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. 


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. 


I miss you in ways that I cannot even fathom, though I am acutely aware that the you I miss is not the you of today. 
I am often struck with thoughts of you at the most arbitrary times. 
Are you happy? 
I hope that you are happy. I hope that your life is filled with love, friendship, and laughter. I hope that you wake each morning full of joy and anticipation at what the new day will bring. I hope that you go to bed each night feeling unconditionally loved. And, on a purely selfish level, I hope that you sometimes miss me, too.  


Exit strategy

Did I ever tell you, dear interweb, about the morning after a particularly awkward one night stand when, at a loss upon departing, I merely stuck out my hand and offered a particularly enthusiastic shake?
If not, I should totally do that sometime.  


I'd like to think I'm no longer such a judgmental asshole

One time, while in the car with my mother, we drove past some homely looking people selling odd metal sculptures by the side of the road.
Laughing to myself, I said, "imagine being related to those people."
My mom then responded, "there is no need for you to imagine being related to those people due to the fact that you are related to those people."
It turned out that they were my second cousins.
True story.


Highway dreams

There is a lonely sweater that hangs on the chain-link fence that separates the highway from the service road. It is fire engine red and mustard yellow, and all sorts of other colours that should never be found together on the same article of clothing. It has been hanging on that fence for well over a month now, waving at me each day as I pass it by on my way to work. 
Sometimes I think about pulling over, onto the gravel shoulder of the road, and taking the sweater down from it's wiry resting place. I think of all the things I could do with that sweater, although there is really only one thing that appeals to me: I'd give it to a friend, letting them know exactly where I'd found it and exactly how long it had been there. 
Highway sweater, I'd call it. "Happy Birthday," I would say, "I got you a highway sweater." 


Motorboating without an engine

It was the third time he'd reached into my shirt and grabbed my breast with his cold, slobbery hand. I jumped a little, glared, and was met with a large toothless smile.
"It's official," I sighed. "Your son takes after you."
"Hey! I have never touched your breasts," he declared.
"Well, at the very least, to date you both share the same sense of humour."
It was barely a week ago that the child in question had spent a mere minute scrutinizing my face before eagerly proceeding to motorboat my cleavage, offering up a suave half-smile once he'd finished.
"Clearly I need to start wearing shirts that have better coverage," I sighed.


And then he wandered off to ask another adult what flunitrazepam is

When I deciphered the words blaring over the speakers, I rolled my eyes, braced my left hand against the oversized, white truck I'd been diligently scrubbing and took a minute to wipe away some bubbles that had found their way on to my nose. 
I can tell that I'm getting old because songs about booty holes (and the subsequent showing of them) no longer thrill me the way they once might have. Instead, I find them mildly disturbing and shake my head at the lyricist's questionable use of poetic devices. 
The sun was relentless and I was beyond tired. I'd slept for a total of five hours in the two prior days and wanted desperately to curl up in my bed and simply die.
Just then, from over the roof of the monstrous truck (I can only assume its owner was trying to compensate for something), water proceeded to rain down on me.
"Sorry," someone yelled, although the laughter in their voice clearly indicated that their apology was not entirely heartfelt. 
"You do not have to apologize every time you do that," I sighed. "We are having a car wash and being sprayed with a hose is an expected danger when participating in this kind of event." I'd heard several apologies already for accidental spray-age and had subsequently spent most of the day trying to avoid saying the words "you", "got", "me", and "wet" within the same sentence (especially in that order). Anything perceived as remotely sexual was predictably followed up with a, "that's what she said" from one of the boys. "Not to you, she didn't," I had told them on more than one occasion. 
Earlier that morning, one of the boys had informed me that he felt he had at least a 50% chance of engaging in sexual relations with me at some point in time in the future. "I can assure you," I said firmly, "that, at best, you have a .00001% chance, and the number is only that high because I am not entirely sure that you don't have access to flunitrazepam."


FYI: Every other post from here on out will somehow involve babies

"Your baby just gave me the finger," I said flatly.
"No, he didn't. My baby does not know how to give someone the finger," she'd said. "He doesn't even know that his hands are attached to his body yet."
"Lies. Just look at him right now! His middle finger is clearly extended towards me!" I'd exclaimed. 
She took a moment to look over towards her son before rolling her eyes at me. 
"Babies do not know how to give people the finger," she'd sighed. 
"I just think it's unfair that your baby is free to be as uncouth as he desires and yet I have to put twenty-five cents into a jar every time I let the f-bomb slip in his presence. That is practically my favourite word and you've taken it away from me. If I had a baby, I would totally let you swear in front of it. Actually, I would charge you twenty-five cents every time you didn't swear in front of my baby," I told her. 
I then took a minute to glare at the baby. He was leaning back casually in his car seat with one hand resting casually behind his head and the other extended straight out towards me, flipping the bird. 


