Basic Manners for Clueless People at the Ticket Booth

1. If the sign says you cannot buy a pass until 8:00, and the girl behind the counter says she doesn't have the passes until 8:00, maybe you should lay off until 8:00, and not come back every 5 minutes to see if it's 8:00 yet. When you see the other people buying passes, it's 8:00.

2. If you're talking to me and I'm sitting in a booth and you are smoking a cigarette, don't blow it directly in my 3 foot by 3 foot booth. There isn't much air in here as it is, and there's only about 3 inches for me to pass you your tickets and take your money. So fuck off, and don't blow your smoke through the little circles that are there so you can hear me and I can hear you.

3. If the line is long and you don't want to wait, don't open the back door of the booth and ask me for tickets. If that was allowed, the other 75 people in line would have done it. Fuck you.

4. If you volunteer to be somewhere at 7, and aren't going to show up, for the love of God, call and tell someone, so the poor girl in the booth that has been counting down every single minute 'til 7:00 doesn't have to stay an hour later, in that little airless booth, as the lines get longer.

5. The girl in the booth, although smart and pretty (hehe), cannot actually read your mind. This means when you slam down a $20, and don't say what you want, she's going to assume you want $20 worth of fair tickets. When she hands you $20 worth of fair tickets, don't gripe that you only wanted $10 worth. You have a mouth and vocal cords, yes? Excellent. Use them.

6. Please and thank you are not just for Sesame Street. You know them, fucker. When I hand you your tickets and tell you to have a good night, or have fun, or whatever little thing I'm saying at the time, don't fucking grunt at me. Try, "thanks, you too!" or something to that effect.

7. I am a volunteer. I have had this job for two hours, and am not getting paid. Do not give me sass when I tell you that I'm not sure how much passes cost for tomorrow, and you'll have to ask at the office. You fucker.

8. No, I cannot give you some wonderful special tickets so you can ride for free with your kid because he's too scared to go alone. Is that my problem? I'm sure your kid is superawesome. That's right, he's the next Einstein. He's just too afraid to ride the Super Duper Gut Spewer all by himself, but you're too cheap to pay too. What, exactly, do you want me to do about that? Do you walk into a restaurant and say, "I only have $10, but Bobby doesn't like to eat by himself... I'm going to need an extra meal for free."? NO! You don't. You stupid fuck.

9. When I exit my booth and am enjoying a nice piece of funnel cake, it's not a wise idea to tell me I should be helping out in the booth still. You shithead, you go work the booth.

10. I can't give you a free strip of tickets or charge you half price because you are an estranged friend's cousin's mailman's third cousin. Fuck off.

11. No, this wig isn't my real hair.

I think that's it.

A Rural September

Small town fairs are, indeed, a treasure. I'm sure all of us can remember that yearly first taste of cotton candy on the midway (and the sticky fingers that came with it), begging our parents for a candy apple (and the subsequent visit from the tooth fairy), and having our artwork showcased for all to see. And who could forget that feeling you got on "prize day", when the teacher would hand you that white envelope with your name neatly written in cursive - the envelope may have only contained a few quarters or a couple of dollars, but on that day, you were someone. Somebody had seen the prose you so painstakingly copied out, crumpling pages and pages of foolscap as you made little mistakes (White Out was contraband). Somebody read that short story you wrote. Someone saw that jack-o-lantern you made of construction paper. And they thought you were worthy of the prize. Those few quarters were certainly not "just" a few quarters...they held the utmost significance and could boost your confidence through the roof.
That's why the small town fair is a flood of nostalgia and something so vital to communities like ours. Kids grow up. Traditions evolve. Fads come and go. The small town fair is, essentially, a reminder of our community - who we are when the Internet and the video games and the cell phones are turned off. It is a showcase of the talents we possess in a world that just may not seem to care anymore. It's togetherness - walking through the buildings noticing a neighbour's magnificent quilt work or a friend's giant pumpkin, which otherwise you may have been too busy to inquire about. (Things like giant pumpkins, I fear, rarely make sense to those who have been hardened by the facelessness of big cities.)
As I sat on the bleachers taking notes for this issue of the paper, children ran around me in their best pirate garb. A little girl with a giant lollipop politely said "excuse me", as she tumbled over my legs in pursuit of an older sibling. I saw some of my public school teachers, some old friends and acquaintances that have since relocated. The small town fair is a glimpse of the future of the community, blended with just the right amount of the past.
When it was announced that it was time for everyone to move down for the official pictures for the Guiness Book of Records, the enormous sense of pride this community has was evident on the faces in the crowd. On what other day would we have an excuse to put on wigs and hats and pirate patches, reply to most questions with a hearty "Arrrrrrr!", and see business people, politicians, and children alike wearing the same costumes? At what other time would any of us stand in a group with three hundred other people, pointing plastic swords at a camera in the air? After the official pictures were taken for the world record, it was said that this would be something to put Wallacetown on the map. Regardless of its status on the map, we are so lucky to have a gem like the Wallacetown Fair to look forward to every year.
Thanks, to you, the community, for making it happen. To the kids that spend hours on crafts, to the parents and teachers that organize them, categorize them, and send them all in. To the folks that hang these masterpieces up, and take them down. To everyone who spends time raising and showing livestock. To the young people brave enough to run for Ambassador, and the groups who sponsor them. To the creative minds behind the entertainment and themes to keep the fair fresh year after year. To the farmers, the bakers, the flower arrangers - thanks. To the entertainers, the burger flippers, and french fry servers - thanks. It would not be the same without every single one of you to hold up the tradition and small town atmosphere that is the Wallacetown Fair.


