Road Trips with Nor Anderson

I can't say I've taken many adult road trips with my father; in fact I've only taken one. It is a miracle I agreed to even that (it was a glorious trip to Chicago to see the Hawks) considering my childhood on any trip with that man.

Nor Anderson has a knack for single handedly dismantling any trip (see The Thing About Salads). Aside from the accelerated speed and weaving my father tended (tends) to do on the road, and the burning desire he had to "make good time" which translated into "just hold it a bit longer"; came the ability to say the wrong things at the worst possible moment.

It was a typical car ride with the family back in the late 80's. The family was on a ten hour trek home after spending some time in Maine. My sister had drawn the usual unfair and unequal line down the middle of the backseat and told me to stay on my side, my mother was occasionally gripping the dashboard while yelling out my fathers name in fear, and I was sitting quietly in the back seat, minding my own business.

I tend to escape a lot into my mind, and I did it very well on long road trips with my family.  It was a survival tactic really, to avoid as much of the crazy as I could. I also tended to use my imagination to entertain myself on Sunday drives back in those days (what kid wants to sit in a car on a Sunday with their family and drive around especially after being dragged to Church - no kid, that's who)

On really long road trips like the one I was on, my mind could only amuse me to a certain degree, but I had a back up plan. I decided to colour as we made our way home from a family vacation to pass the time.

This is when I learned that art can bring you into a world of delight, whisp you away to far off places and distract your mind. This is also when I learned that looking down while in a moving vehicle will cause you to vomit in said vehicle. 

Taking a step back, I need to explain the love that my father has always had for any vehicle he has ever owned. My dad made us stop before any final destination on a road trip to have the car cleaned.

When we drove "up north" (aka to central Ontario) to the cottage we rented in the summer, he would wash the car upon arrival - and several more times throughout the course of the week. He said it relaxed him.

Not only does he wash the car more in the summer than he cuts the grass, he washes any other car that happens to be parked at my parents house (and one time, even waxed my friends car. Mind you, he only waxed half of the front hood, on purpose...cause he can be a real dick sometimes). The man even washes the driveway in the spring, despite my consistent lecture on the waste of a valuable natural resource.

The bottom line: You don't fuck with Nor Anderson's car, you just don't. This is a lesson I had always known. Perhaps it's why, when I felt myself about to toss it in the backseat, I put my head down, moved the crayons and paper, and let it happen right on my pillow.

My mother and sister immediately turned to look at me, and almost simultaneously shouted out "are you ok?!"

It was nice to know my older sister (who was also a kid at this time and had a general dislike for me) and mother were concerned for my well being, as their reaction was caring and instant.

My father had an instant reaction as well, and just as my mother and sister asked if I was ok, my father shouted "Did you get it on the seat?!"

Thanks a lot Dad, love you too.

Pulling a Me

 

Whether you are riding in a chevy, and your pants are kinda heavy, or your sliding in to first, and your pants begin to burst, or even if your climbing up a latter and you feel a little splatter....you know the end result.

Everyone is familiar with that feeling, the gurgling in your stomach, the sweat on your brow, the full body tingle and the panic that sets in when you realize - you gotta go - like NOW.

There is nothing worse than the realization on top of suddenly having to find an exit strategy, than realizing there is in fact no where go. I am not sure if it's a faulty stomach, or "shitty" timing, but I tend to have this happen far too often. When it does happen, it always seems to be a multiple of reasons for bad timing.

The first such event I can think back to, was the incident with the Christmas tree , and it didn't end well. I was young and hadn't experienced life enough yet to think of any quick decisions, and so ended up loosing my favourite pair of mickey mouse underwear.

Following this fiasco, and in the final year of grade school, winter and christmas trees was the last thing on my mind as I prepared for my final cross country race. Having not the best athletic skills (of the ones I have) I joined cross country because as long as I tried, I could be proud of finishing the race.

I was always very nervous before a race (I still cringe at the sound of an air horn) and so while waiting for the start ignored my rumbling stomach. As I started the race and most competitors ran off into the distance ahead of me, I felt the feeling and started to panic.

To this day, I am not sure how I managed to complete the race without shitting my pants, but ended up reaching the finish line. My parents were very supportive, and both stood with other parents at the finish and they all cheered as I came to the end (it was pity cheer, I was almost last place).

Knowing how much of a struggle it was for me to simply finish, my parents (and friends) watched confused as I raced passed the finish line, and kept going. I could then hear them all yelling at me stop, then laugh, as they watched me continue running right for the port-o-poty.

