Late, in the quiet of the night, it haunts me.

Show me that smile again. Don't waste another minute on your crying. 

I can't escape it. Try as I might, the second my eyes close it starts.

We're nowhere near the end. 

I toss and turn, hoping it will just go away.

The best is waiting to begin. 

But it doesn't. I find no refuge in the darkness of my bedroom.

As long as we've got each other, we've got the world spinning right in our hands. 

The Growing Pains theme song.

Baby, you and me.... We gotta be....

Of all the theme songs...

The luckiest dreamers who never quit dreaming.

Why does my subconscious always choose this one? 


Rough week

That you are dead is inconceivable to me.
I can so clearly hear your voice in my own head. Your laugh. See your eyes shining as your smile lit up your face.
You never seemed sick. You never let it slow you down. Until the very end, you were a force; a beacon of hope in the darkness. Your presence was a gift to those around you, especially to my mother. You have been one of the best friends she has ever had, and for that I will happily forever be in your debt.
If cancer could be beat by sheer determination, yours would have been gone long ago.
But isn't that always the case?
I hope you knew. I hope that with your dying breath you had no doubt of your value. As a friend. As a mother. As a sister. As a wife. As a person. Your absence will leave a hole in the lives of each person who knew you. I hope you recognize how much you mattered. 


Olympic Fever

While I have no complaints with how Team Canada performed at the 2014 Olympics, I am disappointed that I didn't achieve my own personal goal of having a threesome with the Hamelin brothers.

It's one instance where a speedy finish would have been discouraged. 


Happy birthday.

You would have been eighty-four today. Can you believe it? For as long as I can remember, you've sworn you weren't a day over twenty-nine. 

I can relate to that. Part of me still has trouble believing I'm no longer a teenager. 

Last week I found the sweater you knit me years ago. I don't think I'd ever actually worn it in public. It's a perfectly good sweater, it's just that you'd given it to me when I was a teenager. Believe it or not but lopapeysa sweaters aren't quite considered fashionable amongst the teenage demographic - not to say I have ever actually been fashionable. But I found the sweater, there in the bottom of my deacon's bench. I picked it up and shook it out. Surprisingly, when I went to put it on, it fit. 

It's been ten years, but I still find pieces of you all around me. 

If there's an afterlife, I hope it has cake. 


Greatest meeting ever.

As I sat on my couch, knitting yet another mitten, I stared at the TV in a mixture of shock, horror and just a little bit of intrigue.

Jackass II was playing.

I cannot say that I have ever really been a fan of the Jackass franchise, but I will admit that there was a brief period of time (specifically the fall of 2002) when I had a small crush on Partyboy.

For me, most of 2002/2003 was spent in my friend Rob's basement, sitting on a couch with a bunch of twenty-year-old dudes while they drank beer and played video games. I learned a lot during this time in my life, like how to shotgun a beer, that Snoop Dogg had his own pornographic video in which he did not actually engage in sexual relations with anyone but did often offer commentary on the sexual escapades of others, and that twenty-year-old guys will have sex with pretty much anyone/anything at any given time.

But I digress... This post is supposed to be about midgets (only you don't know that yet).

So, as I sat there (on my couch... knitting a mitten... watching Jackass II), Weeman appeared on the screen, naked and drinking a beer. He entered a room where some sort of business meeting appeared to be taking place, climbed up on a table, walked across said table, climbed down off of the table and then exited the room.

"I wish that would happen at one of the meetings I go to," I said out loud to no one. "I would like to be the one taking minutes when something like that happened."

2:00 pm - Meeting begins.
2:03 pm - Gordon suggests seeking new donor engagement opportunities that contain more of an interactive educational component.
2:07 pm - Naked midget enters room and climbs on to table.
2:08 pm - Naked midget exits room.
2:10 pm - Susan suggests cutting department costs by eliminating hard copies of newsletters aimed at younger demographics and sending electronic copies only instead.


I also am really into loose leaf tea now...

Lately, I have been knitting like a mother fucker. Actually, truth be told I do not know how a mother fucker knits. It would be rather insensitive of me to assume that all mother fuckers knit or that all mother fuckers have the same level of skill when it comes to knitting, so I really should have thought more about my word choice in that first sentence.

Let's start again.

Lately, I have been knitting like an individual who has very clearly defined goals when it comes to what they hope to accomplish through their knitting and semi-specific ideas about the timeline that they would like to accomplish these goals within.