jloos

I hope you never experience loss. On the loneliest day of your life it'll be all that you can think about. I really hope you grow up, for one. Apparently you're so high and mighty, so I hope you know that I can see right the fuck through you. I hope you learn which battles to pick and which ones to let lie, because that is the one key that will lead you to success. I hope you learn not to dwell on things that happened years ago.

I hope you never have to come back here, to this town where nothing happens. I hope you never have to tell people that you finally graduated college and are back, unemployed, in your parents' basement surrounded by empty picture frames and broken mirrors. For the second time. I hope you're never too scared to go outside. I hope that the walls never close in on you and that you never want to spend days on end under your blankets. Take your moments of clarity in stride. Use them to your benefit.

I hope you never have to say goodbye to your best friends, knowing that the miles that separate you are now the death to the relationships you once had, and that even when you take little pieces with you, they are only souvenirs, only mementos, and you cannot go back in time and re-live them, no matter how hard you try. You'll see them in a coffee shop, maybe years from now. They'll smile at you, make small talk, and walk away. You can never go back to what you had, because it doesn't exist anymore. I hope you don't come to the final points of that realisation for a long time. It hurts like hell.

I hope you don't get scared and run away from the things you love. I hope you don't manage to convince yourself that just because something scares you, you have to love it. That's where you will run into problems, and trust me, as you put your very sanity on the chopping block, you will feel more broken than you could ever fathom. It might not hit you for two months, eight months, a year, but when it does it will hit you hard and fast and you will never be quite able to shake it from your head.

I hope you never come home to a red card hanging on the door. I hope you always have hydro, hot water, and telephone service. But even if you don't, I hope you have friends that love you to pull you through the hard times. And when you do have hot water and phone service, I hope you remember those days that you didn't, and don't take a damn thing for granted. I hope you never get a letter from a creditor who wants to take you to court, and that you don't get 20 messages left on your machine every day to the same effect. I hope you never have to decide between milk and bread. I hope you never have to wait in line at school for a grocery voucher. But if you do, I hope you never see the look of pity on the secretary's face as she watches you sign for it.

I hope you come out of your shell and realise that people are what people are. Comparison is useless unless you know circumstance.

I hope you don't ever have to live on $10 a week, but if you do, I hope you can make it work.

I hope you're not too proud to take an honest job. You are not above the rest of us. Few children would exclaim that they wanted to be a janitor when they grew up.

I hope you say hello to the girl working the counter at the coffee shop. I hope you give her an extra quarter if she does a good job, or looks like she's having a rough day. I hope you tip the waitress, even if it's your last dollar and you just came in for a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. I hope you never snap your fingers at her. I hope you work a day at a gas station, just once, and that the next time you pump, you think twice about how you talk to the "gas jockey".

I hope you take the Greyhound to Toronto in the winter in the dark, watching the lights as they dance by. I hope you read a book about ghost stories and stay up all night drinking coffee with your friends. I hope you own at least one album that reduces you to tears. I hope you get a job that you hate, so that 5:00 PM will always seem a little bit sweeter.

