Being a Good Sister

In order to better bond as a family, and perhaps better prepare him for University, I became insistent upon fabricating a beer funnel for my little brother. He is going to be somewhat far away from home this coming fall, and I wanted to ensure he had a surefire way to bond with his peers. 

Thus, we made a trip to the Home Depot on a Thursday afternoon and purchased 10 feet of tubing, one ball valve and two hose clamps. Later on, I  made a solo trip to Canadian Tire to purchase an over-sized funnel. The individuals working in the Auto Department looked at me curiously when I asked them if they had a funnel large enough to fit two beers in. 

After a few false starts, Project Funnel was complete. "I will stand on the stairs here, and you will sit there on that bench," I told my brother. "I will pour the beer into the funnel, and then, when you are ready, you will open the valve and ingest the beer at a rate that is faster than you usually would. You should probably wait until most of the foam has dissipated, otherwise you will probably be very gassy."

My brother looked at me and nodded, but the truth is that I have only observed funneling in the past and never actually partook in it myself. After all, I am a lady, and I do not particularly care for beer.   

On Running

Dear Internet,

I did not have to poop during my race. I just thought I should let you know that. Was I a slower runner for this? I choose to believe that the answer to this question is yes. I believe that not having to poop during the race slowed me down by approximately 17 minutes. That was the time difference between my finish and that of the fastest female runner in my age category. It was not my lack of running experience or the fact that I am not in the best of shape that resulted in my slow time; it was the poop that may or may not have been residing in my bowel. 

During the race, I slowed my running partner down substantially. She was raring to go (I choose to believe that she had taken some sort of performance enhancing narcotic prior to the race) while I was wondering what had ever inspired me to sign up for a race in the first place. The only answer I could come up with was stupidity. 

After I crossed the finish line, my running partner turned to me and said, "Aren't you proud of yourself?" My answer was no. In that moment, I was not particularly proud of myself for finishing the race. I was too busy trying to make sure I did not vomit to be proud. I had made the mistake of practically inhaling a bottle of water that had been handed to me, and my stomach was staging a protest.  

It was not until I walked into a diner approximately 30 minutes later, a piece of poster board in my hand with my name proudly displayed in sparkles (I had made it for myself, but my little brother made the trip down to the race location and stood there, holding my glittery sign, until I crossed the finish line). An elderly couple in the diner applauded as I entered. "Well done!" they'd exclaimed. That is when I suddenly found myself beaming with pride. My pride had nothing to do with the race itself and everything to do with the weeks leading up to the race. 

What it comes down to is that I really fucking hate running; I am not sure that I will ever enjoy it. And yet, I have stuck with it. Four times a week, every week, for the last month and a half I have hauled my ass out of the front door and pounded the pavement. Every day, I have the opportunity to quit, yet I have not. And that is what I am proud of. 

Race Day!

Today, I am running a race. I am not nervous about the distance, I have run further (albeit not by much). I am not worried about my finish time, I do not need to be fast. But I am worried about having to poop while I am in the middle of running the race. 

My brother says it is the body's normal response, to unexpectedly have to poop while running that is. He told me it has to do with "Fight or Flight." Apparently, when you are nervous, or when your body thinks you are potentially running for your life, it wants to eliminate anything that could possibly weigh you down. This, unfortunately, includes poop. 

Well, guess what, body? Having to stop and poop slows me down, and this is probably a bigger issue than being weighed down by the amount of poop that is in my bowels. I am no Elvis, body. To the best of my knowledge, I do not have several pounds of fecal matter taking up permanent residence in my GI tract. Do I? 

So I plan to spend the next several hours trying to poop because.. well... why not?

The last sentence of this post is a keeper.

I am jobless, Interweb. 

Actually, that's not entirely true. I have held multiple jobs for over a year now and currently am technically part-time employed. And I am also doing freelance work. 

Is it weird that telling people I do freelance works makes me tingly in my pants? I should probably specify that it is freelance marketing/public relations work and not freelance prostitution. And isn't all prostitution freelance anyway? 

Do you know what is worse than being jobless? I will tell you: being bored. If I were not bored, I would not care quite so much that I am jobless - rather full-time jobless. I would be too busy doing fun things to think about how, even though I am making monthly payments, I am not really paying back any of my loans. 

I cannot tell if I have only myself to blame for being full-time jobless or if I can try to blame extenuating circumstances. While still in school, my classmates and I were told that we should be applying for upwards of twenty jobs a week if we were serious about becoming employed. Well, I feel fairly serious about becoming employed (albeit not serious enough to truly revamp my resume), but I cannot find upwards of twenty jobs that I am qualified for in month. At least, I cannot find twenty jobs a week that I look qualified for on paper.

So how do I spend my free time? I will tell you. I have staring contests with my dog. I send a lot of text messages and e-mails, obsessively, to friends. I run. I play on the computer. Also, I spend a lot of time touching myself. 

