It's easy to think of what to be thankful for when you're thinking about God or church. There's always something. You can thank God for your food, dog, friends, church, community - but when it comes to your family, well, it isn't that simple.

That's how I feel, anyway.

When it comes to my family, I wish I lived in a deserted island by myself. I'm strangely fearful of what will happen when Annabelle moves out next year when she gets married because she's the only sane person I live with. Even the dog isn't sane. He barks and growls at invisible objects only he can see.

As usual, I spent Thanksgiving at my grandparents. This year, both my parents were there, at the same time. For those of you who don't have divorced parents, I don't think you can sympathize with me on this one. When two people who have mutually agreed to hate each other and have mutually agreed to be repulsed by the mere thought of the other person are put in close proximity to one another, disaster always ensues.

Visualize an explosion. Visualize a tornado passing through a room. Visualize chaos and madness and flying turkeys.

That's how Thanksgiving was like.

After my mom declared she had a headache and was sick, and after my dad told the story of how my mom never takes care of herself, even when pregnant with us, and after my mom rebutted with how he never takes care of himself, or the kids, or the family - and on and on it went, they finally left in a huff.

Leaving me, Annabelle, my grandma, and my Aunty Grace in the kitchen, bewildered by the chaos. I was feeling absolutely depressed and asked my Aunty Grace to talk about something happy, please.

So she told me the story of how she got cancer.

Two years ago, my Aunty Grace didn't care for beans what she ate. With the exception of her strange allergy to chicken, she consumed everything with gusto, especially coke. She had at least a minimum of four cans of coke a day: One before work, one during work, and two during dinner. Then one day, she received the news that she had breast cancer. This changed everything, and from then on, she dropped it all, especially her addiction to coke.

For months, she waited for the chance to have surgery, something the doctors did not want to give her for reasons that absolutely frustrated her. She turned to prayer and prayed fervently. I don't think she's ever prayed so hard before. The entire church joined her, and soon she witnessed the power of prayer and how prayer can change someone's life.

She then received the chance to finally have surgery in the Philippines, so she took the first chance to fly there. Afterwards, she was on medication which caused her to loose a lot of weight. Her drastic change in diet also caused her to loose weight; she had to drop eating meat, sugar, and most carbs.

So I asked her, "What are you thankful for then?"

She answered, "I'm thankful I'm gaining back the weight I lost!"

Which is true, two years ago she was all bones and today she looks healthier, though she's definitely not the same weight she was before cancer. She told us that she had another routine mammary examination two weeks ago and was still waiting to hear back the results. We asked if she was afraid that the cancer would come back, and she replied with the most astounding answer I had heard.

"If it comes back, then I'll pray that The Lord would help me with whatever he's put on my plate again. I know he won't give me more than I can handle. So I can just pray for his help with what he's given me."

And at this point, I felt like I was stupid for having all these things about my family I was worrying about. I'm worried for my mom's health, I'm worried about my dad's job, and I'm worried about my brothers never finding a job - it can get very depressing to think about. But God will never give me anything more than I can handle, and I can just ask him to help me with whatever he's put on my plate.

After all, isn't that what prayer is about?

ASAP Science told me this week that sleeping too much may actually do more damage than good. I was very upset to hear this, since sleeping is way up there on my list of favourite past times.

I've learned some about my Christian life through my lack of sleep. Since sleep is so precious to me, my sacrificing it may actually be a big deal. Maybe what I am suppose to get out of this is to realize where my priorities are.

I make it a point to tell people that I can't work on Sundays because I have to go to church. I also make it a point to people that I can't meet them on Friday's because I have LH. This is something that I really value and it doesn't even matter if no one else understands this; whether people think I'm doing it apathetically as a routine or if people think I'm being overly religious - I do it because God is all knowing, all powerful, all encompassing, I do it because I'm weak and because I strive to be in love with Him.

There's nothing worse than a lukewarm Christian. Someone who believes in God and does nothing about it. Someone who just reads the Bible and attends church to avoid being asked why he wasn't there. Someone who measures himself up against other people's spiritual growth, when he himself isn't growing.

I can't stand it. It's one of my biggest pet peeves. (This is why I always ask God not to give me a lukewarm Christian husband.)

I love love. You can't force yourself to love God, or will yourself to love Him more, it just becomes a chore; another thing you have to do, another obligation or challenge you give yourself. You end up focusing on how much love you can give God or how much you can love God.

Love is just love. Something you automatically think about, something you automatically burst into song about even if you can't sing. Love is writing letters in my prayer journal, love is constantly hunting for the right word and phrase to express what's your mind and never finding it because there are no words to really say it. It's when you don't mind how long you have to travel to be with that person, how much money you spend on that person, or how much sleep you have to sacrifice.

You can pray for more love because you need God to help love Him.

There's a type of jumbled up logic to attending meetings that my sister and I were talking about. I'll use the girl's bible study as an example. My schedule is already very hectic, between my classes, work and volunteer, I struggle to find time to sleep. But there's always that nagging feeling on the back of my head about where my 'priorities' should be, that they should be with 'going' to bible studies and attending meetings.

This is how it plays out in my head: I have a nagging feeling that the girl's bible study hasn't started. That nagging feeling makes me want to start it. I then realize that I shouldn't listen to that nagging feeling, because having a girl's bible study should be an organic, almost spontaneous thing that I shouldn't have to drag myself to do. So I tell myself to leave it alone because I don't have any love for it. Then I go back to thinking about Seo and how much he probably drags himself to commit to all these bible studies, so I muster up some pep talk to myself to get it started. Then I realize I'm not Seo!

Anyway, so that's the cycle in my head. I go from wanting to do it to not wanting to do it to wanting to do it to not - all because it's out of my own effort. If God gave me the inspiration to do it no amount of hectic-ness will get in my way.