I hope you learn that the world is nothing like the way you are picturing it.
You are not special.
You do not stand out, no matter how much you think you do.

Circumstance.

Sometimes circumstance grips you in the only way it knows how.

And as if to prove to you, by some sort of Sign, that you are going to be okay, something comes along and ruins the path you've drawn out, and expects you to re-align that path, if only so you can prove to yourself that you are capable.

Are you supposed to sit around and wait for it to be over? Are you supposed to sit around and complain about the series of your plans that the Higher Power has just trampled on? Are you supposed to sit around and cry?

No.

You're supposed to pick up the pieces. Take the scraps and make them into something viable. Circumstance is ugly. It is the ugliest beast you will ever meet. On your dying day, you will sit and contemplate the things you could have done differently. You can't do any of them differently. That is why this book is called Life, and the chapters are called Fate, and the words are called Days. The footnotes might be labelled "possible changes", but one can't be sure. This book won't be published until it will be too late for us to read it.

The first dead body I faced directly was in my second week of clinicals.
I remember. My seven classmates and I walked into that room, to see a lady named Florence who had passed on about 20 minutes earlier. She was 93. A country version of "The Weight" was playing on her bedside radio. The song, which couldn't have been any more than four minutes, seemingly lasted for hours, and still, when I think of her, I hear it. She was wearing a floral blouse, and her chest looked as if it would rise and fall normally any second. A red quilt covered her legs. Her pink slippers poked through the bottom of it. A glass of water was on her night stand. Her pills were next to it. This was going to be a normal day for Florence. It was supposed to be. It was the end of March. She had lived through 93 months of March. Spring had just begun. Florence had gotten dressed this morning, opened her drapes, and fell back asleep, peacefully. Her face glowed in a calming manner. This was a woman who had raised her children, saw her grandchildren grow up, and then lived out her last days in a room with a window and a view of a parking lot. She was fine with that. You could just tell. The radio played "Take a load off, Fanny/take a load for free/take a load off, Fanny, and put the load, you put the load right back on me" and my classmates and I hummed along while our teacher explained the clinical definitions of death. We didn't care. We knew Florence was dead. Not because some piece of medical equipment told us she was, but because of the peace you could see when you looked at her. None of us being particularly religious, it was surprising when we bent our heads down in prayer simultaneously. It didn't matter then what you labelled us. We were a bunch of equally lost twenty and thirty somethings, holding hands, praying for the soul of a dead woman that none of us particularly knew. It was sad and it was beautiful. It was early morning, just after breakfast. We were due for our smoke break. Nobody said anything. We waited for the funeral home people to arrive, and we held open the doors, heads bent down, tears in our eyes, as they rolled the guerney into the van. When they asked us to say some words, we said the words that came to us naturally, unscripted - and they were beautiful.

We had all come so far that year. One woman had lost her four year old daughter to a crippling disease. One had had a miscarriage. Some had been refugees, relocated from war torn countries. None of us were particularly college material. Someone or some thing had meant for us to be there that day. Usually we gossiped or complained, but on that morning, we stood still in a recollection that none of us would ever forget.

The first raw soul I encountered was in that of Margery, at a special home for those with Alzheimer's and Dementia. She wasn't dead, but you could tell her mind was trapped between this world and the other. Even though my two week placement at Highview was the most physically and emotionally draining thing I've ever done, I would easily re-live those two weeks of my life over and over again if I thought my mind could take it.

Margery no longer could find the words to carry on a conversation, but it didn't mean she was empty. When robbed of all human communication devices, save for facial expression and touch, one may think the situation is hopeless. Margery taught me more about life than any professor ever could. I would arrive for my 3-11 shift around 1:00 just so I could sit in the courtyard with Margery for a couple of hours before I was on the clock. She spoke in gibberish. "Yadda yada... done," she would say. Margery was never really done. Her commentary was priceless. You could never understand the words she was saying, but you could feel the thoughts she was thinking. Her approach to life was so child-like, so pure. We would sit on a wicker love seat and spend hours looking through "Felines of the World", and she would kick off her shoes and give me the biggest hug you could ever imagine when we got to the page with the Scottish Folds. We would read books about the Queen, and about Canadian tourist attractions.

