Fiddley Gomme - Love

Dancing With The Stars

Pete — Wed, 28 May 2008 22:52:00 -0400

The love for my children is infinite. It knows no bounds.

I know. Vomit.

I've never found the limits of my love for them... but I can see the edge from here.

Several of the last Saturday mornings have been spent in the basement studio of Cynthia's very pregnant, usually barefoot, frequently perky dance teacher. This alone isn't SO unusual. With four daughters there seems to be no end to the activities requiring leotards and sequins. I've sacrificed more than my share of weekends and evenings to recitals and lessons.

What made these particular Saturdays so unusual is that I was the one breaking a sweat. These rehearsals were for the dads. Or as the grammar-barren flyer, photocopied on goldenrod, now stuck to the refrigerator door called us, "the dad's." To be specific, we were rehearsing for a dance piece in the upcoming recital that the girls ("our daughter's" -sigh-) had prepared especially to include us.

I figured the teacher, who has seen me on stage, would know that I am simply too uncoordinated and graceless to be trusted with anything more complicated than, as we called it when I was a Madrigal, choralography. Choralography simulates dancing in kind of the same way curling poses as an actual sport requiring skill and coordination. Her misuse of the possessive apostrophe should have tipped me off.

The number is something like a five minute hip-hop cha-cha medley. Or exactly like.

We are required to not just stand there while our kids prance about is while we blush. No. There's actual dancing. And hands. Jazz hands. And possibly the moon walk.

"It's left, left, cha-cha-cha! Listen to the beat, dads (err... dad's)! Try to stay together! Watch your spacing!"

If her navel weren't sticking out six inches, ready to parry my blow, I might be tempted to punch her in the baby. Instead, I smile... I listen to the beat... I try to stay together.

Now The Parade Of Boys Begins

Pete — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 00:51:15 -0500

It started like this, "Dad, can I go to the movies with Tyson?"

"You mean with Tyson and his parents?"

"Well..."

"You mean with Tyson and his parents?"

"Dad!"

"You mean with Tyson and his parents."

Megan pulled the cell phone from her pocket and, without dialing, said, "Umm... your parents have to go with us."

Ah, so Tyson was behind this. And he was on the phone. Loudly, I finished Megan's thought, "AND NOT JUST TO DROP YOU OFF."

At this point I clearly recognized the direction of Tyson's scheme. I had been there myself not so many years ago. OK, it was a lifetime ago but I knew what the little snot was thinking. He's thirteen. He was thinking, "I can haz brastrap?" And he would work every angle to make it work out so he ended up alone in a darkened room with his pimply butt as close to Megan's as possible.

"How about if we meet a bunch of other kids there?" This was clearly the boy's idea.

"AND HIS PARENTS?" I had my caps lock on so he could hear me. I was a step ahead of him and I wanted him to know it because Megan didn't see where he was going with this. Or worse... she knew exactly where he was going with this.

"My dad says your parents have to go with us... uh huh... ok... good idea. I'll ask."

I knew what she was about to ask because I spent a lot of time in my teenage years working a situation to be alone with girls I liked. And I was good at it. Tyson would not get the chance to be good at it this time.

She parroted verbatim his grand idea, "what if Tyson and some other kids came over here to watch a movie?"

Just as I expected. This is a classic misdirection technique. A mom might have fallen for this and then not known how to handle it. In fact, if you are reading this right now thinking, "sounds like a good compromise" then just come to terms now with your daughter becoming the neighborhood spin-the-bottle champion.

See, the plan works like this. You take advantage of the fact that the girl's parents think their own home is a safe environment no matter what. This is the easiest way to get the parents to stop paying attention to what you are doing. They get distracted by their regular around-the-house routine and, if you are quiet enough, almost forget that you are there... in the dark... with their daughter.

If you don't believe me, remind me to tell you about any of the dozens of times Donna and I had sex in her parents basement while they watched a movie in their bedroom just up the stairs. When you take a girl out somewhere else and try and get in her pants, her parents ask her all kinds of questions. Since young girls aren't good at lying yet, the parents always find out. But they never think to ask what anyone was up to in their own house.

But knowing this put me at the advantage. I would not be tricked by his slight of hand. I would let him come to my house then I would watch him. By watching him, he would know that I knew. Then I will mock his squeaky voice and verbally question his masculinity right to his face. This would let him know that I was cool but clearly much superior to him. He would know that I had invented the game he was playing and that he would never trick me.

