I was driving to a friends, to feed her cats, while she is away, and I was listening to a political commentator talking about spin and how we love to hate our politicians. And then I was driving home, listening to 3 commentators about which cities they loved and hated. Finally, on the way home from the grocery store, I listened to the child of holocaust survivor. Who talked about refusing to hate. Hate has been on my mind, of late. And it's a word we throw around a lot. I hate onions and cooked spinach. I hate my computer when it does that. I hate. . .
I was having this conversation at the hairdressers. About this person that I wish I really hadn't met. And frankly, I could do without her in my life.
"Mrs. Spit, you just don't like her."
Sigh. "You're right."
And with those words leaving my mouth, I felt both a weight lift from my very soul, and a terrible dread. What does it mean to be a person who just doesn't like someone? What does it mean when you look at this person, and think they just aren't the greatest of people? And that because of who they married, and how they are connected to you, you have to put up with them, at least on some level, but, honest to goodness, you just don't like them?
Because you just don't, can't make yourself like them? When you throw up your hands and say when I met you, I expected to like you. And I have tried, valiantly, vainly, and possibly beyond the realm of sensible. Five years. I have tried to find common ground, find the good and the nice in her. I just don't like her. And I have to confess, damn I'm tired of trying. Would someone tell me when I can pack it in without feeling like I should have tried harder?
The cashier was less than charming at the grocery store last night. I didn't hate her, but I did make a mental note to avoid her line next time. I suppose I could easily say I didn't like her. . .
But I didn't lay awake last night. I don't feel guilty telling you I didn't care for the cashier.
But, it comes down to this. I don't like this woman, that I would still tell you was my friend, if you asked. I'm not entirely sure why I don't like her - perhaps she's too blunt, too cold, too self absorbed, perhaps she's too negative, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps I could just throw up my hands, and say 'poor social skills'. On both our parts. And maybe all of that is true.
I could tell you all of the things this person has done. And I suppose I could make a good case, and I'm aware, with the power of my words, maybe I could make you dislike her too? But, if I am fair, I'm not entirely sure that she likes me that much either. Honesty compels me to admit that she could probably make a case to you about not liking me, either. I don't actually know if she likes me, I mean really, how do you start that conversation. "Hey, I don't like you much, I think you don't like me, and how about we cut out the farce and just admit we don't like each other . . ."
I don't have a million friends, but generally speaking, I don't dislike people. A few. It's rare for me to meet you and actively dislike you. I suppose we could really call it what it is - it's beyond active dislike. I don't hate, her, I won't hate her. She's not evil, she's not a monster, even though I don't particularly care for her behaviour. Loathing maybe?
And I come back to this - how do I love my neighbour, when I don't like her? And why do I feel so guilty about just saying that I don't like her?
Today's Post
Is brought to you by Super Mario Brother's Paper Mario.
Because maybe I spent far, far too many hours playing this game.
And only got some of the housework done.
And nothing done in the garden.
And I didn't write a blog.
But I am a quarter of the way through saving the world.
Which is strangely satisfying.
Even if I suck at it.
And I am not earning enough points or money.
Apparently you are supposed to explore.
But when I explore; big, nasty evil creatures come along and hurt me.
And I get hurt a lot.
Then I see the words, "game over" as I fall off the edge of the screen.
They are a friendly yellow, those words.
I don't particularly like yellow any more.
I am presently stuck. Can't figure out how to get somewhere.
Mr. Spit, who is normally very helpful, can't figure it either.
Argh.
So, no blog post today.
Sorry about that.
Off to save the world.
Monday Miscellany Meme
- Today is a holiday!
- Helping others move is a great discipline. at 10pm last night, Mr. Spit and I decided that we would be going through our house and performing a great purge. I'm not much of a clutter hound, but I'm sure some of it has snuck in. . .
- I am getting close to the point where I always remember the 780. Which is good because
evil, nasty jerkslovely phone company will compel me to dial it shortly. - My birthday is coming. Next to Christmas, Hallowe'en and Easter, my birthday is my favourite holiday. This year I am spending it volunteering at a Casino to raise money for a non-profit.
And the meme.
The lovely Reese tagged me to mention six quirky, yet boring, unspectacular details about myself.
- When I eat skittles or M and Ms, I always take a handful out of the bag, and organize them by colour. I don't have to eat them in a particular order, I just organize them by colour.