Instead, what I've learned from my recent hectic schedule and consequently lack of sleep is that my priorities should be to simply love. It's to not try so hard with my own efforts and ask God to help me. It's realizing God chose to love me when I didn't ask Him to. The response to love then becomes loving others who love God - which is why although I could be sleeping, I go to LH, and why although I could be studying, I choose to go to church on Sundays.

Today I feel like absolute crap - the result of a combination of not eating properly and drinking too much coffee on an empty stomach and not getting enough sleep. Being at work at 5am has gotten to the point where my coworkers and I talk about less than illicit ways of going to bed in time without actually taking sleeping pills. So this is what our lives has come to, pushing ourselves for the sake of temporary consumerism.

I've never felt like absolute crap before. At one point my head was completely spinning and I actually thought I'd faint, that same fainting sensation you get when your sugar level drops all of the sudden.

Anyway, to distract myself from this crappy feeling let's change topic. Yesterday during LH I was doing the ice breaker and decided to use one of the activities from my ESL activity book. It was suppose to be a practice on using articles - you know, a, an, the - and I decided to modify it for LH. Originally I was going to do Human Bingo, but that activity is super overdone and I wanted to do something where the people who already know each other well could get to know each other better. PLUS deep down, I probably unconsciously just wanted to know everyone's secrets.

So the activity is called I'll Change. The premise is that people would have to write 10-15 things (this was too complicated we ended up with just 5) that they would like to change about themselves, their lives, their world, or just random misc. things about themselves. In an ESL context, they would have to use articles with their items. I would then collect the lists and people would have to interview one another to find out whose list they have.

Simple right?

Not so, I was happy to see that people were over thinking their answers and that they were legitimately having a hard time coming up with FIVE things to put on their list. One day in the near future, I will use the same activity with my ESL class and see how long they take in comparison to how LH did. Haha.

After the ice breaker I kept everyone's paper, which now that I think about it is very stalkerish - but in my defense, I don't even know which list belongs to who, so I have all these fantastic random tidbits from different people and I can only guess who wrote what. Actually this is half a lie, I am pretty sure I know which list belongs to the guys, it's harder to tell with the girls.

But the question I have to ask is, were people being truthful? Because if they're like me, some of the things on their list is a lie.
This is what I wrote:

I wish I was taller. (A lie.)
I am semi-lactose intolerant. (WHICH now that I think about it is the reason I probably became sick after drinking all that coffee today. Damn you milk.)
I wish I can acquire better spelling abilities. (True. I can't spell.)
I wish I can memorize bible verses as well as Seo. (A lot of people wrote this on their list, haha.)
I don't like knives. (You never know when one is going to come flying at you.)

Then again, maybe not everyone is a blatant liar like me.

Ok going to bed now. Maybe I'll wake up just in time for the bible study tonight. Zzzz...

Working at 5am: A Survival Guide

With careful planning and technique, being at work at 5am doesn't have to suck. I'm the type of person who would happily sleep all day if I could and my bed and I have a happy, blissful relationship together.

Quick Ode to my Bed:

More than just a companion to my dreams,
You're my best friend and comforter.
Happily you greet me in the arms of your tangled blankets,
And give my weary head rest on your flat pillow.

Oh bed, we've been through much together,
We've read through all 7 Harry Potter books,
Learned the pitfalls of eating waffles in bed,
Battled with invading insects that have tried to ruin our solitude,
But best of all, you've been there with me through all my nightmares.

Time flies far too fast,
As I snore and drool,
Daily I leave you,
But you're always there to welcome be back.

Tangent over, back to our Survival Guide:

7pm: In theory, if you wanted eight hours of sleep you should be in bed by 7 the night before, but realistically, we all know this isn't going to happen.

8pm: By this time if you're not glancing at the clock guiltily, being well rested probably doesn't mean that much to you. That or you're going through an inner dialogue with yourself about how awake you will be at 3am. The part of you that is telling you that sleeping at 8pm is ridiculous will probably win since the part of you that wants to be responsible is weak.

9pm: Start getting ready for bed. Be careful not to suddenly become overly energized at this point and be tempted to do a sudden burst of random housework - this will only keep you from sleeping! Head straight to bed, even if the battle there takes an hour.

IMPORTANT: Make sure you set your alarm. I set two just to be safe: My iphone and an alarm clock.

10pm: No matter what, you're probably tossing and turning in bed at this point, suddenly thinking about a hundred million different things. Things like, "Why did that guy on the ttc smell so bad?" and "Maybe I will actually eat breakfast when I wake up, since I'm sleeping so early and all," and "I wonder why s/he smiled at me like that. Does that mean s/he likes me? Or maybe s/he hates my guts and the smile meant they have evil intentions. Do not trust smiling people."

Tips to fall asleep: 1) Count Sheep 2) (As bad as this seems) Pray 3) Listen to random podcasts. (Warning: Don't listen to random podcasts that excite you, i.e. Shakespeare. Listen to something French.)

11pm-2:59am: You're hopefully snoring at this point. Drool like no one is watching because you'll have to be up in a minute.

3am: Now you're allowed to ask the question you've been wanting to ask. Why would you wake up at 3am when you start work at 5am? Like most things in life, I have no reason. I just like having a 2 hour cushion to do things like: Hit snooze for the next 40 minutes.

3:40: After hitting snooze for way too long, adjust your eyes slowly to the light by browsing instagram on your phone. After a solid ten minutes of this, brush your teeth and shower. The shower will be painful, try to sing a song to cheer yourself up.

4am: Coffee is a must at this point. Chug chug chug.

If you're a guy, you can skip this part. Go eat breakfast or something.

To all the ladies: Now is the point you might stand in front of the mirror and ask yourself if it's even worth it to put makeup on. The answer is yes because although the world is still sleeping at this point, it will be waking up at some point and it's going to have to look at you. You will poke your eye with mascara, you will cry because of your contacts, you will always somehow put too much lipstick on, the hair dryer will refuse to cooperate - it's all part of being complicated.

