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.