Since then, I have changed jobs from a non-unionized position to a unionized one. I know that unions get a ton of bad press — some of it no doubt deserved. But if you want to see a great explanation of why unions matter, check out this brilliant and funny Australian video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=184NTV2CE_c.

Basically, unions won us safe working conditions. Before organized labour, jobs in manufacturing, mining, and construction were a lottery where winners avoided losing a limb. And, even now, if you ever try convincing a boss to provide retirement benefits or overtime on your own, you’ll notice that negotiating as a group is a lot more effective. Even the existence of unions means non-union employers have to treat the rest of us better, hoping we won’t organize and drive harder bargains.

Labour Day celebrates one of the contributions of unions – a paid holiday. Workers walk together in a show of strength in numbers that finishes off on the grounds of The Ex. There, people continue to celebrate by having a good time with their families. So although you won’t see Santa Claus, the Labour Day Parade actually is pretty awesome.

But even if you’re not a trier, the lady at the Happy Feet stand will have you in there in your sock feet trying out these strange, squishy insoles before you know what hit you. She’s a pleasant-looking blonde and a skilled operator all around. If you glance toward her spot, she tells you to come in there and take your shoes with the perfect level of friendly authority. And if your feet are sore from tracking around the grounds The Ex, those benches look pretty appealing.

I’m wearing my Happy Feet right now, and my feet are actually happy. However, when I first slipped them into my shoes I felt like a sailor stepping back onto land for the first time in months. There is a distinct, liquid-y rolling feeling, like you’re standing on a jellyfish that’s trying to get somewhere in a hurry, or doing the moonwalk on a block of tofu.

Apparently some people need to build up to using their Happy Feet all day, starting by wearing them an hour at a time. Mine have been fine, although I think I was rolling a bit when I walked by reception. But if you’re a trier and your feet are looking for a unique experience, or you want to see a superb salesperson in action, follow the Ex-goers walking like pirates.

Ostriches are taller than Darth Vader, but then their necks and legs are stringy. Most of the ostrich’s bulk is a giant ball somewhere in the middle. A good chunk of it may well be feathers, because the giant ball is covered in large, silky-looking ones. The skinny bits also have tiny feathers, but they are so fine they look like fur. They have dinosauresque feet bigger than mine – they might fit into a woman’s size 10 shoe, if it was designed for a creature with three or so toes.

They’re immensely graceful and balanced, and when they broke into a bit of a jog I could guess what kind of ground they could cover at a run. Thanks to a neck with the length of a giraffe’s and the range of motion of an elephant’s trunk, an ostrich can examine you at angles from waist level to far above your head.

They don’t just stand around, either. The two in the enclosure split up. Each one hung next to a group of visitors, raising and lowering its head like an inquisitive elevator. The one at my end looked into the distance, blinked its inner eyelid sideways (seriously!) and then puffed its neck like it was chewing its cud or planning to expel a fist-sized spit-ball. From time to time they would check in with one another by spreading their giant feather duster wings and dancing around each other. (According to a sign, they’re a couple.)

Go. See. Ostriches. They rock.

Despite mid-year resolutions not to shop I got swept away by a tiny jade tree bonsai for our kitchen window sill. I am now a civilized and grown-up being a bonsai owner — like Mr. Miyagi, pruning my little karate kid.

We watched a little tango on the stage at the centre of the International Pavilion, drifting over with the music to peek at a lovely number with a couple who looked straight out of a black-and-white film. As a tango dancer herself, my sister was able to offer some juicy behind-the-scenes info (no, I can’t pass it on). It was great seeing a large and apparently appreciative audience watching the dancers.

My sister narrowly avoided buying a patterned orange silk dress from a stall full of colourful Indian silks. Crocs are at least practical, but would you get much wear out of a backless orange silk dress… Well, actually, she probably would wear it, so scratch that argument.

Another thing I noticed about the CNE shopping experience this year was… furniture? There was a lot of furniture. (And you could polish it all with your Sham-Wow.) In terms of window-shopping, if I won the lottery I would go for a whirlpool jacuzzi with a built-in stereo and coloured lights (for people who can afford a jacuzzi but don’t have a stereo, or who want to listen to music with their ears submerged in bubbling water?) Next to my jacuzzi would be the $15,000 life-sized bronze lion. I could put towels on it.

Naturally, upon arriving we immediately decided we were hungry and headed for the Food Building. Eating a Beavertail is a must-do activity for me.  Going through the summer without having a chewy, crunchy Beavertail at least once is like going the whole season without licking melting ice-cream off a sugar cone. My sister swears by the chocolate with banana version, but just plain cinnamon sugar is what really takes me back to the ones we used to get at the local county fair as kids.

And this totally proves that I’m ancient, but it’s nice seeing teenagers flirting and working together at their summer jobs as food handlers. (It’s hard to get that first summer job, the one that you apply for with a resume primarily built on babysitting. Hire that former babysitter, people.)

It shows an admirable marketing spirit, certainly, but I’m still not sure why two of the girls at the cheesecake place are wearing hats that are basically stuffed chickens sitting on their heads. Maybe because cheesecake includes eggs, which come from chickens? Even my usually negative sister pointed out that the hat-wearers are actually cuter than the cheesecake. (God, we are old.)

My sister and I judiciously split a wings and poutine combo, fully intending to follow up with some mini donuts. But by the time we’d located the washroom our indulgences had hit home and both of us were more up for people-watching.