Eventually, the horror of finding yourself with no where to go - became known as "pulling an LB." It happened in the summer of 2008 in Northern Alberta. I was working as a Conservation Officer in a Provincial Park, and it was a hot sunny afternoon.

My partner Stan had a wicked sense of humour, a sick mind, and so overall we got along really well. He loved to talk to park guests, and sometimes he like to do it for a little bit too long.

I found myself standing next to him as we chatted to an elderly couple who had been visiting the park for years (not all enforcement, is enforcement). It was a lovely chat for the first ten minutes but as I stood there I could hear myself questioning if Stan was ever going to shut up.

As he rambled on, my stomach started to dance, and that wave came over me. We were a football field away from the patrol truck, and at the other end of the park to where the bathrooms were located.

My heart started to race, and I began to panic. Stan kept on talking away, and I was trying to think of something to say to wrap it up nicely and get us out of there. My mind searched for something, anything, but all I could think about was how not to shit my pants.

I didn't want to be in full uniform, representing the province of Alberta, and then crap in my own pants while making small talk with old people. I didn't want to be that officer, I didn't want to be that girl. I pleaded in my head for him to stop talking, and time seemed to stand still.

Then, a miracle; Stans work phone rang.

He stepped away to take his call, I thanked the couple and wished them well and began to walk towards the truck motioning to Stan to follow. As we reached the parking lot, he got off the phone and glared at me.

"What the heck I was talking to those people!" he was irritated.

"I have to go, like bad." I said as I motioned to the truck.

Stan laughed, and I tossed him the keys telling him he had to drive I was unable. As he started the vehicle he looked over and said "How about that Niagara Falls eh? All that running water"

I yelled back "It's not THAT kind of emergency!!"

Stan burst out laughing and hit the gas, ripping into the parking lot on the other side of the park in front of the bathrooms. I jumped out, and ran.

Photo finish. I felt total relief as I stepped out of the bathroom, only to see a line up of three women waiting (in a park where people rarely used the johns). I walked towards the truck and looked up to see Stan clapping his hands slowly and laughing.

He later dubbed it what it's now know as, which is pulling a me. 

Nor Anderson's Lesson on "Bullying"

 

I have a belief, it's not one that is overly spiritual or insightful, it wont change your mind on anything major, but I think you should hear me out. It is my belief that all human beings have what I call, "the ugly years."

It happens somewhere between childhood and puberty, and it turns the cutest of children into awkward looking tweens. I may sound like an asshole, but dig up an old photo of yourself in those years and you will cringe.

You were ugly once, and so was I. The year was 1991 and my body was indeed doing things I didn't fully understand. I became ugly looking. I went from being a sweet blond haired cutie pie and turned into a freak; aka the reverse ugly duckling.

Life isn't fair, and starting out as the swan and working backwards is a sick joke in my opinion, but it's true. Not only was I chubby with buck teeth, I started to get pimples and sweat stains under my arms (sigh, I still suffer from pit stains, but I OWN them well).

I remember being afraid to ask any questions in class, for fear of my giant sweat circles that expanded as the day progressed being a perfect target for my classmates. The good news for me, my parents were getting me fixed up to fix my teeth.

I do not hate the dentist, I really like the feeling of a nice clean mouth, but I still fear the other guy, the orthodontis. I have no good memories of going, and to this day still cringe when I drive by it.

I am lucky to have parents who provided me with good dental care; but some part of me still thinks there is something sadistic about the care provided. I started off with retainers, a popular item in the realm of ortho.

I moved on to metal brackets with elastics on my teeth (you know, the ones that make you look like you have spit hanging in your mouth every time you speak?) I hated it, but they didn't prepare me for the day of the dreaded news.

I knew I had to get braces eventually, it was what I was working up to with all the other crap. I never expected to be THAT KID though, the one from the mid-eighties to mid-nineties...the kid with headgear.

For those of you not familiar with headgear, go google that shit now.  I recall sitting in the chair across from Dr. Douche (actually he was a really nice man) as he told me that for a few months, I would be required to wear headgear.

It was the kind with the straps that sat on top of your head, causing a hairdo most unpleasant, and it was pink - my most hated colour at the time. 

I sunk even lower as he explained it was important to wear it for most of the day, which included the first while - to school. Wear headgear to school? Are you kidding me?!

What I should have said (had I not been twelve and unable to express myself in such a way) was: Ok, let me get this straight, you want me to be the chubby pit stained crooked toothed kid, with headgear? But I didn't, I simply sat there.

The terror of wearing that crap to school wasn't actually that bad. To be honest with you I was never teased to much, I had a good defense mechanism. Make fun of yourself first, laugh with them, and move on.