4:30-4:45: Depending on where you live, leave the house and admire how empty the streets can be and question what the lonely cars you pass by have been up to. If you see a pedestrian, do not honk and say hi, you might scare them. You are allowed to feel good about yourself, you made it out of the house.

5am: Start work.

7am: Make sure you take a break because you will be starving at this point. Nothing is open yet so hopefully you were smart enough to pack an apple.

7:30-10am: This is when things start to get painful, stay strong! You will start feeling light headed and might start cursing everyone. There is no way of stopping this, just avoid people and do not make eye contact. Hopefully your coworkers are smart enough to leave you alone.

11am: Take another break, trust me, you will feel better after eating. Everything is open now, i.e. Starbucks and McDonalds.

11:30-1pm: With your newfound energy, suddenly work 3x the speed to make up for your earlier sluggish movements.

1pm-1:30pm: Probably the most painful last half hour of your life. Hide in the office to do 'work'.

1:30pm: Freedom!

And there you have it. Good luck.

After washing Charlie's butt fur, that part of the dog that never looks cute and gets much attention, the part where a forest of fur grows wild and tangled, my hands felt disgusting, as if I couldn't wash off the grimy poop off my fingers no matter how many times or how long my fingers were immersed under soap suds and water.

This is the part of dog ownership that is never glorified. Those days where the heat rises to that perfect temperature that causes your dog to eat grass and consequently, give him diarrhea. And of course, no one wants a dog with a poop stained butt running around the house so it's up to you to clean his butt. So here it is, my explanation for exploring that uncharted territory of my dog: His butt fur. (May this never happen again.)

The responsibility of giving the dog a bath every week has fallen on my lap when I suspected that Matt wasn't giving him a bath frequently enough or that he was doing a very poor job of it.

Charlie and I have our ups and downs with bath times. The first time I gave him a bath I nearly killed Charlie, or so I thought I did. When Charlie was a little over a month old, I was determined to train him into one of those super dogs you'd see at the CNE every summer, the ones who would run, jump, catch, fetch, and awe the crowd with their agility. I had read then that to train a dog, you needed to have a spray bottle ready and give a good squirt every time he didn't do listen to you. So at a little over a month old, I had caught Charlie peeing on the floor, and quickly grabbed the nearest squirt bottle and sprayed. Squirt squirt squirt.

Satisfied at the confused and ashamed look on Charlie's face, and completely ignorant of my mistake, I left him alone to contemplate what he did wrong. It wasn't until later that I realized the dog smelled like vinegar.

There's a general rule Matt and I live by. I don't ask him questions, and he doesn't ask me anything. And so, instead of asking what the hell he was up to by putting vinegar in spray bottles, I decided to wash the dog before he found out.

Of course, I knew nothing about washing a dog. Rather than googling it, I cooly thought that anyone who didn't know how to give a dog a bath didn't have common sense. And I definitely had common sense, which was why a few moments later in the basement, I had a tub filled with water, and unceremoniously dumped Charlie in, using at least half the bottle of dog shampoo.

After the bath, Charlie began shaking and shivering so much that within a few minutes, which seemed like hours to me, I was convinced that I may have perhaps, accidentally killed the dog. Three thoughts ran through my head: A) I should have googled it, B) What excuse I was going to give Matt for killing his dog, and C) If this dog died my neighbours are going to think we ate him.

Charlie and I are good friends now. Today, while hosing his butt down, he gave me defeated and resigned look, as if to say, "If this is how you're going to torture me for eating grass let's get this over with so I can get back to my dog stuff."

Sometimes, when I don't see him for a day, Charlie would great me violently by the door by hugging me with his front paws and leaning his furry cheek against my leg. And its moments like this that I know that though I torture him every week by bathing him, it's this mutual torture and suffering that bonds us.

And maybe, just maybe, I have just understood the book of Philippians a bit better.

After having finished reading Pride and Prejudice for the tenth time, I was again awash with a sense of misery. Misery because I allowed myself to finish the book, misery because we can't all have a Darcy (or even a Bingley would be nice), and misery because I will miss Elizabeth. Is it strange to miss fictional characters? (Probably is.)

It's the type of book that allows you to fall in love with the idea of marriage while at the same time giving fair caution that not everyone will end up in a happy one. It seems that the formula Miss Austen provides is to be sensible in all things concerning marriage. But sensible like Elizabeth, who allows herself to dream and be romantic while being realistic and sensible of the men around her.

There's a certain sentiment mother's have to their daughter's marriage. Like Mrs. Bennet, my mom does not go a day without thinking of Annabelle's wedding, and is very much determined to make Annabelle's wedding cake for her.

Being a resident expert on reality wedding tv shows, I told her that that was probably the worst idea she can have. The mother of the bride especially should not be doing any work on the day of the wedding except cry and coddle every bit of attention people give her. The mother of the bride should not be making the cake.

Reasons why this is a bad idea:
First of all, wedding cakes are creatures with a mind of their own. If not pampered correctly in the right temperature, it will melt and look like a disaster.

Secondly, it has to be assembled on the day of the wedding, and I don't know how my mom will have time for this on the day of the wedding, considering the amount of attention she will be getting from everyone. And knowing my mom, she will be very disappointed if she cannot accept all this attention without channeling her inner diva and let said inner diva shine through.

Thirdly, hello, only the most obvious fact that she's never made a wedding cake before. And that Vinay's family will probably be very disappointed by the lack of grandeur this first attempt will have.

Fourthly, I am afraid for the people eating the cake. A.K.A, you, me, and everyone else.

But she's grown so attached to this idea of making the cake that I don't really want to burst her bubble by telling her why it's a bad idea. Her intention is to decorate the cake with one thousand white, handmade flowers from fondant. This was our conversation:

Me: *Apprehensive that she will put me to work* So when are you going to have time to make all these flowers?

Mom: Starting today. I will start practicing now and make one a day. By next year I should have a thousand.

Me: *Thinking that one flower a day from now until next year does not equal a thousand* Where are you going to store all these flowers and how the heck are they going to last one year?

