Also, last month I dumped my boyfriend, but I didn't cry at all about that

It is in my childhood bedroom that I have mourned my biggest heartbreaks, so it only figures that I happen to be watching my parents' house this week.

I quit my job on Wednesday.

I got another job offer at a bigger organization for more money, a better health plan, RRSP contributions and I just couldn't pass it up. I have no doubt that taking this job was the best thing for me to do, but it is breaking my heart to leave a place that I come to love so well.

Logically, I know that it is not the end of the world. I will move forward. I will be fine. But right now.. Right now it hurts to think that this chapter of my life will be closing.

The truth is that I am not even leaving entirely. For the last year, I have not only been an employee at my place of work, but I have also volunteered there every Sunday. I will continue to volunteer there every Sunday for the foreseeable future too. And I will lend a hand whenever I possibly can, in any way I am able.

But it won't be the same. My relationships with all of the people I have met in my time there will change, and I am having a hard time dealing with the eventuality of this. The truth is that I have fallen hopelessly, platonically in love with each one of my coworkers and each one of the 50-something vollunteers I see on a weekly basis. They have enriched my life in ways I cannot begin to express and I will forever be indebted to each one of them.

If only the right thing to do was always the easy thing to do.

Which is likely to be Grey's Anatomy or The Notebook

"What are you doing?" I asked, pulling my mouth away from his in order to pose the question.
It was a rhetorical question, or at least sort of. I knew what he was doing. His hand had slowly been making its way under and up my shirt as we fogged up the my car windows while parked in front of his house.

"Are you wearing that bra you told me about?" he asked, playing with the hem of my sweatshirt.

I looked at him like he had sprouted two heads.

"I am wearing a sports bra," I said flatly. "We just ran up several hundred stairs. That is not the kind of thing you wear a lace bra to do."

"So you're not going to let me go up there?" he questioned.

"No, I am not - not tonight. Things are sweaty and gross," I stated.

His eyes perked up upon hearing the word "sweaty," but quickly returned to normal when I shook my head and began to glare at him.

"Let's clear this up right now: post-exercise, I am always going to want to shower before fooling around or having sex," I told him. "I am not a fan of lady bits in general, so there is no chance of anyone getting near this if I am feeling less than fresh. I need a shower first." He did not seem to understand the purpose of this, so he decided just to lick my neck. Following his lead, I proceeded to lick the sweat off of his. "I just have to remember not to give you a hickey in case you have to go to a job interview this week," I said, more to myself than to him.

"It is okay," he replied, "I am the kind of guy who likes to wear turtlenecks under my scrubs."

That was good enough for me, so I proceeded to suck on his neck. A little while later, I pulled back in an attempt to check on my work.

"How is it?" he asked.

"I don't know," I answered honestly, "I can't see. It's too dark in here."

Alas, before being able to confirm that my canvas had been marked, it was time for me to go. I booted him out of my car, turned on the engine and drove away.

If I had realized that I was due to start my period a day later, I probably would have taken pity on him and let him take a good feel of whatever he wanted. The first two days of my period generally see me agitated with the very idea of people, so being touched by one in places that my bathing suit covers is not appealing.

Poor guy. He is now doomed to spend his Valentine's Day actually watching whatever we play on my TV.

Pets: The Ultimate Cockblockers (After Children)

You will have both agreed from the start to take things slow. Physically and otherwise.
This is a change for you. Most every other "relationship" you have been in involved drunken sex (at least once) right out of the starting gate. Actually, you can't recall having ever gotten to know someone in this capacity without utilizing alcohol to help lubricate your tongue and other body parts.

The idea of going through this whole ordeal sober terrifies you. But you push through anyway because that is what people do. Isn't it?

And so you invite him to a date at your apartment during which you will eat drug-laced cookies and watch the DVDs of a TV show you both enjoy. "Remember," you say to him, serious look on your face, "we are taking things slowly. I know that inviting you to my apartment would typically signify that you are going to get laid, but I am only going to let you get to second base - if even." He nods his understanding.