And if none of that works... I can always just punching him in the face and throw him in the snow in his baggy jeans and hoodie.

"Yeah, go ahead and invite a few friends over for a movie. Sounds like a good idea."

Can't Win For Losing

Pete — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 01:31:35 -0400

Donna has had a pretty rough week, in a grumpier-that-the-people-around-her-care-to-talk-about kind of way. For some reason or another she seems to have been not quite herself. She's been barking at the kids and refusing any kind of attempts to help her cheer up.

Then today, after Twitter dumped a whole bunch of messages from her tweets, I got this desperate text message...

Why am I getting so upset so easily!!!! My replies are all there but not my recents for days and days.

Clearly things were getting out of hand. The twenty-seven or so random, rambling messages about twenty-three totally disconnected things told me they weren't going to get any better. Her fragile mood was falling completely apart.

I made several phone calls trying to cheer her up and get to the bottom of the problem but to no avail. She'd have no part of it. She was dead-set on being in a pissy mood. But my big concern was what I knew would happen next. She was about to get really needy.

Right after I told her I felt like she could use a night out away from the kids, the end began like this...

Oh, right
maybe I'll stay out till 3:00
and start smoking
and make out with a stranger
What would you say if I said I wanted to make out with a stranger?

She doesn't want to make out with a stranger. She want's me to tell her that I don't want that. I am not so stupid that I don't know that. But I didn't think it was fair that she would ask me a loaded question that would, no matter how I answered, end up in a fight. Especially when all I'd been trying to do is encourage her to do whatever she needed to do to break out of her funk.

I was being the good husband and I was about to get hamstringed for it.

I just need to know you love me.

I do love you. That's exactly why if making out with a stranger would make you happy that I would want you to do it. Especially if she was really hot and you would let me watch.

Dear Donna

Pete — Sun, 20 May 2007 13:01:24 -0400

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.

I never wanted or intended for this writing to be a secret from you. You and I have had enough secrets. I always figured it was more like an anonymous and private diary, safely tucked away in a bedside table. I never intended to hide this site from you and I figured you would find out one way or another. You've told me you never want to feel stupid for being the last to know again and that's why I want to be the one to show this to you. I would have been heartbroken if you had come across this on your own, or worse to have someone else discover it and embarrass you with it, only to have you feel betrayed and vulnerable.

While nothing I've written here will come as a surprise or great revelation to you, it is very, very frank and honest. Nothing here is a big secret. My biggest secret these days is that I sometimes listen to rap music on my iPod while we mow and trim the lawn.

His and Hers

But I know that you are a more private and less revealing person than I am. I know you may feel vulnerable and hurt by seeing the vivid and intimate details of our private lives written out for the world to read. I understand that you may be embarrassed or angry at me.

All my expressions of feeling here are honest and real but, and I think you already know this, they are not my only feelings. Since I started writing here, our lives have become magical. We have become closer and more in love than ever. I credit this, in part, to my ability to express myself more honestly. Part of that ability has come directly from my work on this blog. In writing what I feel in the moment, I am given the opportunity to re-read and examine my feelings. In many cases I've also received positive support and constructive advice that has continued to push me forward in my efforts to be a better and more loving husband.

Since the time I started writing a modest audience has come to hear my story. Some people find my story and writing interesting. At the very least, they have found someone with whom they can relate. I like to think that if and when you read what I have written you will find it entertaining, sad, funny and likable. But there's something lacking. You. Your voice. Your side of the story. Your experiences and insight.

I think people would find your voice and your story even more compelling. I am not complete without you and I don't think it's fair to keep telling our story without you. Whether its hauling dirt in the garden, making dinner for the kids or entertaining friends, you and I are better as a team. I don't want to keep doing this without you or your voice any longer.

I dream that you and I can each tell our story both together and separately. You from your perspective, me from mine. Your wit, intellect and insight would be warm and refreshing. Also, you and I have a very unique relationship and have an interesting and unique perspective on a number of issues. As a team I know we could do this better than I ever could alone. For your voice to be heard, I invite you to tell your story as well. By my side, I hope that we can tell our story better together than I ever could alone.

Part of me thinks I may be making a bigger deal of this than needs to be made. Lately, especially, you've been very understanding of me. You've been a giant in allowing me to be myself. Probably, if I had been forthcoming about this in the first place, you would have sloughed it off as no big deal. Part of me tells me that you may have already been aware of, at least the existence of, this site even if you've never visited it before today. The other part of me tells me you'll probably be very angry for keeping it from you. I don't blame you at all. It wasn't fair of me and for that I am very sorry.