Babies, Babies Everywhere

I felt weird, sitting there, holding a little person that was actually related to me.
In recent months, I had practically become a baby expert. My days were filled with work, more work, and babies. Where I'd been awkward and fumbly with the first baby, I was now relaxed and confident. I no longer took offense when the tiny human in my arms started to wail. As it turns out, crying is something that babies do frequently, often indifferent to the giant cradling them. Instead of apologizing and looking helplessly towards the closest parental unit (either that baby's or my own), I now knew that the fastest way to quiet an unhappy baby was to bounce and sway. Bounce and sway. Oh, and it also never hurts to pat them gently on the back because, it would seem, that babies are almost always passing gas in one form or another. My cousin watched on approvingly for the first few minutes of my interaction with her daughter and then she turned her attention entirely towards my grandparents and mother and proceeded to catch up on a year's worth of news.
It is still weird to think of my cousin as a mother, even after holding undeniable proof.
The entire week following our visit, my grandmother dropped what she considered to be subtle hints about how lovely it would be if I started to produce progeny of my own.
"Grandma," I sighed, "are you not satisfied with one great-grandchild for the time being? I mean, if you really want me to, I can go out and take care of business right now - but wouldn't you prefer I wait until I have both a dependable significant other and a study job? And would you really want your next great-grandchild's father to be the kind of man who does not question having unprotected sex with a complete stranger?"
I will not relate her response to you word-for-word, Internet, but what it amounted to was that she wanted another baby now.


Things Learned While Cleaning Toilets

It would seem there is an unwritten universal law that, if you are going to have an intense bowel movement in a public setting, you must do so in the handicapped stall. Perhaps this is because the handicapped stall offers more space to maneuver, or perhaps it is because each handicapped stall offers a metal bar, securely fastened to the wall, which one can grip and bear down on while dropping an atomic sized bomb.


Please kill me. Please kill me now.

I've done something to anger god. Severely.
That is the only explanation that I can come up with. Why else would my sister have returned from the Middle East with a sudden new interest in techno music? There is simply no other reason.
9:30 AM, her first day back in the country and she decides to welcome the dawn of a new day by playing techno. This may or may not be worse than the time she had the song Aïcha, by the Arabic Artist Khaled on repeat for four days, non-stop.
Don't get me wrong, there is a time and a place for techno music. It's just that that time is when you are high on Ecstasy and that place is somewhere that is far away from me.


Dealings with a two-month-old

She plopped the baby down in my arms and proceeded to sit beside me on the stairs.
Surprised, my newfound charge and I both stared unblinkingly at each other with a hint of suspicion.

I speak to the baby exactly how I speak to adults, which seems to amuse both his parents and casual onlookers endlessly. In fact, the only difference that immediately comes to mind is that, when addressing the baby, I occasionally drive my points home by tickling his ribs and blowing raspberries on his stomach. To date, I have yet to find myself trying to win an argument with a fully matured individual in a similar fashion.

Later, while in my care, the baby voices his displeasure at suddenly finding himself with a wet diaper. "I understand that you are currently perturbed, but I think you would find your angst would be somewhat abated if you would only stop gouging yourself in the eye," I tell him, as I locate his diaper bag and look around for a flat surface on which to change him. "Equally," I add, "you would find that if you ceased flailing around so excitedly I would be able to change your diaper much more efficiently." The baby ignores my words, choosing instead to smile and coo at me for no apparent reason. "I do not understand you," I state flatly. "I think we will get along much better when we are actually able to converse and I can simply buy you material objects to gain your affections." But the truth is, in spite of the many times when my mere presence seems to offend him, we get along just fine right now. And though I am loath to admit it, my heart melts just a little every time his parents refer to me as "Auntie Megan".


A Sentence or Two

Watching Madonna's new video for her song 4 Minutes, I am inspired to go out to a busy parking lot and do some fancy dancing on top of cars - not to mention locate the nearest giant clock so that I can dance in front of it while wearing a flesh-toned body suit.

