As a birthday gift to myself, I decided to take a trip to Florida. Alone.

I would answer to no one. Follow nothing but my own whims. I would wake up when I wanted to. I would go to sleep when I felt like it and do absolutely nothing but what I felt like.

But that got old after the first day of my trip. Not the sleeping part, I am a big fan of that.

Now I find myself at a loss as to what to do. So I have been spending my afternoons reading borderline-erotica on my new Kindle Fire and drinking Walmart wine that only cost one dollar! ONE DOLLAR!

To answer your unspoken question: yes, it is hard being this classy.


Funny, but lacking foresight.

"What can I help you with this evening?" the customer service representative asks.

"I forgot what my password is and I accidentally locked myself out of my account online. I need to reset the password now," I explain.

"That shouldn't be a problem. Can I just get your full name and your date of birth?"

Naturally, I supply the correct answers and wait for the next step in the password reset process. And that is when I hear it. Laughter. From the customer service representative.

"Oh, no," I sigh. "I made the security question, 'If you don't remember your password, you are in trouble.' Didn't I?"

"You sure did," the customer service representative replies. "It must be something that you use all of the time. Do you want me to send a temporary password to your email account?" she asks.

"Yes, please. I do this all the time. I think I need to start writing things down."

"That might be wise. There. You should receive a temporary password within five minutes. Is there anything else that I can help you with?" she asks.

"No, that is all. Thank you very much for your help."

And so ends my password troubles. I can now submit my claim for contact lenses. My life is complete. 


The evolution of an underwear thief

Since his arrival into my life, the puppy has destroyed no fewer than 20 pairs of my underwear. It just seems to be his thing. He finds underwear and he chews on it until it is barely recognizable. To be fair, I did need to invest in new underwear anyway, but it would have been nice if I had done so of my own accord instead of out of sheer necessity. In addition to underwear, other things he has chewed include: slippers purchased for me from India, socks, Ikea stand, towels, paper towels, toilet paper rolls, plastic containers, other dogs, slippers and potatoes.

I will now, in no particular order, post several photos of Hudson that I have taken in the seven months that we have been roommates.


At Least I Wasn't Naked...

"MeeeeeeEeeeeeeeeEeeeeeeeEeeeeeeeEeeeeeeEeeeeeeeEeeeeeee annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones. We got a thingggggggggggggggggggg going onnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. And it's.... it's much tooooooooooooo strong to let. it. go. noooooooooooooow...." I sang into my parents' refrigerator. "We meet every..."

"Hello?" called my father, concern evident in his voice, interrupting my musical interlude.

I paused. My head still in the fridge.

I hadn't realized that anyone was home.

It was Sunday morning, and, on my way to their house, I had to drive past my parents' church. Their car was in the parking lot. I had assumed they were both there. I had, clearly, assumed incorrectly.

"Oh, hi, Dad," I covered, "I was just singing to myself." If I say it out loud, it is way less embarrassing and I can pretend like I am not remotely self conscious about having been caught.

"What are you looking for?" my dad asked.

"Breakfast," I replied and continued my perusal of what groceries they did have. "It looks like I am going to have to find that somewhere else though."


Destroyer of Underwear and Dreams

If I had to pick one thing that little dog likes to do, it would be licking his own genitals. He's only just discovered that they exist and, boy, is he ever making up for lost time.

However, if I had to list two things that little dog likes to do, I would say (1) lick his own genitals, and (2) destroy my underwear.

Clean. Dirty. He does not care. "He wouldn't be able to get to your underwear if you put it away," I am constantly told.


My underwear is put away. Dirty underwear goes in the dirty clothes bin. That has a lid. That I keep books on to hold down.

Clean underwear goes in my dresser drawer.

He is more adament about getting at my underwear than any boy I have ever encountered. And that says a lot.

Since getting the puppy, I have had to go out and purchase more than twenty new pairs of underwear. I will be the first person to declare bankruptcy over underwear.



"My mom would like a glass of water," my little cousin (a few times removed) said to me, standing on the steps of my parents' massive trailer.

"Tell her I said, 'tough shit.'"

He stared at me blankly for a minute before I finally told him I was just kidding.

"Megan!" my mother exclaimed at some point in time as this was all going on.

