An open letter to the motherfuckers at the Royal Bank and Canada Student Loans

Dear Royal Bank Student Loan and Canada Student Loan Centre Motherfuckers,


I am writing to express my dismay and disbelief over the incomprehensible level of incompetence to which I have been subjected by you. I am afraid that you have me a wee bit riled-up. So please, please find it in your teeny-little stone hearts to forgive me for what I am about to say.


Please, don't tell me you didn't receive my fucking faxes that I sent you last week. Don't tell me that my Canada Student Loan was held because I failed to make a payment at the Royal Bank, when some dipshit at the Royal Bank told me outright not to make the payment until I received my Canada Student Loan.

Don't tell me it will take 5-9 business days to process any of this information, since I've been hearing this for 5-14 fucking business days already.

And please, don't you fucking dare tell me it will take 5-7 business days for the Royal Bank to process this shit which I gave them 2 weeks ago, but they apparently couldn't be bothered to look at until yester-fucking-day, and then another 5-9 fucking business days for Canada Student Loans to release the money after they're received information from the Royal Bank!!!!!

GODDAMNIT! I want Supervisors to call me. I want to see some fucking follow-through. I want my bloody money now so I can pay my student fees, pay my rent, drop the class I'm in that I don't want and pay for the one that I do want. I want to stop having to worry about goddamned forms and faxes and sitting on hold for hours at a time listening to elevator music while you people with your heads up your asses tell me fifty different fucking stories!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you have any more questions, please contact me. I will be happy to clarify things even further if you asswipes so require.

My Life of Crime

1974: I was four. I stole a pack of Love Hearts from Wong's grocery down the street from where I lived. My mom had refused to buy me a treat that day, and for some reason my full-on tantrum didn't persuade her to change her mind. So, penniless and powerless, I did what any defiant sugar-addicted child would do. I took matters into my own grubby hands. I remember glancing around the store furtively, looking at Mr. Wong out of the corner of my eye, checking to see where my mom was in the store, looking to see if anyone else was watching...then slowly I picked up the Love Hearts and as discreetly as possible, I shoved them into my pocket.

Later that day my neighbour Stacey McCormick came over to play. Stacey had a voice so shrill she made Fran Drescher seem soft-spoken by comparison. My parents used to imitate her whenever she left our house. I couldn't stand Stacey, but I still couldn't resist the urge to impress her with what I'd done, so I pulled out the Love Hearts and gave her one. I explained to her in whispers that we had to hide them and she squealed, "WHY DO WE HAVE TO HIDE THEM?! I WANT ANOTHER LOVE HEART PLEASE!" My mother spun around, stormed over and pried the pack of candy from my clenched fist. The tell-tale lines of powdered sugar over our lips gave us away. I was busted.

My mom hauled me by my collar back to Mr. Wong's store and made me tell him what I'd done. I started to cry. Mr Wong smiled at me sweetly and waved his hands quickly.

"Is ok, is ok, she keep them--they free!"

"No, Mr. Wong, thank you, but it is NOT ok for Katie to steal from you. She has to pay for candy when she comes here," my mom said firmly.

"No, no!" cried Mr. Wong, embarrassed for me, "is ok--she good girl, she keep."

"No, Mr. Wong, Katie will pay for what she took," and she handed me a dime to give to Mr. Wong and made me apologize. I paid him and he smiled sympathetically at me, and I wanted to disappear on the spot because I was so ashamed.

1977: When I was seven, my family moved. My parents were busy getting the house finished. My sister and brother were in the grocery store next door, but I was killing time at Robinson's. Robinson's always had a bunch of cheap toys sitting in the front of the shop . It was summer and I remember being hot and incredibly bored. The girl at the counter was talking to a teenaged boy and laughing at everything he said. I looked around and no one was looking back at me, so quickly I grabbed a small ball, threw it in my pocket and walked out of the store.

I hurried around the corner and threw the ball around a bit, bouncing it against a concrete wall, but then I was hit by an overwhelming sense of guilt that made my stomach ache. I dusted the ball off, put it back in my pocket and went back into the store. I sidled up to the box I'd grabbed the ball from, and quickly dropped it back in. As I turned around the teenaged clerk was standing over me.

"I saw you take that ball!" she hissed.

"No I didn't!" I choked.

"I saw you!" she snarled.

I didn't have the ball anymore. I'd returned it. This hardly seemed fair.

"I don't have any ball! You can't prove anything!" I yelled and I ran out of the store. I was sick all night.

