This cracks me up.

Click here.

It's a facebook thing.

Normally I don't respond to the various solicitations on facebook ("See who has a crush on you!" "Click here to find out what people are saying about you!" "Download this app or risk becoming a social outcast!"), but I recently complied with one request asking me to post 25 random things about myself. A couple of friends had listed their own 25 things and tagged me asking me to do the same. I'm just sitting around in my housecoat doing nothing remotely productive anyway, so what the heck?

Twenty-Five Things About Me

1. I don't like being told what to do.
2. I get anxious about wasted time because old people have warned me that life flies by faster than you would ever expect. Gee, thanks a lot, old people.
3. Apparently I can never have enough pets, even when I have too many.
4. I'm so disillusioned, it's a wonder that I can still be disappointed.
5. I wish I had been born multi-lingual. I'm too bashful to endure being a "_.S.L." student.
6. I'm so odd, even my synesthesia is atypical.
7. Number 7 is stumping me. Try again later.
8. It amuses me that Connecticut has two trash museums and the largest display of Celebriducks in the world.
9. If someone would just cook and clean for me, I'd be happy to tend to the other household activities (such as eating and making a mess).
10. Oh yeah, I'd like someone to exercise for me, too.
11. I am quickly realizing that these 25 things are not going to be profound in the least.
12. I really like our wedding vows.
13. I doubt that Scott has even read our wedding vows, except for the part that he had to repeat during our ceremony.
14. I expect to get grief from Scott for writing #13.
15. I believe strongly in both individual rights and individual responsibilities, and I think it's a shame that more people don't feel the same way.
16. I'm afraid of burned-out incandescent lightbulbs, as they remind me of Fonzie's disembodied head.
17. No, I don't do illicit drugs.
18. I likely wouldn't enjoy my slumber so much if I didn't find it so difficult to fall asleep.
19. Food where it doesn't belong makes me laugh really hard. There was a baked potato on the corner of Yonge and York Mills and I could barely contain myself.
20. If I think about it I can see how much my personality has changed over the years, which is both good and bad.
21. I really, really, really want to find volunteer work that Scott and I can enjoy doing together.
22. I don't think that #21 is going to happen.
23. It is driving me batty to have my basement out of commission and to be unable to have hoards of people and their pets over.
24. I wish that there was a search function for physical objects. I would be searching for "SD card from my wedding" right now.
25. I hope that you don't do what I've just done and waste a perfectly beautiful afternoon sitting at your computer.

Romance? What romance?

When you've been married as long as Scott and I have (112 days), you can't expect the romance to keep flowing like it did when the relationship was young and fresh. That being said, it is our first Valentine's Day as a married couple, and I tried to choose the perfect card for the occasion:

I purchased that card quite some time ago. Scott, on the other hand, bought his card for me last night when we were at the drugstore. I sigh at his last-minute gestures, although I've heard that such timing is typical of at least 50% of men and shouldn't be taken personally. I have to admit, Scott did a darned good job of selecting a very fitting card:

Who needs romance anyway?

Road test

I promised to tell you about my road test, and I will. Before doing so, however, I should mention that my last lesson with Lino, my first driving instructor, had taken place almost two years earlier. When I subsequently explained to the driving school how little I had learned, they credited me for additional lessons with a different instructor. I took advantage of those free lessons in the weeks leading up to my road test. I was amazed at just how much one could learn from a dedicated instructor. I was also overwhelmed with the amount that I had yet to master.

Do I need to describe how nervous I was on the morning of my road test? No, I'm sure you can figure it out. I don't even remember the drive to the test centre, or parking in one of the numbered spots. I recall going inside and lining up in the wrong queue, lining up in the correct queue, registering at the desk and being directed to wait outside by the car. Standing in a parking lot full of freaked-out new drivers like myself struck me as a life-threatening activity. Imagine the possibilities.

After what seemed like an interminable wait (likely five minutes), a no-nonsense but personable examiner met me at the car. She had me demonstrate that the signals worked, and then we were off. As I left the parking spot, the examiner asked, "Do you hear that noise?" I did, but I couldn't identify it. "That's your emergency brake," she said. With my face as red as my brake lights, I released the parking brake. I admitted that I rarely used it and that, ironically, I had only engaged it in the first place to impress her. Not a good start.

My last driving instructor had outlined the most likely test route. She had told me that I would leave the test centre, turn right at the first major intersection, and then drive around a nearby industrial area for ten minutes or so. I had made a point of driving around the area with Scott a number of times, including the night before my test. That last practice run hadn't gone so well. At one point, flustered by an approaching vehicle while I was clumsily transforming a three-point turn into a twelve-point turn, I stomped on the gas pedal and reversed speedily right up onto the sidewalk. It was all luck and no skill that had me very narrowly miss a parked car and a tree.

