Holy Mackerel

So, I was contacted yesterday about getting chosen to be one of only approximately 4,013 applicants for a job that I kind of covet, kind of not. As far as I'm concerned, I've bagged it. This is just the first step in a long process to get said job as an emergency dispatcher. You can stop laughing now. Thank you. In order to narrow down their choices for eventual interviews, you must first go through three energy-draining, stress-inducing, armpit-chafing tests. The first test: the typing test. You must be able to type at least 35 words a minute. I can type approximately 82 words per minute, give or take a word. So, obviously, I've got that cat in the bag before you can say "Jack Sprat". How's that for mixing similes? The second test: the language test. Being an Ontarian who lives close to the Quebec border, where they speak a lot of very bad French, one must be able to speak both "official" languages, those being English and French, or as the Quebeco...

I started a job Monday that is supposed to last two weeks. I'm not, however, sure I'm going to last. Keep checking the obits. I am doing some filing for an organization. This is my way of contributing to society as well as to the family, while I take a mental health break from my life as I've known it for the past four years. Filing should probably be the most laidback, easygoing, mind-numbing job there is. And it is. Until you notice you wore the wrong pants to your first day at work. By "wrong pants", I do not mean pants that are inappropriate for the office. What I mean specifically is pants that, although they look amazingly awesome and make my buttocks look very firm, they tend to fall down and do this ... ...when I do this. And I did this a lot . Not only once. Oh no. A more accurate number would be, maybe, 2,304 times. Because what I was doing all day long was standing, reaching for files, pulling said files out of shelving unit, setting file down on litt...