‘PeterHole’ Makes Me Giggle.

When random opportunities to meet a “internet friends” present themselves, I’ve always felt that I should seize them (yeah, seize both the opportunity AND the “friend”). This is especially true when said friend says things like, “You make the drive up here, and I’ll buy the food and beer.”

Shit man, free beer AND you’ll feed me? I’m there. Hell, if you wanted to marry me, I’d fly all the way to Australia…

Saturday night I made the trek up into the peaceful mountain town of Estes Park to meet mi amigo Pedro in person and, true to his word, he fed me, beered me, but only half-heartedly tried to molest me. My disappointment in the latter was tempered by the good beer and company. I even got to chat with my girl, Jenna and tell her what a fine hunk of beer-buying man she has.

Heh, waitress thinks we're married... we're NOT?!?

The strange parallels involving our respective situations made me think that Pete and Jenna need to not only get hitched, but to have septuplets straight away, if they want to try and top the story of LoveHole. The timeline and our situations are eerily similar, so I was about to accuse them of being copycats, but the celebratory high-five across the table last night left me believing that blogger love stories are cute and all, but Love is some seriously good shit.

The Best.

Go Us.

Even though Pete did his best to seduce me with the finest Scottish Ale served in Estes, I had a long drive ahead of me so I declined.

I KNOW. I couldn’t believe it either. I don’t know of a surer sign of my wife’s long-distance influence on my “normal” habits than for me to decline many beers in a vain attempt to be “responsible.”

And by “responsible” I mean “Mr. Hole, are you aware of the speed limit on this road, as well as the fact that you performed an unsignalled lane change in the middle of an intersection?”

For as much as cops intimidate the shit out of me (could be that time that I got my nuts grabbed and then hit upside the head… not sure) I’m not lacking in objectivity. I know it’s a Saturday night and there are multiple festivals in the neighboring mountain towns, ensuring that some drunken revelry will work it’s way into the flatlands eventually. They’re on the lookout for drunks, and I was cool, I knew this.

This is why I confidently replied that I was well aware of the traffic laws that I’d broken, but I not only had a long drive ahead of me, I had also spent a half hour winding my way down a canyon behind a ancient woman in a Cadillac that should have zero fear of dying in a fiery crash, as her age would suggest that she is already banging on Death’s Door with her frail fists. I did my best to brownnose by slipping in the fact that I play hockey with quite a few cops and they constantly remind me of my driving shortcomings.

I also admitted, with the same confidence, that I had indeed imbibed that evening, but had limited myself. I wasn’t worried about the implications of this except for the fact that he kept asking, moving his head in and out of the street light that was brightly shining in my face.

He was adamant that he could smell something stronger than just beer at dinner 2 hours previous, and asked politely if I would concede to a street-side sobriety test as well as spit out the gum I had in my mouth.

I told him, “You bet, no problem,” as I explained that I was drinking Scottish Ale and that it probably added some potency.

He shook his head that it wasn’t that, he couldn’t quite place it though. I shrugged and went to stick my gum in the first receptacle I had laying on the floor of my truck.

I don’t want you to think that the fact that I’m a complete fucking idiot sometimes is lost on me. I know. I am fully aware. And I usually find it freakin’ hilarious.

This is why the cop almost laughed out loud when he saw that I was sticking my gum into an empty beer bottle.

He smiled and said, “THAT might explain it, you think?”

Then I DID laugh, and sheepishly held up the bottle for his inspection. Multiple cigarette butts as well as a dirt stain down the side suggested that it had been empty for quite a while, but it still smelled like beer. Go figure.

He took my ID, told me he was going to run it to make sure that I don’t dismember nuns in my spare time, and asked if I’d be happier just blowing into his portable breathalyzer instead of wasting more time.

I ignored the sexual suggestiveness of this and told him that I’d certainly be willing to expedite the situation if it meant that I wouldn’t get in trouble and he could go back to catching real drunks and nun-dismemberers.

My relief at the fact that the “breathalyzer” really WAS a piece of plastic alcohol-detecting equipment was equaled by the fact that I was well below the legal limit.

He handed me a business card instead of a ticket, and told me to drive safer. I glanced at the card in surprise, smiled happily and said, “You too Jim!” Apparently him giving me his card and letting me go meant we were on a first name basis.

As I was discarding Sister Theresa’s body parts in a gas-station dumpster later, my wife called, and I spent the rest of the drive, and my evening, wonderfully wallowing in that which is Us. Even though it sometimes leads to a carnal hungering that is inadequately sated across phone lines (though we give a damn fine effort), we really are our own favorite subject, and these days the hours are passing with less depression and more escalating excitement.

If you missed it last entry, September 3rd I’ll officially be home. Right now, I don’t have words for what that means.

I am going home.

Provided I don’t get arrested first.

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