How I spend my Saturday mornings

I hate running. 

Hate it.

So it made perfect sense that I would pay approximately $120 to join a running group that meets every Saturday morning at 7:30 a.m. Did I mention that the running group meets half an hour away from my house? I am mentioning it now. The running group meets at a location that is half an hour away from my house. This means that, in order to roll out of bed and be ready for running group, I need to wake up by 6:30 a.m. at the latest. 

Did I mention that I was instructed to eat something before running group and drink some water? I am mentioning it now. I was told to eat something before running group and drink at least one cup of water no less than one hour before I run. 

One hour before I run. 

This means that, if I am going to eat something, I need to eat it by 6:30 a.m. This in turn means that in order to have something prepared to eat by 6:30 a.m., I have to get up prior to 6:30 a.m. On a Saturday. 

So far I hate my running group. Each Saturday, I arrive at our meeting place and silently curse everyone in the group. I am smiling on the outside, but on the inside I am giving foul-mouthed sailors a run for their money. Each week we run further and further. First it was one kilometer, then three. Now it is five kilometers and soon it will be six. By the end of August, we will be up to ten kilometers, although we do have a twelve kilometer run to complete one day. 

I must secretly hate myself. Why else would I be doing this?

Tall Tales

"I am going to stop you for a second," I said to the little boy who had previously been speaking. His name was James, and he was telling an elaborate tale of an encounter he "had" with the local authorities.

"I am going to go out on a limb here and say that the police never shot at you."

"They did," he insisted.

"Tell me, James, why would the police shoot at an unarmed nine-year-old?" I asked him.

"I am native," he declared, "I had a bow and arrow. I was shooting at them." 

While there was no denying that he was indeed native, I still found his story less than credible.

"I once went to Tim Hortons and saw a van get hit in the window with a paintball," another little boy piped up.

"Now that I believe," I told him.

The discussion that takes place during Sunday School is much different than I remember it being when I was young enough to attend. 

It isn't alcoholism because I was drinking in a room full of people

Drinking before, during and after an oral presentation will help ease your nerves I have found. 

Today, upon recounting the tales of my involvement with a relatively prestigious festival, I sipped from a glass of wine rather than a bottle of water. 

Sure, I may have slurred my words some, but I was calm. 

I'm just saying....

"We don't celebrate Valentine's day because it is too commercial and common for us," she said. "Instead we do something special a month or two later."

"What I am hearing is that you just celebrate Valentine's day late," I said.

"No, we don't celebrate Valentine's day," she repeated.

"Yes, you do. You just do it late and call it something different so that you can tell yourselves that you are individuals," I clarified. "It is still the very same premise. You are still going out and buying the cards and chocolates, and having a fancy dinner."

"It's not the same," she insisted, sounding slightly less sure of herself. 

"Oh, it's the same. It's not your anniversary. It is not in celebration of some other sort of special occasion. It is Valentine's day, only it's late."

I find Valentine's day to be ridiculous and not merely because I am single.  I have never felt the need to celebrate the day. In fact, I have never celebrated the occasion in any special way other than going out of my way to ensure there was time for extra sex that day. In the morning? Don't mind if I do. A nooner? Sure, why not? On the kitchen table, waiting for dinner to cook? How can I resist? Did you hear that? The television program we are watching is on a commercial break. Quick, we must figure out something to do to help pass the time. 

But I digress. Valentine's day is a sham. We should all insist on being more loving on a regular basis instead of saving it all up for one day. 

Draft(s)

I was sniffing the air, trying to determine where the smell of marijuana was coming from, when I saw movement to my right, in the passengers seat."Are you rolling a joint in my car?!" I asked, though I clearly already knew the answer.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to realize what I was doing," she laughed. 

9/8/08

Lately, when confronted with someone else's bad behaviour, I have taken to pointing my finger and firmly stating, "no." In case they do not get it, I often repeat myself in a slightly slower, more condescending voice. "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Bad," I say.

9/27/08

I was sitting at the back of the library studying. Every so often I would glance up to the window above me and stare at the freshly fallen snow in the middle of the courtyard. It was cold in the library, and it was boring. Still, I returned my attention to my books and did my best to absorb the information in front of me. I lasted for exactly one hour and five minutes. 

Studying is boring. 

I began to gather my notes and arrange things in my school bag when I was interrupted by a thud against the window in front of me. I looked up and was surprised to see several of my friends standing there staring at me. 

12/10/08

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to be Jewish. I do not know where the notion first came from.

12/15/08

Biological Clocks

I am sick and am therefore in a whiny, introspective mood. 

"I have a cold that has given me a smoker's cough," I tell him.

"Sexy," he replies.

"I know. I will surely find a husband any day now," I say, pausing briefly to hack up one of my lungs. "I will pick him up by saying, 'Hey baby, my biological clock has started to tick.' And then I will cough all over him. Guys love that."

Though he seems slightly hesitant, he eventually agrees with me.

"I am ten years away from asking you to father my children. I am just putting that out there. We cannot do it though because it would just be too weird," I declare.

"Yeah, but maybe in ten years it will seem normal," he postulates. 

"You could be right, but I am making no promises."

"Me either," he agrees. "I may even say no."

"I don't think you will. Your biological clock is ticking too." He is silent now because he knows this is true. "Plus," I add, "I am so smooth that you will not even realize what has happened until the offspring is 30." 

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.