How I spend my Saturday mornings

I hate running. 

Hate it.

So it made perfect sense that I would pay approximately $120 to join a running group that meets every Saturday morning at 7:30 a.m. Did I mention that the running group meets half an hour away from my house? I am mentioning it now. The running group meets at a location that is half an hour away from my house. This means that, in order to roll out of bed and be ready for running group, I need to wake up by 6:30 a.m. at the latest. 

Did I mention that I was instructed to eat something before running group and drink some water? I am mentioning it now. I was told to eat something before running group and drink at least one cup of water no less than one hour before I run. 

One hour before I run. 

This means that, if I am going to eat something, I need to eat it by 6:30 a.m. This in turn means that in order to have something prepared to eat by 6:30 a.m., I have to get up prior to 6:30 a.m. On a Saturday. 

So far I hate my running group. Each Saturday, I arrive at our meeting place and silently curse everyone in the group. I am smiling on the outside, but on the inside I am giving foul-mouthed sailors a run for their money. Each week we run further and further. First it was one kilometer, then three. Now it is five kilometers and soon it will be six. By the end of August, we will be up to ten kilometers, although we do have a twelve kilometer run to complete one day. 

I must secretly hate myself. Why else would I be doing this?

I guess now is probably also a good time to confess that I have another blog up on wordpress. It was a school assignment and is likely to fade away, but since I am currently a less than dedicated blogger, I feel like maybe I should direct you there.

Tall Tales

"I am going to stop you for a second," I said to the little boy who had previously been speaking. His name was James, and he was telling an elaborate tale of an encounter he "had" with the local authorities.

"I am going to go out on a limb here and say that the police never shot at you."

"They did," he insisted.

"Tell me, James, why would the police shoot at an unarmed nine-year-old?" I asked him.

"I am native," he declared, "I had a bow and arrow. I was shooting at them." 

While there was no denying that he was indeed native, I still found his story less than credible.

"I once went to Tim Hortons and saw a van get hit in the window with a paintball," another little boy piped up.

"Now that I believe," I told him.

The discussion that takes place during Sunday School is much different than I remember it being when I was young enough to attend. 

It isn't alcoholism because I was drinking in a room full of people

Drinking before, during and after an oral presentation will help ease your nerves I have found. 

Today, upon recounting the tales of my involvement with a relatively prestigious festival, I sipped from a glass of wine rather than a bottle of water. 

Sure, I may have slurred my words some, but I was calm. 

I'm just saying....

"We don't celebrate Valentine's day because it is too commercial and common for us," she said. "Instead we do something special a month or two later."

"What I am hearing is that you just celebrate Valentine's day late," I said.

"No, we don't celebrate Valentine's day," she repeated.

"Yes, you do. You just do it late and call it something different so that you can tell yourselves that you are individuals," I clarified. "It is still the very same premise. You are still going out and buying the cards and chocolates, and having a fancy dinner."

"It's not the same," she insisted, sounding slightly less sure of herself. 

"Oh, it's the same. It's not your anniversary. It is not in celebration of some other sort of special occasion. It is Valentine's day, only it's late."

I find Valentine's day to be ridiculous and not merely because I am single.  I have never felt the need to celebrate the day. In fact, I have never celebrated the occasion in any special way other than going out of my way to ensure there was time for extra sex that day. In the morning? Don't mind if I do. A nooner? Sure, why not? On the kitchen table, waiting for dinner to cook? How can I resist? Did you hear that? The television program we are watching is on a commercial break. Quick, we must figure out something to do to help pass the time. 

But I digress. Valentine's day is a sham. We should all insist on being more loving on a regular basis instead of saving it all up for one day. 

Draft(s)

I was sniffing the air, trying to determine where the smell of marijuana was coming from, when I saw movement to my right, in the passengers seat."Are you rolling a joint in my car?!" I asked, though I clearly already knew the answer.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to realize what I was doing," she laughed. 

9/8/08

Lately, when confronted with someone else's bad behaviour, I have taken to pointing my finger and firmly stating, "no." In case they do not get it, I often repeat myself in a slightly slower, more condescending voice. "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Bad," I say.

9/27/08

I was sitting at the back of the library studying. Every so often I would glance up to the window above me and stare at the freshly fallen snow in the middle of the courtyard. It was cold in the library, and it was boring. Still, I returned my attention to my books and did my best to absorb the information in front of me. I lasted for exactly one hour and five minutes. 

Studying is boring. 

I began to gather my notes and arrange things in my school bag when I was interrupted by a thud against the window in front of me. I looked up and was surprised to see several of my friends standing there staring at me. 

12/10/08

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to be Jewish. I do not know where the notion first came from.

12/15/08

Biological Clocks

I am sick and am therefore in a whiny, introspective mood. 