You have always stood by me, even when people around you were telling you to give up on me. You have been hurt more than you ever deserved. You have given me better than I have deserved with your ability to love and express love that I admire and try to emulate. I love you so much for being by my side when I've needed you most.

I love you and will always love you,
Your husband

Nichole, Please Pick Up Line Number Two

Pete — Fri, 13 Apr 2007 16:48:27 -0400

From outside the stall I heard the clickity-clack of a cell phone being dialed and a voice approaching the stall next to mine.

"Hello... is Nichole there?"

There was a short wait as the caller entered the stall and closed the door behind him.

"Hey, what are you doing? Oh cool.... me? I'm about to poop."

He did NOT just say that. Did he?

"To POOP," he enunciated.

He did say it.

"Hey, do you know the best way for me to get in touch with Leo?... Leo... the photographer."

He pulled a sanitary paper seat cover from the dispenser and positioned it.

"I don't know the number, that's why I called you."

He unzipped his pants and sat down.

"Yeah... just now," he laughed. Nichole must have heard the zipper.

He grunted and pooped.

"OK, thanks... talk to you later. I love you."

Who says romance is dead?

Has Anything Really Changed?

Pete — Fri, 16 Mar 2007 13:23:57 -0400

More from the "I can't believe I'm letting you read this" file...

April 5, 1990 - 11:36 PM

Drawn in pen. I must have really meant it.

That's Lisa Mangum dropping my ass out of an airplane!

Let it be known that I NEVER said a bad or negative thing about that woman! I think tomorrow I'm going to go see Tiffany. Things never ended between us. We both moved and didn't stay in touch. Lisa told me I don't say good things about people. Correction... She said I always have something negative to say about people. Maybe that's true. I'm trying to do better. I want her to know that I'd do anything that she remotely suggested and always will. I care for her very much. I'm not bitter. I'm angry at myself for not seeing how she felt sooner. Lisa should know that no matter what happens, she can come to me and still have a best friend. Justin and I talked today. We always do. He's such a stud. We both hate women. Anyway back to my obsession.

About 2 weeks ago I was at Lisa's house until about 5:30 AM. We ended up kissing long and hard and good. I was feeling intensely cool and had the awesomest feeling. It was different than just a typical "high school love" It was beyond that. Something real was happening and it had to be more than one sided, it just HAD to be! But she ignored it. HOW? How? I don't get it. Anyway Tuesday she told me, basically, to stop loving her. Well, I can't just stop loving her. I still do very much too. I miss being able to be her friend. I can't be around her and not love her. I can't even think about her and not love her. I miss Lisa so much. It hurts to know that she never loved me. It hurts a lot. Don't get me wrong. We were very close. A friendship like that is rare. Espescially (or something like that) between a man and a woman. And because it's so rare, I mistook it for something it wasn't. Ahhhhh! I love you so much Lisa!!!!! There's still so much I NEED to tell you. I'm so far beyond the emotions of a 16 year old. What I feel for Lisa is not childish. It is VERY adult.

What is childish, (Sorry Lisa), is Lisa ignoring what she MUST have felt. The reason that's childish is that she felt the emotions beyond that of a teenager and failed to accknowledge them. Thats sad. She too is above acting like a teenager. We are of the few who are ready to push past the limits of a blind society. Unfortunately, that society is not yet ready. One day she won't be afraid to feel what she really feels.

I love you Lisa

-Pete Dunn

Teen angst, much?

My favorite part of that entry is how, like the well-trained Mormon I was, I presumed that since Lisa didn't feel exactly as I did that she was simply denying her true feelings. it couldn't possibly have been that she didn't actually feel the same way. Satan was clearly deceiving her.

My use of paragraph breaks, underlines, elipses, exclamation points. and use of the term "blind society" demonstrate just how grown up I was. What is most telling to me is how I could have posted this as a new blog entry today and no one would have known the difference.

Just think, a little more than 3 years after this I was married.

Another observation... Sometime between 1988 and 1990 I started writing, as I do now, in only uppercase letters.

Oh What A Relief It Isn't

Pete — Fri, 16 Feb 2007 19:22:35 -0500

My beer, like much of my life, lacks fizz.

I was eager to get the my first bottle of homemade beer open last night. As the cap clanked to the counter, the bottle stood there silently. As I poured the cold beer into the glass there was no head. No suds. Oh, there were a few bubbles but the stuff was nowhere near fully carbonated.