- In the same vein, I always eat my meals in the same order. The carbs first, then the veg, then the meat. Mr. Spit thinks this is just odd. My mother does the same thing. It's not that she ever taught me to eat this way, I just picked it up.
- I don't mind bugs outside. But I hate it when they come inside. I get a bit weirded out by spiders.
- I live in one of the few places in the world that is rat-free. No really. We don't have rats in Alberta. First time I saw one was in the tube in London. I've never seen a small, furry rodent that was that big.
- I have a deep and abiding love of stationary and pens. Seriously. Want to make me happy, take me to an office supply store and let me buy pens! I also really love nice stationary. Crane's in New York has the best in the world, but the shipping prices to Canada are really, really exorbitant, so I make do with monogrammed stuff from a store here in Edmonton (Notables, if you are curious)
- I have never bought a TV. Every TV we have has been given to us. The current one is about 17 years old. Mr. Spit and I watch perhaps 2 hours of cable television a month. We might watch years old, works just fine. I've never seen Desperate Housewives, CSI, Ugly Betty, House, Lost, Survivor, or any other popular television shows. Actually, that's not true. I watched 5 minutes of Desperate Housewives about 2 years ago. I was, umm, astounded. The no-buying TV thing just might change. (For those who don't click over, and you should, it's the story of how I spent $1154.72 at Best Buy on Friday night. I've never seen a 15 year old cashier look that astounded. Never)
Saturday's are For Quotes
Walking with a friend in the dark is
better than walking alone in the light.
- Helen Keller
Especially when you are helping her move in the wee small hours of the morning.
Welcome home M and C. We are so glad you are here and safe.
Would you Help a Knitter Out?
So, I have this
And this.
And all of this is to be a hat/mittens/scarf set for twins. Well, two sets actually. (You know, one for each twin). My parish priest just happens to be adopting two twin boys from Haiti. They are coming in October. I'm knitting, and then going out to buy snowsuits for them. They should be between the ages of 2-3. At least their pictures look about that. They are very cute. Very.
Anyway, the scarf is going along swimmingly (except for the usual scarf angst - am I done yet? Surely a 6 inch scarf will work for a 2-ish year old. No? Humph)
Anyway, the plan is to knit the scarf first, because I can use that to swatch gauge, (take that knitting fates!) and really how hard is knitting a scarf. Knit. Keep knitting. Throw some pattern stuff in. Repeat the pattern stuff on the other side of the scarf, in the same order. (I will confess to having a bit of trouble with the same order thing in the past. But, I have resolved to do better!)
The problem is the hat and the mittens. I'm not sure of the dimensions of children's heads and hands. I have no idea what dimensions might comprise these particular children, and I have noticed that there is a particular dearth of toddlers around Chez Spit. I checked most closely. Even the basement. No children. None. Most inconvenient when you are trying to measure.
I have carefully consulted the internet and the dogs. The internet and the dogs were of utterly no assistance. (But the dogs would like you to know that they still have not been fed, and the cat is looking tasty)
They all suggested I ask the blog.
So:
If you have a child, of between 2 and 3 years of age that just happens to be lurking in your house and consuming your groceries and generally being present (In, I don't know, the spare cupboard under the stairs?) Would you mind checking to see if they have a head and at least one hand in reasonably good repair?
If so, would you ever mind hauling them out and running a measuring tape around their head, about where a hat brim would usually sit?
And would you ever mind grabbing their hand (my experience suggests that it might be a good idea to wash said hand first.) and measuring around their wrist, about where their watch band would go (if they have one. Feel free to guess if not. No actual watch band is required for this), and then from the wrist to the end of their longest finger? (Generally this is the middle finger, but we are all about not judging here at Mrs. Spit's.)
And then, would you ever mind writing those measurements down and leaving them in the comments section?
The children who have to wear these garments this winter, in a facsimile of reasonable fit, and I, both thank you.
The dogs; however, do not. They are still stuck on this whole food thing, and you have failed to feed them. They are picky like that.
Ronnie
I was driving down a fairly major street and there was a guy lying half on the sidewalk, half on the meridian, out cold. He was lying on his back, which is an odd enough way to sleep, and as I came down the road, he was not moving. And people were stepping over him, and around him, and drivers were looking anywhere but at him.
