On fooling around in a car

"What are you doing?" I asked, pulling my mouth away from his in order to pose the question.

It was a rhetorical question, or at least sort of. I knew what he was doing. His hand had slowly been making its way under and up my shirt as we fogged up my car windows while parked in front of his house.

"Are you wearing that bra you told me about?" he asked, playing with the hem of my sweatshirt.

I looked at him like he had sprouted two heads.

"I am wearing a sports bra," I said flatly. "We just ran up several hundred stairs. Why would I wear a lace bra to do that?"

"So you're not going to let me go up there?" he questioned.

"Do you mean up my shirt? Gross. No, not tonight. That is disgusting. Things are sweaty and probably smell," I stated.

His eyes perked up upon hearing the word "sweaty," but quickly returned to normal when I shook my head and began to glare at him.

"Let's clear this up right now: post-exercise, I am always going to want to shower before fooling around or having sex," I told him. "There is no chance of anyone getting near my lady bits if I am feeling less than fresh. I need to shower first." He did not seem to understand the purpose of this, so he decided just to lick my neck. I decided to follow his lead and return the favour.

"I just have to remember not to give you a hickey in case you have to go to a job interview this week," I said, more to myself than to him.

"It is okay," he replied, "I am the kind of guy who likes to wear turtlenecks under my scrubs."

That was good enough for me, so I proceeded to attack his neck like it owed me money. A little while later, I pulled back in an attempt to check on my work.

"How is it?" he asked.

"I don't know," I answered honestly, "I can't see. It's too dark in here. I could use the head lamp in my pocket to check it out."

Alas, before being able to confirm that my canvas had been marked, it was time to go. I booted him out of my car, turned on the engine and drove away.

Pets: The Ultimate Cockblockers (After Children)

Your relationship has moved at a slower pace. This is a change for you. Most every other "relationship" you have been in involved drunken sex (at least once) right out of the starting gate. Actually, you can't recall having ever gotten to know someone in this capacity without utilizing alcohol to help lubricate your tongue and other body parts.

The idea of going through any part of a relationship while sober terrifies you. But you push through anyway because that is what normal people do. You think at least. And so you invite him to a date at your apartment during which you eat drug-laced cookies and watch the DVDs of a TV show you both enjoy. "

He doesn't attempt second base on his own. He does hold your hand though, and he does interrupt your intense focus on the television screen (which is really only actually intense because you are too high to figure out how to do anything but stare at one object and only one object at a time) to makeout. You do so willingly and close your eyes. Having your eyes closed makes things way easier for you because now you do not have to worry about focusing on anything other than his mouth. You can do that.

Your slow moving brain is trying to figure out what you can do to shift him so that the entirety of his body is laying on top of yours. You have some serious plans for at least ten minutes of grinding. Serious plans that are interrupted when you realize that your dog (who recently celebrated his first birthday) has decided that he would also like to experiment with recreational drugs and has started eating the special cookies from off of the coffee table.

That bastard. He is a bastard for many reasons: (1) he was born out of wedlock, (2) he pulled this very same shit yesterday (he went into the garbage and ate the spent pot that was used to make the special butter), and (3) his actions caused your man friend to stop what he was doing and look away.. immediately putting a halt to your dry humping.

Whatever. Fine. You can work with that.

You get up, move the cookies away, and sit back down next to your date. You are being a good girl, so climbing onto his lap is clearly out of the question. Also, you are too high to be able to pull off anything that could even remotely be considered a quick movement. It seems like anything that involves straddling could be dangerous.

When your date ever-so-gentlemanly takes your hand in his and begins to stroke your palm, you think, "fuck it," and not-so-subtly take the hand that had just been holding yours and place it on your breast. Also, it turns out that you didn't just think, "fuck it," you said that part out loud.

But, god bless him, your date just goes with it. And you are practically purring, for about two and a half minutes. At that point in time, Hudson proceeds to pee all over the floor right by your front door. By what is surely the grace of god, the dog did not urinate on your man friend's shoes. He did, however, create a small lake in your apartment. There is no ignoring it. And so you sigh, get up and proceed to mop up the mess. You're not even actually sure if you can blame the dog for his actions because there is a very good chance that he is even more high than you are. Regardless, the mood has once again been broken.

It is later on that night. You have resigned yourself to simply cuddling on the couch. Your head is near your dates lap and you are staring at his fly, silently apologizing to what lies beneath for neglecting it all night long. But, just to keep things interesting, you have been lazily running your hand along his thigh for the last ten minutes.

Inching your way closer and closer to..

Your elderly dog, who has just decided that there is room enough for three on the couch and is fed up with being the only one not getting stroked. You stop the movement of your hand and pat the dog on the head. It seems weird to be stroking both your dog and date at the same time, and so your date loses. After all, the dog was around first.

The night eventually comes to a close when all three animals (cat included) just begin to stare at you and your date as you sit on the couch. It's unnerving.

You escort your date to the front door, but not before pressing a book into his hands. "Remember to read this before we go see the movie," you say. He nods. You see it as a chance to make your move and attack his face with your own.

He tries to take a brief romantic pause to ask you questions about whether or not you had fun and when you want to get together next. "Shut up," you want to say to him, "your talking is getting in the way of my kissing." But that would be kind of rude to say, wouldn't it? So you don't. Instead, you just stare at his lips because, hours later, you are still too high to really focus on much more than one thing at a time.

Eventually his lips stop moving and, just for good measure, you nod a few times (it seems like the thing to do) before moving back in for the kill. He seems pleased by this.

Several minutes later, he departs. He forgot the book. You stare at it for a second and then turn around to face the waiting crowd.

"Fuck you," you say to the two dogs and one cat. "You guys are such assholes."  

The stars were bright and twinkling overhead. We sat in a giant circle, seated on cushions, all wrapped tightly in blankets, around a fire.

Three brothers sang songs in arabic as they huddled around the flames, preparing a late night tea. Their voices and the crackling of the fire the only noise in the darkness.

I was struck by the sense that this feeling was something I was unlikely to recapture again. It was a memory I would carry with me for the rest of my life. One that I'd look to others who'd shared it and laugh. "Remember the time we sat around a fire in the middle of the desert, in Jordan, and drank tea and smoked hookahs under the stars with a bunch of bedouins?" 

Vacation

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.

UNTRUE.

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.

"Camping"

"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.