Back to the road test. Armed with a familiarity of the test route, but with my confidence dashed, I proceeded toward the first main intersection with every intention of turning right. The examiner said, "Turn left at the lights." What?? Left? Seriously? Shit. I turned left. I then flipped on my other signal and prepared to merge into the lane to my right, as I had been taught to do. The examiner said, "I appreciate that you're trying to change lanes, but you may as well stay in this one. We're turning left again at the next lights." We weren't following the test route at all. We were heading the opposite way. I wondered if perhaps the examiner was just going to direct me all the way back to my house, remove the keys from the ignition, and instruct me never to drive again. At this point I was okay with the prospect, except for the fact that Scott would be stranded at the test centre.

Rather than driving through an industrial area, I was directed to a residential neighbourhood. There the examiner had me demonstrate my lack of prowess in a number of different maneuvers. At one point she had me pull up to the curb and park. There were no other cars around so it seemed simple enough. Too simple. I realized that this was supposed to be an exercise in hill parking, but I was so nervous that the slope was imperceptible to me. I wasn't sure if I should admit that I couldn't tell up from down or if I should just crank the steering wheel and hope that I chose the correct direction. I decided to confess that I was completely frazzled.

As we neared the end of the exam, the examiner instructed me to make a three-point turn at the next appropriate opportunity. Instead, I continued driving until the only remaining stretch of road between me and the end of the street was blocked by a delivery truck. The examiner directed me to a different street and gave me one more shot at executing a three-point turn before directing me back to the test centre.

As I returned to the parking lot of the test centre, I was convinced of my failure. My self-deprecating comments were interspersed with the examiner's wry remarks. I reached my parking spot and prepared to pull in front-first, as I figured that there was no point in trying anything tricky. "Reverse into the spot," the examiner said. "I dare you." I did as I was told. Knowing that I normally forget to look out the rear window when I back into a spot, I overcompensated by looking nowhere but out the rear window. "What do you see if you look out your side window?" the examiner asked. I checked. "I see that I'm just about to hit the car beside me," I replied. "You should correct that," she suggested. I did.

I turned off the ignition and waited glumly while the examiner reviewed her test sheet and tallied my mistakes aloud. When she reached six I groaned, "That doesn't sound promising." She shook her head. "It's when I have to take off my shoes to continue counting that you need to worry." To my great surprise, she turned toward me and offered her hand. "Congratulations," she said.

Passing my first road test meant that I was now permitted to drive alone. I can't say that Scott looked particularly pleased when I met him inside the test centre and told him that I had passed. Considering how my first solo trip went, I also can't blame him. But that's another story.

Belated news

Remember this? I realize that I never explained the circumstances behind the timing. I wasn't just getting myself inked four weeks before my wedding for the sheer thrill of possibly being scabby and scaly on the big day. I was celebrating the cumulative results of this and this and this and this and this and this and this and this and this and this.

That's right, dear readers, four months ago I got my G2! Now if that means nothing to you, you either live outside Ontario or you got your driver's license before the graduated licensing program was implemented. That would be about 95% of my readers. Long story short, in September I passed my first road test and am now permitted to drive unaccompanied. I have done so exactly once. I will tell you about that experience in a future post. I will also tell you about the road test, which I probably should have failed.

When it's minus infinity outside...

...and people have to travel to work, or run errands, or shovel snow...

...you can bet our cats are laughing at us.

Keep warm, everyone. This hemisphere is mighty chilly these days.

Will work for nothing

I used to volunteer. As a kid I would occasionally sort non-perishables with my parents for the local food bank. When I was an adolescent my dad and I delivered hot lunches for Meals On Wheels. I spent a couple of years working with a theatre group on a dramatic production introducing our school board's new multicultural policy to staff and students. For a few months after high school I took care of routine correspondence for Greenpeace. During university I volunteered for an organization that sent students to visit so-called "shut-ins." Shortly after graduating I was fortunate enough to land an advanced-level volunteer position with a large social service agency. The work involved researching, writing, and presenting difficult material in a sensitive manner. I loved that volunteer position so much that I held on to it with all my might for a decade.