The grade five students at my school seemed ok with this set up, and mostly reassured me that in the end I would have a lovely smile.

I suffered through it, and the end result was grand. No more buck teeth, no more biting into food and seeing a V shape. It was fairly livable, with one exception.

Nor Anderson, my father. Ahem. My dad thought it was HILARIOUS to consistently ask me at home if I could pick up any radio stations, check the weather, or if I had fallen into a pile of "metal poles" that somehow attached to my headband.

He was relentless (as is his nature) with constant nagging and teasing, and then one day sat me down to talk about standing up for myself at school if other students laugh at me.

"Don't worry," I said to my dad, "the only one who makes fun of me, is you."

He laughed, and explained that he was merely "preparing" me for the worst, so that I would be able to deal with it at school.

Part of me thinks he's an asshole, part of me thinks he's the best dad ever, and part of me realizes that he may actually be the reason I was able to divert any trouble.

He taught me to laugh at myself from an early age, and it's a lesson I cherish to this day.

Road Trips with Gig: Part 1.5

There is something special about the relationship I have with my cousin Gig. You can't pick your family, so when parts of your family become your close friend, it's like winning the lottery.

As mention prior Gig and I have no genetic relationship, yet we are dangerously similar. Both of us suffer from clumsiness, silliness, and occasional stupidity. We share a backwards sense of direction, a love for snack foods, and are both as easy going as the wind.

A interesting cocktail we make, for road trip adventures. I suppose the first time her and I hopped in the old steel wagon for a trip on the road (just the two of us) was in the year 2000.

It was the year we had really bonded over our lost relationships, and I was working in retail waiting to enter my final year of high school. My parents had gone up to a rented family cottage early in the day, and Gig was picking me up at nine from the clothing store so we could drive up.

Like every other road trip since, Gig and I left late. She picked me up at the store, but of course some asshole customer failed to realize it was time to get the fuck out, and she sat waiting in the near empty plaza parking lot as I cashed out.

We hit the road and headed north to the cottage, and we had laughs and jokes as we drove down the dark highway north. The music was playing, we were singing, and it was the start of a great trip, that is, until we crossed over a small bridge on the winding number 7.

As we started to cross the bridge a raccoon was suddenly in front of the vehicle and a car was coming the other way, with no choice, there was a loud thud sound as we struck the poor guy.

I turned the radio down, but neither of us spoke for some time. We drove into the night quietly, until nearly forty minutes later when I broke the silence.

"Do you think he's ok?" I said softly (knowing full well, he was not).

"No." replied Gig.

When we reached the cottage all was well, and the week was as regular as any trip to the cottage with my lovable freaks (but more on that another time). When it was time to head home I felt comforted by the fact that I could at least enjoy the trip home with my cousin.

We planned to leave early morning, and left just after lunch. As we headed down the highway again, we sang, chatted, ate snacks and of course drank our diet pepsi (my family were they not so ridiculous would most likely be the perfect lot to sponsor this beverage).

I think perhaps, we drank a bit too much of it, because before we were anywhere near the next rest stop, the both of us were experiencing the full floating of our back teeth. We tried to talk our way to the next stop but it was impossible, and suddenly Gig ripped to the side of the road and off into the woods we ran.

Thing is, it wasn't really "the woods". It was someones property, and as I ripped my pants down I looked over to see a shed and house off in the "not all that" distance, my heart jumped.

No worries, we were not escorted off the property or even seen as far as I know, however we were chased out. As my bare ass exposed itself to nature, I heard that dreaded sound.

You know, the summer "buzzing" sound, as you realize you are being eating by a swarm of mosquitoes. I started to smack my own behind and scream bloody murder as I overheard Gig off in the distance swearing up a storm.

We ran out of the woods faster than we did in; all the while screaming and pulling up our pants and we ran. We hopped in the car again and Gig sped off as though we had just robbed a bank.

"I think I may have peed on myself a bit!" I yelled as she pressed the gas.

"I know I did!" Gig yelled back, "but I don't care!"

To be honest, neither did I.

This was the first but not the last time her and I shared a rest stop in the woods. Most trips North almost always include a pull over somewhere, and usually because we have had to much diet pepsi, and neglected to plan for distance to next rest stop (because we don't plan anything).

On a side note, I have also done this without Gig, and indeed it ended worse than prior. I was driving out west to work as a Conservation Officer with a very good friend (who was doing the same) and kept up with the usual ritual of drinking too many damn beverages (non alcoholic).