1986: I was sixteen. My friend Lee and I were hanging around downtown with nothing to do. We went into Fields and Lee shoved a pair of earrings into her purse. I stood back and watched her move through the racks of clothes like a seasoned pro--a scarf here, a lipstick there--I was in awe. When no one was watching I grabbed a training bra out of its box, caught Lee's eye and grinned at her as I shoved it into my own purse. We ran out of the store clutching each other and laughing hysterically.

Then we went to the grocery store. We didn't really need groceries, but there was nothing else to do. Lee's mom's boyfriend was over at her house and he was a jerk, and my parents were normal and that was too boring to subject my cool friend to, so we had few alternatives aside from hanging out in the Pay-Less Gas Station parking lot with the older stoners from our high school, and they scared the shit out of us. We fingered the different items along the aisles, commenting on what we liked or what was making us hungry, and I spied a pack of Chipits milk chocolate chips.

"God, I love those things," I told Lee. "I could eat a whole bag of those."

"Take it," she said.

"No, what am I going to do with a bag of chocolate chips?"

"You should," she said, rolling her eyes at me. "If you don't, I will." I laughed at her, but I was getting nervous. She grabbed the pack off the shelf and shoved it into the enormous pocket of the trench coat she was wearing. As we walked through the store she grabbed other items. Some candy, Teen magazine, a bottle of Ten-O-Six Lotion from Bonne Belle. Anything she couldn't fit into her enormous coat, she would shove into my purse. I was freaked out, but I wasn't going to do anything about it because I didn't want her to think I was worried about it. We continued down the aisle, and as we turned to enter the next one, I felt a hand land firmly on my shoulder. It was a tall skinny guy wearing a sweater vest who looked like Ichabod Crane. It was the manager.

He and another employee walked us into their back office. I could feel my pulse racing. I was shaking like crazy and I thought I was going to start crying. My parents would kill me. Lee would be fine. Her mom let her do anything. She used to drive her mom's car when she was fourteen and her mom told her if she ever got caught she had to tell the cops she'd taken it without permission.

He told us we had a choice. We could either call our parents and tell them what we'd done and get them to come and get us, or he would call the cops. He may as well have said I could either face a firing squad or run naked across a mine field while holding giant magnets.

He left the room. Lee called her mom and her mom said she'd come and get her. When it was my turn, I didn't know what to do. My parents would lose it. So, I dialed Lee's mom.

"Mrs. Mason, my parents aren't home and I need..." suddenly I heard a click followed by a dial tone. The office door swung open and the manager stormed in. He'd been listening to my call on another line.

"I told you you could either tell your parents, or I would call the police. You've left me with no choice."

Lee left with her mom. I sat in the office by myself, stomach churning, waiting for the police to arrive.

The police came and walked me out of the store. Everyone in the store, including kids who went to my school, stared as I left. When I got to the car, they put cuffs on me and made a big show of putting me in the back and locking it up.

At the station, they led me in and finger printed me, and then they stood me against a wall and took my mugshot which they displayed on a bulletin board with all the other pictures of juvenile delinquents. After that they moved me into a windowless office, told me my parents were on their way and that my dad was quite angry and said they'd be a while. I started bawling and a female cop crouched down next to the chair I was slumped in, smiled sympathetically at me and said, "don't worry, my sister used to get into all kinds of trouble when she was your age, and she turned out ok."

I don't know if this was supposed to make me feel better, but for some reason it did, and I gulped out a thank you through my tears and then waited for my parents. And waited. And waited. For three hours, in an empty office, with nothing to do except stare at the walls and worry about what they were going to say.

When they arrived they were very quiet. They thanked the officers and told me to go to the car. Neither of them spoke the whole way home. I cried, "I'm sorry!" They didn't even look at me.

After we got home and walked into the house, my mom burst into tears and yelled dramatically, "What did we do wrong?! First you fail algebra and now this! Why don't you move out if you can't follow the rules!" I tried to defend myself, but I knew it was a lost cause, so I ran to my room, closed the door and wailed miserably into my pillow for an hour or so.

I emerged from my room to find my parents sitting at the kitchen table looking very serious.

"We've talked about what we should do," my father said. "Grounding you seems to have no effect on you. I've called the manager of the store and volunteered your services. Every day for the next month you will report directly to him after school and you will work in their butcher shop until 6, at which time you will come directly home and do your homework."

