Ashley just finished her first ever half-marathon!

I couldn’t be prouder.

Here’s the rock star at the 8.4 mile mark:

Crossing the finish.

Posing with other bloggerrunners.

So impressed!

Edit to add:

The Super Awesome One was running so fast that it was impossible to catch her in the middle of the frame.

ALSO I totes forgot to give credit to (a different) Ashley for these great pics, and for keeping me in the loop.  Look for her soon-to-be-opened Etsy store called Photoging to Reach You.

Hi, Peter’s blog, I’m Ashley. Since it’s Valentine’s Day and Peter and I are in love, we thought it would be fun to switch blogs for the day. I’ll be posting here and Peter will be over at my blog, That Super Awesome Blog.

I hope you are settled in with a warm cup of coffee or at least a cozy sweater because I have a story to share. Now, this isn’t just any story. It’s a love story.

October 2007

It’s a cool evening in New York City and I’m avoiding my homework by scouring the internet for new blogs to read. I’ve spent the past five years spilling my heart out on Xanga, but this new blogging community I’ve found is different. It’s honest, raw, and full of people I want to be bffs with and meet for happy hour. One of these blogs is PeterDeWolf.com. I like his style. He’s funny and doesn’t take himself too seriously. He seems to adore his niece and he writes letters to his future wife. I mean, come on!

February 2008

Twenty page papers are taking over my life and I need a new hobby so I decide to start my own blog. It’s mostly a re-cap of my daily activities like eating ice cream, exploring NYC, and getting over a break-up. I had no idea how much sharing my thoughts with the internet would change my life. I’m still reading peterdewolf.com and may have developed a slight crush on this Peter guy.

September 2008

OMG he left me a comment!

October 2008

I try not to let my internet crush get the best of me and I leave him a comment too.

June 2009

As a graduation present to myself, I’m taking a cruise with my friends. I asked twitter if anyone wants to write a guest post for me while I’m on vacation and Peter agrees! I don’t tell anyone how this makes butterflies dance around in my stomach. Oh, this crush, it’s serious and it’s growing.

November 2009

My sister and I record ourselves singing Mmmbop while driving to Houston and I post it on my blog. Peter sends me an email complaining that the song will be stuck in his head for days. I flirtreply that I’m glad because Hanson is the best. I mean it. This begins a flurry of back-and-forth emails that leave me smiling for days.

May 2010

I’m sitting in my office in small town Texas, reading blogs to pass the time. I read this post and tell Peter we can no longer be friends. I’m not serious, I just want an excuse for us to have another email conversation. It works.

July 2010

Peter and I are still emailing regularly. He asks for my phone number and I say, “Boys in Canada aren’t supposed to talk to girls in Texas, Peter.” A few weeks later, he asks again and this time I give it to him. He calls me immediately. We talk for an hour and he’s exactly what I expected. He’s funny, smart, sincere, and makes me feel the fireworks. You know the fireworks.

February 2011

I am so so so excited. I introduce Peter as my boyfriend and the internet implodes on itself.

June 2011

After more than three and half years, Peter and I finally meet! I go visit him in Canada for a few days, we make a video together, watch lots of movies, eat lots of food, and basically have the best time.

August 2011

Peter and I hang out again.

October 2011

And again.

December 2011

And again. We ring in the new year together and it’s perfect. Champagne, board games, pajamas, and Sixteen Candles.

February 2012

We still have to wait another month before we see each other again. Another month before we fall asleep next to each other, before I feel his arms wrapped around me, and before I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Another month before I can kiss him and feel the sparks, the  electricity rushing through my veins. Another month before I can look into his eyes and tell him that I love him, that he makes me feel like I can do anything, that I’d be lost without him.

… and they lived happily ever after.

Ashley and I decided not to spend money this year for Valentine’s day.

So I wrote her this:

Aperture of Love (pdf)

So when I first published my novel a while back, I totally half-assed the cover.

I had no idea what I wanted it to look like.

I had no skills to create anything pretty.

And I just wanted to get it out in the world ASAP.

I explained it away as “It’s about the writing… not the cover.” In the haughtiest tone imaginable. I’m a peach like that.

But it always bugged me that something I am so proud of is floating around out there with a crappy cover.

Well crappy cover no more, dumplings!

The multi-talented, and extremely patient, Ashley (I like that name) from Little Leaf Photography & Design read a couple of my completely rambling emails and gave me exactly what I wanted, even if I didn’t know what that was.