"I have a cold that has given me a smoker's cough," I tell him.

"Sexy," he replies.

"I know. I will surely find a husband any day now," I say, pausing briefly to hack up one of my lungs. "I will pick him up by saying, 'Hey baby, my biological clock has started to tick.' And then I will cough all over him. Guys love that."

Though he seems slightly hesitant, he eventually agrees with me.

"I am ten years away from asking you to father my children. I am just putting that out there. We cannot do it though because it would just be too weird," I declare.

"Yeah, but maybe in ten years it will seem normal," he postulates. 

"You could be right, but I am making no promises."

"Me either," he agrees. "I may even say no."

"I don't think you will. Your biological clock is ticking too." He is silent now because he knows this is true. "Plus," I add, "I am so smooth that you will not even realize what has happened until the offspring is 30." 

This post ends by talking about cage fighting

I rang in the New Year by smoking apple tobacco from a Shisha and graduating from the easy to medium level on Guitar Hero. 

That's right; I now use the pretty blue button. 

Sometimes, when I am feeling bold, I even play songs at the hard level. 2009 is my year to rock. 

In another news, Accidentally Me has given me an award in the hopes that it will inspire me to write more often. This is the part where I directly cut and paste from the information provided on her blog:

"The award is called the "Honest Scrap," and comes with a few rules: The honorees are to: A) first list 10 honest things about yourself - and make it interesting, even if you have to dig deep! B) pass the award on to 7 bloggers that you feel embody the spirit of the Honest Scrap."

As I do not like to disappoint and find disclosing personal tidbits about myself irresistible, I have absolutely no problem fulfilling item A. However, I will forgo passing on the award (for now) because I have been terrible at keeping up-to-date with my fellow bloggers as of late and am not actually sure how many individuals I used to read/read are still even active. So without further delay, here are ten honest things about me:

1. I almost killed one of my fish two nights ago. By accident, of course. But, because I am an impatient person, I lowered the salinity in my aquarium too drastically and spent the next three hours checking in on the fish every few minutes. Do I expect the Internet to care about my fish? Yes. I do. Why shouldn't you care about my fish? My fish is really fucking interesting. 

2. I like to play with puppies. When I am having a bad day, I go to the local pet store (that has questionable ethics because it sells puppies) and play with the puppies they have on display.  I feel like this is a win/win situation for both myself and the puppies. I get to play with the puppies, and the puppies get to play with me. Everyone, except the pet store, is happy. 

3. I have recently come up with a list of goals to achieve in 2009. Some people might call these resolutions. I do not. They are goals. I do not resolve to do them; I will do them. The first item on my list is "renew passport." Here is a secret:  I also made a list of goals for 2006 (apparently 2007 and 2008 were write-offs) and renewing my passport was number two on that list. 

4. Even though I rarely actually e-mail people, I check my e-mail compulsively. I would check it every five minutes if I actually thought there would be something in it. Instead, I am often disappointed because I find it empty. 

5. I am socially awkward. Not in all situations, just when interacting with members of the opposite sex. I have never mastered the art of flirting and fear that I never will. Wait, let me make an amendment to that statement: I have never mastered the art of flirting while sober and fear that I never will.

6. I am completely content going for days, or even weeks, at a time without having any other form of human contact. My close friends know this. They also know that my periods of hermit-ness are easily broken if I am invited out to do something fun (like have a snowball fight). 

7. Because I am currently living with my parents, my mom frequently enters my bedroom and "observes" things. I call it being nosey, but she claims that this notion is absurd. Anyway, as a result of my mother entering my bedroom, I have returned from school/work on several occasions to find my purple acrylic bong placed neatly on top of my bed. I think my mom believes that she is being subtle in letting me know that she knows that I do or have done drugs. The irony is that when I do smoke pot, I use my glass bong. I actually do hide my glass bong, unlike my acrylic bong which I just stick anywhere I can fit it (usually under my bed). 

8. Right now, I have the biggest odour problem with the shoes I wear the most frequently. I am talking BIG odour problem. They smell. Bad. Actually, bad is an understatement. It is naturally all my fault. I have worn them without any socks for upwards of eight hours a day, several days in a row. They are dress shoes, so I suppose it would look a little awkward if I did wear socks with them. Actually, I put them on this evening, with socks, to venture out to Blockbuster and it did look very awkward. 

9. I enjoy having staring contests with my dog. I think this is probably a bad move on my behalf as dogs more than likely perceive extended periods of direct eye contact as some sort of threat. Eventually my dog will have a nervous breakdown because he thinks that I am trying to intimidate him. 

10. I am currently kicking school's ass. Actually, not currently because the new semester does not start until Tuesday (for me at least), but you get the idea. If school and I were in a cage fight, I would have just smacked school in the back of the head with a folding chair. Wait a minute, since I am being totally honest here I should probably mention that I do not really know what a cage fight involves. The only cage fight (or quasi-cage fight) I have ever witnessed was in the movie Ready to Rumble. Does that even count as witnessing a cage fight? I feel like it should count. 