My dad woke me up at 2 AM to ask me if I'd ever heard of Talk Like a Pirate Day.

"Wow, really? That's so exciting that my nipple just got hard," I said.
"Nipple? Just one?"
"Yeah, righty. Lefty has much higher standards," I explained, though I felt that this should have been self-evident.

I once made pulled taffy in grade three, and, to tell the truth, making it again is something I have thought about at least once a year ever since.

I never had baby fever before everyone around me, it would seem, started procreating like it was an Olympic sport.

Facebook tells me that several of my friends think I am likely to succeed and would make an excellent mother. However, it also tells me that they are less than confident in my sense of fashion and my thoroughness when it comes to bathing. Thanks, Facebook!


And then I ate a cupcake

When I first saw the giant wooden pole on my front lawn I thought, finally, my parents had decided to help me realize my dream of holding a giant Scottish festival, featuring a caber toss competition, in our backyard.
Alas, my dreams were quickly shattered when I saw several Hydro trucks dropping off similar poles next to all their dilapidated carriers of power along my street.
'So close,' I thought.


Hey there, cupcake.

I made cupcakes this past weekend as part of a fund-raising effort - well, a fund-raising effort in a round about way. I think they turned out pretty well, as did the fruit floral arrangement things that I also made.


I am not high

Okay, that is a lie. I am a little high. Or a lot high. Maybe medium sized high.
My parents went out of town for a funeral this weekend and I decided it was the perfect time to break in my new bong. Also, I tend to clean when I am stoned and I thought, since the house was looking a little dirty, that it may just be the incentive I needed to tackle some housework. Really, if you think about it, I am doing my parents a favour by partaking in recreational drug use. I am being completely selfless; thinking only of others. Sacrificing my own personal well-being for the sake of the family.
About twenty minutes ago, while laying down on my bed, I accidentally stuck my big toe in the top of my bong - which was resting on my floor. About five minutes later I would forget this and proceed to stick my mouth where my toe had just been. I should probably mention that I'd been outside just minutes before, barefoot, trudging through god knows what. On this trip outdoors I encountered a snake. Screaming, I briefly looked behind me to see if the dogs would come to my rescue, which, of course, they would not. When I looked back, the snake was gone. 
I spent the next twenty minutes standing there debating whether or not I had actually seen any snake to begin with. "But marijuana does not make people hallucinate," I tried to reason. When the snake did finally make its reappearance, I pointed and yelled at it. "I knew it! I knew it!" I screamed. "You are real! You do exist!" My screaming was quickly interrupted when the snake started to slither towards me. It was at this point in time that I squealed and ran into the house, tripping up the stairs as I went.


Secrets that aren't so much secrets as I just haven't found a way to work them into a conversation yet

Secret Number One: In middle school, I stayed home sick for an entire week just so that I could watch all of the Planet of the Ape movies that were being shown every day at noon on the Sci-Fi channel. I may not have learned how to do order of operation properly until grade ten, but by god did I develop a fear of a primate revolution.

Secret Number Two: I once, at a house party, fooled around with a guy I had known for five minutes because he had already called shotgun on the fold out couch and I figured that it was the best way to avoid sleeping on the floor.

Secret Number Three: I smoked pot for the first time when I was in grade seven. I am not entirely sure if I actually inhaled.

Secret Number Four: I have never had my legs, armpits, or cha-cha professionally waxed because I have never been sure how long I am supposed to let the hair grow before I go back in for another wax.

Secret Number Five: When I am bored, I brush my teeth.

Secret Number Six: I once wore swimming goggles while performing oral sex on a former sexual partner because the two times before that he'd ejaculated in my left eye.

Secret Number Seven: I am borderline socially retarded. I never quite mastered the art of making friends and generally just feel awkward around new people.

Secret Number Eight: I once stole a pack of cigarettes from the gas station my sister was working at. They were Benson and Hedges and package was all pretty and silver.

Secret Number Nine: In grade twelve I tried to cheat on a math test by burning the formulas to a CD I had made and placing that CD in my disc man while I was writing the test. I still barely managed to pass the test because I just could not bring myself to listen to my illicit audio files.

Secret Number Ten: I didn't actually pass OAC Calculus on my own merit. My official transcripts list my mark as 50%. A teacher later explained to me that a 50% really means that your actual mark was under 50%, but that the teacher felt that you deserved to pass and bumped you up. Considering that I had a calculus tutor and was able to successfully complete any calculus problem I was given so long as I was not in a test-like situation, I agreed that I was deserving of a pity pass.


