dog park drama

The dog park always leaves me feeling like a horribly unqualified dog owner. Maybe this is because my dog spends a good twenty minutes of each visit trying to hump the various other dogs that he is engaged in play with. I would not mind the humping if he allowed the other dogs a proper go, but he is highly hypocritical when his turn comes to be on the receiving end.
I spent our time there shouting things at him that made the other dog owners giggle behind my back. "Do you not understand that I am leading by example?" I asked. "I do not hump the other dogs in this park, so you should not hump them either!" I threw a tennis ball in an effort to distract him and, thankfully, it worked. "I do not know what I should do," I confessed to one of the other owners. "He seems to have found something he is good at and is sticking with it. I just don't know that it is the kind of hobby I can lend my support to."
The dog happily returned with the ball in his mouth and dropped it at my feet. Unfortunately, before I could even bend down to pick it up, he was at it again. The brindle boxer, whom my dog was so enthusiastically showing his moves to, stood their proudly, seemingly oblivious to the attention my dog was lavishing upon his back end. "Dog," I pled. "Please!"
"Do not worry," the boxer's owner reassured me, patting my shoulder. "Chev is just too slow. It is really his own fault."
While I appreciate her concern for me, I cannot see how what she says could possibly be the truth. Whenever I have been subjected to unwanted/unwarranted humping, never have I thought "If only I had been faster!"


but i don't think it bothers me

He acts like a baby when he is sick. This is probably why it baffles me that his whiny voice actually triggers my heart to melt just a little.
"I do not know why I am still sick," he tells me. "I have been doing everything right." It takes several minutes before I am able to get him to confess to washing his cold medication down with beer.
"What did you expect?" I sigh. "You are supposed to be drinking lots of fluids."
"But beer is a fluid," he argues.
"Water. You are supposed to be drinking lots of water." His forehead is warm and, despite the sweat that is soaking his sheets, he is shivering.
"I think I am dying," He groans.
"You are not dying," I assure him, running my hand across his back in slow circles. "You are just an idiot. I am going to get you a glass of water."
I shake my head at the disarray of his apartment. It is clear that four other males cohabit the space. As I walk back into his room, I catch sight of the panicked face he is making. Oh, god. There is going to be vomit. He vaults out of the bed and pushes his way past me. The sounds of his retching lets me know that he has made it to the bathroom in time. I take a minute to mentally prepare myself before I join him in an attempt to offer up a little bit of comfort.
There is what appears to be a clean washcloth sitting next to the bathroom sink and I quickly grab it, running it under the cold water before I crouch down next to him and wipe it tenderly across his forehead. "I am going to run you a bath," I tell him. "It is going to feel cold, but that is only because you have a fever." His head is resting against the porcelain of toilet, a brave move in a dwelling where the inhabitants rarely look before they aim, but I think I see him nod.
The bathtub is surprisingly clean and barely requires a wipe down before I start to fill it. His head is now resting on his forearm, on the edge of the toilet, and his eyes are closed. If I didn't know better, I would say he looked peaceful. As the tub finishes filling, I rub his head and tell him that I need him to take off his pants.
"You have been waiting years to say that," he accuses, as he rises to his feet.
"You caught me. I have spent the last seven years just waiting to catch you feverish, wreaking of vomit and completely helpless. Do you need my help, or can you get into the tub on your own?"
He smiles down at me and, without warning, pulls his pajama bottoms down around his ankles. "I better not catch you looking," he warns, stepping into the tub. "My virtue is at stake."
As he lowers himself down, I toss the washcloth at his head. "Cover your virtue with that," I instruct him and I exit the bathroom, in search of a clean towel, before he can respond.
It is another hour before I leave. Rubbing his stomach and tucking him into bed, I lean over his head and reach for the extra pillow that is scrunched up in between his mattress and the wall. "I just saw all the way down your shirt," he giggles.
"Wonderful," I sigh, deciding that he no longer needs an extra pillow. "Call me tomorrow morning so that I know you have not perished during the night." And with that, I leave him.
Sometimes I feel like I've entered into a sexless marriage that I didn't entirely agree to.


pages from my journal

The following are a collection of entries from the journal I have sporadically kept over the years. The sentences appealed to me and may or may not have been taken entirely out of context in their transition from paper to interweb:

I jumped into the pool, fully clothed. It was cold.

Is it bad that I cannot remember his name or what he looked like?

There is something beautiful about the highway at night. Well, at least after you've been smoking pot there is.

If my life were a song, I think it would be something by ABBA. A melody that is chipper and up-beat with lyrics that are surprisingly somber. My life is the music of a 1970s Swedish pop group.

It reminds me of the time, when I was four, that I burnt a hole in my sisters winter coat with a sparkler. Did I want to set her on fire? I am not entirely sure.

note to self: telling strangers about situations that may cause you to lose control of your bowels is not a good way to break the ice.

I miss you most on cold nights. Who will keep my feet warm now?



My cat has spent the past fifteen minutes staring at a nondescript spot on the wall. Every few seconds, he cocks his head to the side, as if to further examine the spot at which he stares so intently, and proceeds to swat at it. When swatting has failed, he moves on to scratching. I wish he'd find himself a better hobby.
- 2/5/07

The moon was full and bright in the night's sky, illuminating the dog sitting calmly on the steps. I stood just inside the door, keeping watch over my charge, in awe of the moonlight's beauty. Snow is always at its most beautiful at night.
- 1/31/07

I used to get called to the vice-principals office weekly in high school. "You miss so much school," he would tell me. "Do you know that, on average, students' grades drop 1% for each day they are absent?"
"Clearly this is not true," I laughed. "That would mean that my average would be well above 100%."
"That is the thing," he whined. "You are defying these statistics. Imagine what your marks would be if you stopped missing so much school."
I merely shrugged in response. I have never cared what my marks could be. I merely focus on what they are and how much effort I have to put in to get them where I want them to be.
My high school biology teacher once told me, "You may be able to miss school like this now, but you'll never be able to keep this up in university." I think I have subconsciously made it my mission to prove her wrong.
- 1/24/07

When you receive an e-mail from a close friend that reads as follows:
Yo, are you dead? Where are you? I have called your house so many times I could be qualified a stalker. Don't make me break in there through a window.
Call me.

It makes you realize that you might have been more than slightly neglecting your social duties.
- 1/20/07

Last week I broke the cardinal rule when using a public washroom: I took a dump. Upon entering the washroom, I did a thorough search to ensure that I was alone before proceeding to a stall that was far away from the door. After carefully covering the toilet seat with one-ply, toilet paper that rivaled sand paper, I took a seat and began to move my bowels in ways that should never occur in public.
Upon exiting the stall to wash my hands, I realized that, at some point in time during my bowel movement, someone had joined me in the bathroom. With all my straining and gas, I had lost my ability to multi-task and keep an ear out for the door. Naturally, I washed my hands and took off out of the bathroom at light speed.
- 1/15/07