We would walk the length of the courtyard, and stand at the fish pond, and she would be purely in awe of the yellow fish that had lived there for years and years, and of the plastic frog with the motion sensor. We would walk that path in the courtyard for hours on end. We would go inside and watch sitcoms on rainy days, and every time something funny happened, Margery would grip my hand and have the silliest grin on her face. It didn't matter if I didn't have bus tickets to get home, or if I hadn't had the $2 to buy the staff dinner that night - Margery's grin was enough to keep my spirits up.

Circumstance is ugly. Nobody could tell you the things Florence and Margery had seen when they were our age, but it was probably far worse than dealing with Creditor So-and-So or whether they had phone service. Life takes us down paths and winding circles, and the only thing you can really rely on is Murphy's Law. What can go wrong, will go wrong, and there is no doubt about that. The only other two certainties are death and taxes.

So, someday, when you are screaming mad, or so depressed that you think nothing will work out - think of an experience you had that changed your life. It can be something simple and seemingly unimportant. The first time you bounced a cheque, and how humiliating it was...but how you fixed it. The first time you got on the wrong city bus and ended up an hour late for an important interview. The first time you drank yourself into oblivion and realised it didn't fix a damn thing.

Sometimes, life throws us curveballs. Sometimes, it's hard to recover from a prolonged series of them. As soon as you stand up, you are shot back down. I guess my point with this, is even though we all have different abilities, different qualifications, different occupations, different outlooks, and varying levels of sanity - we are all human. Our time here is short. Do not spend it worrying or obsessing about how you could have spent it better. There will come the days where you want to hide under your blankets for a few months. There will come the days when you do just that. There will come the days where you constantly wonder "what if"? But your life is working out the way it is supposed to be. You won't believe it today, tomorrow, or five years from now. But whatever is happening is happening for a reason, a reason we cannot understand. But someone/something out there does, and rightfully, you wouldn't be handed these challenges if you could not overcome them.

The point is not to regret things you've done, but to learn from them. Florence didn't die peacefully because of her bank balance. She had lived a full life. She was listening to the birds in the trees outside, as they were rediscovering spring. She was tired. She fell asleep for the last time with the most inspirational smile I've ever seen. As we turned to leave her room, the nurse flicked the radio off, and the Weight was truly lifted.

Why is the oven saying "hi"?

My darling mother has posted a Facebook photo album of me attempting to cook.


I must admit, I have made some fairly awesome strides for my age. At the age of 21 years, 6 months, and 10 days, here are the things I can honestly say I have avoided doing in my life:

• Ever frying hamburger.


• Ever barbequing anything that wasn't a hot dog.


• Ever cooking anything in a slow cooker that someone had not set up for me.


• Making mashed potatos more than once. When my attempt was fed to other people, it was remarked "were you trying to make potato soup?"


• Ever cooking a raw chicken. Or a raw pork chop, or a raw roast. Or a raw dead animal of any sort.


• Ever cooking vegetables that were not frozen.

And some true confessions:

• When I went to Conestoga, there was a potluck. I bought cookies from the Sobey's bakery and put them in a cookie tin. Of course, they were homemade! ;)
  
• I tried to fry hamburger once and got so scared I was going to set the house on fire that I handed the baster off to my mum and went outside for a cigarette to calm myself down.


• I tried to make "the easiest Chinese rice ever" once, after being assured by a family member that it was impossible to mess up. I must not have put enough water in the rice because it never cooked. I threw it away and called for real Chinese.

So, it can be established that I cannot cook. I cannot make tacos because I do not know how to brown hamburger. I will never be able to cook a turkey because I would be afraid of setting it on fire. I mostly eat Minute Rice and vegetables and perogies because they are the only uncomplicated things in my mom's house. I sometimes try to eat soup but I can rarely operate the can opener. I have some sort of oven/stove related OCD, whereby for three days after I use the oven or the stove, I am constantly wondering "did I remember to turn off the oven/stove?".

Sure, I may be deathly afraid of raw meats, fire, flame, and ovens. But I do make a mean grilled ham and cheese.