Mom: *As if it is the most obvious thing in the world* You freeze them, duh.

Guys, disaster disaster disaster. I advised Annabelle to have a backup cake just in case, but she's also sold by the idea that my mom is making the cake for her and thinks it's cute. Cute! So guys, it's up to me to save the cake. I will buy a backup cake or have one on speed dial just incase something disastrous happens (which I know it will).

I don't know what it is about this week that has just left me completely exhausted. We had a lot of important visits this week, none of whom I actually saw, but there were apparently enough important people visiting that they rented an entire bus. Everyone was in panic mode, including me for some reason (maybe panic is contagious). We've been preparing for the visit since last week, and I was given this list of tasks to do, all of which involved a lot of walking, running, standing, and nail chipping.

So on Tuesday when I was told that half the things I had been doing were WRONG and had to be redone I nearly cried; as in, I felt my eyes water, my face flush, and my palms sweat - but for some stupid reason I still had a ridiculous grin on my face. Whatever. So we pulled through and sweated through a couple of long days.

I told Alison and Glory, who are both on my team, that after a really long day of work one day, I went home, lit my candle, and crashed; to which they just laughed at me for. They just don't understand my relationship with candles. I'll explain: Basically, last February I decided to buy a candle from Bath and Body works and I loved it so much that I splurged and bought one after the other. I am literally burning my money. But candles are comforting and smell good and remind me of all the best books out there.

After I realized that Alison and Glory won't understand my candle fetish, and after realizing that I can't understand what the hype about visiting gay bars are, I came to the conclusion that I am more comfortable talking and relating to the older people at work than people my age. It's the strangest feeling and for some reason every time I think about it an image of a flopping seal pops up in my head.

Seals are fat, blubbery, and make awkward sounds. They flop stupidly on land, opposite to their graceful movements in water. I'm a seal! I feel like one at least. When I talk to people my age I feel like I'm just making awkward noises and I become self-conscious of my fat and blubbery texture, as if flopping stupidly.

But just because I can't relate to them doesn't mean I can't laugh at them and their problems. Here's a list of problems people my age who are not obsessed with candles and think of them as seals face:

1) Gay bars
Apparently, if you are an attractive girl, going to a gay bar is a serious insult to your good looks. As Alison explained it so poetically, "Can you imagine entering a room where no guy is in the least bit attracted to you? And they all ignore you because they just don't care? It just feels so bad. But after it's ok because people start to talk to you and compliment you on your clothes and nails and stuff and call you honey."

2) Love Triangles
The best part about work is when there is work drama, and it's even better if you're not part of it and get to quietly giggle in the sidelines.

3) Rotating Schedules
No, not a rotating work schedule, workout schedule, or any other type of self-improvement schedule. Rotating schedules as in going out with a different girl or guy (depending on your gender) everyday of the week. When I heard this I was like, What? People do this in real life and not just in How I Met Your Mother? And you're asking me to be Tuesday on your calendar? This is probably more exhausting than work.

And that's all the problems I can think of. But one problem I don't feel like an out of place flopping seal at is when random guys stalk us. As in:

Today I was helping a guy pick out the right lampshade to go with his lamp and after half an hour, I ran into him again. My other coworker asked if she could help him, and he said motioning to me, "No, the she can help me." I didn't think it was a big deal but my coworker pointed out that the guy had a crush on me because of the way he rejected her. I brushed it aside but then I noticed that he kept on popping up out of random corners where I would be. This guy was stalking me! Whatever, he didn't follow me home, so it's all good.

I've made a list of plot scenarios from the Plot Scenario Generator, and this is number two. Number Fracken Two! I've wasted enough time on this one, and frankly, I don't know how to end it. If anyone has any ideas, let me know!! I've rewritten and tossed and rewritten this so many times I just want to forget about it for a bit.

Plot Scenario Generator:
The story starts when your protagonist can't get a cab.

Another character is someone from another galaxy who has been spying on your protagonist.
(I even started reading The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy and the Phantom Tollbooth and re-read A Wrinkle In Time for inspiration.)

---

Though fairly tall and only somewhat attractive, Jack has only been on the third date four times his entire life. The first time being with an experimental girl in high school he dated because he firmly believed that he needed someone to practice being in a relationship with; the second was with a girl who used him to get over her pathetic, yet successful, ex, and who, on the third date, realized she'd be better off by herself than with any man; and the third being with his overly religious coworker whose faith he found drawn to simply because of her fanatic energy towards it. When this last one ended on the third date because she decided Jack smoked far too much than what is deemed healthy by scripture, he realized something must be wrong with him.

Much pressure was then put on his third date with Ashley, considering his bad luck with third dates. Everything went badly this night: Being agitated from limiting his smoking to half a pack, he fought very hard to ignore the constant twitch of his fingers and the constant oncoming nicotine cravings he felt. Then, sweating profusely, his shirt, particularly the area under his arms, were drenched, causing a certain stiffness in his walk incase he might offend Ashley with his body odour. All this made Jack appear like a ridged twitch, unable to hold up a conversation because, along with his limit of cigarettes, he vowed to limit his smart aleck jokes which usually made up the bulk of anything he ever had to say, and therefore he had nothing to say except compliments paid towards her.

Ashley was bored. Even the all you can eat clams couldn't entice her to stay longer. Her initial attraction to Jack dissipated quickly, and before the waiter could suggest tea or coffee, she gave a sudden outburst of realizing she had forgotten to feed her cat, Mr. Whiskers, who must be starving to death by now, and whom she must get home to. Jack gallantly paid the bill and outside he told her he'd hail a cab for her, though with no success.

"The bus is just across the street," Ashley said, overcome with the awkwardness of the situation. There was still a part of her that wanted to appear kind and appealing to Jack, though she made up her mind that there were no chances their relationship could ever blossom.

"Haha, no, just er, wait. I'll get you a cab," He said, flailing his arms to try and catch the attention of an oncoming cab. The driver, seeming intent on ignoring Jack and his sweaty underarms, drove past him.