"What is the matter?" my cousin (slightly fewer times removed) called from outside.

"Your son just asked me to get you a glass of water," I paused, "and I told him to tell you that I said, 'tough shit.'"

Naturally, everyone present threw their heads back and laughed in a jovial manner. It was a Hallmark moment. My family only ever experiences Hallmark moments while *camping.

Hallmark moments were slightly more challenging to come by this time though as there is currently a fire ban in Algonquin Park. Instead of experiencing our normal family bonding around an open flame, we were forced to sit in camp chairs and stare blankly at one another for several hours while consuming alcohol. Not the minors though. They had to do it all sober.

I quizzed them (them being the minors) on the typical things you quiz kids that age about: Career choices. "You are thirteen now," I said sternly, "What are you planning to do with your life? Have you started saving for retirement yet?" The answer to most every question seemed to involve wizards, Nascar or space. Usually all three.

Things I learned while on this trip: the puppy does not like staying still while in canoes. He'll do it, but only for brief periods of time in between trying to stick his whole head in the water, trying to eat various aquatic plants, trying to wrestle with any people or other animals (mainly my other dog) in the canoe, peeing (in the canoe) and contemplating jumping out of the canoe in the middle of whatever body of water we are on. On the plus side, he doesn't bark at wildlife.

Both dogs spent several hours each day frolicking in the water and rolling around in the dirt. Soon, I will go back to work and it will be another year before I have a good excuse not to change my underwear daily or shower.

*My parents have a 38' trailer that they use to "camp" in. The trailer is equipped with a queen size bed, a fold out couch, a shower, a bathroom, a bathroom sink, a fridge, a stove, a stove top, a microwave, a kitchen sink, a 32" TV, a desk for a computer.. You get the idea. I sleep in a two person tent with my dogs. All of my camping equipment, clothes for a week and dog paraphernalia weigh in at under 30 pounds. 


True Story from Work

"Something smells really good," said my co-worker.
"Like berries?" I asked.
"Yes, like berries."
"That is me," I whispered. "I smell delicious."


As Opposed to Tortoising

I do not get grossed out easily. I will confess that, in my free time (as opposed to during my working hours?), I have been known to watch videos of cysts being lanced. Repeatedly. And I can have conversations featuring just about anything as the subject matter without even batting an eyelash or pausing as I eat a sandwich.

But sometimes, Internet, sometimes the most innocuous word will throw me through a loop and cause me to shiver in disgust. Maybe even vomit just a little bit in my mouth.

For instance, the term "turtling." Oh, God. I could talk about poop forever, but the minute someone throws out the term "turtling," I have to take my leave. I don't know what it is, but the word, in that context, absolutely horrifies me. 


Two Milligrams is the Magic Number

I have this thing that many refer to as social anxiety. It is not there all of the time. Just sometimes. Just when it is really going to annoy me because of its ridiculousness.

This week, I have been a participant at a series of seminars for work. One of our activities was to break off into smaller groups, of approximately eight, and tell one another about our organizations and what kinds of issues we face on a day-to-day basis. Of course, this is when I started to have a panic attack. 

"I'm sorry," I told the group when it was my turn. "I am not so good with public speaking, even though this isn't really public speaking. You'll have to give me a couple of minutes." And so they did. Because everyone knows, embarrassing as they may be, panic attacks do not actually lead to the end of the world. They just feel like they will. 

And so the motherly members in my groups assisted me in coming out of my tizzy by leading me with simple questions. In reality, the whole ordeal probably lasted no more than two or three minutes, but it felt like forever. You can imagine how thrilled I was at finding out the next day's session would involve pitching our organization to a group of professionals (who would then critique the effectiveness of our pitch). But you see, Internet, I was not as phased as I could have been because I had a secret weapon. I had lorazepam. 

"Would it cause any real trouble if I took two milligrams?" I asked my nurse friends. 

"No, not really. As long as you're not combining them with other depressants. You may become drowsy and appear inebriated though." 

Appear inebriated? Was this supposed to deter me? Because it didn't. If there is one thing I couldn't care less about people thinking I am it is drunk. Appearing inebriated would do me just fine so long as I was able to (mostly) get out what I needed to say and avoid throwing up on anybody. 

However, as fate would have it, I never needed to make a pitch to anyone. We ran out of time and I got to take a pass so the others who were more keen to participate got to have a go.