Which brings me to the title of this post.
I walked into the kitchen when my mom was cooking garlic bread in the broiler, and displayed on the screen were the two letters "HI".
"Why is the oven saying Hi?", I asked, seriously.
"Uhm, the broiler is on high."
"Oh," I said, "I thought the oven was saying hello to us."

brylcreem: effortless

I wasn't aware they still even made this stuff. But check out this ad: http://www.brylcreem.com/effortlessness/watch-the-tv-ad.html

It took 62 takes.

I think it's one of the best advertisements ever.

In an age where most things are over-technofied crap, this ad is super refreshing.

I'm not going to run out and buy any Brylcreem though.

Fell off the wagon.

More like I jumped off the wagon, jumped in front of it, and let it run over me.

After having quit smoking for 4 weeks and 3 days, I decided that, although I did not want to buy a pack of cigarettes, or become a constant smoker again, that one little cigarette wouldn't kill me (well, not right away). So I did what all stressed out "non-smokers" do: I whined until I successfully bummed a cigarette.

The first drag was awesome. The familiar feeling between my fingers and the lovely carcinigens invading my lungs was something to be savoured - like a fine wine. The second and third drags were quite lovely, but nothing to write home about. By the fourth or fifth drag, I felt like I was smothering myself, and then I was mindlessly puffing, hoping for it to be over soon.

This was a mere regular sized cigarette. It was not the king sizers I had been buying before.

As I threw it out the window, I was actually somewhat grateful that I'd fallen off the wagon.

I got a dose of nicotine and realized it still didn't fix my problems or make me feel any better. And as such I don't have any desire to go back to it.

apple fries?

http://www.usatoday.com/money/industries/food/2007-09-11-healthy-meals_N.htm

"Now, Tommy, HONESTLY, you can't have that burger dripping in grease unless you eat your APPLE FRIES."

We can't just cut up an apple for you at home, no no no no no. It needs to look like fries. And it needs to have fast food packaging. Or else, it's just not as good.

So like... how are they going to keep this ingenious idea from turning brown without adding tonnes of gross chemicals to it? And who gets apples with fast food, anyway?

I know it's a step in the right direction, but it reminds me of the dude we've all be stuck behind ordering his 3 cheeseburgers, 2 fries, and 15 apple pies. With a diet Coke.

Like something out of a TV sitcom.

So I decide this evening that I'd like to have a bowl of popcorn.
I put the popcorn maker on the counter, turn it on, and turn my back to get some butter.
My mother's ever-so-curious dog decides he would like to see what is making that crazy noise.
He somehow manages to knock the machine to the floor, causing unpopped and half popped kernels to escape all over the kitchen.
Sweeping them up is daunting enough. They are under everything and in every possible crevice.
My mom has one of those dustpans with the stick so you can hold on to it and not have to bend down. She also has a rack of wineglasses directly above her garbage can. As I turned this dustpan to an angle to dispose of it's contents, I manage to take out the contents of the shelf with that stupid stick.

So how was your day?

Easy, cheap, non-messy foodstuffs for college students and/or other poor people who don't like doing dishes or washing things and are inept like me.

Eggs in A Bag
I mention my favourite easy meal, eggs in a bag, to yet another person, who stares back blankly at me. "Wait, what? Eggs...in...a bag? Ew." I beg to differ, and once most people try this breakfast/lunch/dinner concoction, they agree.

Stuff needed for Eggs in a Bag:
2 Eggs
Handful of shredded cheese (optional)
Chopped ham, peppers, and anything else you might put in an omelette (optional)
1 Sandwich Sized Ziplock baggie
1 decent sized pot full of water

How to make eggs in a bag:
1. Fill the pot with water, put heat on high.
2. While waiting for water to boil, crack 2 eggs in a mug and transfer them to the Ziplock bag.
3. Add shredded cheese and any extra fixins. Smoosh around until yolks and fixins are mixed thoroughly.
4. Push all air out of baggie and close carefully.
5. Once water is boiling, place baggie into water. Try to make sure it doesn't touch the edges of the pot. Boil until it looks done. To make sure, take baggie out of water and push on it with a fork. If it oozes, it needs to go back in.
6. Once finished, open baggie, remove egg, and serve. Throw away baggie. Rinse pot and put away.

