Bedtime stories

As a special bedtime treat for my animals, I place both my cat and dog on my bed and proceed to read to them from the latest issue of Cosmo. I enjoy this special time because it allows me a chance to bond with my animals. That sentence reminded me of a time when I forgot to put the 'd' in 'bonding', and accidentally e-mailed one of my professors telling him that I had fun boning with my classmates. You'd think I'd learn to read over what I type, but I never do. But that all is besides the point.
So each night I read a little bit more to my pets. I watch them as their breathing becomes even, and their eyes drift shut. I finish off the paragraph I'm reading.
"And that is the sizzling sex tip that will end your summer with a bang."
And I place a bookmark in the magazine so that we don't lose our place for the next night. Then I look down at my animals and let out a contented sigh, then remove my glasses (which I should really be wearing anyway since they are for driving), place the magazine on the bedside table, and turn off the lamp.
Actually.. that is mostly a lie.. I only did it once when I was drunk, and it was more because I forgot how to read in my head. It just so happened that the animals were there, and then fell asleep. But boy did my cat and dog learn how to end their summer with a bang!



Sometimes, for no reason at all, I like to attempt to break dance... just to see if, for some reason, I have subconsciously learned how to do it. Of course the most I ever accomplish is a sublime impression of one of the three stooges, rolling around on the floor. I guess it's probably a good thing that I can't break dance. If I were actually able to break dance I would probably end up hurting myself. I would, inevitably, hit my head on something, or twist a body part that was not meant to twist. I am probably likely to end up at the hospital even with my "attempts" at break dancing, as it is only a matter of time before someone calls 9-1-1 to inform them that there is a blonde woman seizing on the floor.


I Dyed

I sat, unmoving, at the table with the kitchen over head light shining in my face. My parents took their respective places, one directly in front of me, and one just to the left.
The only thing sweating more than I was the glass of ice water that had been pushed in my direction several minutes earlier. I grabbed hold of the glass and took a slow, deliberate sip. I crunched an ice cube in my mouth, and closed my eyes as it's remains melted away on my tongue. When I opened my eyes I looked directly into the eyes of my mother, signifying that I was ready.
"Megan." she said, "I'm not really sure if we even need to ask you this, but were you the one who dyed the dog purple?"
"No," I told her, "I was the one who dyed the dog 'Egyptian Plum'."
My father offered up a smirk, and my mom shot daggers at him with a well timed glance.
"And why, might I ask, did you dye the dog 'Egyptian Plum'?"
"I had leftovers, and didn't want them to go to waste." I said, with a shrug.
"Look at the dog, Megan. He is purple. Do you think that is funny?" She asked me.
I looked over, to where our formerly blonde Cocker Spaniel lay licking his paws, and tried not to laugh.
"Do you really want me to answer that?"
"Why would you put the dog through something like that?" She questioned.
"He sat still the whole time. He really didn't seem to mind at all. It's his own fault, he should have put up more of a fight. He wanted it."
"Only a clear 'yes' is consent, Megan." She said with a frown, "What are the neighbors going to think?"
"Probably that he is just going through a phase. He's expressing himself by altering his outwards appearance so that it matches what he is feeling on the inside."
"You are such a smart ass." She said flatly.
I could get away with just about anything at sixteen. Seventeen too. I often sit and wonder if I could pull some of the same stunts I did then, and still manage to avoid jail time now.


The Beautiful

I once knew this guy from somewhere in England. His name was Andrew, and he was my voyeuristic neighbors great-nephew. I was in the ninth grade when he came to Canada, and I have no idea how old he was. A lot of innocent flirting took place between the two of us. I thought he was unbelievably cute, and his British accent made my heart skip a beat. I took him to school with me one day so that he could get a feel for what the Canadian education system was like. The other kids bombarded him with questions, and eventually the teacher told me that she'd kick us out of the classroom if we continued to be such a huge distraction.
We ended up cutting out early, and I skipped the rest of my classes that day. We slowly made our way back to my house, the sun shining bright over our heads. Every so often there was a playful push, followed by an awkward silence. He introduced me to The Beautiful South, and gave me his CD's to listen to. He frequently wore a t-shirt with the bands name on it, and had confessed to me that he wore it so often because it was his favorite shirt.
I had nothing to offer him in return, and no CD's to share with him. I wanted desperately to have something that I could impress him with.
The morning, before he left, he knocked on my door. When I opened it I found him standing there, favorite shirt in hand, with his bags along side him. He gave me his shirt, his favorite shirt, and left me his address.
He told me to write him.
I never did.
It is days like these, when I am overcome with a strong desire to travel, that I think of Andrew. I wonder if I should ask my neighbors for his address again, and if he'd even remember who I am. I think of writing him a letter, telling him of the hours I spent listening to his CD's just so that I had one more thing that I could say to him the next day. I wonder if he enjoyed that summer as much as I did.
I miss that time.
I miss that innocents.


