But I know you didn't come here for that did you.
Instead I'll tell you my favorite most recent Peter story. I think pretty much all of you have heard it because I love to tell it.
So one night I am laying in bed dozing off while Pete is going through his night time ritual (you know, waxing, exfoliating) and I hear him say, "Hey Ang how tired are you?"
I hate it when he asks me that question.
I open one eye and see him walking toward me, looking like he's getting ready to take off his pants.
"Uh, I'm prrretty tired Pete." I reply suspiciously.
"Well I just want to show you something." continuing with the pants.
"Peter, seriously I was asleep just now."
To my relief, he just wanted to show me this abnormal lump protruding from his lower stomach "area."
"Do you think it's a hernia?" He asks. "They run in my family."
"I don't know, you should call the Dr. in the morning."
"Yeah, you're probably right." he pauses, "So baby, how tired are you?"
"Oh ok, good night."
So a couple of weeks go by and-- you guessed it. Peter had not called the doctor. Finally, I dialed the doctor's office and handed him the phone.
As the phone was ringing, I thought, "Should I tell him how to phrase his delicate issue? I mean, do I have to tell him to say that he has a lump in his abdomen so that he doesn't say something weird or creepy? No, he's an attorney, a master with words. He won't say something dumb."
The nurse answers the phone and Peter blurts out, "Uhh, I have a big lump in my crotch!"
One of my proudest moments as his wife.
Long story short, it was a hernia and he needed surgery. An operation for which he probably should have spend at least a day in the hospital. But our ghetto insurance has this surgery center in the basement which is practically a drive through. (Think Dr. Nick from the Simpsons.) So I dropped him off at 6 am and he was all sewn up and "ready" by 9.
I go to pick him up. The "nurse" hands me a typed up sheet with the doctor's orders, says to me, "What ever you do, don't make him laugh." and forces Peter into a wheelchair.
A couple of hours later, Peter is at home in bed doubled over in pain. I wasn't sure what to do.
"What does that dr's orders paper say?' Peter moans.
I grabbed it and started reading out loud.
"No bathing for 12 hours."
"Take ibuprofen or vicoden every 4-6 hours as needed."
" F U in two weeks."
"Eff You in two weeks?" I giggled. "What the heck?"
"Get Out" he whispered.
Happy Birthday Pete.