And now I’m going to share it with you!

Pretty, right?

So if you’ve been waiting to buy a copy, now is a great time to nab one.  (You can also buy a downloadable PDF version.)

It is also available in the various iBookstores.

If you need further convincing, you can check out the first 20 pages here.

You’ll like it.

A lot.

I promise.

In a habit learned as a kid, I gently tap my boot against the frozen puddle.

It cracks. A little. Dark water creeps up around every edge. A little.

I have other things to do right now. A daily mission. A familial obligation. It doesn’t take me very long. I don’t deserve any credit for it.

But I keep moving.

The wind and snow are in cahoots, trying to find a way inside of my coat.

My foot leaves the puddle, but my mind doesn’t.

Just yesterday the puddle was all… puddle. I stepped around it on this familiar route. I didn’t give it any thought.

The clouds cleared last night. The clouds cleared and the temperature dropped — I could tell because my duvet was up around my ears. The clouds cleared, the temperature dropped, and the puddle changed.

It didn’t decide to change. It had no say. A few things happened and then everything was different.

In one of the least subtle connections my allergy-addled mind has ever made, I thought about how we’re all puddles.

Often in the worst of ways. But that’s not what this post is.

You choose one job over another, maybe because of the commute, and end up falling into your dream career.

You mindlessly follow a link on a blog while procrastinating, and you find an organizational system that helps you make some legit and awesome changes.

You push your ego aside and ask that girl a second time for her number.

And maybe she gives it.

You call and find that thing you had really only been half-heartedly looking for, but so desperately wanted. Despite all your advice to others, the search was beating you down.

One question. Asked twice.

One call. Made without hesitation.

And you get it.

One moment of bravery.
One moment of taking a risk.
One moment of hopefulness.

And you get it.

Those moments are tricky. They resemble so closely the other kind.

The ones that seem to gather up and lead to watching that movie. Alone. Again. In pajama pants long-past needing to be washed. Eating food out of containers.

The ones that accumulate and make you wonder if the good kind even exists. For you.

But here’s the thing:

You’re not smart enough to tell the moments apart.

So you must live them.

You must.

My duties fulfilled, I start the return journey.

I stop at the puddle again.

I tap it with my boot.

I tap it in rhythm to a song that fills me.

I bundle up even more.

I head for home.

Hi, sweetie.

I’m your dad.

And I’m going to try really hard.

I’ll take you out for ice cream when your mom won’t buy you that dress that costs more than a small car, but that you ohmygoodnessneedsomuch. I’ll tell you that you’re beautiful in anything you wear. You’ll reply “all dads say that.” And I’ll be so thankful that you’re still young enough to think that’s true.

When your best friend Sarah gets invited to the most important sleepover party in the history of mankind and you don’t, I’ll ask you to curl up on the couch next to me to watch baseball. I’ll explain all the intricacies of the game. And by the second inning you’ll have convinced me to switch the channel to some movie where a misunderstood female alien competes with a re-programmed female cyborg for the love of the teenaged Ryan Gosling Jr. And I’ll be thankful that it distracts you from a pain I haven’t (yet) figured out how to shield you from.

There’ll be so many things that keep me awake at night.

I know I have much to learn. But I also have much to teach.

That sometimes he’s not who you think he is.

That sometimes he won’t call. And that it won’t really have anything to do with you.

That you can be absolutely anything you want to be.

That we’ll buy you a pick up truck on your sixteenth birthday mainly because it doesn’t have a back seat.

That when you know, you really know.

That you should never hide how smart you are.

That it’ll hurt me a little when you’ll want to talk to your mom instead of me, but that I’ll understand. (I’ll like talking to her too.)

That my cringe is not a judgement.

Neither is my wince.

That being disappointed for you is not being disappointed with you.

That the world will make you grow up fast enough. You don’t have to try to rush it.

That it gets easier.

And that a father’s love is fully and completely unconditional.

The night of your first date will come. Despite my protests. So many protests.

I’ll do my very best to remember that I’ve taught you right from wrong.

I’ll look at you. I’ll see the baby. I’ll see the little girl. I’ll see skinned knees and runny noses.

I’ll hope you’ll keep my advice in mind. I’ll hope you remember that I’ll go get you if you need me to. Wherever. Whenever.

I’ll hope you took note of how I treat your mom, and demand that from everyone you meet.