My friend was in her own car as we were stationed at separate parks, but we kept in touch with radios. I had finished off a large coffee, a bottle of water and a can of diet pepsi as we rounded the turns of the trans Canada Highway just outside of Kenora, ON.

It was raining really hard, and I had reached a point of no return. It was terribly painful as I squirmed in my seat knowing if we didn't reach Kenora soon I was going to burst something.

Suddenly I knew it was pull over or piss myself (the rain really didn't help) and so I pulled a Gig and ripped to the side of the road. I didn't have time to radio my friend, it was the last thing on my mind as I raced out into a field off the highway.

I raced to the trees trying to protect my eyes from the rain, and dropped my pants while letting out a giant sigh of relief. As I hung off the side of a tree, ass out, I looked up in horror to see it again.

It was a house, and it was in the "not so distance." I then noticed a man, standing in the window watching me, at least I saw his shadow, and all I could do was keep on going and wave.

I made it back to my car, and met up with my friend in Kenora. One kilometer down the road, at the Tim's, as she was coming out of the bathroom.

Gig thought this, was hilarious.

.  .  .

My Cousin Gig

GIG GORDOL

 "It's not that I don't believe in marriage, I just prefer to be happy." Gig Gordol

    I have been inspired throughout my life by very strong females, most of them being in my family. My cousin Gig is one of the strongest women I know, and I am blessed to have such a lunatic for a cousin.

    No, Gig is not her first name, it is a nickname from her past. Growing up her bother was unable to say her name, and resorted to calling her Gig, it stuck. I still call her this, and nothing else (in fact I get confused about who people are talking about when they ask about her via first name)

    The first time I really had my heart broken by a guy, I was eighteen years old, and it felt like the agony would never go away. My cousin, being a few years my senior (let's just say over five years so she will still speak with me) had just split up with her husband (now ex-husband). She was burned emotionally on a larger scale than I, but to me at that time in my life it felt the same.

    My heart was broken, and so was hers, and thus we came together. I look back now and realize how strong she really is, in that horrible time in her life to reach out, and look after me. It's amazing. She took me under her wing, and showed me a world I had never imagined.

    She showed me, the single life. She showed me what it meant to go out and dance the night away, to live by your own rules, to travel, to be able to manage it all on your own and that growing up, doesn't mean marriage and kids for everyone. It's not that Gig's against marriage, she's just against personally getting married again. When asked why, she says. “Because I'm happy.”

    Gig definitely showed me the bar scene, and at the ripe age of 18 (only one year off legal) she took me out to the finest of bars my region has to offer. A sketchy hotel lobby bar I will dub The Loft that holds mainly visiting teams, cougars, and the most colourful randoms you can see this side of the border.

    It is known in the area as The Wrinkle Ranch, and it's beautiful. It has a 1985 look to it, full with  seating, a tiny hardwood dance floor surrounded by mirrors so you can catch any unwanted oncoming attacks; and a lengthy bar that I have seen someone get thrown across while knocking all hanging glasses off the bar. You can wear sweat pants or an evening gown, biker chaps or a suit, it really doesn't matter as long as you came to drink, dance, and meet up with some random. It's the way of The Loft.

    It's a bar where thankfully no one knows you're name, but you are still glad ya came. So, there I stood, heartbroken and underage, marveling at the glory. The night started there, and the party continued for a long time.

    My cousin got me smashed, and as the years went forward and I became of legal consumption age, we toured all watering holes within a hundred kilometer radius. Most weekends would involve “pre-drinking” (which I never made sense to call it that, it's drinking) at her house while watching Jackass, male bashing with her insane roommate, then walking to a nearby downtown to pick up, and man bash at the bar. (OK, not so proud of the male bashing, but it helped at that time, and we were all fucking hilarious).

    Were we bitter bitches? Yeah kinda. But if you knew all the back stories of dating and love that we share between us, you wouldn't blame us. I know women can be horrible too, but we were sticking with what we knew, “men come and go, family and true friends are forever.”

    It is the reason I never make life choices based on a man (ended many a relationship) and the reason I always put myself, friends and family first (that lesson took me awhile).  Gig taught me a lot about a way of life I hadn't considered. I blame no one for that, as I grew up in a two parent home (where my parents had a good marriage, as long as no one was bringing up salads or horses walking into bars), and I had assumed I would do the same.

    I was a silly romantic when I was growing up, I believed in candle lit dinners, walks on the beach, and the idea of The One. I would picture my wedding day, name my would be children and when I met my first love, assumed he was indeed my soul-mate. What was I to think when him and I were no longer? Gig helped me realize, I had other options.