To my tremendous delight, a paid position became available at the agency and I was eventually hired to do exactly what I had been doing as a volunteer. I had to take a pay cut and a huge leap of faith, leaving behind a cushy and secure job with many perks for a one-year contract. Lo and behold, after the contract ended my position became permanent. (Permanent, in a field like mine, is a relative term; recent legislative changes are significantly affecting my job, but I'm hoping to ride out the storm.) I don't think very many people are lucky enough to have their passions become their careers. I am truly very thankful. I am also missing volunteering. Doing a heck of a lot of work for pay is not as fulfilling as doing a heck of a lot of work for nothing more than the reward of knowing that you are doing it out of the goodness of your heart. Not that I'm about to give up my paycheque.

When I started volunteering for the agency I was one of about a dozen volunteers in my department. Ten years later I was the only volunteer left. That meant that, after I was hired, we had no volunteers. With a lengthy waiting list for our services it was decided that we required additional help. We met with our branch's volunteer recruiter and explained our needs. We required someone who was a quick study, who had excellent written communication skills and who was proficient in word processing. Also, because of the lengthy training period, we needed someone who could promise us at least one year of service. From time to time our volunteer recruiter would appear in our office with someone new and eager to help out. Every time, my co-workers would turn their chairs, greet the new volunteer enthusiastically and then swivel back to their computers. Perhaps because I am the person with the most recent volunteer experience, or because I am the only one in my position who is in the office five days a week, or because I swivel the slowest, the responsibility for the volunteers fell to me. I was left to describe the position, provide the training and review their work.

Volunteer Number One had a social work degree. Score! She was only volunteering because she didn't have enough Canadian experience to land a job in her field. Let-down! While she was fairly well spoken, her written English was so weak that she didn't know "him" from "her" or "he" from "she," and she couldn't keep her tenses straight. Editing her writing took me so long that I may as well have done the work myself. She was a nice lady, but her writing was so excruciating to deal with that I was praying for someone, anyone to hire her. My prayers were answered -- sort of. She got a job. Unfortunately, she felt so indebted to us that she kept showing up at our office whenever she had a day off. I had neither the heart nor the authority to fire a volunteer, but oh how I wanted to! Eventually the volunteer recruiter, sheepish over her lousy job of screening, reassigned Volunteer Number One to a more appropriate area of the agency.

Anxious to redeem herself, our volunteer recruiter brought us Volunteer Number Two. This young woman had just finished her studies in a field completely unrelated to our agency's work. Whenever she came in I had the distinct impression that she wasn't sure how she had ended up with us. That's certainly how I felt. Her writing skills made Volunteer Number One seem like a prizewinning journalist. One day she reported that she had to leave the country to go see a sick relative. It was several months before she reappeared. She told us that she had contracted malaria, necessitating a longer absence than she had anticipated. We soon realized that malaria wasn't the only thing she had picked up while she was away. She was quite obviously pregnant and, as such, she was unable to commit herself to a full year of volunteering. Our joy was genuine when we wished her farewell.

With two spectacular strikes, our volunteer recruiter became difficult to reach. One day, however, she came to announce that she had a fabulous candidate for us: a retired social worker with extensive experience in the social services. This woman's work history made the rest of us seem unqualified by comparison. We waited eagerly to meet Volunteer Number Three. When she arrived, we found her to be as knowledgeable and experienced as promised. She was so engaging and intelligent that my co-workers and I talked to her for over an hour, awed by her credentials. Finally I described the position to her in detail. She admitted that computer work wasn't her forte. She held up her hands, revealing a less-than-full complement of fingers. An accident had long ago robbed her of several digits, and she wasn't really interested in a desk job anyway. Wave good-bye, Volunteer Number Three.

After a long period of silence, our volunteer recruiter showed up unexpectedly with a twenty-something university grad who was bright and pleasant and articulate and intuitive. This young woman was in the middle of obtaining a second degree and she wanted to add to her volunteer experience. She quickly grasped the purpose of our work. I gave her some samples to read, one of which brought her to tears. She obviously had both the smarts and the sensitivity required for the position. She expressed her interest in the work and we arranged a date for her to start.

When it was time for Volunteer Number Four to leave I walked her to the elevators. As the doors slid open she stepped toward me. Perhaps because she had been emotional earlier my first thought was, "Aw, she needs a hug." I threw my arms around her and immediately thought, "Oh shit. She was just trying to shake my hand. She's the first qualified candidate we've seen and I'm about to scare her away. Crap crap crappy crap." In a lame attempt to cover up my mistake, I exclaimed, "I LOVE volunteers!" before releasing her. If only I could describe the expression on her face as I smiled and ushered her to the waiting elevator, acting as if my behaviour was perfectly ordinary. The elevator doors closed and I covered my face with my hands.