Cheap Campbell's Imitation Tomato Soup
Stuff you need:
Very cheap can of tomato soup
Enough milk to fill the can
1 teaspoon of sugar
1 tablespoon of margarine

How to do it:
*The can of soup says you should make it with water. Disregard! No actual water is involved in this process.*
1. Empty gross looking tomato pasty crap from can and into pot.
2. Fill can with milk. Pour milk into pot.
3. Turn on heat to mediumish. Stir a lot.
4. After a few minutes, as soup is becoming warmer and turning to a lighter orange colour, add 1 tbsp of margarine.
5. Stir some more until soup is just a bit cooler than you would like it (margarine should definitely be melted by now). Add the spoonful of sugar and stir constantly until soup is at desired temperature.
6. Eat. (If the Queen isn't visiting, and you are the only one eating this soup, it can be eaten directly out of the pot, as long as you don't intend on drinking it.)

Imitation Name-Brand Chicken Vegetable and Rice Soup
Yeah, you can buy that Primo soup that costs like a $2 a can, or you can just whip up your own non-crappy soup for 50 cents and some stuffs you should have already around the house.
Stuff you'll need:
1 can cheap chicken noodle soup, or the packet kind, but that kind is really salty. (The rice takes away from the saltiness of the soup though.)
1/2 cup Minute rice
1 handful frozen mixed vegetables (I like the "Santa Fe" kind with the zucchini and brocolli and peppers, but whatever you have will totally work.)

1. Empty the can of gross looking soup into the pot and add a can of water like they told you to.
2. Put on lowish heat and stir it for a few minutes, then grab 2 small bowls. Fill each with 1/2 cup water. Put veggies in one. Put 1/2 cup Minute rice in the other. Microwave for 3-4 minutes. (If bowls are small enough you can put them both in at once.)
3. Keep stirring your soup. Glance back at the microwave to make sure nothing's exploding or on fire. When microwave beeps, go rescue stuffs from it.
4. Stir rice and veggies into soup and continue stirring until hot.
5. Turn off burner. Eat soup.

Peanut Butter Cookies
I have been experimenting with the recipe on the back of the Kraft peanut butter jar for close to three years now. I find that, despite the fact that it is advertised as "three ingredients", the recipe really needs a fourth ingredient to counteract the greasiness of the peanut butter, or else they will completely fall apart. I like the taste that brown sugar gives them, though I have successfully used quick oats and other cereals in the past. These are totally not nutritous at all because they are pure sugar, but in the winter when you can't afford flour or anything fancy like that, and you especially can't afford store bought cookies, they're awesome.

What you need:
1 cup peanut butter (if you have both smooth and crunchy, use 1/2 cup of each)
(**wet measuring cup before you add the PB, it'll be less likely to stick and mucho easier to clean!**)
1 cup white sugar
1 egg
1/4 - 1/2 cup of whatever else you are using to stabilize greasy dough (just keep adding stuff until the dough "feels right" to you.) (This ingredient largely depends on what you have on hand - brown sugar, Rice Krispies, crushed corn flakes...whatever.)
1 tsp vanilla, if you have it.

1. Preheat oven to 350 celsius. Put all ingredients into large bowl. Pretend they are the registrar's office. Or a creditor. Beat the hell out of them.
2. Spray cookie sheet with PAM (or reasonable knock off, if you have it). Roll bits of dough into 1.5"ish balls. Roll in sugar if you are feeling fancy. Creative manoevering should allow you to contain all of the balls on one cookie sheet, but if you're feeling less stealthy, there are no laws against using two.
3. Using a fork or the bottom of a cup, smush the cookies down a bit.
4. Put in oven for 8-10 minutes.
5. Cool a bit (right on the pans, we don't have no money for no bakin' racks or nuffin!) and eat.

Redneck Mocha
You ain't got no money to go to the Starbucks (o' the 7/11) to git none o' them fancy coffee drinks, but yer sick of plain ol' coffee, is ya? Redneck mocha be yer new friend.

Whatcha need:
Mug
1/2 package o' instant hot chocolate
1 teaspoon instant coffee
sugar an' melk to taste

Put the hot chocolate an' the instant grog at the bottom of the cup 'n add water. Mix it around. Add sugar and milk. Drink.

(Alternate: If ya ain't got no hot cocoa but you do gots chocolate sauce, a shot o' that'll set the redneck mocha right, too.)

Politix.

I watched part of the Ontario debate tonight. I had to get up and move away from the television. Admittedly, I do not know enough about politics to really participate in a discussion about them.

