I Know For A Fact You Are Wrong

You know when something truly tragic happens and the media gets its hands on it and tries to play the sympathy angle but just comes off like a total asshole? That is today.

As I type, the RCMP are diving in a lake looking for the body of a kid who is presumed drowned after the canoe he and two other boys were in capsized. Two of the boys were saved, but, hours later, it would appear the third has been lost to the water, his life over, his family bereft. In the piece being played on a loop throughout the dinner hour on the national television channel, the reporter repeatedly refers to the police as saying that "the most tragic thing about it is that none of the boys were wearing lifejackets or flotation devices." Really? REALLY? That is what you see as the most tragic aspect of this horrific day? Because I am absolutely certain that the most tragic thing is that ONE OF THOSE KIDS DIED. Police believe that this all could have been avoided if the kids had just put on life jackets. Right. This is THE PERFECT TIME to point that out. The fact that kid is dead? ALL HIS OWN FAULT.

Let's be realistic here: the news is a business, and announcers want your attention. They will play on your sympathies and interview a poor tearful boy about his probably dead friend, which is tasteless, perhaps, but at least relevant. But is this really the time to preach to the public about proper water safety at the cottage this summer? Yes, that information should be shared, but now? Now, when divers are underwater trying to find him? Now, when surely his family are lost in despair and prayer, making deals with any deity who will listen, hoping against unrealistic, fading hope that they may see him again? Now, when the people he came to the lake with are still clustered around the shores, not having eaten or gone to the bathroom since that canoe capsized because they cannot bear to walk away?

He is dead. Here are the facts. There is nothing you can do. Breathe. Let the mourners come. Breathe.

Leave the water safety for tomorrow.

Snooze Button Hell: Dreamscape Gone Mad

I love sleep. Not going to lie, I love it like I love candy. When I don't have enough I get very crabby, and pine wistfully for those halcyon days when I could have as much as I wanted. Aaaah, weekends in junior high! When my parents were just happy I wasn't giving them the black eyeliner death stare while moping about begging for money. I can hear my mother now, whispering loudly outside my door, "Richard! Just let her sleep for Christ's sake. I know it's 2 p.m., but at least the air in here isn't quite so rank with teen ennui when she's under the covers!"

I particularly love that moment right before succumbing, and actually fight to stay awake in that suspended, half asleep state to enjoy it more. I find if I think about just the right things in just the right way I can sometimes induce a great dream, wherein I'm a pretty princess on a white pony, or some such awesomeness.

So there I am, maybe being fed crab meat off a diamond spoon by a silent smiling man, when that buzz intrudes. The siren call of morning. Only I tend to ignore it, and go back to sleep. WHERE'S MY MAN SERVANT? Oh, there he is. But wait....why does he have a bulbous red nose now? And where is my crab meat? Oh, he's going to massage my feet. Only he's not. Now he's pulling the skin off my toes to feet to his pet half goat/half dog. WHAT?!?

How does that brief interlude of wakefulness morph my dream into some nightmare landscape where ugly fish walk by waving top hats at me while I slowly drown in rancid butter? Is this punishment for not greeting the day with an immediate puritan work ethic? I ONLY WANTED 8 MORE MINUTES!!!!!

And it only gets worse from there. After the next snooze, it's a leprous goat eating my feet. Then 14 little people from the cast of Wizard of Oz are waving wands over my head, showering me with that original crab meat while goats walk over me, pushing me into the dirt. Etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum. Or at least until I get fed up and get up, totally unrested and weirded out by my own subconscious.

I'M SORRY, sleep gods. Next time I'll get up. Next time I'll sage my damn room before dreaming. Because I am really NOT IMPRESSED with your nightmare version of my blissful rest. Suck it, snooze demons.

I need a nap.

Spare Change Can Buy You Rage

I like to believe I am a tolerant person. In fact, I am . Race, religion, level of physical ability...all these things fade into the gorgeous, grand mosaic of humanity. I'm like Ghandi. However. BIG however. I do not consider douchebaggery to be something we as a people need to accept, all willy-nilly like, as if it's just a cross some people have to bear, like a heart murmur, or a club foot. So when that very special person comes along who makes me wish I were in the second circle of hell instead of in his presence, I'm going to tell you. Yay! I have a blog.

The other day I was in Safeway, picking up a few essentials, and chose the shortest express line in an already fairly empty store. The woman in front of me was questioning her bill, but I had already emptied my basket, and figured she didn't have too many things, so how long could this possibly take to resolve? She insisted on viewing a printout of her receipt BEFORE she would pay, and finally agreed on a total. I'm not sure when Safeway switched to the barter system, but next time I'll bring my crazy skills for debating the relative merits of shaved turkey.