Wake-up call

I have awoken every day this past week, at 5:30 am, to Lil' Kim telling me of her sexual escapades.
I feel confident in saying that she has led a very full life. In addition to traveling the world and coming into contact with many new people, she has also engaged in sexual intercourse with a variety of ethnic groups. Of course, I am paraphrasing here but I am sure the general impact of her message remains the same.
5:30 am is the time I take my birth control pill and vitamin at, so it seems somewhat fitting (yet highly ironic) this week that I am reminded to do so by a song in which Lil' Kim recalls instances of her own promiscuity.


But he probably wouldn't be quite as inclined to let me drive his sweet car if I puked on his basement floor

On Friday night, I watched Finding Nemo after participating in hours of excessive drinking.
It should have not come as a surprise to me that a movie that takes place almost entirely underwater would cause me to need the bathroom even more than usual while on a bender.
On one of my many bathroom breaks during the movies' 100 minute run time, I actually fell off of the toilet and hit my head on my bathtub - although I would never admit that to anybody but you, interweb.
The next day, so hungover that I was certain death was eminent, I spent an hour at the home of one of my neighbours. We were bonding over saltwater aquariums and he told me wonderful stories that I was unable to give my full attention to because I was too busy contemplating just how offended he might be if I threw-up in the middle of his aquarium room. For a few minutes I was able to forget about my nausea as I watched him feed a tiger shrimp to his lionfish (which seemed slightly ironic at the time).
Having friendly, rich neighbours has resulted in several perks for me: a) a standing offer to test drive a silver Porsche 911, and b) being gifted aquarium equipment that is valued at approximately $500.


Breakfast of Champions... and by Champions I mean Stoners

"Come over to my house. We can do mushrooms," he said.
"Dude," I paused to check the time, "it is not even nine o'clock yet. I am not eating mushrooms before I eat my oatmeal."
"Don't be silly; You can eat the mushrooms with your oatmeal," he declared. "But seriously, come over and we will do mushrooms and watch Across the Universe. I have beer."
Oh yes, beer. Because if my delicate sensibilities are offended by the very thought of partaking in recreational drug use prior to 9 AM, it is highly probable that the idea of consuming alcoholic beverages first thing in the morning is likely to trigger a different response.
"I am not doing mushrooms and drinking again. Do you remember what happened last time?" I asked him. This was a stupid question, of course, because he rarely remembers anything, let alone the things I want him to. I decided not to wait for him to answer, "Everything was wonderful until we started watching that movie and I realized I had finished off the 750 mL bottle of amaretto all by myself, in addition to the mickey of rum. After that, things were not so wonderful anymore."
"Okay, so no drinking and no mushrooms before noon. Come over; I will make you an omelet."
His downfall is that I know him too well.
"First of all," I told him, "I would never eat anything you cooked because I am not even sure that you know what a kitchen is. And second of all, you are not tricking me into eating an omelet that is made with magic mushrooms. It's just not going to happen. They don't even taste like regular mushrooms and, on top of that, I don't think you are clever enough to rehydrate the mushrooms so that I there is not a noticeable difference in texture."
"Wait, what does rehydrate mean?"
"You just proved my point."



Late at night we whisper back and forth over the phone.
Each conversation is essentially the same; we vie for the title of the bigger loser.
"I have not had sex in over a year," he tells me.
"That is okay though," I reassure him, "because you are just being picky. That is actually a trait that women find attractive; not having sex just for the sake of having sex. If I did not know you as well as I do, and you had not previously been involved in a sexual relationship with one of my best friends, I would totally hit that."
"That is one of the nicest things you've ever said to me," he sighs dreamily.
- 05/03/08

My friends constantly try to show me their breasts. It's true; ask Nina, she will tell you.
I cannot say for certain why it is that they have this urge, but I suspect it is made all the more enticing by the fact that I do not want them to show me their breasts. Call me old fashioned, but I generally find that seeing my own naked breasts more than fills my breast viewing quota for the day.
- 07/03/08