    The romantic in me has long since been snuffed out, and buried deep in an undisclosed location with no chance of revival. That's OK, I get much of my humour from being single. It really is a blessing when I think of the alternative now.

    The romantic was also dead, in my good cousin Gig (until recently). Her and I are the drunk people that were at your wedding drinking heavily and laughing at anything we damn well felt like (yes, that means making fun of you).

  We are the people at your resort or in your campground, snickering at you when you make kissy faces, and the same ones you hear loudly later on while you are trying to have a moment with your partner. That's us, we enjoy laughing at the rest of you, and no, I'm not sorry.

    Bridget Jones Diary solidified any rules or life lessons that Gig passed forward. Wine solves everything in a flash, good friends mean all, and that you may only settle for a guy, if he is of high quality (Colin Firth? Yeah, I think so).

    Gig and I have had many traveling adventures, as is a well known and tested fact, that when we are together insanity multiplies. That however, is not where we are in the story yet, for now, we are on bar shenanigans (I get side tracked sorry).

    Nights out with an equally “bitter bitch” is a lot of fun. Gig has a fantastic friend that I am surprised she tolerates, who has fallen in love more than a pre teen at a school dance. She lives in the 80s in terms of fashion and hairstyle, and fits right in at the Loft.


     We call her White Lighting and she rocks a long bleach blond hairstyle with feathered bangs and outfits consisting mostly of pleather. She lives on finding the one, and has found "the one" several times.


       One night out at the Loft, Gig and I ran into White Lighting on a date. She leaned over to tell Gig that "this one was the THE one." Gig, being a few too many Gin and Tonics into the evening, turned to me and smiled.


       "Did you hear that?" She said in a drunken no so quiet whisper as we stood next to White Lightening's table. "She found THE ONE."


       I smiled and looked over to see if we were being heard when Gig spoke again. "So, is THIS one the ONE? Like this one is the one! The other one's, not the one, but this one, this one is the one."

        I laughed for days, and if I see anyone remotely cute around me when I am with Gig, I will always lean in and tell her, I've found the one, this one, is the one.

        The insane bar hoping days have long since died, but the adventure with Gig simply improved. In place of random bar shenanigans, we now take it on the road in the format of road trip traveling (aka traveling circus). Sure, there may be a few nights on that trip that include a bar, but the dynamics have changed.

         Gig is as clumsy and sarcastic as I am, she plans about as much as I do (which is never) and she's as easy going as my leg hair. Her and I are two dysfunctional peas in a pod.

          Gig and I even share similar medical ailments and social blunders, and constantly relay this to the fact we are genetically connected. The thing is, we aren't. Shes adopted (and a nurse). Gig was adopted into this family (oh how I cry for her) but somehow over the years became contaminated with our crazy (or maybe she is just the perfect fit.)

           Genetics or not, she is my blood and more than just my cousin, she is one of my best friends.

The Green Coat

"Why can't you just wear normal clothes?" Nor Anderson

It was a cool autumn day in the year 2000, and I was walking home from school. I had just turned 18 years old, and so far it hadn't been going all that well. The day after my birthday, my aunt passed away after a long battle with cancer. Weeks later, my long term boyfriend told me I was "too sad all the time" and broke up with me.

Life really wasn't all that grand. I was suppose to be celebrating my transition into adulthood, and instead was spending most days angry or crying. Looking back that actually seems appropriate. We all know, as adults you learn fast that life isn't fair and in fact it tends to kick you when you are already down.

I was a fairly sad Sally, but my parents had done something wonderful for my birthday that year. I consider myself a bit of a hippy, and in High School I was a full force eco-feminist vegetarian tree hugging hippy. I had my eye on a knitted coat in the downtown area that was a bit pricey but one of a kind.

My mother went to the store with me, and I could tell from her expression she wasn't to fond of the coat, which made me want it more (I was in High School after all). It was a lime green knitted shag coat. It had wooden buttons up the front and fringe on the sleeves and bottom.

I loved it. It was unique and I was beside myself when my parents bought it for me. In High School I wore a uniform and went to a Catholic School. I didn't wear the stupid kilt, I wore a white collar shirt and grey pants. Boring.

My coat contrasted the blah uniform and I stood out. I am sure people were snickering the first time I wore it too school, but I didn't care, I felt cool. In a time of sadness, this coat made me happy and that's really what matters.

So back to walking home, where I started with this story. It was a typical autumn day in southern Ontario, the leaves were changing colour and littered the roads as they fell. The sun was out but the air was crisp, perfect weather to walk home.

