the booklet we obviously haven't seen before.

"Look dad... guns!" Because, as you know, guns are the BEST, dad. Next to light sabers, of course.

The vacation I've been yearning for is now in my future.

My tree-hugging, river-running Uncle Roger has been guiding tours on the Colorado River for years. Roger's such a pro that last summer he guided Laura Bush, the twins, a few of Laura's friends and a dozen or so Secret Service and Navy Seal types through the Grand Canyon. He even managed to snap a really amazing picture of Jenna Bush climbing off a boat in a bikini that would just about make you want to lobby for the removal of presidential term-limits, if you know what I mean.

Roger called this week wondering if I wanted to help out as a "swamper" on an 8-day float in July. Without hesitation I agreed. I could figure out how to arrange the time off and explain it to Donna later.

Golly if I didn't get an email from Ken Jennings the other day. This, of course, in reaction to my posts responding to his post. I can only hope he's not too pissed about me publishing it.