I returned to my desk and turned myself in, much to my co-workers' amusement. To everyone's great surprise Volunteer Number Four actually came back. She has been with us for several months now. While no one ever mentions my earlier faux-pas in front of her, my co-workers still delight in saying, "We LOVE volunteers" while smirking at me.

Much to our chagrin, Volunteer Number Four is so swamped with her studies that she has decided to stop volunteering until the spring. On her last day I had to leave early. I purposely bid her a very casual good-bye, saying, "See you in a few months." As I was walking away a co-worker stopped me and asked, "Jenni, aren't you forgetting something?" and mimed a great big hug.

I promise I'll give Volunteer Number Four a great big hug when she returns in the spring. For now, let her remember volunteering as a heck of a lot of work with no tangible rewards or recognition. If she's anything like me, that will make it seem all the more worthwhile.

Silliness: I love this critter's face

Inside me lives a skinny woman crying to get out...

...but I can usually shut her up with cookies.

I don't know when I first heard that quip but it has stuck with me, just like every cookie I've eaten in the past ten years. And every brownie. And every potato chip. And every second helping. And every alcoholic beverage.

I used to be thin. See?

Now I am plump. Chubby. Tubby. Fat, even. I know this from looking at recent photos and, ugh, at my reflection in those damnable inventions called mirrors. At the same time, my body image hasn't fully caught up to reality. On the one hand, I am conscious of all of my parts that jiggle inappropriately. On the other hand, as much as I kid about it, I haven't managed to internalize the fact that I have become a Large Woman. It's similar to having a phantom limb, only I have an entire phantom body, a thin one, enveloped by fat. I sense the presence of my formerly thin body as strongly as if it were still here.

I haven't altered my eating habits to make up for my slowing metabolism. I have allowed the odd ache, pain, strain or sprain to keep me from exercising regularly. I hate perspiring, which is apparently a necessary element of most forms of exercise. Swimming is relatively sweat-free, but I can't bring myself to go to a pool; even my formerly thin self didn't look so hot in a bathing suit. I recall vowing to start exercising in earnest after being shocked by the cross-section of an obese man's body at Body Worlds. Just seeing that the fat in a human body looks exactly like the fat in a cut of beef or pork disgusted me. Of course, while the image stayed with me, the inclination to exercise faded. What can I do to convince myself to get active? Either of the following scenarios might motivate me:

A few days ago I asked Scott to help me move my stationary bike from our abandoned basement to the main floor of our house. While the bike isn't linked to the speed of my internet connection, I am hopeful that its new location will be effective. After all, it is positioned where I often am: directly in front of the television. Of course, it also happens to be near the refrigerator. Who knows if I'll actually have the willpower to use the bike and resist the temptation of the fridge. All I do know is that I'm not going to make any New Year's resolutions regarding my weight or my diet; resolutions appear to be the surest way to kill good intentions.

Nothing says "Merry Christmas, owners!"...

...like the acrid smell of doggy diarrhea at 5:30 in the morning.

Pity me.

While many people were woken up in the wee hours of this Christmas morning by the squeals of excited children, Scott and I were stirred to consciousness by the smell of... you guessed it, dog poop. Montana had dutifully slept next to our bed throughout the night, but Ferris must have been pacing by the back door hoping some magical elf would let him outside. No such luck. I wandered downstairs in barely more than my skivvies and immediately armed myself with paper towels, plastic bags and disinfectant wipes. One look at the two mats at the back door and I was convinced that they were goners. They are great mats for the dogs to dry off on after playing in the back yard; they have firm, deep pile in a pattern like tire treads. Perfect for trapping snow and ice from wet paws. Also perfect for trapping runny stools.

Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, smell no evil.

I did my best to clean up the mess before hurling the two mats outside onto the deck. Perhaps the snow or rain would cleanse them. It has never worked before, but I was far too tired to think of a more intelligent course of action. Not Scott, though. Declaring, "We've thrown out enough mats!" he got dressed, went outside, sandwiched the soiled mats together and headed off to the coin-operated car wash. In the meantime, I let Ferris outside to do whatever business he had left. When I let him back in fifteen minutes later, he vomited all over the freshly scrubbed floor. I'm not making any accusations here, but the puke smelled an awful lot like crap.

So I cleaned the floor again, consoled a very unhappy-looking Ferris and headed off to bed in the hopes of catching a few more winks. I could be forgiven for thinking it was Groundhog Day rather than Christmas when I awoke to the very same disgusting smell a few hours later. Let's just hope this isn't the beginning of a new Christmas tradition.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and the best of the season to those who don't. Happy new year to all!