I do think that the world is lesser for this though. I probably would have delivered an edutaining performance. Something in the ball park of when I ate one too many pot-laced cookies and forgot how to speak and understand English for several hours. 


Serious Problem.

You guys. Long story short: I got too high testing the potency of pot cookies that I made. I thought it had been longer than it had. I ate more thinking enough time had passed for them to kick in. It hadn't.

Anyway, I decided to download Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe." I don't know what I was thinking. No. That's not true. I wasn't thinking.

But it doesn't matter why it happened. It only matters that it happened. Because, Internet, I played that song. And now the song is playing on my computer.

It just keeps playing. And playing. And playing. AND PLAYING.

The problem is that my computer has the song on loop. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue. However, right now I am just a little bit too high and can't remember how to stop songs from repeating or stop them from playing in general.

I feel like maybe this is a sign from God that maybe pot cookies are a mistake.

I really want a grilled cheese sandwich. 


Sometimes I am like the Hulk, only less green and more rage-filled

"I'm 25 now, I need to get a fucking dog. I need something real to tether me down," the girl beside me said as I waited for my drink at Starbucks.

I stood there, sweat elegantly dripping down my back, listening to her say one ridiculous thing after another.

"Yeah, I could go to school and become a physiotherapist, but then I'd have to give up the house. I mean, being a physiotherapist is a great paying job, but the house is a real asset."

I am on this kick where I am trying not to judge people, but, dear god, I judged this girl so hard. Not being a judgmental asshole is nearly impossible for me when I have PMS. It is also nearly impossible for me the week that I have DMS. And Post-MS.

Really, there is only about a week each month where I am not a total jerk.


Which I guess it could....

I woke up at 3 am with an inexplicable fear of zombies and a need to pee.

I am not sure why I was worried about zombies, but, while on the toilet, I genuinely put some thought into what I would do if zombies ever came to attack me in my apartment.

"I think I am pretty much screwed," I said to dog. "Would you try to eat the zombies?" I asked him.

He did not answer me, as (despite getting along in years) he has still not mastered the English language.

"I only really have knives to defend myself with, and I would have to get far too close to the zombies in order to even use those in the first place. I think I would likely just end up being killed by the zombies. Do you think it would be fast at least?"

Again, dog failed to answer my question with any clarity - unless proceeding to lick one's rectum can be considered a definitive answer. 


Save(d) as Draft(s)

The following are posts that I began writing and then never finished. This is not the first time I have done this.

Unrealistic goals I want to achieve before I die:

Water ski with a monkey or chimpanzee - This is unrealistic for several reasons, the most obvious being that I do not know how to water ski.

Wrestle an elephant - Okay, this could probably happen, but I am pretty sure that it would lead to my death. This is okay though as I already have my obituary written out and it lists my cause of death as elephant wrestling anyway.
- Written on 5/10/12

I'm not NOT high...
I am twenty-seven. I am mostly single. I am mostly un-tied down. I am mostly exactly where I want to be in life.

I am not sure where I am going with this. To be honest with you, Internet, I just took a huge bong hit. It is probably only a matter of minutes before I am "playing-bongos-naked-in-my-living-room" high.

I forgot that I was writing this. I started watching videos of the original broadway cast of Les Miserable performing.

I feel like my stomach is going to growl and that, when it does, I really need to eat nachos with cheese.

Mmmm, spaghetti.

- Written on 3/25/12

I used to keep old papers so that I could read back over them and laugh at some of the points I made, the silly spelling mistakes I had or how I'd managed to pull off the mark I did without ever having actually read the work I was talking about.

Yesterday, while decluttering my apartment (read: finally actually finishing unpacking), I looked over some of my old papers. Do you know what I found out, Internet? I was a pompous ass. Oh, god... what a dick I was.

- Written on 6/26/11

If beans are truly the magical fruit, then I am a magician extraordinaire. That is not to say that I am a master of beans, but....
- Written on 6/11/11

"The key to being funny," I told him, "is not actually trying to make others laugh."

The look of confusion that graced his face told me that he did not understand what I meant. Also, his words did when he said to me, "I don't know what you mean." 

