Tick/Tock

Before I begin, I would like to make it clear that I love my mother very much. She reads my writing, so I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea about anything I post online.

That being said, the woman has the most skewed concept of time in the world. All of the clocks in our house (with the exception of the ones in my bedroom) are set to be approximately five minutes ahead of the actual time. Her reasoning is understandable: she never wants to be late.

Therefore, one would assume that it is easy to be able to know the correct time while looking at any clock in my house. All you would really have to do is subtract five minutes from the time which is upon the clock,. However, like many of life’s false promises, this protocol is full of flaws due to the fact that absolutely none of the clocks in the Peterson household are set to the same time.

Take, for example, a sample reading of a few of the house’s timepieces:
* The clock on the wall in the dining room (that is taped together with scotch tape because I accidentally made it fall one time) reads 10:48.
* There lies a small desktop clock atop the wine rack in the dining room that reads 10:31.
* In the living room, there’s a clock that chimes every 15 minutes. It reads 10:46.
* On the wall in the living room, there is a nifty cuckoo clock that reads 10:47.
* There also sits a cheap grandfather clock in the dining room that my brother got for my mother for her birthday or something a few years ago. It reads 3:50, but I’m pretty sure the reason for that inaccuracy can be attributed to a lack of consistent winding. Anyhow, it still contributes to the point at hand.
* The actual time, according to “The Man”:http://www.time.gov/, is 10:43.

The success of my mother’s goal of punctuality, therefore, is wholly dependent on which room you’re in before you leave. Me? I’ll just sit at my computer and be five minutes late to every place I go.

Coming soon to a country club near you!

We Petersons have a sad and sorry history when it comes to the game of golf. My father brought a new level of amateurism to the sport when he started way back when the dinosaurs roamed the earth and has since passed along the torch of suckiness to his two sons.

Yesterday, in an attempt to feel rich, my brother and I traveled out to a local course. We qualified it as such: he’s soon to be a lawyer, and lawyers need to golf. Anyhow, we teed off on the first hole with positive attitudes and optimistic outlooks. By the 18th green, however, our hopes and dreams were cut at the seams.

Ian and I started this par 53 course with boxes and boxes of shiny new golf balls. We finished the course with (very lenient) scores of 85 and 99, respectively, and one golf ball.

One ball.

By the 18th tee, we had managed to lose upwards of 20 balls and were forced to play the hole separately. I used the remaining ball to finalize my already miserable stroke count and then brought it back to the tee so that my brother could finish up the course. That, my friends, is Peterson golf at its finest.

Perhaps we should just stick to video games.

It's how you play the game

If you’ve never played The Penis Game, you are either above the age of 20 or a total loser. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the sport, here’s a quick 411:

One person says the word “penis” in a public place. Another person, having accepted Player One’s challenge, then says “penis” at a higher decibel. In variations of the game, another person is generally the unofficial judge and confirms whether or not Player Two’s exclamation was louder. The two players each repeat their turns and the loser is the person who lacks the confidence to continue shouting the sullied word.

Now, my family is a unique bunch. We’ve been playing for years, and my mother is almost always our competition. She never misses a good round of The Penis Game.

Yesterday, the family was in the state capitol, and when we entered the solemn sanctuary known as the Florida Supreme Court, I couldn’t help myself. I nudged my mom and the contest was on.

Though the game was very short lived (as my mother was far too embarrassed to play in such a setting), it was very exciting. Needless to say, after all was said and done, I was the champion. Yes, folks, that’s right – I was the victor in the highest court in the State of Florida.

That’s one down, 49 to go.

It's Baxter!

A few years ago, when my 17 year old cat named Sam died three days after my dog, the Peterson family was reduced to owning and caring for one cat. And at first, it was alright. It was nice to have an animal around the house filling my Miniature Chelty’s role as resident furry thing that poops.

Mind you, however, that I brought this cat, Lucky, home from preschool. That would make him 12. Sixty four in cat years. That’s old. And it’s showing.

Since about four years ago, Lucky’s had a very demanding nighttime schedule that, luckily, I am not responsible for maintaining. Each morning at about three, his high-pitched squeal that has devolved and can no longer be considered a meow rings throughout the house, waking my poor father, consistently and without fail. Then good ole Pop gets out of bed, letting the cat outside to do whatever cats do in the wee hours of the morning.

Then, I get up at five and ignore the mindless droning of feline desire so that I don’t have to deal with the morning feeding chores – particularly because I have no idea what to feed this thing. Enter my father, who’s been through the regiment morning after morning for years. My mother is very particular about her cat; she’s outlined a system concerning what food the cat eats at particular junctures that is more intricate and complex than most women. And, my friends, women are enigmas.

And so, upon allowing entrance to the most annoying animal God decided to put on this green earth, Dad has to feed it the food prescribed by the mandate of the matriarch of the household and wait until its next session of crying, whereupon someone lets the cat outside only to be forced to let it back inside again.

When everyone leaves the homestead to attend to their daily affairs, the cat sleeps the day away atop the back of our blue recliner, which is nice and peaceful. Until it has to poop. Then, it goes and squats in the same place every time. Every time. And I clean it up every time. Every time.

Unbeknownst to my mother, I’ve proposed that we kill the cat. However, by posting it here, the secret’s out. Therefore, I guess I can’t get away with it. On the other hand, it would be an absolute travesty Lucky accidentally disappeared. A real tearjerker, let me tell you.

I’m currently accepting bids on the job.

I’m not dead

I’m currently writing from the toasty second bedroom of my grandparent’s house in Clayton, Georgia. Right now, it’s a balmy 42 degrees Fahrenheit outside and I couldn’t be happier to be indoors for once. My return to civilization as we know it in the smaller latitudes won’t come too soon.