I made my way down the road, and feeling the cold air on my face tried to smile and appreciate life. I knew that things would get better with time, just had to keep my head up. I crossed the street and started to head up the final hill on the sidewalk until my turn off into my neighbourhood.

As I approached the base of the hill, I noticed a car headed towards me. It had its blinker on, and began to slow down. I could see it was two men in the car, looked to be about mid to late twenties. The passenger was rolling his window down and I waited to see what they were going to ask me.

I felt a bit nervous as they got closer and finally slowed down right next to me. That's when the passenger leaned out the window and yelled at me. He yelled in a loud voice....

"Nice COAT....FREAK"

With that the driver hit the gas and the car sped off as I stood there motionless on the sidewalk. What the FUCK was all that raced through my mind. I stood there for what felt like twenty minutes, then started to walk up the hill. As I turned onto the side street I felt the tears welling in my eyes.

By the time I got home I burst through the door crying, and my mother looked up from her book at me as I crashed through the front door. Her expression was that of concern and she asked me what was wrong.

With that, I burst into laughter. When I tried to tell her the story, suddenly I realized how ridiculous it was. First off, who other than High School kids would bully someone like that? They were (in my mind at the time) grown men who should simply know better.

Secondly, why signal? It was a spontaneous drive by yelling, it was a pre planned pull over. Responsible enough to signal, but not enough to know better. The other confusing factor, why the fuck did they then speed off? He took such care to alert the other drivers he was about to harass a teenager (clear from the uniform UNDER the green coat) but failed to alert them that he was done and merging back into traffic.

Lastly, who the FUCK does that? Do we not live in a world where people can wear whatever they want? I wasn't inappropriately dressed, I was just really bright.

Eventually, the coat became known as the freak coat, and still hangs on my coat rack in my front hallway. NICE COAT FREAK, is another phrase that gets tossed around my family.

Mainly at me, when I wear something my family thinks is ridiculous. Even if it's neither coat nor green.

To the gentleman in the vehicle, thank you. Thank you for making a special coat spectacular. 

BETTY ANDERSON - The PERFECT Sister

“It's not that mom and dad don't love you, it's just they love me more.” 

Betty Anderson

BETTY ANDERSON

    Having a sister can really fuck you up. It's not the physical torment that gets to you if at all there, it's the emotional warfare that ensues. My sister would walk to the ends of the earth for me, throw herself in harms way to save me. She loves me and I love her. That being said, growing up with a sister, is not easy. It complicates everything in one's life (specifically, mine).

    The only sibling I have is a sister. She is three years older than me; has her PhD, a beautiful "family of her own" and lives in a perfect cookie cutter neighbourhood.  Her house is lovely, and she has an amazing career at a University. She has never done drugs, tried smoking, or had a size of pant I could fit more than one leg into.

    The battle of sibling rivalry is over, it's clear, I lost. I get it, I'm single and in my thirties, I have no children, I live with my cat in a one bedroom apartment in a part of town that features drunk people on my front step and a phone booth outside I can hear people using to make "deals".

     As I have gotten a wee bit older and somewhat wiser, I do my best not to compare myself to her. We are both interesting and unique and all that other 1980's goodness I was raised on. I am thankful for the life I have, even if it looks a bit different than hers.

    My sister made an excellent example of the textbook first child (which I am sure she would have some rant about how I am generalizing, but damnit I am going with it). She is neat and tidy, responsible, bossy, and ambitious. I am messy and dirty, 70% responsible, easy going and laid back (the nice way of saying lazy). 

     When we fought as children she would threaten to trash my room, only to open the door and see I had done it for her (previously and unknowingly). When I was feeling really mean, I would go in her room and move one tucked corner on her perfectly made bed and she would crack.

      Okay, so on paper she seems perfect. My sister has an impressive list of achievements that would almost make you think she would be stuck up and impossible to have a conversation with, indeed that is wrong.

      She's completely off her nut.

      I laugh when I realize she is Dr. Anderson (yes, she kept her last name). This "doctor" once wiped butter on my face at a family dinner, dangled spit over my pillow threatening that she would let it drop (many...many times), and sang to the tune of macho man : "fatso fatso MAN" while pointing at me during a reach for a second helping at dinner.

       The same important educated sister of mine, once turned to her husband during a Leon's commercial and yelled "HEY! It's the LEONS!" making reference to the one off the highway just outside of our hometown.

        Her husband said "it's just A Leon's, they all look like that."

        I can't drive past it now without yelling "Hey, it's the Leon's, from the commercial" no matter who I am in the car with. She's smart, but the people in my family sometimes say really dumb shit,  genetics are a tough thing to fight. 