It took me some time to realize that you were not the person I remembered you being. In our time apart, you had changed, grown. It was to be expected, really. I would not deny you personal growth simply because that meant the memory I carry of you is no longer an accurate picture of the person you are today.
Regardless, this revelation resulted in disappointment. We no longer shared the same shorthand we once did. I found myself refraining from making jokes; worried you would misinterpret, fail to take them in with the spirit with which they were intended. This turned out to be a justified fear. When an oafish comment finally did make its way past my lips, you looked nothing less than offended.
Did you really doubt me that much? It hurt to realize that you did, but, again, I suppose that was to be expected.
I wonder if you see similar changes in me. Am I the same person you remember? With the exception of a few additional neurotic behaviours, I have always thought myself to be a person of very little change. I still believe in the same things I believed in ten years ago. I still love the same people I loved ten years ago. It is true that many people have entered and exited my life in the past several years, but my feelings for each and every one of them remain the same. Then again, I suppose it is hard to see evolution when you are exposed to it every day, especially when that evolution is your own.
I know that I am more withdrawn than I once was, but I believe that, at heart, I have always been and will always remain to be the same person.
- 17/03/08

"Your teeth are very clean," my orthodontist told me, as if this should come as some sort of surprise to me; as if I am not the one who has been brushing said teeth several times a day, every day for nearly a quarter of a century. As it turns out, I happen to be the primary brusher of my own teeth.
I sat in the reclined chair, bright light shining in my face, wondering who it was that brushed my orthodontist's teeth.
- 23/03/08


Because he is so small, I will forget that he ruined my plans for cake

The first thing I noticed was that he had a wrinkly head, probably, at least in part, due to the way his father was carrying him around like a seven pound football.
I had intended to take a plethora of photographs of him, but found myself too concerned about the potential distress my flash could cause him.
"He's been flashed plenty of times already," his mother told me, and I laughed because I am dirty like that.


Forays into Saltwater

It was probably a mistake to show the fish to the cat, but I am hoping he will eventually lose interest in them.


Long story short, I eventually conceded her point

When I first bought my new fish I was fairly intent on naming one of them Fish Stick.
"No," my mother told me.
"Why not? They are my fish," I whined, "I should be able to name them whatever I please."
"I will tell you why not," my mother replied, "you do not enunciate enough and it sounds like you are saying Fish Dick."
"Why would I name a fish Fish Dick? That just sounds silly."
"Exactly," my mother said.


"Give me your hotdog, old man."

The dog enjoyed our trip to the farm. He ran through the snow covered fields and followed rabbit tracks through the woods. He even found time to practice his telepathy on my grandfather; staring patiently for hours, silently willing him to drop his food.


I suppose I should embrace our differences

My sister chooses her vacation destinations based on where she stands the highest chance of being mugged, raped, or murdered. It is like these countries have created an ad campaign that is meant to appeal to her and her alone.
Are you a petite, blonde girl with little to no money, traveling alone? Come visit us! Our country is ripe with political unrest, our crime rate is high, and we place little to no value on women!
I do not understand this attraction she has to countries in the midst of turmoil and conflict. Equally, I do not understand the attraction she has to men who are fifteen to twenty years older than her and are unable to handle their own finances.



Your continued existence annoys me, which only causes me further aggravation because I am then forced to acknowledge what an incredible prick I am for being annoyed by someone's existence.
I do not understand it, but the idea of you fills me with anger. Anger. Can you believe that? I never thought myself to be an angry person, but clearly I was mistaken.
- 27/01/08

I filled my sisters car with snow.
That's slightly misleading. I did not actually fill the car with snow, but I did place a great deal of snow inside of the car.
- 07/02/08

"I've heard that Ikea is a great place for a first date," the man standing next to me in the grocery store aisle declared.
On my knees, perusing the display of various powdered sauce mixes, I glanced in the direction of the voice in an attempt to determine who the man was speaking to. After awkwardly meeting his gaze, it became apparent that he was talking to me. Having never found myself in this situation in the past, I briefly scrutinized the stranger, deciding if this was an interaction I felt like having. In the end, I realized it was not.
"I am buying an economy sized pack of super absorbent tampons. Think about that for a minute and then tell me if you think right now is a good time to ask me to go anywhere with you."
- 12/02/08

"Your sister came in here this morning and shit all over my face," my mother told me.
"Pardon me?"
"Emotionally," she clarified.
"Mom, that is the worst analogy I have ever heard," I informed her.
Ever since then, my brother and I have let nary a sentence pass through our lips without inserting "shit on my face" somewhere in there.
- 15/02/08