I like it when strangers get to see my cooter

Today I had my ultrasound, and I still smell like hospital-ness. I started off my morning by drinking two bottles of water, and then collecting the President and driving him to the vets. After I dropped him back off at the house, I called to my mom and said, "Hey you. Get in this car." And she did. We then drove to the place where they do ultrasounds. In total, I drank four bottles of water. Four. I had to pee before I even got there.
"Take all your clothes off and put on this gown." the technician told me as she lead me to a change room.
"Everything?" I asked her.
"You can keep your underwear on."
I sighed in relief because it would be harder to stick anything up anywhere with my underwear in the way. This meant the chances of a surprise invasive procedure were slim to none. 
I had been hoping that I'd be able to keep my pants on in general, and, once I realized that wasn't possible, I cursed myself for not making sure my bikini line was waxed before going to my appointment. The technician instructed me to lay down on the table and get comfortable. She then grabbed a towel and I thought, "Great! I won't have to lay on the table with my underwear hanging out while she does this whole thing. That is when I felt a draft. The technician tucked the towel into my underwear, as well as pulled my already low-rising underwear down so that they we barely covering anything.
"One more inch and you're going to know me really well." I told her.
She laughed and shook her head. I was not kidding though. I didn't want to look down to see how low she had pulled my underwear.. It felt like I might as well have forgone it, but I was praying that I was left with more covered than the breeze was implying. "Just ignore it, and act like this nice lady cannot see your cha-cha." I told myself.
"Your bladder is only 1/2 full, so we're going to come back to the pelvic ultrasound after we finish the abdominal ultrasound." she explained.
"It feels like it is very full. How much urine can a bladder hold?" I asked her.
"Between 10 and 20 ounces."
"I see." It was a lie though. I did not see. I am not very good with units of measurement and therefore had no real frame of reference.
After that there was a lot of polite conversation and more than a dozen "Breathe in... hold it..... okay, breathe out." After the abdominal ultrasound, the technician checked the progress of my bladder.
"You're still only 3/4 full. I will give you two more glasses of water to drink and we'll wait twenty minutes. You can change back into your regular clothes, and you can keep those on when we come back to do the pelvic ultrasound."
I thought I would die. I already had to pee so bad that I could not sit still. In the waiting room, I drank the water I was given and waited with my mom until they called me back in. I also forgot to mention that during the abdominal ultrasound I thought I was going to throw-up (at first) because she had to look at my stomach and that requires a little bit of pushing on the stomach and so on. I also was a little gassy, and I worried that when she was pushing on other parts of my abdomen I would end up letting one go. So it only made sense that, by the time my bladder was ready for the pelvic, I was seriously worried that I was going to wet myself. And lucky for me that I was now wearing my own clothes, so, if I did end up wetting myself, I'd have to go home in wet shorts. The technician got re-acquainted with my cooter (when she tucked another towel into my underwear) and proceeded to slide the wand over the surface of my stomach. Once we finished, I jumped the gun on pulling up my pants. All the ultrasound goo ended up coating the inside of my shorts. I didn't notice this until I went to the bathroom (which felt like heaven) and encountered wet, cold jelly. I wish I could say it was the first time I had experienced such things.
All in all, I enjoyed my ultrasound experience. So far I've had two ultrasound (or I guess technically three) without being knocked up. I figure by the time I am pregnant I will be a pro at it.


The not so hidden danger of sparklers

I remember this one New Years, when I was four. My dad bought fireworks to set off at midnight, and my mom bundled my sister and I up and lead us into the backyard. It was the first year my dad ever bought a "Burning School House", and I guess it was a dud because it literally just burned right to the ground. That didn't matter though, my sister and I were easily entertained. Anything that suggested destruction to the school already filled us with joy (even though I'm pretty sure that at this point in time we still enjoyed going to school). After the fireworks had all been set off my dad handed out the sparklers. It's hard to have a whole lot of fun with sparklers when you can barely move your arms due to so many layers of clothes on, but I still tried. I wrote my name in the air, and I spun around in circles... and when that became dull I poked my sister in the arm with my still-burning sparklers. I was disappointed with the results. Thanks to the "flame retardant" material her snow suit was made with the only visible sign of my attack was a small burn hole on the sleeve of her suit. My parents admonished me, and I remember plenty of "Don't set your sister on fire!"'s... I never wanted to set her on fire.. I just wanted to see what would happen. Since then I have done plenty of experiments "Just to see what would happen", and when I get caught I simply say, "I love to learn."