        My sister and I share a bond over silly humour. It is not uncommon for either of us to receive a call from the other, where the caller can barely speak due to laughter. Usually it was a story of someone falling down, or farting, basic stuff. Often it was about a funny commercial or video clip (thank you Bob Saget for making that shit popular).

        While working in Banff one summer, I got a phone call from my sister who was in Ontario. She could hardly breath, and started rambling about a marching band out of no where in a lotto commercial. She told me, it was a guy relaxing next to a lake, and out of no where a barge comes by with *insert her imitating a marching band here* a marching band on it announcing the next jackpot amount. I immediately pictured it, and joined laughing.

     Some weeks later I was watching TV with my work crew, and the commercial came on. I burst into laughter and all but one in the room joined in. I looked at the one guy not laughing and he said "I don't get it." I immediately ran to the phone, dialed my sister, and through deep giggles told her what my friend said.

      As soon as I finished my "I don't get it" we both said "oh - he walked into the bar!!" (see My Mother - The One Woman Band post)

      My family can be really mean to each other, but, no that's about it, we can be really brutal. Dr. Anderson, went to school for psychology, and it's no question why. She needed to figure out the lunatics she was forced to cohabit a dwelling with for over two decades.

     Perhaps my sister became interested in testing theories on the human condition because her and I were tested on as children. My mother and father constantly tested us.

     Like any other sibling on the planet, my sister was a jackass sometimes. Sure she made fun of my headgear, and told my boyfriends embarrassing stories about me. Sure, she bit me the first night I came home as an infant and constantly drew the line down the middle of the car more on her side.

      She's also someone I can call whenever, about whatever. She is a loving sister who has helped me through dark moments in life and always supported me no matter what.

      When I was in grade one, my sister grade four, kids were throwing stones at me one morning before the bell rang. My sister marched right up to the group of grade eight boys and said, "You leave my little sister alone!"

      They did. No matter what, she's got my back...especially right before she pulls my pants down.

Burnt Beyond Recognition

 

 THE CLINIC


As mentioned prior, being a lovable maniac means working the silliest of jobs, and after graduating from University for Environmental Geography, I realised I would have to take one of these jobs. The reality that a degree of this and many similar kinds will not grant you an immediate job in your field is a harsh one.

I graduated with high marks and high hopes. I had to this point worked fast food, retail, and a series of outdoor environmental type jobs. I was working at a clothing store for Tall Women (being the shortest employee at 5'8) that I had been with for almost a decade. I assumed that I would be able to find something, but nothing was out there.

As the months past after I graduated, I knew I needed something that at least paid more that minimum wage if I was to survive in this new painful world of being an adult on my own.

My cousin worked as a nurse at a methadone clinic, and called me one day to tell me they were hiring support staff in Niagara Falls, and I should consider applying.

The pay was decent (at the time) and the job seemed simple. It was essentially a job as a receptionist with one added detail, to supervise urine samples left for testing.

I felt as though I would be fine with that portion, and applied right away. I was successful, and being the responsible and typical 21 year old decided to go out and get wasted to celebrate.

The problem of course, was getting my friends together to celebrate, and we ended up going out the night before my first day. It was only a three hour shift and I didn't think I would drink so much, I was wrong.

I showed up hung over for my first day working in addictions.

My first day was fairly easy, it was a Saturday and most patients were in to pick up their daily methadone drink and that's all.

There was no doctor, no one making appointments, and only a few people that had to leave a sample. The bathroom was next to my desk, and there was a camera over the toilet. That meant for men I watched them on a screen under my desk (to make sure it was their urine) and for women I went right on in with them.

I can't imagine how awkward it felt for them, having to take a piss in front of a complete stranger, but I know it was awkward as fuck the first few times I watched.

This isn't a story about the silly things I saw in the bathroom, at least not yet. This is the story of a client I will call Linda who came to the clinic. Linda was not someone who was considered "clean", as she still had illicit drugs show up in her urine samples on a weekly basis.

Linda was a short stubby woman with long mousy brown and usually greasy hair. She had about five teeth and never wore a bra. Linda spoke with a lisp and those white pasties that form on the side of ones mouth, mumbled, and complained about everyone, everything, everyday.

Because she was not "clean", it meant she had to come to the clinic every day to get her drink. She made sure to come in and see me each morning, to extract as much time out of me as she possibly could.

I loved her very much, she was a staple in my life for two years, and she meant well. She wasn't particularly mean, and like most people in her position, she didn't ask for the life she had, nor did she deserve it.