And I knew this guy. Not his name, but his face. I'd had seen him, at a soup kitchen we used to volunteer at, around downtown. And I have always been struck by how kind his face looks, and how small and unassuming he seems to be.
I pulled into the alleyway, and got out of my car. And lest you think that I am Mother Teresa in training, I got out of my car, grumbling, muttering.
Why am I always the one to stop?
I counted 5 cars that went past in 30 seconds. Surely there have been hundreds of cars. Surely. Why am I stopping? And I walked around the corner, and thought:
"I'm going to be late for dinner - and - please don't let him be dead."
And I came upon him, and he was not dead, which was a relief. But, given the smell of alcohol, and the fact that certain parts of his body had let loose, and that he was out cold, I debated. Ambulance, police. Police, ambulance. And I knelt, on the side of the road.While cars paused to ask if I needed assistance - for what? Could they not have stopped earlier? Quickly checking for breathing, pulse, bleeding, indication of what might have happened. Was he beaten? Diabetic? Seizure? Stroke? Heat Exhaustion? I debated, recovery position? And I took another whiff of the alcohol, saw no evidence of trauma and decided.
And lest you still think that I am a saint, I put him in the recovery position for his good and my own. For him, so that he would not aspirate if he vomited, and for my good, so that I would not have to go home to change my clothes. And I reflected, as I always do, that I really should get some vinyl gloves to put in my glove compartment. And I rubbed his hand, and told him I was there, and he would be ok. And I equally reflected that I did not like the indignity of wearing gloves where there was no infectious material, that the feeling of my hands on his, they must be a comfort. I wonder who had last touched him with some sense of human care in their mind. And the late summer sun beat down on us, and I called the emergency number and told them where we were. I reassured him. It would be ok.
And I am still not sure what would be ok. He was homeless. He was on the ground. At the least he was drunk. While I waited, I tidied up his few things, put them back in his shopping cart. Tucked his jacket and hat around what few items he had. Reflected that someone had rummaged through his shopping cart, likely taking everything of value. There were a few rice puddings, past their due date, a wind breaker and an old ball cap, much like farmers wear. I wondered if he liked it, or it was merely what came to hand at a clothing bank. A copy of a newspaper that was a week old, and three slices of bread. Perhaps there had been more, but it was gone. Likely a day's worth of bottles he had collected, although it was possible he had spent that money on the bottle of 90 proof grain alcohol that was on the ground, not 3 feet away. Empty now.
And with the sun beating down, I put his things together, to hand to the ambulance attendant. Trying to get what little that was his, what little might matter. I reflected on the rice pudding, and wished that I still carried around granola bars with me, to give out. And I looked at his face, slack in unconsciousness, and noticed how his mouth was caved in, and decided that the rice pudding would still be best, expired or not.
I wondered, in an itinerant life, what you could have of value? Memories perhaps? I am sure, that this old man, with his kind face is not safe or secure in our shelters, and I am equally certain that he too has a story. I wonder if his memory still exists. It did not at 5:15 pm on Tuesday.
And quickly, kneeling beside him, looking into startled blue eyes that had just opened. I told him my name, told him he was safe, and that help was on the way. I stopped saying ok. And he did not tell me his name, merely mumbling and waving his hands, but not trying to get up, not trying to move away. Lost, confused, in another world.
And the ambulance arrived with its clanging sirens and flashing lights, and the techs poured out. In clean sanitary uniforms, taking control of my unsureness. And the woman, as she was pulling on her gloves, and putting on her glasses, she said his name.
I told her that I had come upon him, lying so still, in such an awkward, inopportune place, and I had stopped. And she turned and looked at me and said:
"binge drinking".
And I nodded. She helped him up. With care and concern I had not expected. Gently. I handed the other tech his things, such a small package, even in the heat of summer where not much is needed. Such a small package for such a confused man.
And I thought about patting his shoulder, but they were already helping him away. I looked at the last tech, moving the shopping cart, now empty, out of the way and said:
"that's all, then?"
And the tech nodded yes. And I walked away.
Unsure.
And I knew this guy. Not his name, but his face. I'd had seen him, at a soup kitchen we used to volunteer at, around downtown. And I have always been struck by how kind his face looks, and how small and unassuming he seems to be.
I pulled into the alleyway, and got out of my car. And lest you think that I am Mother Teresa in training, I got out of my car, grumbling, muttering.
