An Ode to Nina

Nova Scotia is the siren whore that has lured you away from me with its haunting song.
My only consolation is knowing that you will be surrounded by plenty of able semen. Sorry, able seamen (I sometimes get the two confused), although I am sure you could find plenty of able semen if you tried.
"Should your virgin universe taste like a bloody martini I'll masturbate and shoot pubic juice on your balls," you wrote, in magnetic poetry on my wall. I am not sure what it means, and may or may not find it a little disturbing, but I will try to leave it intact there until you return to me. However, "steamy finger tight butt intercourse orgy," which you also wrote on the wall, is another story.
You see, Nina, I don't mind people thinking that I plan to masturbate and shoot pubic juice onto their balls, but I really don't want them to think I want a steamy butt intercourse orgy.

I guess I should be thankful that she wears any clothing at all

When my sister asked me what I wanted for my birthday last week I told her that I had several things on my list, but what I wanted most was for her to retire her see-through, mesh panties in favour of something more opaque when she went for her mid-afternoon strolls around the house in her underwear.
Rolling her eyes when I went on to profess that it was my one birthday wish, she told me no.
Truth be told, it was the answer I expected as I am relatively sure that my sister is an exhibitionist. She did, after all, once walk into a room that I was occupying with several friends (of mixed genders) wearing nothing but a bra, a pair of panties, and a flask that had been strapped to her thigh using a lace garter and a couple of pieces of duct tape.
"Is the flask noticeable?" she had asked, while nonchalantly trying to examine her reflection in the glass door that lead to my mother's office.
"Yes, Lindsay," I told her, "but that is probably because you are not wearing any clothes."

Mustard

"Is that mustard on your sheets?" My mother asked me.
"No," I snapped, and then cursed silently to myself because, yes, that was mustard on my sheets and when the fuck had I ever brought anything with mustard on it into my bedroom?

Who You Gonna Call?

"I want you to think of a calming song," she said. "I want you to play that song in your head, as you breathe in and out, and then, after you've relaxed, I want you to share with the room what your song was."
Everyone else had good songs; pretty songs. Classical music was the most prominent genre, but every so often someone threw out a title by one hipster band or another. When it was my turn to share I started to turn red. "Megan, what was your song?" the instructor asked.
"Ummmm," I paused, "my song was 'Ghostbusters' by Ray Parker Jr." Apparently it calms me to know that, if there is something wrong in my neighbourhood (specifically of the paranormal variety), there is someone I can call to relate my problems to.

Posts Galore!!!!!!!!

My father is probably one of a handful of people in the world who truly believes that using French doors in a bathroom is a innovative decorative feature. It's actually not though. Using French doors in a bathroom, especially a bathroom that has two entrances that are perpendicular to one another, is pretty much always a mistake.
I have nothing against French doors for the most part, but opacity is something I generally tend to look for in the door to the room in which I have bowel movements.
- 20/10/07

How can a tampon have a no slip grip? And do I really want something with a no slip grip inside of my vagina?
- 23/10/07

Halloween is one of my favourite holidays, primarily because all I do is sit in a chair for a couple of hours by my parents' front door and eat all of my favourite candies out of the giant bowl of junk food that has been purchased for the children of the neighbourhood as I wait for tiny beings to bang on the door demanding that I give them stuff. The thing about this neighbourhood is that there are hardly any children anymore. While the lack of children has inspired some of the elderly neighbours to forgo Halloween altogether, it has inspired others to dole out fist fulls of chocolate to anyone who knocks at the door - children, pizza men, Jehovah's Witnesses alike. Truth be told, I am half tempted to cut off my own legs, only from the knees down, and make the rounds each Halloween because I am confident that I could collect enough candy that losing both of my legs from the knees down really wouldn't bother me that much. The only thing keeping my lower legs safe is the fact that my parents have yet to give up on the children of Aldershot. Each year they buy more and more candy, with a "Field of Dreams" type naivety that if they buy it, they will come (the second "they" being the children, as opposed to baseball players from the 1920's). And yet, each year, fewer and fewer children make the rounds and my siblings and I are forced to consume more an more empty calories because - hey - somebody has to eat that candy.
- 31/10/07