After five more minutes, Ashley lost all intent of appearing well and only having Mr. Whiskers in her mind, left Jack and crossed the street where luckily, the bus had just arrived.

"Ah screw it," Jack said, lighting a cigarette. Sadly, even this somehow failed to satisfy his craving.

On his way home Jack didn't know what to do with himself. It seemed to him that everything he did was a waste of time, and had no interest in anything but perhaps smoking steadily, even his approaching dragon boat race with the Banana Boats couldn't excite him. He longed to be somewhere far away, maybe on a deserted island where he his chief occupation would be surviving for himself only, gathering wood and making shelter and killing the occasional pig to roast.

This happy imagination occupied the rest of his thoughts on his way home, and just as he was imagining his perfect companion on the island with him - a shipwrecked female and a vulgar pet parrot - he suddenly became aware that the door to his apartment was unlocked. Annoyed that he might have left if unlocked himself, he stepped inside to the smell of toast.

Before he could shout, "Who's there?" Mrs. Howsit popped out of the kitchen in front of him.

"Hello Jack, I'm just helping myself to some toast, hope you don't mind. Do you have tea? Coffee? Anything besides juice?" And then noticing that she had been rather rude said, "Sorry, should probably introduce myself. I'm Mrs. Howsit, you've probably heard of my cousin, Mrs. Whatsit and her friends, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which. Sadly, I'm their much less traveled and far less interesting counterpart. I'm only here because I've been spying on you from a galaxy far, far away, as cliche as that might sound, but I really can't explain myself any better than that, as much as I've tried to think of how to better explain myself in your language. As you probably already know, we don't speak English in our far, far away Galaxy, Jack, and everything here is very amusing to me, as Mrs. Whatsit told me it would. English is such a limiting language, don't you agree?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Bemused, Mrs. Howsit, who seemed to be unable to limit her nonsensical talking, went on to explain how language in her part of the galaxy worked, which frankly, from the bits that Jack tried to understand, thought that it was far too complicated. This so called 'woman' in his apartment was dressed in the most peculiar way; her figure, seemingly dumpy at first, might have actually been rather small, hidden away by the layers of oversized shirts, bulky sweaters, jackets, and scarves tied around her neck and head that caused her dumpiness. Her skirt was long and overbearing with tassels hanging loose and wore large, distressed boots.

It soon occurred to Jack that this woman, this 'Mrs. Howsit', might just be a homeless woman who wandered into his apartment. Feeling suddenly sympathetic for himself, Jack let her babble on as he settled on his sofa to contemplate on how to kick her out.

"And that is how I learned to tesseract, although I still have to think of a way to prevent that stretched feeling I get. You know, if only I could teach you how to tesseract, then maybe your evening with Ashley wouldn't be quite so disastrous."

Jack was pulled out of his own thoughts. "How do you know about my date with Ashley?"

"Never mind about that," Mrs. Howsit said with sudden indignation and flick of her hand, "That reminds me, I haven't told you why I'm here. Did you know, Jack, that throughout my study of happiness - for I'm actually a Chief Observer of Happiness in my far, far, away galaxy, and not just some crazy old stalker as you're thinking this moment - that people's unhappiness are caused by their belief to be happy? And that people's shattered dreams could help them realize the purpose of a dream, so a dream of any kind, should be enough to make someone happy. Therefore in conclusion, and to sum up, I'm here to tell you that you're basing your happiness on the wrong things."

Compelled by this last thought, Jack forgot his go on with his plan of threatening her by calling the cops and asked, "Why is that?"

"Money, for one, cannot make you happy. Love, if un-noble and selfish, cannot make you happy. And this sudden chief preoccupation people have with themselves certainly cannot make them happy." Mrs Howsit paused and sat beside Jack. "And so I thought, why, Mrs. Howsit, you're just a Chief Observer of Happiness, not a Chief Doer of Happiness, why would you suddenly think of going to Earth to tell people how to be happy?"

Mrs. Howsit stared unblinking at Jack until he was compelled again to ask, "Why is that?"

---

And then my mind stops working. I need an ending!

With the onset of getting fewer hours and possibly quitting ELC in the very near future,  I decided to write one thing a day. Most of the time it will probably be stupid, sometimes meaningful, but the majority will end up in the garbage. This is the first of my "I Write For the Garbage" series.

Plot Generator:
The story starts when your main character opens the closet to find clothes that aren't his or hers.
Another character is a clone who doesn't like animals.

---
You can believe my surprise, Jane, to finding Terry's clothes in my closet, at first, but my initial surprise dissipated when I realized the Yeti must have willfully let the clone stay with us once again. The blue bloused tops and chiffon skirts wedged between the short sleeved and long sleeved shirts was utter disregard for the science I've organized my closet with: It's always sleeveless, short sleeves, long sleeves, shorts, pants, jackets, and then dresses - and mind you Jane, each category has to be sorted by colour. Personally, ROYGBV makes sense to me, so I follow it closely, and Terry's blue bloused top clearly didn't belong before my pomelo vest.

At first I pretended like it didn't bother me and said, "Look Terry girl, this here is a type blue and this here is a type of green, so maybe when they created you from cloning Merry they forgot to test you for something of your colourblindness, I'm pretty sure myself Merry isn't colourblind but her husband is."

Terry is not easily humoured, as you probably know, Jane. Remember last week when the goat got loose? The Yeti and the twins went mad yelling and chasing after it and when it made it's way to Old Benson's place we just prayed his appetite wouldn't be up for a full meal that night - that goat was pretty much as good as gone, walking like a suicidal act to Old Benson's place as that. Then, oh what a howl, you remember Jane, I was making my way in the door when I see Terry with a crowbar and the goat bleeting at it, Terry I mean. What a sight! We were in cahoots laughing at the clone, but Terry's terrified of animals or something, always going on about being assumed to be less than them.