Yesterday my little brother informed me that my vagina is a cavernous black hole. The only thing I could think of to say in response is that, to my knowledge, a black hole cannot be cavernous.
- 17/02/08

I get a perverse sense of satisfaction out of cursing in front of my mother. So much so that I actually frequently drop the f-bomb in situations where I otherwise wouldn't merely because we are in the same room.
"What the fuck is this?" I ask her, holding up a new can opener.
She has recently taken to entirely ignoring the invectives I let loose, which has only inspired me to try harder for a reaction.
- 19/02/08

I love the way my dog smells, which is gross because my dog smells terrible.
- 22/02/08

"I've never touched myself while talking on the phone with you - until now," I joked.
"Oh baby, you really know how to start my engine," she said, in a monotone, clearly excited by my confession.
"But seriously, I can't talk to people on the phone unless I am almost entirely dressed. I think I've done it without a shirt before, but I always felt incredibly uncomfortable. The internet is a different story though. I talk to people naked on that all the time, especially when I am moisturizing."
- 23/02/08


Unsupportive family members

My brother will not let me ride shotgun in his car anymore.
"It creeps me out when you lower the window and get ready to pull down your pants so you can moon strangers," he says, as if it's a justifiable reason. He also consistently engages the power window locks so that I am unable to yell things to pedestrians as we pass by.
"I do not understand," I tell him, "I let you moon people from my car."
"When have I mooned anyone? Ever?" He asks.
"It's not my fault that you do not grab hold of the opportunity. The point is that I would support you in your choice, not eliminate your ability to put the window down."


Later, she would ask me what flavour of polish I wanted: Orange, Bubble gum, or Raspberry. I chose raspberry.

I spent the afternoon at my dentist's office. Not because I underwent any sort of lengthy procedure, rather because I simply enjoy spending time with dental hygienists. I had two separate dental appointments scheduled; one for my chipped tooth, and the other for my six month cleaning. As it turned out, the chip out of my bicuspid was entirely superficial and only required a minimal amount of grinding to smooth out its surface. The only painful part of the entire ordeal was the lecture I received from my dentist.
"This is all for you," I told him. "I felt like we weren't spending enough time together, so I took matters into my own hands. You should be thanking me. I only do these things to ensure the continued financial success of your practice." My dentist enjoys giving me fatherly lectures. This could be because he has been my dentist since I cut my first tooth, or perhaps because he has known my mother since his birth and thus feels that we are family.
I waited for over an hour between my two appointments, primarily because they had anticipated a more lengthy procedure to repair my chipped tooth. In that time, I decided to read The Last Temptation of Christ. It had been on the assigned reading list for a class I took three and a half years ago, and I felt like it was finally time that I got around to reading it. I cleared the first four chapters before I was called upon to have my teeth cleaned. For some reason the dental hygienist felt the need to apologize profusely for my wait time. "It is fine," I assured her, "it does not hurt me to wait and my appointments were scheduled an hour and ten minutes apart so I suspected that I might have to wait in between them."
Every time I go in to have my teeth cleaned I am asked by the dental hygienist what is new. I would have an easier time answering this question if I had the same dental hygienist each time I went to the dentist's office. Instead, I am left to wonder exactly how much information I should disclose. If it is a new dental hygienist, most everything in my life is new - though I somehow doubt she would be interested to learn that I once dislocated my wrist in an intense water-wing accident. I decided that it was probably best to merely give a summary of what has occurred in my life since my last visit to the dentist. For all I know, the dental hygienists could actually be taking down notes about the going-ons of my life rather than writing about the condition of my teeth each time they add something new to my chart. How embarrassing would it be if I repeated a story that had already been noted? Answer: very.
"I graduated from University, sold my house, moved back in with my parents, bought a new car, and was accepted everywhere I applied for post-degree work. As expected, my parents are thrilled about it all, especially to have me return home after living on my own for two and a half years."
"It is to be expected," my dental hygienist told me, "you are part of the boomerang generation."
I nodded my head, which was all I could do as several dental instruments were in my mouth at the time, glad that she understood my plight.



Magnetic poetry on Bedroom wall
It only took me six months, but I have finally managed to put all of my magnetic poetry up on my bedroom wall(s).
In my defense, for many of those six months my walls were not actually magnetic....


I know I would feel honoured if someone went commando at my funeral...