"I am re-naming my cat 'Mr. Sparkles!'," I told them.
"Mr. Sparkles?" my mom repeated.
"No, Mr. Sparkles!, there is an exclamation point at the end of sparkles," I explained.
"Just a quick question," my mom paused to take a sip of her coffee before continuing, "do you really hate your cat that much?"
"Yes," I told her. "Sometimes I really do."
- 02/11/07

Things to do with a plaster hand

I bought some alginate this weekend with the intent of using it to create a mold of my hand that I could fill with Jell-O and then use to scare small children. The Jell-O didn't set, so, in order to get my money's worth, I filled the mold with plaster. The problem with a plaster mold of ones' hand is that there is not a whole lot to do with it. After my mom passed on mounting it on the wall to use as a candle holder and also declined to use it as the first piece of memorabilia in a shrine dedicated to me, I was at a loss as to how to make use of my hand. In the end, I decided to grab the hand and my camera and see what kind of photos I could come up with.

Please note that the bumps on the hand are due to air bubbles in the alginate and not disfiguring warts/moles. Also, I broke off my plaster hand's pinkie while extracting it from the mold. If you pay close attention, you will be able to see a seam where I used more plaster to re-attach it. That is all.

Use it to hold flowers

Feed the fish

Pretend to climb ropes

Rake the leaves (trust me, that blurry blue thing is a rake)

Take funny pictures with liquor bottles.. That crazy hand loves its tequila!

Ever wonder what to do with those boxes of tiny cocktail umbrellas you bought? Use the hand to hold them!!!!

Scare the cat by using the hand to pet it

Play rock, paper, scissors. The hand is surprisingly hard to beat.

Make your father arm wrestle the hand

In spite of having no arm muscles, the hand wins!

Use it as a place to put your phone (so that you can finally stop losing it)

Use the hand to make it look like you are not hogging the remote

Pretend that the hand knows how to use the computer

Janet Jackson would go on to flash her nipple approximately 45 minutes later

In my first year of University, one of my roommates had a hanging lamp, which she purchased from Ikea, displayed proudly in her room. It is important at this point in time, for the sake of the story, that I mention that the hanging lamp was made out of blue rice paper. Needless to say, it was a delicate lamp and it had been made clear to me on more than one occasion that I was never to touch it.
You all know where this story is going, of course I ended up breaking the hanging lamp. That hanging lamp was doomed the minute my roommate packed it up and brought it with her to University. Ultimately it was the finale of Super Bowl XXXVIII's pre-game show that would do it in.
Aerosmith was in the midst of playing their hearts out, and dancers were running around the field with beautiful dancing ribbons streaming after them. Moved by what was happening on screen, I picked up a plastic tape measure that was sitting on my roommate's side table and began to wave it in the air, imitating (with far less sophistication) the movements of the dancers on the TV.
"Wave that ribbon!" My roommate exclaimed, "you were born to do this!" And, for a minute, I believed her. I believed her right up until I heard the metal end of that plastic tape measure puncture the paper body of her hanging lamp.
I stopped abruptly, the tape measure falling to my side, closed my eyes and prepared myself for the painful death that I was sure would follow. When death did no immediately find me, I slowly opened up one eye and glanced cautiously towards where my roommate was sitting.
As I had expected, tears were streaming down her face - however, much to my surprise, they seemed to be the result of laughter rather than sadness/a burning desire to kill me. I was even more surprised at what she said next: "Don't you stop, Megan." She cried, "don't you ever stop waving that ribbon."
"But I just ruined your lamp," I said, in disbelief.
"Forget that," she shouted, "just wave. You wave that ribbon, Megan."
And so, deciding not to question her, I once more waved that plastic tape measure high above my head. I waved that plastic tape measure with everything I was and everything I had in me, all the while making fervent promises to replace the hanging lamp that had fallen victim to my new career.
In spite of numerous man hours spent in Ikea, diligently searching for a replacement, I have only very recently been able to locate another hanging lamp. While relating the entire story over the Internet may not be the best way to keep it a surprise, I am now finally able to make good on my promise to replace the lamp that I/Aerosmith broke.