He doesn't attempt second base on his own. He does hold your hand though, and he does interrupt your intense focus on the television screen (which is really only actually intense because you are too high to figure out how to do anything but stare at one object and only one object at a time) to makeout. You do so willingly and close your eyes. Having your eyes closed makes things way easier for you because now you do not have to worry about focusing on anything other than his mouth. You can do that.

Your slow moving brain is trying to figure out what you can do to shift him so that the entirety of his body is laying on top of yours. You have some serious plans for grinding. Serious plans that are interrupted when you realize that your dog (who recently celebrated his first birthday) has decided that he would also like to experiment with recreational drugs and has started eating the special cookies from off of the coffee table.

That bastard. He is a bastard for many reasons: (1) he was born out of wedlock, (2) he pulled this very same shit yesterday (he went into the garbage and ate the spent pot that was used to make the special butter), and (3) his actions caused your man friend to stop what he was doing and look away.. immediately putting a halt to what you had decided would be the best dry humping of your life.

Whatever. Fine. You can work with that.

You get up, move the cookies away, and sit back down next to your date. You are being a good girl, so climbing onto his lap is clearly out of the question. Also, you are too high to be able to pull off anything that could even remotely be considered a quick movement. It seems like anything that involves straddling could be dangerous.

When your date ever-so-gentlemanly takes your hand in his and begins to stroke your palm, you think, "fuck it," and not-so-subtly take the hand that had just been holding yours and place it on your breast. Also, it turns out that you didn't just think, "fuck it," you said that part out loud.

But, god bless him, you date just goes with it. And you are practically purring, for about two and a half minutes. At that point in time, Hudson proceeds to pee all over the floor right by your front door. By what is surely the grace of god, the dog did not urinate on your man friend's shoes. He did, however, create a small lake in your apartment. There is no ignoring it. And so you sigh, get up and proceed to mop up the mess. You're not even actually sure if you can even blame the dog for his actions because there is a very good chance that he is even more high than you are. Regardless, the mood has once again been broken.

It is later on that night. You have resigned yourself to simply cuddling on the couch. Your head is near your dates lap and you are staring at his fly, silently apologizing to what lies beneath for neglecting it all night long. But, just to keep things interesting, you have been lazily running your hand along your dates thigh for the last ten minutes. Naturally, this is when your elderly dog decides that there is room enough for three on the couch and he is fed up with being the only one not getting stroked. You stop the movement of your hand. It seems weird to be stroking both your dog and date at the same time.

The night eventually comes to a close when all three animals (cat included) just begin to stare at you and your date while you sit on the couch. It's unnerving.

You escort your date to the front door, but not before pressing a book into his hands. "Remember to read this before we go see the movie," you say. He nods. You see it as a chance to make your move and attack his face with your own.

He tries to take a brief romantic pause to asks you questions about whether or not you had fun and when you want to get together next. "Shut up," you want to say to him, "your talking is getting in the way of my kissing." But that would be kind of rude to say, wouldn't it? So you don't. Instead, you just stare at his lips because, hours later, you are still too high to really focus on much more than one thing at a time.

Eventually his lips stop moving and, just for good measure, you nod a few times (it seems like the thing to do) before moving back in for the kill. He seems pleased by this.

Several minutes later, he departs. He forgot the book. You stare at it for a second and then turn around to face the waiting crowd.

"Fuck you," you say to the two dogs and one cat. "You guys are such assholes."  

So apologies in advance for that..

We're in the swooning phase. You know, where everything is fucking magical and new. Three weeks in. That's the way it's supposed to be, I think.

I don't typically swoon. I am not a swooner. I did not swoon on or after our first date. I think he did though. He sat there for two and a half hours just smiling at me.

It made me feel uncomfortable.

I had run out of things to talk about after five minutes and he was so quiet, sitting there... just smiling. I felt a need to fill the silence with my own voice and only took brief breaks from doing so to drink from the smoothie I had ordered.

It was mango. It was delicious.