I’ll hope you’ll remember just how much I love you.

And your date’s eyes will meet mine, as he takes your hand in his — as I’ve done so many times, crossing streets, stepping over mud puddles and defending you from monsters — and I’ll give him a look that says…

“If you harm her in any way, I’ll DESTROY you, you pimply-faced little shit.”

What? I’m still your father.

Love,
Dad

Sometimes at night, when I can’t sleep, I grab my phone and use Google Sky Map to peer into the cosmos.

Snuggled under thick blankets in a cold, dark room, I point my phone in various directions. Reading. Memorizing. Feeling all at once small and excited.

I catch myself smiling in those wee hours.

Ashley told me once I should write a blog post about the dorky television shows I watch. Mocking is lonely work, I suppose. I told her I have a curious mind that requires feeding. She probably thinks it needs to go on a diet.

I watch shows about driving, flying, panning for gold, and just about anything else you can do in Alaska.

I watch shows about scientific expeditions to the most remote places on earth. The remoter the better.

I watch shows about conspiracy theories.

I watch shows about inventions and technology.

And mega engineering. Mega.

But my favourites are always about space.

I considered studying astronomy in college. But it turns there’s a lot of science… in science.

Perhaps it is a romanticism born out of a childhood filled with consuming as much science fiction possible.

Maybe the desire for exploration is hardwired into our DNA.

I want to see.

I want to know.

We live in a wondrous time where I can use my phone to learn.

So some nights I look up into the sky.

And feel bad for the stars without pretty names.

swagger doesn’t age well
i’ve noticed
you have too
even if you’ve never
thought about it
really
it gets replaced
in the secure
held on to by
the insecure
confidence has to become
more
selfless
i suppose
i don”t know
i’m just one man
thinking
it takes a lot of energy
to put on the facade
of someone
you don’t really want to be
maybe
you need
the hollow conquests
in life
to truly savour the real victories
but
i hope not
folks
it’s amazing what you see
when you stop trying
to get everyone to look
and so it is
and so they’ll find
for me
fuck faking it til i make it
i have you
i’m making the hell out of it

Hi, dear.

I like shelter.

Ever since I was a little twerp. We’d dig tunnels in the snow Unidentified former liquids frozen on the tips of our noses. Pausing halfway through to go home to try to warm frozen hands. Tracking snow into the house en route to the mitten basket to grab a dry pair. And when we finished our tunnel excavation, we’d climb in. ALWAYS feet first, in case of collapse or the opening getting covered somehow. I’d just make it big enough for me to fit in. And since I was really young, I was probably only 6’1″. (Kidding. Mostly.) I could stay in there for hours. It was warmer. It was quieter. And I could just watch the snow fall, loving that it wasn’t landing on me. Knowing that hot chocolate was waiting for me at home. Soon. But not yet.

Living right on the Atlantic, as I do, I’ve always loved finding places out of the driving wind. Hills. Walls. The gusts are howling nearby, but they can’t get me. As a teenager, before I got my driver’s license, I knew the calmer shortcuts home. You know, back when kids walked places. Like pimple-faced Jacques Cartiers we could read the winds and know the route to plot. Dressing cool never keeps you warm.

Walking home from classes (and bars) during college. Occasionally looking for shelter from the torrential rains. (Nowadays it would also be shelter from flying bullets.) The one cold rain drop that somehow makes it way through whatever you’re wearing and makes it’s way down your spine. Standing in doorways, wishing for romantic moments, long before I was willing to admit I’m a romantic.

When I watch Survivor Man, my favourite part is always always when he builds the shelter. I study closely the methods he uses, based on the locales. I get stressed when I watch the episode where he built his fire too close to his shelter. Rookie mistake, dude! I half believe that if you drop me off on the plains of south Africa, I could survive for days. Unless I got to the point where I had to drink my own pee. I’d like to avoid that, you know, if at all possible.

My favourite Bob Dylan song is “Shelter From The Storm.”

One of my top 17 or so favourite Rolling Stones songs is “Gimme Shelter.” (What? They have SO MANY awesome songs, future wife!)

I like shelter.

When things get crazy, I want to find someplace where I am safe and secure. Where my back is covered.

I have that with you.

I love that.

I appreciate it so very much.

And I hope you know I’d lop off a toe to keep you sheltered from the storm.

Love,
Peter

[Read more Future Wife letters.]