Why am I always the one to stop?
I counted 5 cars that went past in 30 seconds. Surely there have been hundreds of cars. Surely. Why am I stopping? And I walked around the corner, and thought:
"I'm going to be late for dinner - and - please don't let him be dead."
And I came upon him, and he was not dead, which was a relief. But, given the smell of alcohol, and the fact that certain parts of his body had let loose, and that he was out cold, I debated. Ambulance, police. Police, ambulance. And I knelt, on the side of the road.While cars paused to ask if I needed assistance - for what? Could they not have stopped earlier? Quickly checking for breathing, pulse, bleeding, indication of what might have happened. Was he beaten? Diabetic? Seizure? Stroke? Heat Exhaustion? I debated, recovery position? And I took another whiff of the alcohol, saw no evidence of trauma and decided.
And lest you still think that I am a saint, I put him in the recovery position for his good and my own. For him, so that he would not aspirate if he vomited, and for my good, so that I would not have to go home to change my clothes. And I reflected, as I always do, that I really should get some vinyl gloves to put in my glove compartment. And I rubbed his hand, and told him I was there, and he would be ok. And I equally reflected that I did not like the indignity of wearing gloves where there was no infectious material, that the feeling of my hands on his, they must be a comfort. I wonder who had last touched him with some sense of human care in their mind. And the late summer sun beat down on us, and I called the emergency number and told them where we were. I reassured him. It would be ok.
And I am still not sure what would be ok. He was homeless. He was on the ground. At the least he was drunk. While I waited, I tidied up his few things, put them back in his shopping cart. Tucked his jacket and hat around what few items he had. Reflected that someone had rummaged through his shopping cart, likely taking everything of value. There were a few rice puddings, past their due date, a wind breaker and an old ball cap, much like farmers wear. I wondered if he liked it, or it was merely what came to hand at a clothing bank. A copy of a newspaper that was a week old, and three slices of bread. Perhaps there had been more, but it was gone. Likely a day's worth of bottles he had collected, although it was possible he had spent that money on the bottle of 90 proof grain alcohol that was on the ground, not 3 feet away. Empty now.
And with the sun beating down, I put his things together, to hand to the ambulance attendant. Trying to get what little that was his, what little might matter. I reflected on the rice pudding, and wished that I still carried around granola bars with me, to give out. And I looked at his face, slack in unconsciousness, and noticed how his mouth was caved in, and decided that the rice pudding would still be best, expired or not.
I wondered, in an itinerant life, what you could have of value? Memories perhaps? I am sure, that this old man, with his kind face is not safe or secure in our shelters, and I am equally certain that he too has a story. I wonder if his memory still exists. It did not at 5:15 pm on Tuesday.
And quickly, kneeling beside him, looking into startled blue eyes that had just opened. I told him my name, told him he was safe, and that help was on the way. I stopped saying ok. And he did not tell me his name, merely mumbling and waving his hands, but not trying to get up, not trying to move away. Lost, confused, in another world.
And the ambulance arrived with its clanging sirens and flashing lights, and the techs poured out. In clean sanitary uniforms, taking control of my unsureness. And the woman, as she was pulling on her gloves, and putting on her glasses, she said his name.
I told her that I had come upon him, lying so still, in such an awkward, inopportune place, and I had stopped. And she turned and looked at me and said:
"binge drinking".
And I nodded. She helped him up. With care and concern I had not expected. Gently. I handed the other tech his things, such a small package, even in the heat of summer where not much is needed. Such a small package for such a confused man.
And I thought about patting his shoulder, but they were already helping him away. I looked at the last tech, moving the shopping cart, now empty, out of the way and said:
"that's all, then?"
And the tech nodded yes. And I walked away.
Unsure.
Wednesday's are for Grammar
Your Homework last week was to create a sentence with a dash, and ellipsis and brackets. I'm pleased to say that a number of you did well.
Who Gets to Post the Coveted Grammar Award Button
I was absolutely thrilled with the homework this week. I must give you all kudos. Not only did everyone use the marks correctly, but truly, reading them brought a huge smile to my face.
Without further ado, a big round of applause to:
- Sweet Camden Lass - who is very good at this.
- Martha - who writes quite well, don't listen to her protestations.