Date number two was less awkward. I had considered cancelling, but he had promised to do his best to keep up his end of the conversation. He was better, but he still largely just sat there and listened as I rambled on. This time I drank gin and tonics and snacked on deep fried pickles. I did not try to fill all of the silences. When they happened, I let them. I used the opportunity to glance up at the television, in the bar where we sat, to check the score of the hockey game.

"Do you follow hockey?" I asked him.

"Not really," he replied.

"Me either," I confessed, but I am still Canadian and it was the Leafs playing the Habs. If I did not at least know the outcome, I would probably lose my right to universal healthcare.

When we kissed at the end of the night, I was still undecided.

And then, suddenly, a few days later, it was as though a switch had been flicked somewhere. My productivity went down the drain and my level of corniness flew through the roof. 

But also because dog balls are just gross...

Once, I looked at the exact wrong time when my cat was grooming himself and accidentally saw his penis. I am not sure why this event disturbed me as much as it did. Logically, I knew that my cat had - rather has a penis. He is a boy. At one point in time he even had testicles, but I had those cut off years ago.

His anatomy, for me, is exactly like Stephen Harper. I know he exists. I know that he is out there somewhere. I know that he has some sort of purpose and/or role to fulfill. That being said, I do not ever anticipate running into him and would actually prefer to never encounter him or see him in person. The knowledge that there is a Stephen Harper is more than enough for me.

As a whole, I try to avoid seeing the genitals of all animals - especially those of my own. That has recently become nearly impossible with Hudson though. In dog years, he is a teenager. What that basically means is there is never NOT a time when his genitals are exposed. Any time he sits down *BAM* there it is. I tell people that he is excited by life. I am not sure that they buy it. Whenever we encounter small children, I am sure to strategically kneel down and block certain angles with my knee as to avoid unexpectedly saddling an innocent parent with a barrage of semi-birds-and-bees related questions.

Something I do worry about is the fact that Hudson is still an intact male. Because he is a giant breed dog, it was recommended to me by both vet and breeder to wait until he is fully grown to have him neutered. Something about doing so ensures that bones and joints grow/form at the proper rates, or maybe it was that he needed his testicles in order to be able to fly. I can't remember. Regardless, though he is never sans leash, many of the dog owners in my building let their animals roam free while on walks. Ninety-five percent of these dogs are barely larger than squirrels. My fear is that he will one day meet a bitch he just cannot resist (can you believe I just wrote a legitimate sentence like that?), and he's going to end up doing serious damage to it while attempting to express his puppy love. It would not be pretty. I mean, it wouldn't be pretty in general, but it would be especially not pretty because his reproductive organs are actually the same size as many of the dogs in my building.

I am figuratively (but one day this will become literal) counting down the days until I can have Hudson fixed. Largely because, for several reasons, it is the responsible thing to do as a pet owner. 

But at least it wasn't a sext or picture of my boobs

Remember that time you sent your boss a text, that you meant to send to a friend, asking the polite way to let one's employer know that you have reached a point in time in your life where you'd like to earn enough money to start finally paying off your debt and that, while you're not going to actively start searching for jobs, you're no longer necessarily going to turn things down your way and might apply for something if it interests you?

Oh, wait... That wasn't you? That was me? My bad. 

Maybe it was just to help loosen up...

The task that I had been given that morning seemed simple enough - oversee the moving of furniture from one now empty office to another and then ensure that everything looks as aesthetically pleasing as possible. And so, I stood there, in the hall and watched as desks were moved in and out and filing cabinets were passed back and forth.

But before everything could be settled in their final resting places, there was a need for a little tidying up to be done. Confetti from hole punchers were scattered in crooks and crannies that desks had once hidden, and paperclips seemed to be reproducing all over the place. A thorough vacuuming was in order, but first the papers that were strewn in the corner of one room needed to be moved. As the overseer, I took this task on myself. I bent over, expecting to pick up a pile of old brochures, when my hand encountered something else. A plastic package. A plastic package for an anal plug (anal plug still inside).