"My main goal in life is to entertain myself, not you. When someone else laughs at something I have said, I consider it to be an added bonus. But my primary goal is to make myself giggle."
- Written on 5/21/11

In case I have never told you this before, I have had the long standing dream of becoming a professional cotton candy maker. Truth be told, I am not sure that anyone actually does this as a full-time job, but I feel like it is time that this changed.
- Written on 5/19/11


Or maybe you would...

The dudes love Hudson.

Workout gear.
 Actually, the ladies love Hudson too. I guess everyone loves Hudson. That is probably because he doesn't pee in their closets or chew holes in their underwear. Trust me. Your opinion of something totally changes the minute it starts chewing holes in your underwear.

Posing in front of a bookcase. 
Already, the four-month-old fluffy beast tips the scale at 40 pounds. He eats 700 grams of food per day, poops three or four times and pees approximately every 30 seconds.

Hitting the beach after a hard day at work.
Recently, we have been making significant headway when it comes to not peeing in the hallway/elevator/stairwell on our way outside. We have also improved 110% when it comes to not taking a dump in the backseat of the car. Now, I am saying "we," but that is just because I am being polite. To the best of my knowledge, I have not taken a dump in/on the back seat of a car or urinated in a hallway/elevator/stairwell in years. Decades even.  

Sleeping while at work. Typical.
Regardless, all of this learning is, of course, exhausting for poor Hudson. You would not believe how tiring it is being adorable, chasing your own tail and simply existing. 


It's not looking good though...

One of Hudson's favourite things to do, other than urinating in my apartment, is taking my dirty underwear from wherever it may be resting and chewing on it.  His evil puppy teeth easily pierce through the sensible cotton (or at least 95% of my underwear is made up of sensible cotton), creating ventilation I did not ask for or want.

My biggest problem with this is that underwear, for me at least, is a very finite resource. I only have a handful of pairs that I actually enjoy wearing. And because I have a tendency to do laundry somewhat infrequently, I like having a large number of underwear so that I do not run out of fresh pairs. The puppy choosing to snack on my drawers is really starting to have a negative impact on how I live my life.

"Maybe you should watch the puppy better and make sure he does not get the underwear in the first place," you may be saying to yourself. And I say shove it. I do watch the puppy, mostly. But he is like a mother fucking ninja (without the mother fucking part or the years of training required to be an actual ninja). That bastard is sneaky. And he is quiet (when he wants to be). I think he is right next to me, and it turns out that he is two rooms over quietly destroying precious family heirlooms. I mean, that example has never actually happened, but it is supposed to express to you that this dog is serious about his covert attempts to ruin lives via the destruction of my underwear.

I am hoping that he grows out of this phase as I do not really want to have to add "replacement underwear" as a line on my monthly budget. 


But I would rather he be helpful in other ways

I feel like puppies and toddlers are practically the same thing.
You just know that if one of those two things is around, and it is quiet where you all are, chances are you're going to find something gnawed on, eaten, ripped apart or urinated/pooped on. Either that or your puppy/toddler is sleeping (or, if you want to be super morbid, dead... probably from eating whatever it was gnawing on or ripping apart).

The benefits that puppies have over toddlers is that you can put a puppy in a cage and leave your house for several hours without having to fear that someone will take your puppy away. Not to say that you can't leave a toddler in a cage for several hours, but that sort of thing is largely frowned upon. Most especially if you actually leave the dwelling in which the toddler is situated.

The benefits that toddlers have over puppies is that, ideally, at some point in time they will start cleaning up their own feces. They will also likely be able to feed themselves later on down the road, and, if you die unexpectedly, a toddler is probably not going to resort to eating your corpse in order to survive. PROBABLY not.

Hudson has pooped in the back seat of my car twice. He has peed in my apartment at least five times. He has peed on the carpet at work somewhere between four and six times (once in front of the Executive Director!). He has gnawed on various co-workers (and even made one bleed), torn a hole in one of my skirts and reminded me that putting shoes away in the closet is the only surefire way to ensure said shoes are not chewed on. And, for some reason, one of his favourite past times is retrieving my dirty underwear from the clothes hamper and bringing it to me. It is almost as though he is saying, "Here. I am not sure if you realized that you left these in that tall basket over there. I am just bringing them back to you because they seem kind of personal. Also, I chewed on them to make a few holes because I thought you might want to make sure that area is especially well ventilated. You're welcome."