Terry's the type of clone to make an assumption like that true, with the way she acts around animals. Ask your husband for me, and then ask about Terry's colourblindness. It's not that animals are better than clones, but sometimes they're easier to get along with. I like things organized: By colour, by size, or by usefulness; Terry's staying with me has caused a lot of arguments between us. I don't even know why she insists on using my closet for her clothes, she can very well just keep it in her suitcase seeing as how she might be out the door the next time she catches a whim.

When I confronted her all she said was, "You like using things the way they're suppose to be used, I'm only putting my clothes where they belong, in the closet."

Imagine that sass? I told her I wouldn't mind so much if she just followed my scientific flow of organization, and she goes on to calling me insipid! If she only knew what I say about her, people would think my words were make believe, and sometimes I wish they were. Really Jane, this Terry girl is more headache than she's worth, I only put up with it because the Yeti likes having her around. And you know how the Yeti is, if it's not happy it might not be seen for another year.

I've been perpetually trying to dye my hair.

I found three year old box of hair dye in my drawer last month and decided to give it a try - even though the possibility of ending up bald kept on pressing in my mind the entire 10 minutes I dared myself to use it.

When that didn't work, I bought a box of hair dye (it was on sale). I got cocky using it, thinking that I should be an expert with hair dying by now and didn't bother reading the instructions or the labels on the bottles. I mixed the tubes together and let it sit on my head for 30 minutes when I realized I had mixed the wrong things together and frantically squeezed the last tube in my hands to work it in my hair.

Needless to say, my hair is still black. Plus the nauseating smell of hair dye gave me a huge headache.

I don't know why I care so much. Hair is just hair. Since last December, I've gotten into the habit of putting coconut oil in my hair once a week, have been using a hair growth shampoo, and have been using different kinds of serums. I've also stopped torturing it with my straightener.

And if you guys are wondering, no, I have not noticed anything different. All this vanity is futile and the only reason I keep up with it is because I am too stubborn to stop.

Anyway, ever wonder how Korean guys have such beautiful hair? Sometimes it's so natural that it looks like their born with it - but I've found the secret.

It's been two years that I've been working at ELC now, and this entire time my best student friend, Andy, has baffled me with his magnificent tuff of hair. It's admittedly better looking than any of the girls' hair, hands down. Then he shared his secret with me: He uses a hair straightener.

Ho ho ho ho! Was my only response.

A guy who knows how to use a hair straightener properly is amazing. Ok going on a bit of a tangent: After my first year I met this guy who always had hair that was standing up; literally straight up from the roots to the tip. I always thought that he should have dyed it green because it was so uneven like any other patch of grass. One late night on MSN, he told me that his hair stands up like that because he uses a hair straightener. Seriously, I peed my pants laughing.

But Andy's different, he's Korean. He has mastered the art of the hair straightener and doesn't make his hair stand up, he uses it to make his hair perfectly, beautifully shaped.

I know some of you might think it's weird for a guy to be blow drying or even straightening their hair, but I appreciate it. It's better than having unkept hair and shows that they care about how they look to the general public.

And no, I won't be dying my hair again. I think I've wasted enough money on this entire hair dying business. I'm just going the old fashioned route and use hydrogen peroxide.

I have secrets scattered in my room hidden between the quiet spaces of my diaries. They're tossed everywhere, sometimes lying where I've dropped it years ago. It takes an eternity to fill one up, so far I go through one every five years. The one I'm working on now started in 2010, so it has roughly about two more years of putting up with me.

This is how I chronicle my life and to never forget those random days that mean nothing then, but ages well like fine wine through time.

Example:
August 15, 2010:
I have a little bit of time to waste before having to go to Ama's house for dinner so I decided to write here for a bit. Leo is coming back tomorrow and I am on vacation from work this week, I also have an exam to study for on Thursday.

Last Friday, I had lunch with Christine Yen and Hannah. Christine left to attend another year of her training, and we saw her just in time. We had lunch at Mr. Sub before Hannah and I went to Cecil to study. Hannah had to practice for her piano exam. We were there for a while before we had to go to Metro and buy snacks for Light House.

This week is the last week of our small group! This has been the best small group I've ever had, and everyone in the group is awesome. Unfortunately, I am am stuck with John for another year and I'm not in the same group as Tabitha :(

But yeah. After Light house we went to Ka Chi, then went home. It was a really long day. Next week is the Gr. 12 BBQ, how do I invite Matty to go there?

---

Chronicling life like this has helped me distinguish patterns and trends. For example, I've discovered that all of my major life events happen in May: I started this diary in May, this important person's bday is in May, I begun going out with so and so in May, I got a job in May, etc. The most dramatic moments happen from September - January, and February is a month for loosing friendships. My happiest times are usually from June to August.  

In middle school and high school, I wrote in three different diaries simultaneously: One for my deep dark secrets, one for the journal I felt pity for and couldn't bear to not use up, one for my friends to read, and another for my imaginative conversations.

I love these diaries. Sometimes I go through periods of months of not writing anything, only to feel like my head is heavy with memories I keep replaying. So I jot them down. Sometimes, I rewrite these memories and blog about them later. Mostly, I love them because I will never forget the moments I felt the most emotion, those times when you're crying and can't understand why, and the tears translate themselves into jumbled chicken scratch on paper. I look back and later realize these moments are caused by my family, that they're the ones who make me so frustrated and hopeless that the very seams of my fingers feel like they will explode.

Then there are the moments when you feel like you have to talk to someone but there's no one. This is when I get romantic and write them down so that I can later on share them with my husband, that one and only other person my 9 year old self decided would be the allowed to read my diary. Every one else will be locked up for trespassing on my thoughts.

Looking back, the reason I even began writing in diaries was when I discovered my mom's diary. When she was first married, she started one which went up to the time after my first birthday. I would read it and be boggled by my mom's humanity; that this person who conceived me had real thoughts and juvenile handwriting. Later my sister took over the diary and filled up the rest of the pages, which was a shame but Annabelle was always the better speller, so it didn't really matter to me.