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. Of all the things I expected to encounter at my place of work, this was not one of them.

Not knowing what to do with the item in question, I sought out my boss for advice. "Should we return it to her?" I asked. 

My period ended a week ago, so I can't blame this post on that

it feels silly, but being in this place makes me want to wrap myself up in some old blankets and wallow in the utter grief I still feel over being in a place that was once my grandparents without them here.

I don't possess a great deal of memories of them here, but they are still present in nearly every nook and cranny. It even still smells like them.

This coming July they will have been gone for ten years. It feels like both more and less time than that has elapsed. From an emotional standpoint, I have not grown at all in that time frame, but I have changed in most every other way a person can.

Ten years... I think what may disturb me most is that I am sleeping on the same set of sheets I slept on when I came to visit in March of 2000. Sentimental or not, surely it is time these linens were retired. Then again, their presence here brings me an unfounded sense of comfort... as if somethings never change. As if I can squeeze my eyes shut tight enough and go back in time to one of those mornings in March, when I could hear my grandparents moving around outside my door. I lay awake wondering how long it would be before they tried to rouse me and just what they would have in store for that day. I can almost hear their hushed whispers and smell the coffee brewing.

I may have come to Florida on my own, but I have come to realize that I will never be here alone.

Vacation

As a birthday gift to myself, I decided to take a trip to Florida. Alone.

I would answer to no one. Follow nothing but my own whims. I would wake up when I wanted to. I would go to sleep when I felt like it and do absolutely nothing but what I felt like.

But that got old after the first day of my trip. Not the sleeping part, I am a big fan of that.

Now I find myself at a loss as to what to do. So I have been spending my afternoons reading erotica on my new Kindle Fire and drinking Walmart wine (it only cost one dollar! Dollar wine does not exist in Canada!).

To answer your unspoken question: yes, it is hard being this classy.

Funny, but lacking foresight.

"What can I help you with this evening?" the customer service representative asks.

"I forgot what my password is and I accidentally locked myself out of my account online. I need to reset the password now," I explain.

"That shouldn't be a problem. Can I just get your full name and your date of birth?"

Naturally, I supply the correct answers and wait for the next step in the password reset process. And that is when I hear it. Laughter. From the customer service representative.

"Oh, no," I sigh. "I made the security question, 'If you don't remember your password, you are in trouble.' Didn't I?"

"You sure did," the customer service representative replies. "It must be something that you use all of the time. Do you want me to send a temporary password to your email account?" she asks.

"Yes, please. I do this all the time. I think I need to start writing things down."

"That might be wise. There. You should receive a temporary password within five minutes. Is there anything else that I can help you with?" she asks.

"No, that is all. Thank you very much for your help."

And so ends my password troubles. I can now submit my claim for contact lenses. My life is complete. 

The evolution of an underwear thief

Since his arrival into my life, the puppy has destroyed no fewer than 20 pairs of my underwear. It just seems to be his thing. He finds underwear and he chews on it until it is barely recognizable. To be fair, I did need to invest in new underwear anyway, but it would have been nice if I had done so of my own accord instead of out of sheer necessity. In addition to underwear, other things he has chewed include: slippers purchased for me from India, socks, Ikea stand, towels, paper towels, toilet paper rolls, plastic containers, other dogs, slippers and potatoes.

I will now, in no particular order, post several photos of Hudson that I have taken in the seven months that we have been roommates.

Drunk at Work

"I've got Baileys....." my coworker said, drawing out the last word of her declaration in a way that made it ever so slightly more inviting.

I was already drinking delicious coffee. Delicious coffee made from delicious coffee beans that I had brought from home and used that day in an attempt to calm my nerves. I'd also already added a packet of instant hot chocolate mix to said delicious coffee. Not adding a splash of Baileys to the mixture seemed like it might actually be a crime. And so I said, "Sure, why not?"