I do know that McGuinty has been running the place since 2003, and that it's time for him to get out of there. There have been far too many promises that he hasn't taken seriously. I know he's a politician, and that's his job - but come on. I especially had to laugh when he was talking about how he identified with the Ontarian public regarding tuition costs, because he's had to put four kids through university. Oh, Dalton. You just got one hell of a raise. Most of us aren't the premier's kids, and therefore, we're a bit SOL, aren't we? It's okay. We don't need to be educated. It isn't like we're the future of this country or anything. And minimum wage is enough to raise a family on, is it? You must be kidding me. Yes, you've raised it. Congratulations. Still, more needs to be done.

Dalton, I wish you could watch a fast forward of the past five years of my life, and the lives of those around me. We're not bad kids, you know. We've made some mistakes. We've spent more money than we've made. We're in over our heads. We don't know how to fix it. I'm sure it had nothing to do with trying to put ourselves through college. The first year I filed for OSAP, I was told I would get $800 funding. For $3200 tuition plus approximately $500 in books? Plus rent and food and incidentals? Please. I was working 16 hours a week at Zellers, and doing 40 hours of classes, and tutoring for extra credit. I could have worked more, but I was getting up at 4:30 am to make it to school on time. I dropped out three months in. I loved school. I was getting 90s in all my classes. I adored my teachers and my course work and my new friends. The financial strain was too taxing, unfortunately.

I am not a stupid kid. All through high school I had decent marks. But I had a fairly rocky path set up for me. I know you tried to help me by implementing your guidance counselor fancy vocabulary - sending us to TAP class or whatever the hell your little acronym was. Dalton, I was seventeen. I didn't know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. The fact that tuition has gone up 35% is appalling. It's almost like the government doesn't care if it's citizens are educated at all. You'll take care of us until we're done grade 12, and then BOOM! - we even have to pay $110 to apply to university online. Tell me that is not something intended exclusively for the rich. Even after you raise minimum to $10/hr, that means I would have to work 11 hours to APPLY to university. More than eleven hours if you factored in the tax so you can get from Hamilton to the T-dot on time. I wonder how many hours you have to work for $110, Dalton. Oh wait, that doesn't even cover the cost of your plane ride from Hamilton to Toronto. How silly of me. Why don't I just ask my mom for the $110, you ask? We're not all rich kids, Dalton. I love how you assume every parent has an education fund set up. Like most normal folk, I was too "rich" to get much OSAP and too poor to go to school. Awesome.

I do agree with your stance on public schools, very much so. Publicly funded religious schools are archaic. It is not the taxpayer's responsibility to teach a child anything to do with religious beliefs, save for elective religion classes in high school. If you have one religion, you're going to have to have them all. Good luck with that. Why not embrace different religions and work together? You know, put up Christmas decorations and Kwanzaa decorations and Hannukah decorations. Show the kids that religions can co-exist and that none of them are necessarily better than the others. Let the kids talk about their beliefs, but don't sit them down with a textbook Bible telling them that God made Adam and Eve and that's just the way it is, and don't ask questions. That isn't learning. That is imposing. If Johnny wants to say grace before eating his peanut free lunch, then let Johnny say grace before eating his peanut free lunch. If Janie doesn't want to say a prayer, that's okay, because nobody's telling her she has to pray. I do not understand why this is such a difficult concept.

Politics frighten me. Dalton frightens me. Debates frighten me. And that Dalton is certainly not a master debator (heh). Then again, neither are the rest of them.

Oh Canada.

ad sense

Commercials are the fodder that plays wickedly between the segments of television shows I pretend not to watch. I really wonder how some of these ads make it past the drawing board. I have decided to rant about a few of my (un)favourites:

1. Every Kiss Begins With Kay.
Quite possibly the stupidest drivel ever. Of course every kiss begins with K, because K is the letter "kiss" starts with. Hmm...shiny rock. Symbol of forever loving someone, or of blatant consumerism? Perhaps this is the cynical side of me. That much money can buy a pretty hot television. Or a lot of clothes and shoes.