All of my socks have pictures of animals frolicking on them.
No, wait, that's not entirely true. Some of them display a single animal looking bored, and others show multiple animals at various stages of rest.
I am not sure if you know this, but it is somewhat difficult to convince yourself you are in fact an adult when there are woven pictures of kittens playing with balls of yarn prominently displayed on your feet.

$30 worth of glitter later....

And the award for world's greatest sister in our house goes to: Megan

I feel like this sign is so great that I no longer even actually have to go to any of his games - not that I've been to any of his games so far. The season only started yesterday and I was too busy creating my masterpiece to actually attend the opener.

As opposed to just a weirdo with out pee in her purse

As I sat in the office, waiting patiently in my chair, I couldn't help but think of the container of urine I had hidden away in my purse. The last time I was at the doctor's office I had made a special request to take a specimen jar home with me after I'd explained to my doctor the tribulations I endure when forced to wait to pee until I am locked away inside one of the sterile bathrooms located in the medical lab.
"I always have to pee first thing in the morning and I can never manage to hold it long enough to get down here and wait for them to draw my blood. And then, because I've already peed, my bladder is empty and I am in that little bathroom for fifteen minutes hoping that filling up 1/5th of the container is going to provide enough urine for the lab techs to do whatever kind of magical tests it is that they have to do. It's very embarrassing, especially because 3/4s of the urine I do manage to produce ends up all over my hand and on the outside of the specimen jar. Do you know what it's like to have to turn in a specimen jar with a wet label?" I asked. My doctor just smiled at me, opened one of the drawers to his right, pulled out a small plastic container and handed it over wordlessly.
And so, ideal patient that I am, I fasted all night long, and as soon as morning struck I pulled that specimen jar from off my dresser and headed for the bathroom. I filled that container with an ease I had never previously experienced when it came to peeing in jars. When it was 4/5ths of the way full, I stopped and beamed at the jar as I screwed its top on. After that, I placed the container into a Ziploc bag (just in case), tossed it into my purse and rushed out the door for the doctor's office.
Never having transported urine anywhere before, I was unsure what the proper procedure was - but assumed I should probably keep the container well hidden and not mention to anyone that I was toting around a cup full of my own pee. Before I knew it, my physical was done and I was being sent over to the medical lab for testing. 'This is it,' I had thought. 'This is where all my hard work pays off.' Only no one ever asked me for my sample. No one asked me for my sample because my doctor had not requested a urinalysis. I had just spent nearly two hours carting my urine all around the city and the medical building only to find out that it was completely unnecessary and I was now just a weirdo with a container of pee in her purse.

That should be their new slogan

I super-glued my toe shut.
I had a deep slice that looked as though I'd attempted to remove my own baby toe and instead of getting stitches I decided to super-glue it shut.
I'd gotten up to use the bathroom at around five in the morning only to ram right into a street sign I had borrowed from the city. "Fuck!" I exclaimed, and avoided looking down for as long as possible. When I did, look down that is, I noticed that there was blood flowing liberally from a superficial wound on the top of my smallest toe. I thought it odd that a relatively shallow cut would produce so much blood, but shrugged my shoulders and sought out my first aid kit without giving it much more thought.
I hopped around the basement floor in an attempt to avoid leaving a trail of bodily fluids behind me, but failed miserably. Once I reached the laundry room sink, I propped my foot up on the counter to give my wound a closer examination. It is at this point in time that one would think I would have noticed that the sign had tried to sever my toe off, but I did not. It took me an additional twenty minutes to figure out that my toe had actually been damaged in two places.
"Fuck," I repeated, but with much less enthusiasm. While the wound on the top of my toe was nothing to worry about, the slice in between my toes proved more worrisome.
It looked like the kind of cut that needed stitches. I'd had such a cut once before, the result of a failed attempt to cut a watermelon using a bread knife, but had managed to escape getting stitches when the admitting nurse at the ER told me it would only require one. "No. No, thank you," I had told her, and quickly convinced my father that our time would be better spent somewhere other than the ER. But this cut - this cut looked worse than the watermelon fiasco. This cut looked like my foot had started to evolve and this evolutionary stage involved the formation of a mouth.
I wiggled my baby toe and the mouth laughed at me. "Good luck with your day of shoe shopping now," it said.
That's when it came to me: super glue. Both my grandfather and uncle had told me stories in which they sang the praises of super glue and its joyous medicinal qualities. "You know it was developed during the war as a quick alternative to stitches," my grandfather had said.
So that morning I had my father run out to Canadian Tire and fetch me a tube of super glue.
Let me just tell you this, internet: super glue is super awesome.

