Just when I thought I was done taking tests until September, I'm now scheduled to take a really important one: a driving test.

It'll be a nice change from the usual tests I take. Instead of filling in bubble sheets or scribbling out three essay answers in two hours, I'll get to drive around.

Next week I take my G1 exit test, and if I pass I'll get my G2 license.

To become a fully fledged driver (a G-class license) in Ontario you have to first get your G1 and then G2 licenses.

With a G1, you can drive when accompanied by a fully licensed driver with at least 4 years of driving experience.

With a G2 license, you can drive by yourself, but there are a bunch of restrictions about the number and age of the passengers in your vehicle.

This whole process can start as soon as you turn 16, and theoretically be a "real" driver with a full G license in 20 months.

I've taken a little longer.

I still only have a G1 license. I haven't waited this long to go for my

G2 on purpose. It wasn't a fear of driving; I really love driving. I just kept putting off taking the test. Between school and part-time jobs, I kept putting off the test.

I think I waited way too long, though. I've built this road test up into some impossible task. I'm treating it like a chemistry test. I'm stressing out and over-thinking it.

I know I shouldn't be. Everyone has told me the G1 exit test is easy, that almost no one fails, and that you don't even go on the highway. The hard stuff is saved for the G2 exit test to get your full license. I know I shouldn't be worried about it. I actually really like driving. I'm even pretty good at it.

But it doesn't help when the same people who say, "Oh, it's SOOO easy!"

then proceed to tell me to make sure I remember the "Dr. Rule" for parking on hills and that parallel parking will most likely be on the test, so make sure I brush up on it. The Dr. rule? Parallel parking? I had no idea what the Dr. rule was until three days ago. And I thought parallel parking was one of those things that you only have to know the theory of. You know: You're only expected to agree with the instructor that, yes, parallel parking IS impossible.

The Dr. rule was handy to learn. When parking on a hill you have to turn your wheels so that if the brakes fail your car won't roll away down the hill or into traffic. The Dr. Rule is an acronym that helps you remember which direction to turn the front wheels: Downhill = to the Right, uphill = to the left. Yes, the direction matters. Easy enough and I'll never forget it.

Parallel parking isn't so intuitive.

At first I thought that parallel parking wouldn't be a big deal. Just hop in the minivan and after a few tries, I'd cinch it. But now that I've been reading over the theory of parallel parking, I'm not so sure.

"Drive past the car you're parking behind, match up your mirrors, turn the wheel hard to the right and reverse to a 45 degree angle, then turn the wheels, pull up and BAM you're in."

Eh?

I thought watching a video would help. You know, read the steps and see them in action. It didn't. It just convinced me that a professional driver like the one in the video is needed to park between those two cars.

Finally, I just tried it. At first I stared at the spot, willing the family van to magically appear in the parking space. Then I tried following the steps I'd read, as alien as they seemed. It did not make sense that those instructions could get me into a parking space.

Amazingly, I actually got into the space. Well, after trying six times and having to realign myself again and again.

It used to irritate the crap out of me when people would say, "Parallel parking makes sense once you can do it." Wow, no kidding. But I understand what they mean now.

Sort of.

(David is Kathy's 14-year-old son.)

My mom recently posted about a computer summer camp. At this particular camp, there isn't much traditional summer stuff, like roasting marshmallows and sing-alongs (the precursors to Xbox and MSN). Instead, campers play video and computer games together.

The great thing is, I don't have to give up sleeping in during summer vacation to go to computer camp.  Video game summer camp is already part of every student's curriculum.

It's called a library work period.

The beauty of a library work period is simple. It begins with finding the right computer: not at the end of the aisle, but not in the middle, either. Make sure the row is facing opposite the librarian's desk.

Any time your teacher approaches, you get busy researching and categorizing your references.

As soon as they're out of peripheral-vision-range, you start honing your Space Invaders skills.

The most important step is staying on the defensive. You have to navigate level 5 while still monitoring your teacher's (and the librarian's) patrol route. Remember to keep your facial expression in check. Librarians are skilled at distinguishing a 'hard at work' face and a 'just got the high score' face.

But now, it doesn't matter how quickly you can switch task bars: thanks to a new computer program at my school, there isn't any room for Space Invaders during a work period in the library. Librarians and teachers no longer have to slink in the shadows, ready to ambush any student who might be playing a video game. Using a computer, they can actually monitor the activities of every student in the library, even taking temporary control of a student's computer if they suspect something's up.

I find this computer program offensive. It means librarians and teachers are assuming students are playing video games when they should be working. The fact that 90% of us are either playing Space Invaders or instant messaging is beside the point. They're presuming guilt.

Okay, so maybe it's inefficient use of a work period to prevent an alien invasion when you should be researching a thesis essay. But procrastinating in the library used to take skill and reflexes. It was a fair match. Now it's a losing battle.

Not to mention, it's depriving students of an important learning experience. People say that my generation is oblivious: we talk too loudly on cell phones, we text message and listen to our iPods while riding on the bus, completely unaware of our surroundings. But playing video games in the library requires your complete attention. You need efficient risk-assessment skills: Is the librarian looking in my direction? Is Matt actually going to give me away, just because I beat his high score?

Forget computer summer camp. We need more library work periods, without spyware.

Final exams are over. Now I face the daunting task of cleaning up my Study Hole. I have to sift through piles of paper and stacks of notes, deciding what to toss or keep on the off chance that I'll need it again.

Maybe. Someday.

But at least paper is easy to dispose of.

It's a yes-or-no, keep-or-toss scenario. And handling the toss pile is easy. Just throw the paper in the recycling bin. There's a certain satisfaction that comes with tossing out a course booklet of notes for a class that you especially despised. A certain joy in watching the paper shredder rip it to bits. But textbooks can complicate things.

Textbooks become the albatross of room cleaning.

They're hard to deal with because you can't just throw them out. Or get rid of them when you finish a course. They just cost too much.

The problem is that lots of mandatory textbooks will never be needed again. And most of these one-time-only books aren't of the 'future leisure reading' variety.

So you now have a seven-pound, three-inch-thick textbook collecting dust in the corner of your room, which you had the pleasure of paying $150, plus tax, for. There's no tossing a university textbook. Sure, you may never touch Advanced Organic Chemistry again, but you paid $174 for the thing. Naturally, you just can't let it go.

Unless you sell it.

As every student learns in first year, most of the textbooks you buy are one-timers. At least, many of mine are. A few students are lucky and have reusable textbooks that are applicable for more than one or two courses. But for those of us who have to dish out $700 or more a semester for one-time textbooks, selling our used books is the only consolation for spending a small fortune on something you'll never read again. Ever.

My three youngest have started bringing home those pamphlets from school for summer camps. But as I quickly realized, my definition of 'summer camp' is outdated. Way outdated.

Instead of nature hikes, swimming, crafts, and boating, these campers will get to play with computers. All day long. Seriously. At this camp, there isn't any rock climbing or archery. Or even campfires with burnt marshmallows and hot dogs. Instead, there's Pac Man and Super Mario.

As far as I'm concerned, after a couple of weeks at summer camp, you're supposed to come back with a tan and freckles. But at this camp? I suspect the kids get a nice pasty complexion and a sensitivity to sunlight. And an aversion to all physical activity.

Thanks, but no thanks. My kids are already slaves enough to electronics.

They don't need to attend a camp where, for a couple hundred bucks, they can gather with other slaves, where they can all play video games together.

Instead of writing letters home to their parents, I suppose these campers will give updates on Facebook or Twitter. "Hey Mom and Dad. Played some more Halo and Super Smash Bros today. My skin is starting to glow in the dark."