There was no point in protesting. So, every day after school for the next month, I went to the butcher section of the town's only grocery store, donned a white coat and a hairnet and wrapped meat in the freezer while I shivered, surrounded by huge bloody cow carcasses. I was miserable and humiliated. Students from school who worked at the grocery would snicker and whisper when I walked past. A couple of bag boys would hiss, "Stop thief!" when they came by the counter and saw me working.

After I'd done my time, I refused to enter the grocery store for five years. By that time I'd moved away to go to school and only had to go in there when I was visiting my parents. Even then I still felt knots in my stomach just entering the place. I didn't eat meat for almost 4 years. I had a record until I was 18.

But, I didn't steal again either. I had finally learned my lesson. My life of crime did not pay. I'd been scared straight.

Well, almost straight, anyways.

Is it Friday yet?

Sunday night I went to bed, my head hit the pillow and I passed out as soon as I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew my alarm clock was honking loudly in my ear. I swatted at it blindly. How could it be beeping so soon? I had only just gone to bed!

But after hitting snooze five or more times, I knew I had to get up, and all I could think is, it has to be Friday, it has to be Friday, please God, whoever, just let it be Friday.

It was not. It was Monday. Oh Monday, I curse thee!

So I got up, went to my computer, started working (I start from home in the morning), had a shower, got my kid up, dressed and fed, and we left the house. I dropped him off with the neighbour who takes him to school, ran to the campus coffee shop (where I like to flirt with the coffee boy, who is oblivious or too polite to acknowlege my awkward early morning attempts to be cute). I grabbed my coffee, ran to the bus stop, hopped on a bus, read as much school stuff as I could, hopped off the bus, and went to work.

Around 10:30 I took a ten minute break to buy another coffee and a rice krispie square from my favourite close-to-work coffee shop. The owner is a young Chinese woman who wears a white frilly apron and looks absolutely thrilled whenever she sees a new customer--she's set up across from Starbucks--and every morning when I leave she sings, "Thankyouverymuchhaveawonderfulday!!!"

I love her. I'll never buy Starbucks when she is near.

Then I raced back to work, skipping lunch so that I could leave early to get my son from school. I left work, ran to the bus, read all my school stuff along the way, hopped off the bus, ran home, jumped in my car, drove to my kid's school, picked him and his buddy up, drove to the corner store to buy them a treat, drove home, ran and got the babysitter, kissed the kid goodbye and sprinted back over to the campus to get to my class, where I arrived sweaty and disheveled.

Then I sat through the class, tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about, managed not to fall asleep and was dismissed. Then I went to my next class. Listened to the world's most boring lecture and also managed not to fall asleep.

Class was over at 6:30, so I ran home, said goodbye to the sitter, helped the kid do his homework, made dinner for him, got him fed, let him play, got him in the bath, read him a story and kissed him goodnight.

I went downstairs, made myself dinner, grabbed a can of coke, sat in front of the tv and barely moved until 10. Then I did all the bedtime stuff (checked email, washed face, brushed teeth, removed clothing and jewelry). I started a little work that night so I could sleep in an extra fifteen minutes in the morning. Then I got up, and stumbled into bed.

And then I did this all over again on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And today. And it wasn't Friday on any of those mornings. I have it on pretty good authority, however, that tomorrow is Friday. I don't have any classes on Fridays.

So I think I'm going to get a little drunk.

An open letter to the morons on the road

Dear Morons on the Road,

I know, I know...you have a licence, but maybe they didn't tell you at the DMV, a driver's licence is not a licence to kill. It is not a licence to act like a complete moron on the road. There are other people out there. I know. I've been driving alongside you idiots for a while, and I've held my tongue, but apparently we need to go over a few things.

1) Signal lights: These are those things you use to let other cars know that you would like to change lanes or make a turn. They are a great invention! Use them! Trust me, you'll have loads of fun with them. They signal an intent to move. Are you writing this down? I hope so, because I am growing tired of drivers who assume I will know they are about to cut me off, or who decide on a whim, "oh, what the heck! Maybe I'll cross over three lanes and take the scenic route today!" Hey, I have no problem with spontaneity, really I don't--just give me a second to adjust, ok? A teeny little warning...a...how shall I put this....signal?

2) Cross-walks: See those striped white lines across the road? Yes, yes, I know, they're so very, very pretty, aren't they? I know you're probably not aware of this, but they're not just there for aesthetic pleasure--they actually serve a purpose! Here's a hint: If you are approaching some of these pretty striped white lines, and you see a nervous pedestrian standing at the edge of them (you know pedestrian? Those human things unframed by racing metal boxes?) then SLOW down and STOP. What's really cool is that when you do this, you won't kill someone who's trying to cross the street! It's win/win for everyone!