There. That's better.

I was inspired to take up knitting when I was forced to discard a pair of mittens that had been purchased  by a friend on a trip to Poland and gifted to me upon her return. My mittens were made of big, scratchy wool and smelled vaguely of kielbasa. I loved them immediately.

Parting with those mittens very nearly broke my heart, so I vowed to find a way to fill the void they left.

Or maybe I just got bored one day and decided that knitting seemed like a neat thing to do and that I should give it another shot. I can't really remember, but the end result is that I knit now.

To date, I have completed one pair of mittens (that may or may not look like they were made for someone with severely misshapen hands), 1/6th of a scarf and half of a second pair of mittens (with marked improvement when it comes to craftsmanship).

I have zero ambition to move increase my range beyond mittens, scarves and maybe hats. 



I once woke up in the middle of a dream about zombies to go pee and spent the next ten minutes sitting on my toilet trying to decide what my best course(s) of action would be if I suddenly found myself in the midst of a zombie attack.

"Wait a minute," I said to Hudson as he lay sleeping in the bathtub, "zombies are not real. Why am I sitting here trying to come up with a legitimate plan for a zombie attack?" He groggily lifted his head up and stared at me suspiciously before sighing.

"Whatever, Hudson. Who are you to judge me?" I asked him. Hudson pees on himself practically every time he goes to the bathroom and still runs into walls when he gets excited. Also, his favourite place to hide is under a glass table, so I am guessing that any plan he'd come up with to escape a zombie attack is probably not going to be that successful.



Sunday nights were reserved for casual sex, at least until recently.

Sex Friend would come over once a month or so. My dogs would drool on him for five to ten minutes. We'd go out for sushi. Then we'd return to my apartment and retire to my bedroom for approximately half of an hour before Sex Friend would get up, dress and return to his place of residence. I would then shower, take the dogs for their final walk of the day and turn in for the evening.

It was simple. Beautiful even.

It gave me the time and the space I needed to do other things... Like the guy who lived on the third floor… And knitting. I also took up knitting.

I was happy, until I realized that I wasn't actually happy at all.

It happened one Sunday when Sex Friend fell asleep after sex. I laid there next to him quietly for several minutes and began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. Sex Friend was not supposed to fall asleep in my bed. Sex Friend was supposed to get up and leave my bed almost immediately after sex so that I could fall asleep in my bed.

And then it hit me: what if Sex Friend wanted to spend the night?

I did not want Sex Friend to spend the night. I wanted Sex Friend to go home. To his home. And I did not want to have any contact with Sex Friend again for the next several days.. If not weeks.

And so, ever so sweetly, I nudged Sex Friend in the ribs and told him he had to get up because it was time for me to take the dogs out.

Sex Friend rose without complaint, dressed and headed for the door. "I'll text you later," he said as I closed it behind him.

I walked over to my couch and dropped down onto it. All week I had been craving human contact. All week I had been experiencing an overwhelming urge to lay somewhere, anywhere, with another person and talk. Or watch a movie. Or do something. Anything.

You'd think that my time with Sex Friend would have satiated that desire. It didn't though. Instead, the yearning only increased in intensity and I was left wondering what was wrong with me.

"I think I am destined to be alone forever," I told the dogs. Hudson took this as an invitation to lick my knee and drool on my foot. "Thank you," I told him insincerely. But Hudson does not understand sarcasm, so he wagged his tail and licked my knee again with even more enthusiasm.

I am generally so content to be in my own company that I tend to forget how much I miss interacting with others. Though I love people, there are very few I can be around without feeling entirely drained afterwards.

And so, still deep in thought, I grabbed a wool blanket from out of my Deacon's bench and proceeded to curl back up on my couch to reflect on life. I knew I wouldn't be seeing Sex Friend again, and I found myself supremely uninterested in the idea of locating a replacement for his role in my life.

And that raised its own questions. What was it that I actually wanted out of life? And who, if anyone, did I want it with?

The answers did not materialize after several minutes of pondering, so I decided to get drunk and have spent most evenings since doing much of the same.

I would not say that I am depressed, but I would not say that I am happy either. 


Just wrote this free form poem (based on real life experience)

Crazy drunk man,
Singing and yelling
In the parking lot
Outside my window.
I wish you'd stop.
I need to go to bed now.
Who are you even talking to?
You are so loud.


It's really only a matter of time....

Sometimes I dream about it.