My great-uncle Norm was an alcoholic, which really isn't all that surprising because most everyone in my family is an alcoholic. He was the identical twin brother of my paternal grandfather and, in the years that followed the death of my grandparents, we spent an increased amount of time together.
Sometimes I feel like I used him.
He was so much like my grandfather.
His smile. His laugh. The way he smelled.
I don't think I appreciated him enough for who he was. For months he functioned as a surrogate. He was a substitute, and I used him as a security blanket.
They were such different people, but if I squinted my eyes just a little I could pretend that I had gone back in time and life was just a little easier to bear.
At Thanksgiving, three years ago, he'd made a comment I'd deemed overly melodramatic. He professed his desire to see me one last time before he was "pushing up daisies." I'd laughed then and assured him he would. I'd hugged him, in that very same hallway where I'd last hugged his brother, and made him a promise: "You will see me again." What else was I supposed to say?
A week later his health began to fail. I drove back to Burlington from North Bay, showered, and got ready to accompany my parents on a trip to the hospital with the intention of saying goodbye. I was tying my shoelace when I realized that I couldn't do it. I couldn't say goodbye to him; I didn't know how. And so I broke my promise and, even though my parents assured me that he hadn't been lucid and it was ultimately for the best, I have had a guilty conscience ever since.
Later, days after his death, family members would recount his final days. "He had a picture of Jim sitting on the shelf across from his bed. The hospital staff did not know that he had been a twin. Instead, they'd assumed he was just an eccentric, slightly vain, old man."
I did not cry at his funeral. In fact, I laughed. I'd run out of underwear the day before and had been forced to attend the function commando. That, paired with the fact that my skirt turned out to be much shorter than I'd remembered it being, had lead me to seek out the assistance of my mother to ensure that I did not show an entire church full of mourners my girlie bits.
"Do not worry Megan," my father had said, "I think Norm would have felt honoured."


Reflections on Elephants

When I used to work at the Safari, the elephants would come by twice a day, every day, to indulge in a relatively quick frolic in a lake that conveniently had many places from which tourists could take their pictures.
Each time the elephants would head out from their barn I would receive a phone call from the gate house telling me to instruct customers not to pull their vehicles through the front gate because the elephants were crossing in front of it.
I can't recall having ever passed on this message in full. Truth be told, I kind of felt that if the customers were stupid enough to pull forward when a train of eight elephants was walking right in front of their car they kind of had it coming anyway. I mean, honestly, if you don't already know without me telling you that a thousand pound animal is likely to pose as an obstacle for your vehicle, I am not sure there is much I can really do for you.


The big Five-O(prah)

Fifty years ago today my father was born.
Coincidentally, fifty-four years ago today Oprah was born.
For obvious reasons, both of these people have contributed to my life in very significant ways: my father genetically and Oprah - well, how does Oprah not contribute to my life?
Oddly enough, for some reason my father is never quite as amused as I am when I instruct the cake decorators to write "Happy Birthday Oprah" on his birthday cakes.



My brother keeps stealing my socks.
I purchased the socks in question (of the tube variety) from Walmart approximately two years ago. They came in a pack of twelve and cost me under six dollars.
I have caught him wearing them several times and confronted him about it. "I didn't realize they were yours!" he exclaims each time.
Fair enough, maybe he did not know they were my socks, but at the very least he knew they were not his socks.
What makes matters worse is that he has hulk-like calf muscles that stretch out the top of the socks, causing them to lose elasticity and bunch around my ankles if I attempt to wear a pair that he has come in contact with.
- 1/25/08

"It is important that I start to spend more time with your wife," I told Matthew one Saturday morning. "She needs to get to know me better before the baby is born so that she will be comfortable with me holding it," I explained.
Other people in the room immediately piped up, volunteering themselves for babysitting duty once the tiny person finally arrived. I waited until they had all finished listing off the reasons why they would be the ideal candidate before finishing my conversation.
"I do not want to babysit your child," I told him honestly. "I want to play with your baby when he is happy and then if he starts to cry or soils himself I would like to hand him off to someone else so that they can deal with him." He laughed and shook his head, knowing that I was entirely serious, and assured me that I would be able to play with his baby in the future.
- 1/20/08

Do you know how long it takes to burn a box of miscellaneous documents?
I do.
Approximately an hour, assuming you dump them all into a giant heap, toss a match on, and poke them with a large stick every so often.
It only took a few minutes for me to realize that burning things had lost all the appeal it had once held for me. As a preteen, my best friend and I were one matchbook shy of pyromaniacs. In fact, one of our adventurous actually cost my best friend the use of her left eyebrow, primarily because her eyebrow hair had been singed off.
- 1/16/08