My great-grandma died on my birthday this year. At least, this is how the story goes according to me. And as ominous as this sounds, my mom and I were in the car when we were stopped by a long funeral procession, all of which was followed by a freak snowstorm in March on the first day of spring. It was like the snow was trying to stop new life from springing.

Ok, so maybe I'm connecting dots where there are no dots to connect.

My great-grandma and I never had a great relationship partly because she always seemed on the verge of death. As a kid I had my grandma who seemed terribly old; then there was my great-grandma, who was older, frail, fragile, and surrounded by myths and legends. For some reason she never told me stories of herself directly, everything was reiterated by my bachelor uncles who poked fun at me.

One of which is that: "Did you know that she use to drink her pee? That's how she stays so healthy. Go ask her what it tastes like!"

Which scarred me for the rest of my life and caused me to be extremely suspicious of her every time she went to the bathroom.

Other stories that surrounded her was her vegetarianism and Buddhism. I don't know how, and I never asked, but she was always a Buddhist while the rest of my family is Christian. I've never seen her go to the temple but she use to sit and pray for hours and hours, her thumbs moving rhythmically through her prayer beads. "A prayer for Ann Ann, a prayer for May-Ann, for Margaret and Andrew."

My mom is affected by her death more than I probably realize. The older she gets the more family oriented she becomes, which in my opinion is too late because we're all past the age of needing motherly affection. At least I am.

The other day my mom actually went in my room and cleaned it. She has never, ever in my entire life done this, which is odd because I know normal mothers clean up their kids room all the time. It was such a bizarre phenomenon that I went through all my drawers going, "Huh, so that's where she put that, I wonder why."

It's like we've reversed roles. I use to go in her room, poke through her cosmetics, clothes, and jewelry wondering how to use these things and why women had to be so complicated. Now she's the one poking through my stuff, wondering how to use it. She asks, "Ann, how do you use your ipad? What about your hair straightener? Can I have your blush and lipstick - what about your curling iron?"

I was reflecting on all this tonight because we just had dinner with my grandparents. My grandparents, especially my grandma, are the cutest people I know and I don't think I love anyone more than I love her, party because she's human, imperfect, proud, humble, and loves me back. I guess because of my great-grandma's death my mom finally realized that maybe she should love my grandma back as well.

Today my mom said, "Ann, you should love your grandparents."

I couldn't even answer her, it was like she doesn't know me.

To my lack of reply she says, "And you should spend more time with them. They won't be around for long, you know. Cherish every moment with them. I'm going to visit them because I love them - oh and I love you too!"

All of this, I should probably say, was done through text.

I guess this entire post won't make sense without really understanding the dynamics between my mom and grandma, which simply put is that they have a hard time tolerating and standing each other. Eerily enough they look 100% alike, my mom is the younger version of my grandma; it's like a weird time warp of you hating your past self and hating your future self all at once. So for my mom to say, "I love my mom" is just as weird as having her clean my room.

And where is Annabelle? My sister seems to have floated off to lala land. While Matthew and I are sharing a bowl of corn beef she's in her room chatting away with Vinay. Not that I resent their engagement or resent the fact that her head seems to be stuck in exam and Vinay land, it's just that I hope she realizes how much she's changing everything for everyone. Which she probably doesn't. I don't think I would ever have the guts to do what she's doing - not the get married and engaged part - the part where she breaks down and builds up and tears apart our family dynamics. A lot of people say that Annabelle seems to be the more mature one, but what I think they're missing to see is that that's not the case at all. As shocking as this sounds, I'm probably more independent than Annabelle. The real difference is that she's not afraid to adjust life to fit her needs while I'm too calculated with my movements.  

Dear Friends, I'm about to get close and intimate with you by revealing a nasty secret: I have a wart. And I know it's a wart because I made my dear sister stare long and hard at the bottom of my foot to determine what it is.

Me: How do you know it's wart and not a callus? 

Annabelle: Because it's round with spots.

Me: A callus can be round and have spots.

Annabelle: Does it give you acute pain?

Me: Yes.

Annabelle: Don't worry, it will go away in three months.

Me: But, how do you know it's wart and not a callus?

Annabelle: Look, do you want me to show you the picture in my text book or what? It's a wart.

Clearly from this conversation Annabelle knows what she's talking about. 

On a side note: What am I going to do when Annabelle gets married? Who will look at my warts then? Am I going to have to start going to a real doctor?

Anyway, I developed this callus-wart at work because Holy Cow guys, my feet are killing me and it's ridiculous how big my calves are getting. All this half standing, half running around and breaking a sweat has resulted in very painful feet.

Speaking of work, I've met some very interesting people recently. Here's a list:

1) The Eerily Tanned Designer

I ran into this eerily tanned woman today who wanted to buy two cribs for her twin boy-girl grandchildren (eerily tanned because it's frickin' snowing outside in the middle of April. Where did this tan come from?). So it's Thursday afternoon, a time when normal people are at work, but this woman is not normal, she's luxurious. She's been to Arizona many times before and has been to countless Targets, so she knows the merchandize and what to expect. 

She told me straight up that she wanted this crib and she wanted to know whether it would fit in her Lexus SUV and if it didn't, whether or not I can jot down her phone number so I can call her for whatever reason. The entire time she had her blackberry in her hand showing everyone pictures of her grandchildren. She became visibly angry when her daughter wouldn't pick up the phone and give her the time of day.

This woman is fantastic. She is the epitome of brand name products and was probably only shopping here because she wants to tell everyone where she shops. Just the fact that I know so much about what products and brands she has within the 20 minute conversation we had shows you just how high she puts a value on her brand names.

2) The Lonely Shopper

There is an entire specimen of undocument people out there who are lonely shoppers and they are fantastic at telling you what you are lacking and then talking about their entire retail experience history. 