- Aunt Becky - who has never done her homework before. A special round of appluase for not being such a slacker.
- JamieD and JuliaS who always do their homework.
- Carbon - who doesn't like parenthesis in conversation.
- Tash, who has, quite possibly the jerkiest ex in all creation
- Two Hands (who called me charming!)
- Alice - who rhymes. And is funny. And Charming. And used another language in her sentence!
A reminder. If you don't do the button and you keep it up on your blog, your hair will turn green, your tomatoes will explode in your garden and your back bumper will fall off at a traffic light. I mean it!
This Week's Lesson:
Ahh, the time has come dear readers. I'm afraid we must discuss that most awe inspiring mark, the apostrophe. I know that you don't like them. Although, I must say I find the fact that there is a campaign to ban the apostrophe a titch distressing. Surely there are more pressing issues at hand? (1)
Apostrophe's are actually important, with 3 main uses.
1. To indicate that a noun or a pronoun is possessive.
This part gets a bad rap, only because no one can ever figure out where to add the apostrophe if there's an S. Everyone is disconcerted. Here are the rules. Write them on your hand until you memorize them.
a. When the noun or pronoun does not end in 's', use 's to show possession.
Mrs. Spit's knitting. (the knitting, belonging to Mrs. Spit)
b. When the noun or pronoun ends in 's', add another 's to the word.
The bus's passengers were completely bored with nothing to knit.
c. When a plural noun (already more than one) ends in 's', use only the apostrophe. Truly this seems to screw people up. What the rule means is this. If you already have more than one thing, don't add another s. That would be a plural of a plural. If you add the apostrophe before the 's', there can only be one of the noun. A plural is denoted by the 's'.
The boys' bicycles were run over by Mrs. Spit's car. (note this, there are several boys, but only one Mrs. Spit)
d. Add the apostrophe and the s to end of a compound word. (2)
The Thursday-Whinge-For-All's prize is a scarf this month. (3)
e. Where there is individual possession, each person owning the noun or pronoun in the sentence, they each get an 's to indicate the ownership is separate.
Mrs. Spit's and Mr. Spit's pets are not always well behaved. (4)
f. In join possession, only use one 's at the end of the nouns or pronouns in the sentence.
Mr. and Mrs. Spit's fridge smells really bad.
2. Apostrophe's are used to indicate that letters have been omitted from a word. These words are called contractions. Contractions are generally informal, and should be spelled out in formal language. (5)
Mrs. Spit can't go, she has too much weeding in her garden.
3. Use an apostrophe to form plurals of individual letters of words, numbers or symbols.
Mrs. Spit has a lot of S's in her name.
Yes, that's right. My phone number is 444-4444 - there are seven 4's.
Important Note on the Grocer's apostrophe.
For some peculiar reason, writers assume that if they are identifying single nouns, they should follow this rule. Accordingly my grocery store is notorious for having:
Pear's, .79 cents/pound.
Now, we know that we aren't forming plurals of a single number or letter, so that's not why they are using the apostrophe. Surely there are no letters missing, which means that the store seems to be indicating that the pear's belong to someone or something else. Now, this is concerning. If the pears belong to another, really whom do they belong too, and should you be selling them if you don't legitimately own them?
Your Homework:
Now that you know better, your mission is to identify an abused apostrophe in the comments section of the blog. Bonus points if you take a writing implement and fix it then and there. (6) Yes, you can use the English Fail Blog or the like, but if you do, you have to identify why the mark is wrong. People finding examples in real life may merely leave me the details in the comments, or email me a picture, to be posted on next week's blog entry.
*****
(1) All is not lost. There is also a society to protect the poor wee mark. They have t-shirts. They could likely use the money from the sales to further their work. Just a hint. (Likely a 2xl please)
(2) Alas, hardly anyone uses compound words any more.
(3) No really, it is. Looks lovely.
(4) It's hard to think of an example in this case. This is a terribly awkward sentence construction, it's not often used.
(5) And I don't care where you are, Ain't isn't a word! Ever! Under any circumstances! Even if you are the President of the United States, you sound like a fool if you use ain't!
(6) But don't get yourself arrested. That would just look bad.
Who Gets to Post the Coveted Grammar Award Button
I was absolutely thrilled with the homework this week. I must give you all kudos. Not only did everyone use the marks correctly, but truly, reading them brought a huge smile to my face.