I was let down a bit. The beer still in the bottles will likely be just fine in a week or so but still... I was really looking forward to the experience being perfect.

I couldn't help but think how very much this was exactly like the previous evening. Substitute a naked Donna for cold, flat beer. Sure, it was beer... and it was cold... but it wasn't the full experience I'd anticipated. One hates to disparage cold beer at first glance but upon further inspection, it just isn't satisfying.

At least I know what to do about the beer. With Donna, I'm at a loss. Perhaps I don't express my feelings well. Perhaps my needs are selfish. One way or the other, I'm dissatisfied and I have no ability to find a solution.

When trying to explain my frustration today Donna gave me her summation of my feelings. "So what you're saying is that you're mad because I was in bed naked."

While technically correct this is just like saying, "So you didn't like the beer even though it was cold." While the coldness of beer is very important, it is not the only variable in excellent beer. Just as simple nakedness is not the single attribute of a quality intimate experience.

I had no response. The depth of my frustration is so much more than that. To have her quantify it in such simple and petty terms was heartbreaking. She simply doesn't understand what I need and I don't know how to help her know what's in my heart.

What I want is a partner who isn't satisfied with simply being technically available, a lover who wants me to love her and understands why I would want more than simple nakedness to satisfy my need for intimacy and romance. I don't want sex to be a task that needs checking off a list, a duty for which one scores credits to be cashed in during a later argument.

So, we repeat the cycle. I will eventually shelve my needs and wants in exchange for peace. She will take that as a sign that I have gotten over my trivial tantrum about her perfectly acceptable behavior. I will maintain the peace by holding my tongue for a few weeks and this will reinforce her false assumption that all is well. Then, one day, after gritting my teeth and tolerating the lack of spark and foreplay for the eighth or ninth time, I will do as I did the other night.

I will speak my mind... my petty, selfish, foolish mind.

Then again, maybe if I just put the bottle back on the shelf, in a few days there will be fizz. In beer and in love, maybe next week, there'll be more head.

The Future Is Not Now

Pete — Thu, 15 Feb 2007 18:03:21 -0500

Yesterday I predicted the possibility that sex may not be exactly, umm, coming soon.

Ah, the great prognosticator, I.

The evening went generally well. And, despite what you probably think, Donna loved the pneumatic stapler/nailer I gave her. Seriously. I wrapped it in a collage of photos I printed on the oversized printer at the office. A gift like that says, "I cherish the memories we've had together" and "Please build something from this load of lumber I have... in my pants." Control yourselves, ladies, I'm off the market.

As I came home from work, Donna and the girls were rolling sushi and there were fresh roses on the table for me. Donna unwrapped her new tool and we enjoyed a lovely meal as a family. Picture perfect. All was well, so far.

It may have been the raw fish talking, but after dinner I suggested we go visit Donna's parents. My father-in-law is building a new garage behind the house and I hadn't seen the progress since the slab was poured a few weeks ago. Construction sites are like porn for me. After reminding my father-in-law how to build a structure to my exacting standards, it was time to take the girls home and put them to bed so we could enjoy some time together as a couple. I'm talking quality time... XBox time.

After the circus we call bedtime was over, we settled into the basement, cleaned the Cheetos dust/soda pop residue out of the controllers and got down to business.

"You wanna split a root beer?" Donna asked.

"Sure, get me some chips while you're up", I said, blankly. She blinked at me and I went to the fridge for the root beer.

If you're keeping score at home, you'll know that this root beer has been in the fridge for a week. The fermentation should have stopped by now. I knew as soon as I opened the plastic bottle that it had not. This was much less root than beer by now.

I took a swig and silently handed the bottle to Donna.

As she drank I said, "Is it just me, or is that a bit fermented?"

"It tastes OK to me."

Who was I to belabor the point? I was sure to let her have the rest of the bottle... and the next. We eventually made our way to bed. And though there was not a ridiculous amount of alcohol in the root beer, I suspect Donna was feeling tipsy whether she knew it or not. Enough to prime the pump, I hoped.

I should point out that to this point, Donna was still wearing her church-issued underwear, tops tucked into bottoms and bra on top, along with her regular layers. This is aggravating at times of expected romance, to say the least. More than half the fun of being naked is getting naked. And, as any woman will tell you, romance doesn't just happen at the flip of a switch. It takes all day. It takes flirting and teasing. A glimpse of skin here, a brush of the breast there. With garments, there's no glimpse of skin. A lot of the motivation to flirt and teased is simply not there knowing full-well that what I'd get for my effort is an expedition through the onion skin of cotton long-john's and "modest fashions".