They come in many different forms, and today I met the shaggy bearded kind. This guy was looking for oregano, but we didn't have any so I took my nifty gun and scanned the barcode to show him we didn't have any in the backroom. I thought that was that, but he was so fascinated by the scanner gun that he followed me from one end of the store to the other talking about his retail life. 

First he said: "At No Frills they don't even bother checking. They just tell you straight up that they don't have it without even checking. That's a neat thing you have."

Me: "Thanks. We try to have good customer service."

Shaggy Beard: "I mean even if you were just lying to me and didn't really scan it I appreciate that you still tried."

Me: "But I didn't lie to you, I showed you it said there was nothing in the backroom."

Shaggy Beard: "I know BUT even IF it was a lie. At No Frills they don't even bother."

Me: "Well let me know if there is anything else you need help with."

Shaggy Beard: "Do you have wool?"

Me: "No."

Shaggy Beard: "My mother is looking for wool. I'll tell her you don't have it. Why don't you have wool? This is Canada. People here need wool. That big guy up there is making $120, 000 a year and he can't even send people to, to places like Walmart and Zellers to see what they are selling and try to have the same items. My mother wants wool. Interesting how you don't have it." 

And on and on he went. As you can see, this guy is a lonely shopper, 1) He's shopping for his mother, on a random Thursday afternoon, how much lonelier can you get; 2) He's a shopper. He knows his retail store and has been around, and like the Eerily Tanned Designer, he knows his brands and products. I thought it was interesting how he refers to the CEO of any company the 'big guy up there', which is usually the idiom for God. Lonely Shoppers have their gods too. (And one of their Ten Commandments is: Thou Shall Not Lie About What You Have In The Backroom To Customers with a footnote saying: Always consult scanner gun first.)  

3) The Novel Writing Major

No joke guys, my new coworker is a Novel Writing Major at George Brown. What! I don't even understand how. I wonder what the employment rate is like for this program, I wouldn't be surprised if it has the lowest employment rate of any program George Brown offers. 

But working in retail is probably the best hands on experience she can get for this. There are a lot of crazies out there, enough to have enough material to write a longer and crazier series than Terry Pratchett's Discworld series.  

Eddie keeps on telling me not to burn myself out because looking back, I don't think I planned this past week out very well. I knew I had to set up decor on Thursday, prep and help out with the dinner all of Friday, be on JAM for Saturday, and then be ready for the children's ministry on Sunday on top of working almost 50 hours. I was so exhausted that by the time I rolled into work on Saturday morning everyone told me I looked like I was just hit by a bus.

I didn't plan on getting sick! That's the one thing I should have probably thought about. I was coughing, sneezing, and blowing my nose so much that I should have probably called in sick at some point, or you might be thinking, that I should have skipped all my 'church activities' and just rest. But the way I see it, if I'm not going to call in sick for work, why would I call in sick for God's work?

I learned a lot about serving this week. Here's a list:

1) I volunteered to do the decor for the Spring Banquet. I've never really thought about whether I like doing decor or not, but since no one else was doing it, I decided to do it. In the past, Ariel or Lynette or someone else took care of it, but sadly, they're both gone now.

If you're ever curious about what God's will or place for you in the Church life is, all you have to do is do something. Fill in the empty shoes, start something, plug yourself in somewhere - then as you're doing these things in the Spirit, you'll realize that you're doing God's will. Often we're always trying to figure out what God's will for our lives are, but really, God already told us. The song "Jesus, All For Jesus" one line goes, "For it's only in Your will that I am free." God's will is for us to be free in Him and be led by the Spirit.

Summary: When there's a lack, fill it in even if it's different from your usual role. Most often in the Church life, we don't get to pick where God puts us to work.

2) So after I took up the ginormous task of decor and games, I told myself that I either do everything 100% perfectly or just give up because there is no point of doing something half-heartedly for God. It's no surprise that OBVIOUSLY with this mindset I felt extremely overwhelmed, frustrated, and annoyed; especially when certain people who were committed to help me out disappeared or complained the entire time.

What do you do?! I don't know, someone tell me. At Target, we have huddles where we vent out our frustrations and tell each other what is making us feel overwhelmed. At church you can't do it because 1) These people are your friends and 2) You don't yell at people at church. It's just wrong.

It was at some point I realized that God won't care if not all the pinwheels had buttons in the middle or that not everything matched or that the photo-booth does not look perfect. Who cares! What's more important is that I don't loose my temper and put myself in a situation where God can't speak to us because my emotional outburst.

Apology: Sorry people if I ever glared at you or gave you the silent treatment. That is my way of stopping myself from yelling at you and saying a lot of vulgar words. I will heed Clement's Yoga Master's Wise Words and try to control my breathing in situations like these.

3) God is always there to help. I don't have an definite example during the weekend for this one, but it's that feeling that things just work out for the better because God's taking care of you and understands what you're worried about. Does this make sense? It better.

It's things like, while frantically preparing 2 hours before the dinner Catherine suddenly appearing and making the photo-booth look 100x better, or Yong and Jacob suddenly appearing with props, or suddenly finding that obscure looking hat in the obscure corner of the church basement that was perfect for the photo-booth, or Del suddenly showing up to fix the tables and set up the mic, or Jane just always being an arms length away when I need her.

Take home lesson: When everyone else flakes on you, depend on God.

So that's it. After this weekend, I think Easter is my favourite holiday.
1) It's spring! Pastel colours and flowers galore.
2) It is very humbling to remind ourselves of God's sacrifice for us and that the most amazing gift for us to receive is an empty tomb.
3) Easter cakes are 100% delicious. At work someone baked this gigantic cake was devoured in seconds. Also, Pedro came home with a bunch of Portuguese easter cakes (one of which had an actual egg). Most amazing cake I've ever had.
4) The long weekend.
5) It's the one time in the year when you're allowed to ask, "So how long haven't you been to church?" without offending anyone.
6) Today I went to church, then Tako Sushi, then slept, then to Congee Queen, then ate a bunch of cake, and then slept. Best day ever.