3) Cell-phones: Fabulous inventions, aren't they? Not so fabulous on the road. Spend the extra three bucks a month and get the messaging service or pull over if the conversation about Britney's c-section is just so important it can't wait. Please.

4) School-zones: What a pain in the ass children are, always wanting to stay alive long enough to see their next birthday! I know, I feel your pain, friend, but let's humour the rug-rats, shall we? I know you just can't wait to get to work, but how about slowing down when you see the signs with the teeny little children on them? It's really in your best interest. Scraping blood and hair off the grate of your BMW can really be a bitch, and something like that can ruin your whole week.

A big dilemna

I found a joint tucked into a toy that my son recently bought at a garage sale--this would be more disturbing, but he had no idea what it was and it was quickly confiscated by moi. No idea how old it is. No idea who originally owned the thing. No idea what exactly is rolled into the joint...not without unrolling it, at least. Yes, it does have a vague marijuana scent, but who knows? Maybe it contains other things that could make me have a heart attack, right?

Sigh. I know, this isn't really a dilemna. But it does seem like a bloody tease, doesn't it? I feel like Tantalus sometimes.

Winner of the Tell This Couple's Prom Night Story challenge!!!

Well, we had two fine entries, and probably about twenty people told me they were "going to" enter (sorry losers, it's too late!).

It was an extraordinarily tough race, but after much deliberation, I have decided that the winner of the Tell This Couple's Prom Night Story challenge is Katie!

No, not the same Katie as me. We just happen to both be named Katie. And yes, I'm aware that might have swayed me in my decision, but I strove to be as fair as I could.

And what does Katie win?

My eternal admiration, of course!


So, without further ado, here is the wonderful entry that Katie contributed.



Misty was originally supposed to go to prom with her boyfriend Kevin, but two days beforehand she had gone over to his house to make sure his cumberbund was the right color, only to catch him sucking on her best friend's toes.

So then her church youth minister asked her to do a good deed by going with Todd. Todd always had difficulty talking to girls, because he was self conscious about his glass eye. He spent most of his Friday nights playing Bingo for M&M's with his grandmother.

So Misty did the Christian thing and invited Todd to the prom. When they showed up, Kevin--who had already consumed most of a bottle of coconut rum--had a fit. "You came with Cyclops intead of me?" he yelled.

Misty tried to ignore him and instead asked Todd to dance. That was when Kevin took off his shoe and threw it at Misty, but he missed and hit Todd instead, hard enough so that his glass eye popped out and landed in the punch bowl. The prom pretty much ended right there, even though it was only 9:30.

Kevin had to sign up for a sensitivity workshop the next week. He would go on to become a Kinko's manager.

Todd moved to Las Vegas and opened his own casino when he was 30. he called it "One-eyed Jack's."

Misty became a stewardess and mother of four. She sent Todd a card every year at Christmas but never returned his calls.

What happens when we die, according to my weird but adorable kid

I'm not very religious. Ok, honestly? I'm not at all religious. I call myself agnostic because basically I'm too chicken-shit to write off the possibility, and aetheism seems like too much of a commitment for me.

But my kid has suddenly developed an interest in all things God. He tells me all kinds of weird stories about God, or asks me questions.

I'm trying not to discourage him. I believe that religion is a personal choice and I don't want to scare him from asking questions. However, I'm not terribly well-equipped to answer most of them, so I direct them to my mom who is Catholic but laid-back about it.

The rest of the time my kid comes up with some pretty interesting theories about God and the afterlife all on his own.

Tonight he said, "Mom, I have a really, really hard question for you, and I don't think even you will know the answer."

I asked what the question was, and he said, "If we die, and it turns out God isn't real, what do you think happens to us?"

I told him, "Wow, that's a very tough question. I don't really know the answer to it. Maybe we just turn into air or something and become part of nature, like the wind or the ocean or something."

Then he made this noise like a buzzer on a game show, "aaaaaah!"

So I asked, "What, did I get it wrong?"

And he smiled and said, "yeah, you were way off. The answer is leprechauns!"

I said, "You think if God isn't real we turn into leprechauns?"

And he looked at me like I was totally insane and said slowly, like he was talking to an idiot, "Noooooo, we go to the leprechauns."

Then I asked, "Ummm, what happens when we get to the leprechauns?"

"How the heck am I supposed to know that?" he cried. "I've never been to the leprechauns before!"