Sitting there in all its glory. Haunting me.

It would be so easy to give in. Just once. Who would know? What harm would it do?  But even thoughts of it leave me feeling dirty. Scandalous even. It's been so long. I scarcely remember much about it.

Steak. Chicken. Hamburgers.... Meat.

I am not really a vegetarian. I eat fish. Fish is an animal. When people say, "I'm a vegetarian for ethical reasons. I don't eat meat, just fish," I feel an overwhelming urge to slap them in the face. I don't though, but only because I know I would probably get in trouble for doing so. Instead, I gently explain to them that fish are in fact sentient beings. People whose ethics are situational annoy me. I am sure that, if you consulted both a fish and a cow, both animals would find the prospect of being eaten unappealing.

"I don't eat mammals, birds, amphibians or reptiles," I generally tell people. "Not for ethical reasons. I'm a total jerk."


Fart Tones

On Thursday, I changed most of the ringtones on a co-worker's cell phone to farts.

My intention was to change all of the profiles on her phone so that, no matter what type of transmission she was receiving (text or phone call), it would be a fart that would sound to let her know something was happening.

Later that day, she approached another co-worker in a state of confusion.

"I think my phone just farted," she told her. After several minutes of intense discussion, they proceeded to call me and question me about my possible involvement. "Watch," my confused co-worker said, "call my phone right now." And I did, using my own cell phone. The beauty of it was that, in my rush to change all ringtones and alerts to farts before I could be discovered, I had failed to get to all of the profiles. As a result of this, when I called her phone it simply rang normally.

"I don't get it," she said. "I swear that I heard a fart sound coming from it before. I don't know why it's not doing it now."

She spent the rest of the day staring at her phone suspiciously. Later she approached me and said, "I think it might not have been my phone after all. I think it might have been the woman in the cubicle next to mine farting."

My hope is that the phone continues to fart only intermittently so that my coworker approaches me to seek my advice on what the issue may be. "You probably have a virus," I will tell her. "You should talk to IT about it immediately." And then she will take her phone to IT and explain to them that she has contracted a virus that is causing her phone to fart.


Time Flies

It has been ten years since I've heard your voice. Ten years since I've seen your face.

I find it hard to believe that so much time has passed.

I've always been the kind of person who feels someone's absence most once I am finally reunited with them. It is not until I am back in their company that I realize how much I was lacking without them. With you, I am thankful for this absence. I do not want to know how much less my life is without you in it.

I know that I miss you, and I know that losing you broke my heart. I've put it back together since, but it will never quite be what it was.

I sometimes think back to what I was doing during what would have been your final moments.

The doctor's office. That's where I was.

I felt gross that morning. I didn't want to go to work, so I went to the doctor's instead. The doctor determined there was nothing wrong with me. "But I feel gross," I told him. "Something is off."

I've had a long standing fear that I would forget you. Not you in general, but the little pieces you were made of. I don't worry about that anymore. When I close my eyes, I can picture your face(s). If I try hard enough, I can remember the way your voice(s) sounded when you said my name. I don't spend time wondering if you would be proud of the person I have become. I know you would be; I am a good person.

I used to think about you every day, but I don't any more. Sometimes I will stop and realize it's been months since I gave you any thought at all. I don't feel guilty about that anymore. It doesn't mean I love you any less.

Ten years ago today, you pulled out into an intersection when you shouldn't have. Ten years ago, you died, and I am still angry with you both for not giving me the chance to say goodbye.


And where doesn't my bathing suit cover?

"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 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. Why would I wear a lace bra to do that?"

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

"Up my shirt? No, not tonight. That is disgusting. 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. "There is no chance of anyone getting near my lady bits if I am feeling less than fresh. I need to shower first." He did not seem to understand the purpose of this, so he decided just to lick my neck. I decided to follow his lead and return the favour.

"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 attack his neck like it owed me money. 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. I could use the head lamp in my pocket to check it out."

Alas, before being able to confirm that my canvas had been marked, it was time 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.


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 any part of a relationship while sober terrifies you. But you push through anyway because that is what normal people do. You think at least.

And so you invite him to a date at your apartment during which you 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 already 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 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 his thigh for the last ten minutes.

Inching your way closer and closer to..

Your elderly dog, who has just decided that there is room enough for three on the couch and is fed up with being the only one not getting stroked. You stop the movement of your hand and pat the dog on the head. 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 as 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 ask 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."