2. Hubert.
Hubert is a man-cat/cat-man who will do anything for Whiskas Temptations. He seems to enjoy meat, and eating these ever so tempting little doodads that my cats don't even like. And my cats eat a lot of things, like corn and green olives. But he's Hubert, damnit. And if you don't have any meat, you don't have any Hubert. If you do have meat, you can have Hubert. But you also have a cat leaving holes in your drywall and a frightening man-cat/cat-man in your laundry room covering up his feces in a litterbox. Appetizing.

3. Always. (WARNING - tmi risk.)
Let's see the many things wrong with the marketing concept of Always feminine hygiene products. Most ads for products of this nature feature young women in tight white pants or skirts, showing just how confident they are in their method of protection. Does this EVER happen in real life? On top of this, Always constantly likes to remind us to "Have A Happy Period". You know what? I'm bloated, I'm bitchy, I'm crying. I'm sitting on top of a deep freeze eating freezerburnt ice cream directly from the container. But yes, I will make sure to have a "happy" period, because you fucks told me I had to.

And what about the women out there who are trying to conceive? I'm sure when Auntie Flow shows up, they're just thrilled. It's okay, don't be sad! Always wants you to have a happy period. HAPPY! You know, like the sort of happy where you pet fluffy kitties, maybe even kitties like Hubert, and bask in how awesomely awesome it is to be a woman.

The only way Always can redeem themselves in my eyes is by changing their slogan to "Aren't you happy that this will only last for four days and not 18 years?" And perhaps they should include some species of chocolate or something. Kind of like a cereal box prize. But not like that at all, because nobody's brother would ever go near "girl stuff" to get to it.

4. Wal-Mart.
The dancy weird commercials were cool ten years ago when the Gap did them - and who could deny the relentless earworm that was "Mellow Yellow"? Then, they were tolerable when Old Navy did them, because at least Old Navy had a dog in theirs. But Wal-Mart? Oh, dear Wal-Mart. The latest back to school commercial featured a bunch of kids and teens, all dressed up in their finest Wal-Mart apparel.

I am first to admit that I love Wal-Mart. 98% of my clothing hails from good ol' Sam Walton's general store. But the pre-teens in this commercial are at the age where the odds of them admitting they bought clothes are Wal-Mart are slim-to-nil. The odds of them prancing and dancing around merrily because of their new Wally World threads are very small. I was 13 once. I wanted to punch that Rollback dude in the face. 13 year olds think Wal-Mart is Satan. Three days after you move out of your parents' house and realize Kraft Dinner and toothpaste did not come with your new place, you will agree that Wal-Mart is truly a gift from the Heavens. Until then, no dancing around about the awesomeness Wal-Mart. Leave that to us dirt poor, unfortunate twentysomethings, punk. You haven't yet earned your turn.

5. Dalton.
Dalton wants to keep our schools public. Dalton has an impressive list of plans. However, Dalton still has things on his To-Do list from last time. I am very surprised that Dalton's commercial doesn't end with "Dalton's mom approved this message and will bake fresh scones with homemade jam for everyone that votes for him". Get bent, Dalton. And no, you may not put a sign on my lawn.

6. Toenail Fungus commercial.
This commercial is most commonly played as soon as I sit down to enjoy a nice lunch. It features a scary looking "fungus" creature pulling off a cartoon toenail and climbing underneath it. This is my dog's favourite commercial because it means he gets the rest of my lunch.

7. Head-On, Apply Directly to the Forehead
Steel toed boot. Apply directly to the crotch. Repeat as necessary.

8. Listerine White
"To get 32 of her little friends their brightest, whitest, and HOTTEST."
Listen, lady. You have a whole host of problems here that I won't even address. You seriously need to find something more awesome to be a superhero about then Listerine. That look in your eye makes you sort of look like Dennis the Menace on Ritalin. You should do something constructive like fight for the rights of squirrels to have holiday parades in the street, or for emotional distress counseling for goldfish or something.

9. Tim Horton's.
Okay, so two guys come out of Timmy's and get in the car. Dude #1 goes to put his coffee where his cup holder, logically, would be located. No, no, no, Dude #1! Your coffee doesn't belong there! That's for Dude #2 only! He even got it altered for his breakfast sandwich.

Oh, Dude #1! Don't get mopey, now! He didn't mean it, and surely you won't have to actually HOLD ON to that coffee until it's gone! Don't stress, man, it's totally going to be alright. You'll make it though this. He made you one too!