Actually, I know I will miss it

I am laying on a bare mattress that rests in the middle of the floor in an empty room. It is my last night in North Bay - ever, or at least for the foreseeable future.
I’ve thought very little about my actual departure from this city. It has been a date marked on my calendar for months now surrounded by exclamation points and stars, but, other than considering the kinds of supplies I’d require to pack up the house, I’d never really given much thought to the other implications the date held. I am leaving this city essentially the same way I entered it: without any real attachments to its inhabitants and less than thrilled about my living arrangements once I settle into my new life.
Despite making many friends, I knew that each goodbye I made was permanent – unless, of course, it was the other party who made the effort to keep in touch. In truth, I dodged goodbyes wherever possible and implemented a strict “no hugging” rule for the ones I found myself unintentionally caught in. This statement sounds slightly depressing, but I never expected to make lasting relationships in this city and found relief in the fact that it seems I haven't.

But not before exclaiming, "This is why I broke-up with you!"

I was surprised when my cell phone rang because, after all, I can't recall having ever given anyone the number - not intentionally at least. I narrowed my eyes at it in hopes that my sheer level of annoyance would cause it to cease its vibrating and cower away in a corner somewhere. When it became clear that the phone was not going to make things easy, I flipped it open and proceeded to offer up a half-assed greeting to whoever was on the other side.
"This is Corey," an unfamiliar male voice announced, "you broke up with me three days ago."
Oh. Corey.
Truth be told, I did not actually know Corey by name. You see, last week I got drunk and decided it would be hilarious to send the same text message out to each member of my family. The idea had come from an episode of the television show 7th Heaven, in which one of the Camden's daughters is broken up with via text message. "M br8kn up w/u," the text read.
What I forgot was that my sister had terminated her old cell phone plan before she went away to Europe/Africa approximately a year and a half ago, and I had failed to update my phone's address book with her new phone number. Needless to say, with a number that was less than current, my sister never got my hilarious text message. Instead, it went to Corey.
Oh, Corey.
Dear, sweet, creepy Corey. Distraught over our break-up, he called my cell phone in a last ditch effort to save our relationship. In what can best be described as two and a half of the most awkward minutes of my life, I attempted to explain the hilarity of my mix-up to the voice on the other end of the phone. When he failed to laugh the way I felt he should and quickly proceeded to accuse me of stalking him, I hung up the phone.

Save(d) as Draft(s)

I keep having nightmares about dying, night after night.
I used to think that I wasn't afraid of death, but I have come to realize that I was deluding myself.
I am afraid completely afraid to die. The idea leaves me terrified.
7/24/07

I still mean every promise I have ever made.
7/25/07

I used to have an intense desire to own a white duck.
I had it all planned out. The duck's name would be Professor McQuacks and he would follow me every where. We would go to the park together where I would feed him pieces of bread as he swam in the water and the other ducks looked on in jealousy. At the end of each day, I would tuck Professor McQuacks into my bed and read him a bedtime story. However, in the morning I would wake-up with a bad case of salmonella and realize that I had accidentally rolled over the Professor in my sleep.
7/29/07

I sprayed the air freshener in the sign of the holy cross, hoping against all hope that it would somehow purge the smell, that was surely evil, from the room. It didn't though.
8/01/07

My sister is always giving me inside information on things that I don't care about, like dessert wines and diamond mining. "I will let you come to my champagne tasting," she tells me one evening, "I will only make you pay $100."
8/03/07

I have a hard time thinking of myself in terms of anything but goofy looking. I feel incredibly self-conscious when talking about my physical appearance because, after all, I have looked in a mirror before and been greeted by the sight of my bulbous nose and Charlie Brown-like head.
8/04/07

But I'll know for sure Friday morning

It's a race against the clock. Which will come first, my period or my annual physical?
Only time will tell.