End of the year

At the end of each year, I like to take an inventory of all the things I have accomplished, the people who have changed my life and the things that have mattered to me. Usually, I choose to share it on the interweb. I create an entry that links back to my favourite posts of the year in the hopes that others will enjoy reading about them just as much as I enjoyed living them. However, in retrospect, I have written very little about my life this past year; at least it does not feel like I've written much about life lately.

I heavily considered forgoing my traditional end-of-the-year post. I wavered back and forth for several days, only really giving the idea an occasional thought. It was while watching one of my bosses gyrate to Middle Eastern music alongside a belly dancer that I finally decided, "Hey, why not?" So here it is:

In January, I...

Romanticised urine.

Reflected on Christmases past.

Realized that some things never change. 

Rejoiced over Oprah's birth.

In February, I...

Opened up about my Uncle's funeral.

Overcame obstacles and completed a project. 

Owned up to the fact that tongue piercings may cause dental damage.

Objected to my brother's shotgun rules. 

In March, I...

Allowed the dog to romp in the snow. 

Agreed with my mother's reasoning.

Attempted a new hobby.

Accepted that my party probably wasn't going to happen.

In April, I...

Did not ingest narcotics before noon.

Discussed youthful activities.

Decided that there are downsides to mooning. 

Delighted in Lil' Kim. 

In May, I...

Confessed.

Could not tell if I was hallucinating. 

Cursed Ontario Hydro for giving me false hope. 

Considered dressing to impress. 

In June, I...

Affirmed my enthusiasm for a new movie. 

Acknowledged that my grandmother would like for me to have a child with a homeless man. 

In July, I...

Realized that the fascination with breasts starts early. 

Revealed the perfect gift. 

In August, I...

Figured out that I am kind of an asshole. 

Fought with spreadsheets. 

Feared for my life. 

In September, I...

Exclaimed that ejaculation should never occur in the sinks of public washrooms. 

Ended up learning a valuable lesson.  

Experienced some itching. 

In October, I...

Allowed myself to wonder. 

In November, I...

Told the doctor about some breakthrough bleeding and got a surprise.

In December, I...

Seriously panicked. 

Shared the greatest moment in television. 

Snapped some photos. 

A lesson learned the hard way

Today, while examining the merchandise at a sex shop, my finger suddenly began to itch and develop tiny blisters. "Oh no!" I thought, "I have developed finger herpes because I stuck my finger inside of the sample 'real-flesh' mouth that was boxed in with Virtual Veronica in order to determine whether or not it really did feel like real flesh." 

When I wandered over to the cock ring section and showed my sister the finger in question, she berated me. "What did you expect?" she asked. "You should really know better than to stick your finger into something at a sex shop." Though I was loathe to admit it, she had a point. 

From this day forth, I, Megan, will do my best not to stick any of my fingers into tiny mouths made of life-like synthetic materials while in establishments that sell merchandise that is intended to be ejaculated on, in or around. 

In Contrast

Char posted some photos of the snow fall she experienced a few weeks ago. In response, I thought that I would post a few photos of the snow fall that I recently experienced.

I do not know how many inches fell that day, but I do know that mother nature only gave us a 24-hour reprieve before she dumped another shitload of white stuff on us. 

Nearly two weeks ago, I underwent my fourth ultrasound to date; at least, I think it was my fourth.

I arrived at my appointment prepared. I had learned from my previous experiences and had ensured that I had gulped down well over the recommended litre of water. I rolled in to the radiology department 15 minutes early and brought a book to help pass the time before my name was called. What I had failed to consider was that it would be incredibly difficult to pay attention to anything other than my obscenely full bladder. In the twenty minutes I sat in the waiting room, I crossed and uncrossed my legs in an attempt to forget about the force of nature my bladder was waiting to unleash. 

When I finally was called into the back room (I am referring to it as the 'back room' instead of the 'exam room' because 'back room' sounds so ominous), I made small talk with the technician. I told her about my life altering work: selling jewellery at a jewellery store. I silently congratulated myself at a fairly successful round of small talk. "This ultrasound is going pretty well." I thought to myself. 

That, naturally, is when it happened. The technician asked me a question. "How to you feel about a transvaginal ultrasound." she said. 

How do I feel? About a transvaginal ultrasound? I will tell you, ultrasound technician, how I feel about a transvaginal ultrasound; I feel the same way about a transvaginal ultrasound as I do about anything that starts with "trans" and involves sticking a man-made foreign object up into my vagina. 

But instead of repeating one of the many responses that were running through my head, I opted to keep it simple. "I do not feel good about transvaginal ultrasounds." I told the technician.