My brownie leader used to call me pig pen. I am assuming it is because, as a child, I was too energetic to be concerned with things like brushing my hair and ensuring I looked put together.
- 1/08/08


For some reason they find my sarcasm and indifference to them endearing

"The boys all have crushes on you," he told me, elbowing me in the side in an attempt to somehow lend credence to his point.
"Dude," I paused, "one told me earlier this morning that I have body odour and another one just finished trying to tell me I have dandruff - neither of which is true, I just went and checked in the bathroom to make sure."
"Which proves my point," he laughed and waggled his eyebrows.
"You think you know every thing because you are married now," I glared at him, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
I had forgotten that there was a five year window in which boys acted like complete douche bags in order to show their affection.


Holiday Traditions

When I was a child, each Christmas eve my grandfather would take his twelve gauge shotgun down from his gun rack, put on his winter coat and boots, and inform us that he would be spending the rest of the night sitting on top of the roof waiting for Santa Claus. His dedication was impressive, if not slightly disturbing, as he would spend the next several hours banging around on the rooftop in what I can only assume was an attempt to strike fear deep into our hearts.
I do not ever recall having genuinely feared for the life of Kris Kringle, although I do remember fearing for the life of my grandfather.
My grandfather liked to endear himself to us in many ways. He had once taken his dentures out in front of me in an attempt to amuse both myself and my sister. He had held them in his hand and pretended they had taken on a life of their own, making it seem as though the dentures were trying to take a bite out of his forearm.
I was scared shitless.
Not only was my grandfather quite literally falling apart, but it also appeared as though the body parts he shed had some sort of vendetta against him.
It was clear to me that he did not stand a chance against Santa.


Feminine Issues

- I woke myself from a dream last night when I shouted out, "I do not want an IUD!"
Wow. Okay. Fair enough. I hear you loud and clear, Subconscious, although I have to say that I was never actually considering an IUD to begin with.

- Half the time I only know what day of the week it is because my birth control tells me so. God help me when I reach the little green pills that just say 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, and 28.

- Our conversations usually cover a wide variety of topics and this day was no exception.
"I just do not understand how they could make an actual model of someone's vagina. I would imagine that it would involve pouring some sort of molding gel into the vagina itself, but how would they ensure that the gel filled every nook and cranny? And how would they ensure that nothing got stuck up in there? I tell you what, if I ever do make a model of my vagina I am going to have them recreate it in purple and pink sparkly latex and then I am going to give copies of it out to my friends for Christmas. I won't tell them that it is my vagina though, I will tell them that it is a beer cozy."


Stop salivating over my orange peel

I am sitting at the kitchen table about to peel an orange for my breakfast when my mom walks into the room and sits down next to me.
"Oooooh," she says, staring at my orange. "That would be a good one to zest."
I give her a sideways glance and proceed to scoot my chair a few more inches away from her.
"What?" she questions.
"Nothing," I reply, "you are just kind of creepy."


It takes more to impress me now, but not much

Bars are always more fun when you are underage.
Actually, most things are more fun when you are underage. Once you have hit the age of majority the thrill is usually gone.
Sometimes we spend hours discussing our glory days. We reminisce about all the things that seemed normal at the time, but that we have since come to realize were extraordinary. It seems as though the bits and pieces that make up my life all belong to different people and this one part belongs primarily to him.
I remember one evening, in the middle of winter, when I drunkenly lamented about the profound sense of loss I felt at not being able to write my name in the snow with my own urine. The bar wench brought pitcher after pitcher of beer to our table for the boys and I spent the evening sampling all the girly drinks the menu had to offer. Just before he packed me into a cab and directed it to my home, he pulled me into an alley and pointed at a snowbank emphatically.
"Look! Look!" he whined.
And so I looked.
There, in urine, my name sparkled in the moonlight. "Megan." it said.
"It is beautiful," I told him, moved far more than I probably should have been, "but why is there a period at the end of my name?" It turned out that, upon finishing with my name, he realized his bladder was far from empty and a period was the only artistic embellishment that he could come up with at the time. It did not matter though. I spent the fifteen minute cab ride home smiling and asking the cab driver if he had ever written a girl's name in the snow.