A shot of Baileys seems so innocent. I mean, who gets drunk off of a single shot of anything? The answer to that question, Internet, is this girl! After already haven taken 2 mg of Ativan in preparation of a potentially stressful and emotionally exhausting evening, it turns out that even just a little shot (or two) of Baileys was enough to ensure that I was having the time of my life.

"It's 4:30 pm and I will tell you all a secret," I joyously mock whispered to everyone as I entered the kitchen, "I may have accidentally gotten drunk just now!" I winked at all the volunteers in an incredibly awkward way that let them know I was not by any means kidding and then proceeded to make demands of them. "Come look at this report I made and tell me what a great job I did."

Luckily, by 5:30 pm, I had sobered up, but I still felt the need to share. "I was drunk earlier," I selectively told people as they arrived at the meeting. "My co-worker got me drunk."

An Excerpt from my Journal

** Side Note: I recently found a journal I had started in high school. I decided I would start writing in it again. This is a journal entry that I wrote on July 3, 2012 **

What a depressing book to read. It took me nearly a decade to recover enough to be able to put pen to paper in this thing again.

I look back at my older journal entries and feel like I wrote them for someone else to read, as opposed to just using my journal as a medium to get my own thoughts out.

That makes me sad. Even in what was supposed to be my private refuge (that sounds super corny), I was still trying to do something to impress others.

I am nowhere near the person I was nine years ago, and yet, in some ways, I am exactly the same person I was nine years ago.

I now generally know when to use affect and when to use effect (that is a blatant lie. I still look it up to be safe.) and I have become much more self-centred - which has actually allowed me to be more more compassionate and giving. In order to take care of others, you must first take care of yourself.
Something that my 18-year-old self would be horrified to learn is that I still do not know how to breakdance. It is shameful, really. It is my albatross to bear.

Even so, I have still managed to become gainfully employed (whatever that means), and generally contribute in a positive way to society.

That being said, this past Sunday I got so high that I actually forgot how to speak English for several hours. So I guess what I am saying is that I am still growing as a person.

I think my 18-year-old self would be disappointed with my life in a lot of ways. Probably in the same ways that my current self is disappointed with my own life. However, as a whole, I'd like to think my 18-year-old self would be pretty impressed.

But you know what? Even if my 18-year-old self wasn't, who cares? Eighteen-year-olds know nothing. Then again, twenty-seven-year-olds don't know that much either.

I'm druuuuuuuuuuuuunk

The kind of drunk where you look up and it feels like the world is literally falling to the ground around you. Where you're not sure that you can stay upright because, holy fuck, gravity really does exist and it is making its presence known right this very second.
Sure, I should have known this was coming. I mean, I did eight or nine shots, following two drinks in which Absinthe played a fairly large part as far as ingredients go. And yet, still, I am somewhat shocked that I am actually this drunk.

Things I have already accomplished this evening:

Took dogs out for their evening walks
Wrestled puppy (and won)
Showed affection to older dog
Did dishes
Text messaged brother, quasi-boyfriend and mentee... did not confuse the three when messaging. Believe me, that could have ended badly if I had.

At Least I Wasn't Naked...

"MeeeeeeEeeeeeeeeEeeeeeeeEeeeeeeeEeeeeeeEeeeeeeeEeeeeeee annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones. We got a thingggggggggggggggggggg going onnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. And it's.... it's much tooooooooooooo strong to let. it. go. noooooooooooooow...." I sang into my parents' refrigerator. "We meet every..."

"Hello?" called my father, concern evident in his voice, interrupting my musical interlude.

I paused. My head still in the fridge.

I hadn't realized that anyone was home.

It was Sunday morning, and, on my way to their house, I had to drive past my parents' church. Their car was in the parking lot. I had assumed they were both there. I had, clearly, assumed incorrectly.

"Oh, hi, Dad," I covered, "I was just singing to myself." If I say it out loud, it is way less embarrassing and I can pretend like I am not remotely self conscious about having been caught.

"What are you looking for?" my dad asked.

"Breakfast," I replied and continued my perusal of what groceries they did have. "It looks like I am going to have to find that somewhere else though."