The Thing About Puppies

On Friday morning of last week, I woke up at the crack of dawn (or at 6:30 am, whatever) and drove to Ottawa. I was on a mission - a puppy mission.

"You got a puppy?" a friend would ask me later. "What happened to your other dog?"

"Oh," I would say, "he died." Of course, that would be a lie. Dog did not die. Dog is just fine. Dog was just lonely with no dog friends to play with all day, and so it was decided that Dog would get a dog of his own.

Enter Hudson.

Hudson is just a little guy.
At 16 pounds, he is approximately 1/25th of the size he will be once grown. Actually, I just made that up, but he is way smaller right now than he will be in two years. THAT is a fact.
In case you are wondering, that is not me holding the little explorer in the above photo (Hudson is named after Henry Hudson, explorer and discoverer of the Hudson Bay.. or, as the French would say, 'Baie D'Hudson, huh, huh, huh.'). It is my younger brother. My arms are not quite so hairy and the hair on my chin, while present, is much lighter.
And to answer your other unspoken question, yes, I do plan to one day mutiny against Hudson, casting him adrift somewhere around James Bay.... never to be heard from again. But, that probably won't happen for at least two or three more weeks.


But it was drunk on wine, so it was way classier than just being regular drunk

One thing I enjoyed most about my trip to Israel was the wine.

Each night, after we'd spent ten or more hours out touring through various holy places, we would return to whatever hotel it was that we were staying at and open up a bottle of wine. We sampled Israeli wines of all different price points - sometimes two and three times, just to be sure our initial assessments were correct. You'd be surprised how much wine church ladies can throw back. I know I was.

My first night there, my roommate asked me if I was going to join everyone out on the patio for drinks. "I went to the corner store and picked up some gin and mix. It's going to be lots of fun," she said.

"I think I will have to pass," I told her. "I am awfully tired. It has been such a long day." The next day, the other people on the trip mocked me.

"You are the youngest person on this trip. You are rooming with the oldest person on this trip. You went to bed at 9 pm. What time did she go to bed at?" They asked.

"I do not know," I replied. "I was asleep by the time she got back," I said shamefully.

I decided that this was the last time I would let those church-goers shame me for my teetotaling, and so I spent the next nine evenings drunk. It's what Jesus would have wanted. I am sure of it.


Which probably indicates the super should be cleaning more often than she does...

I see remnants of my underwear nearly every where I go, which is really just to my apartment building or work.

The hazard of sequined underwear, I have learned, is that the sequins do not stay attached to the underwear, no matter how hard you will it to be so. The secret thrill I got over owning such remarkable underwear quickly waned as I realized I left a magical trail in my wake.

"Megan! You're wearing your sequined underwear again!" the cleaner at work once shouted at me.

"I am not. Today was just an arts and crafts day in day program. They were working with glitter," I cried in defense. After finding the first sequin in my office, it was probably a bad idea to start laughing and telling all my coworkers where its point of origins was.

It has been months since I've worn my sparkly underpants (I have ten pairs...), and yet, when I walk up the stairs of my apartment building each day, I am greeted by the sight of sequins.

Bitter sweet.


I'd like to take a bite out of that....

Lately, I've been dreaming of chicken. Hot, racy dreams of chicken. I should probably stop and specify that I have not been having erotic dreams about chicken, rather I have been having, hot, racy dreams of eating chicken. But it's not just chicken either. Hamburgers. I see a commercial for a Big Mac on the television and, instead of turning away in disgust, I feel myself drool just a little bit.

As a non-eater of land animals (please note this dietary choice has nothing to do with morals/ethics), this is probably something I should feel ashamed of or deny, but I do not. I proclaim loudly, "That looks delicious." Of course, in my apartment, the only ones to hear me are dog and cat. Dog, I am sure, agrees with me. He agrees with me about most things, with the obvious exception being the acceptability of dragging one's ass across various types of flooring/ground.

The cat simply judges. He is always judging.

Judging and waiting.

There is no question: one day, in the not so distant future, I will resume eating chickens and cows. It is just as certain as the inevitability that, within the next ten years, my tongue piercing will be a mere memory.... Probably. But the cows and chickens bring this on themselves by being so delicious.