As this woman made a move for her wallet, I breathed a sigh of relief, because someone had at this point put his things on the belt behind mine, so I really couldn't switch lanes without being disruptive and annoying, which, as a rule, I try not to be. Okay, so I at least try not to be annoying. But I digress. As she proceeded to count out 54 pennies toward her $11.54 total, I grimaced with my face down and bit my lip a little. You know, to distract myself from the psychic pain with the physical. Great, 54 pennies counted. Now things will move along.

Only they didn't, internet. I am not making it up when I tell you she then counted out $4 in dimes, with no signs of urgency or of switching to bills at any time in the future. And all this in the EXPRESS LANE.

Yes, I do realize that coins are legal tender. Yes, I realize that people are on fixed budgets and sometimes, every cent counts. In fact, I am also on a budget. Money is often on my mind, and I think very carefully about what I buy. But that doesn't give me the right to be a COMPLETE JACKHOLE and hold up everyone else for (no exaggeration) 10 minutes while spelunking in a backpack for cash. Maybe it was less the incessant counting than the complete disregard for the people behind her, but at this point I wanted to reach over and count out the damn money myself. Ripping the coins out of her hands would have been very satisfying in a very mean spirited way, but I would have savoured it like I do a particularly 80's episode of Glee.

Sadly, I hadn't the time for counting, as at this point I realized I was about to miss my bus, so I rather loudly pushed past her, telling the cashier I didn't have time to keep waiting and would have to leave my items on the belt. The crazy counter did not even acknowledge me, but the cashier did say sorry, though in a voice that suggested I was the bitch in this situation. WTF? Seriously? I'M the crazy one in this waiting for Godot to learn how to count scenario? If there's a look I've perfected in my time on earth, it's definitely my WTF? look, and I gave it mightily as a small consolation.

The moral of the story is this: I'm an impatient bitch and get yourself to a mother f*%^ing bank with your goddamn coins before hitting the store. The End.

p.s. If she had been an elderly woman this whole post would be moot, as I would have dissolved in tears and offered to pay for her, but that's a whole other rant.

Soap Will Not Cleanse You Of Your Sins

I've though about this blog for a while. Set it up, thought about possible first posts, and then left them unwritten. But here it is! Finally, a product that angered me enough to leave my apathy behind and put words to internet. A product that angered me MORE than the disposable one-use hand towels, which angered me mightily. Here it is, the subject of my inaugural rant: Lysol's No-Touch Hand Soap System! Because I'm sure you too have been found, bereft, standing at the sink thinking about how clean your hands would be, if only you didn't have to touch the soap dispenser!

Um, WHAT? So, Lysol, what you're telling me is that I might NEVER have to touch another dirty soap pump again? Well thank CHRIST for that! I can't tell you, internet, the sleepless nights I have spent wondering how on earth I could possibly succumb fully to the obsessive complusive need to wash wash wash my hands when they were CLEARLY not getting cleaned by soap I had to pump myself!

Sorry, indulge me for a moment. My hands are dirty. I go to the sink. Touch the clearly rancid and unholy spectre of the soap pump, thus soiling myself even further. BUT THEN I WASH MY HANDS, RIGHT??? The devil I see in my unclean palms is thus smited, no? Am I mistaken here, thinking that soap cleans? Curious.

Now I am unsure which of the other offensive angles to discuss next. Because obviously, the soap pump is full of anti-bacterial soap, as opposed to useless old regular soap. So let's kill ALL the bacteria we can. ALL OF IT! Except we can't, and now we have no immunity and the plague comes back and we're all dead. Or I could talk about how such an automatic beast must be solar powered, right? Only not, as the No-Touch Hand Soap System (TM, am I right?) requires 4 (yes four!) AA batteries. Which we all dispose of properly when they run out, instead of throwing them, leaking chemicals, into landfills near water sources. AAAGH!

Sometimes I just want people to lick old spots they think might possibly be chocolate off their hands and hope for the best. And by sometimes I mean all the time. And if I can talk a No-Touch Hand Soap System buyer into doing this, I sincerely hope it's not chocolate.

Oh, wait. I'm feeling a little better. I hated, I ranted, and now I feel...slightly cleansed. Aaaah. Sweet, sweet anger relief. Especially when I think about the No-Touch users trying to figure out how to turn the water off without touching that filthy tap! Although I DO know what could be used to dry their hands. I hear Kleenex makes a great new, one use disposable hand towel for at home use!

I feel another rant coming on already. This blog's going to be exhausting.
Go, internet. Run. Get dirty!