As I slipped into the bathroom to brush my teeth and double check I wasn't wearing the boxers with the hole in the chode, I heard rustling from the bedroom. I flossed and made my way back to the bedroom.

Donna was in bed with the sheets pulled up to her neck. As I climbed into my side, she kept her arms on top of the quilt to form a dam that kept her skin from being revealed. I have seen this before. I call it naked hiding.

What she does is takes all her clothes off while I can't see her and then keeps me from seeing her naked. The getting naked seems like something of a token, a fulfillment of obligation. What she has really done, is bypassed the part of being naked that really matters. The intimacy, romance and passion.

There she lay, as if to say, "fine, I'm naked, do your thing. Now at least you can't say I didn't make an effort." But I can say that... and I did.

"I'd really have at least liked the chance to seduce and slowly undress you."

She turned the light off and didn't say a word.

This morning, as I showered and shaved, she avoided me. I left the house in silence and we haven't spoken since. Since I know I'll be sampling my first bottles of homebrew tonight, I suspect I'll be getting more of the same for a while.

We Now Return To Our Regularly Scheduled Sarcasm

Pete — Wed, 14 Feb 2007 13:22:59 -0500

You know what makes Valiumtimes Day cool? That Donna would rather have a pneumatic nailer/stapler than chocolates.

I know. Hot.

What girl doesn't love a good air tool?

I see sex in my future... perhaps the distant future, but still. Sex.

Keeping It Together Because Of Them

Pete — Tue, 16 Jan 2007 19:39:27 -0500

Sometime in the summer of 2003, Donna and I decided our marriage was irreparable. We had been separated for a few months and I had been attending regular therapy sessions. We both wanted to make it work but it seemed that we were simply too far apart and that there was too much pain between us to ever reconcile.

We brought the kids together at my mother's house, where I had been living during most of our separation, one evening.

"Girls, this is hard to explain but Mommy and I have decided it would be the best thing for our family if we divorced. Of course, I will always be your Daddy and Mommy will always be your Mommy. Nothing can change that, we love you too much for that to change."

The girls cried. They knew this was coming, I'm sure but the reality of it was a lot for them to deal with. Us too.

As we fought back the tears, we explained that this was not their fault and that in many ways, we could begin to move forward not as a broken family but as a different kind of family.

I flashed back to the day my mother and father made this same announcement to us in an attempt to be aware of what my own children were feeling. I remember my first reaction to the news, "Well, if you need the money, I guess you have to do it." I obviously had no idea at that young age what divorce really meant.

I remember feeling relieved though. My parents had been separated on and off my whole life. The most recent reconciliation had left me feeling ill-at-ease, like there was a stranger in the house. Of course, this was because there was. I had felt strongly since then that all I really wanted was for my dad to be gone so my mom could get back to being the mom I remembered.

I felt sad that my children may have been feeling this about me at that moment. But this was not about my hurt feelings. I needed to be sensitive to theirs.

"Does it scare you when Mommy and Daddy argue?"

They all agreed that it did.

"Well this will help Mom and Dad be friends. We won't argue over anything except who loves you guys more."

By now the kids had heard enough. They did exactly what all the "how to tell the kids" tutorials had told us to expect. They changed the subject. They didn't look at us. They acted like little grown-ups, like brave little soldiers.

We wrapped up and didn't belabor the point any further. Now it was time for ice cream and a movie. It was imperative that we showed them that they were important. Important enough to be the new and improved family we promised them we would be. This attitude may have led to our being aware that we could set aside our differences, if only for a few hours at a time.

Obviously, we never did divorce even though we had not jumped to that conclusion compulsively. I feel bad that our children ever had to feel the pain they must have felt that day. On the other hand, now perhaps they have a first-hand example of things getting better after being about as bad as they can be.

As any regular reader of my site knows though, I still worry that there is still too wide a gap to ever fully bridge between Donna and me. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be better to divorce, especially now when that are close enough to do it amicably.

Then again, I am always seeing moments of hope and love that inspire me to keep trying. And while we are not staying together because of some false notion that the kids are better off for it, the girls certainly do inspire me to shelve the issues I can't immediately do anything about long enough to enjoy an evening of making sushi or rough-housing.

We're not together for the kids. It seems more like we're together because of them.