The one thing that’s made this endeavor into the frigid recesses of the boonies is my long-awaited 40 gigabyte Apple iPod. I had been storing my meager funds ever since my car insurance had been payed off for the year. The “iPod Fund’s” initial contribution was my final paycheck from my job at the daycare this summer, but not much was added since, due primarily to a lack of resources.

My parents, being the divinely wonderful people they are, went ahead and satisfied my two-year longing with the arrival of the twenty fourth of November (my brother, Ian, was also instrumental in the planting of the iPod seed within their minds); twenty three hours of song transfer later, I had roughly twenty days of music to entertain myself with during this arduous pilgrimage to the north. It is the most fun you can have with your pants on and your blender off.

Even so, I can’t wait to be home tomorrow.

These go to 11

I feel ashamed to say that before last night, none of may family has been privy to the wonder that is This Is Spinal Tap.

What’s even worse is that after buying the VHS version of the movie from Walgreens for $3.99 and watching it after our sojourn to Monty’s, the neighborhood pizza place, my father and mother did not give off vibes of extreme excitement for having been shown the light after 20 years of darkness.

I am seriously now considering that it is entirely possible that I was adopted.

Bad George

A few weeks ago, Ian put the capital into an investment of 100 Polo shirts from a supplier. They’ve never been opened, are in original packaging, and have a retail price of $52.50. We decided to resell them to try and turn a profit. And, regrettably, we went to the flea market. Charging $20.00 a piece, we sold $100.00 worth in shirts. Not too successful, given the surplus inventory we have. But what made the venture worth it was George.

George is a regular. 89 years young, he knows everyone by name as they do him, and he greets everyone with a smile. He admits that he moves at the speed of a 98 year-old, but mentally, he’s quick as a fox and twice as sly. He sells things you would normally find in a drugstore, you know – toothpaste and Mach 3 razors and the like. Until about 12:30 he sat at the booth next to ours, imparting immeasurable wisdom upon us.

First, it was about the flea market. After over 20 years he knows what’s too expensive, what will and won’t last, and the types of items that sell best. But then our conversations turned broader. We touched upon subjects of race, sex, religion, and age.

My favorite George-ism was when he explained interracial relationships. He thinks that every white young lady who becomes involved with a brother is bound to be beat. When asked why they stay with the abuser he answers, “They like that black oak.”

I will miss George. From now on, no more flea markets for us.

The Hot Game

Hot Game, The.
noun
1 : Game played by traversing long distances by automobile with windows rolled up and heater on its highest setting. Normally played in summer. Players win when the other gives up or dies, depending on the order in which such events transpire.
2 archaic : Title of cheap pornography from the 1970s.

Walking Across Hot Places Barefoot Game, The.
noun
1 : Game played by abandoning all footwear and running through paved areas in the hot sun. Normally played in summer. Players win when their opponent’s feet burn off and walking can only be achieved on the left over nubs of melted flesh at the bottoms of the shin.

Ian and I played both of these games today, the Hot Game on our way to and from the beach and the Walking Across Hot Places Barefoot Game (WAHPBG) when we got there. Now we’re predicting that blisters are to form on the bottoms of our feet. Oh well, life goes on.

Adventures of Armando

The other night, my grandmother (who is normally the very reserved Southern type) came to the door. I greeted her with, “Hi, grandma, how’re-

“I need your father out here right now.”

Well, so much for friendly hellos. I sent my dad out and, as would be expected, the rest of my family followed. All except me. You see, my family has a tendency to make scenes. Not so much my family as my grandmother. Well, anyway, everyone went out and I was a curious onlooker from the window.

In my grandmother’s car parked in the street, there sat an elderly Latin American man. He looked rather comfortable – we had given him bottled water from the refrigerator in the garage and he just sat there, talking with my brother.

His name was Armando.
He was from Cuba.
He didn’t speak English.
And he forgot where he lived.

Somehow, in my grandmother’s mind, an inclination to talk to this fellow spurted up and here he was. We called the police and soon an officer came.

She was the most beautiful police officer I have ever seen. I forget her name, but I’m sure it was sexy. There’s just something about a woman with a gun in uniform that strikes me as, well, awesome.

She came and went, as did Armando. I miss them both. I hope they’re okay.

———-

In other news, some freshman thanked me for that Web site for English vocabulary lists I made last year. I had forgotten about that, so I went to check out the site. Being a 2-year old Geocities site, it’s riddled with pop-ups, so I moved all the files here as a final resting place. That should take care of things.

Flea Market

I went to the Flea Market yesterday with my brother’s girlfriend and my mother only because I found it to be too beautiful a day to waste. After riding to Oldsmar and taking ten minutes to park, we got out and ventured into the world of the flea. After demanding that we walk every aisle and see every store (including the aptly named Sock Shop), I have come to a conclusion: The flea market is the greatest thing on earth. Ever.

Sure, it’s dirty. Sure, all it is is a bunch of guys named Cletus selling their crap. And sure, the mere notion that anyone would buy lingerie from such a place is appalling. But without the funnel cake induced sugar stupor that inexplicably takes over the spirit of all the slack-jawed yokels that mindlessly wander the premises arguing and saying “No, we’ve already been down that aisle,” America just wouldn’t be the same. No bargain basement used country music CDs. No really, really, ridiculously cheap knockoff sunglasses. No vintage Nascar paraphernalia. Life as we know it would be worse off.

Anywho, I also went to the Hospice store and bought a couple of shirts, one of which is red and looks like this:

Hah. Too bad it’s way too small for me.