Without further ado, a big round of applause to:
- Sweet Camden Lass - who is very good at this.
- Martha - who writes quite well, don't listen to her protestations.
- Aunt Becky - who has never done her homework before. A special round of appluase for not being such a slacker.
- JamieD and JuliaS who always do their homework.
- Carbon - who doesn't like parenthesis in conversation.
- Tash, who has, quite possibly the jerkiest ex in all creation
- Two Hands (who called me charming!)
- Alice - who rhymes. And is funny. And Charming. And used another language in her sentence!
A reminder. If you don't do the button and you keep it up on your blog, your hair will turn green, your tomatoes will explode in your garden and your back bumper will fall off at a traffic light. I mean it!
This Week's Lesson:
Ahh, the time has come dear readers. I'm afraid we must discuss that most awe inspiring mark, the apostrophe. I know that you don't like them. Although, I must say I find the fact that there is a campaign to ban the apostrophe a titch distressing. Surely there are more pressing issues at hand? (1)
Apostrophe's are actually important, with 3 main uses.
1. To indicate that a noun or a pronoun is possessive.
This part gets a bad rap, only because no one can ever figure out where to add the apostrophe if there's an S. Everyone is disconcerted. Here are the rules. Write them on your hand until you memorize them.
a. When the noun or pronoun does not end in 's', use 's to show possession.
Mrs. Spit's knitting. (the knitting, belonging to Mrs. Spit)
b. When the noun or pronoun ends in 's', add another 's to the word.
The bus's passengers were completely bored with nothing to knit.
c. When a plural noun (already more than one) ends in 's', use only the apostrophe. Truly this seems to screw people up. What the rule means is this. If you already have more than one thing, don't add another s. That would be a plural of a plural. If you add the apostrophe before the 's', there can only be one of the noun. A plural is denoted by the 's'.
The boys' bicycles were run over by Mrs. Spit's car. (note this, there are several boys, but only one Mrs. Spit)
d. Add the apostrophe and the s to end of a compound word. (2)
The Thursday-Whinge-For-All's prize is a scarf this month. (3)
e. Where there is individual possession, each person owning the noun or pronoun in the sentence, they each get an 's to indicate the ownership is separate.
Mrs. Spit's and Mr. Spit's pets are not always well behaved. (4)
f. In join possession, only use one 's at the end of the nouns or pronouns in the sentence.
Mr. and Mrs. Spit's fridge smells really bad.
2. Apostrophe's are used to indicate that letters have been omitted from a word. These words are called contractions. Contractions are generally informal, and should be spelled out in formal language. (5)
Mrs. Spit can't go, she has too much weeding in her garden.
3. Use an apostrophe to form plurals of individual letters of words, numbers or symbols.
Mrs. Spit has a lot of S's in her name.
Yes, that's right. My phone number is 444-4444 - there are seven 4's.
Important Note on the Grocer's apostrophe.
For some peculiar reason, writers assume that if they are identifying single nouns, they should follow this rule. Accordingly my grocery store is notorious for having:
Pear's, .79 cents/pound.
Now, we know that we aren't forming plurals of a single number or letter, so that's not why they are using the apostrophe. Surely there are no letters missing, which means that the store seems to be indicating that the pear's belong to someone or something else. Now, this is concerning. If the pears belong to another, really whom do they belong too, and should you be selling them if you don't legitimately own them?
Your Homework:
Now that you know better, your mission is to identify an abused apostrophe in the comments section of the blog. Bonus points if you take a writing implement and fix it then and there. (6) Yes, you can use the English Fail Blog or the like, but if you do, you have to identify why the mark is wrong. People finding examples in real life may merely leave me the details in the comments, or email me a picture, to be posted on next week's blog entry.
*****
(1) All is not lost. There is also a society to protect the poor wee mark. They have t-shirts. They could likely use the money from the sales to further their work. Just a hint. (Likely a 2xl please)
(2) Alas, hardly anyone uses compound words any more.
(3) No really, it is. Looks lovely.
(4) It's hard to think of an example in this case. This is a terribly awkward sentence construction, it's not often used.
(5) And I don't care where you are, Ain't isn't a word! Ever! Under any circumstances! Even if you are the President of the United States, you sound like a fool if you use ain't!
(6) But don't get yourself arrested. That would just look bad.