That being said, when you work in any area of social work where you interact with "needy" people, you tend to find humour where you can, as dark as it may seem. It was an emotionally difficult job, it was very busy and required a lot of multi tasking, and to top it off the patients had a lot of behaviours.

Linda had many stories to tell, and I have been given the gift of patience, so I sat through them all. The first interesting bit of information she told me, took place in the bathroom.

It took her about ten minutes to pee most times, and I honestly think she held it in so that she could chat my ear off. Linda was sitting on the toilet, and she looked at me with a serious face.

"There's something I don't tell many people" she said, "but I was in a terrible fire when I was younger."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I replied trying to be supportive and listen.

"It was so bad," she continued, "I was burnt beyond recognition."

She looked up at me waiting for my reaction, and trying to keep a straight face I simply nodded. It was pretty clear she had never been in a fire, especially one that would have rendered her unrecognisable.

"The only way they knew it was me" she added, "was from my dental records."

With that I told her I heard the phone, and left the bathroom to compose myself. Apparently, this was story she told frequently, and each and every time I heard it, I simply provided sympathy and tried desperately not to laugh.

Linda lived with many animals in a tiny apartment near the clinic, or at least she said she did. One afternoon she fell in a hole outside of her building, and broke both her legs. Poor Linda came through the doors one morning in a wheelchair, and told me the horrid story of how she fell.

A week passed, and each day she would tell me how painful it is to break both your legs. I eventually told her she needed to leave a sample, and that I would assist her in doing so due to her situation.

I tried to think of how to lift her, having no experience in that area at the time, but figured I would talk my way through it and get her on to the toilet. 

Linda said it was no problem, and wheeled up to the desk to check in. I prepared her sample bottle, and got up from my chair. At the same moment, Linda got up from hers.

She then walked around my desk and in to the bathroom. I looked over at my fellow worker, and her eyes began to well up with silly tears. Oh fuck, oh fuck is all I could think as I followed Linda in to the bathroom.

She sat on the toilet, and as I walked in looked at me and said, "I am in so much pain, you have no idea what it feels like to break both your legs" as she tapped her shins.

It took everything in me not to say "neither do you", and I simply held it in until she left. She did something similar with an apparent dislocated shoulder once as well, while telling me how she can't move it a certain way, while moving it that way to show me.

Linda had so many stories I could write a fantasy novel, but I always gave her time and listened. She deserved my attention. When I got accepted into a college program for Natural Resources Law Enforcement, I had to break the news to Linda that I would be moving and I would be quitting the clinic.

Linda had talked about Lindsay Ontario a lot, and this was where I was moving too, so part of her was excited for me. For my last few months of employment, everyday Linda came in; it was all she would talk about.

Did you know Lindsay has this, one time in Lindsay I did that, it just went on and on. She talked about the main street, and kept telling me to visit the drive thru dairy in town. I just smiled and thought, sure, I'll visit these places that don't exist and report back to you.

The last gem she laid on me, was to confide in me that she had indeed had two maternal mothers, and no father. The woman was a scientific wonder, and I miss her.

I left the clinic with a new perspective on life and people, I grew a little and learnt a lot. Closing that chapter in my life was difficult, but I wanted to follow a path to Environmental work, and this was my chance.

A few months later I found myself wandering through the streets of Lindsay, thinking about Linda and all her craziness. I turned down a side street without really noticing much of my surroundings as I was listening to music and deep in thought. I left my thoughts finally, and looked up to see where I was, and there it was.

A fucking drive thru dairy. In Lindsay Ontario. It existed, it was real, and made me wonder of all the tales Linda told me, how many of them were actually true?

Two Shows on Sundays

 

THE REAL FAMILY CIRCUS

    It started when my mother met my father, in fact if you want to get technical it happened a long time before that, but I am not a technical person so I am telling you how it all started for my immediate family.

    Whenever I would ask my father as a young girl (still cute, pre head gear) how he met my mother it didn't turn into the witty retelling in a sitcom fashion, it turned into “When the Ukrainian Prince met the English Princess" (for long time I thought there were Ukrainian Princes out there for me, who knows, maybe there still are...)

    The real story of how my parents met, is far more interesting than the Prince rescuing the Princess one my father told me. What I love most about this story, is that my mother and father to this day do not agree on the details of how they met.

    They both agree that they met in a school during the summer, both home from University working summer jobs. My mom was working with children in the school and my father working on the labour of the school.

    As far as I once knew, they never really noticed each other. Thanks to a trip to Chicago with my dad and too many beer on a night out together (just the two of us, golden opportunity) I now know that my dad and his all male crew had noticed my mother from a distance (note: my mom loves Bette Middler and that song)

    There are some genetics you can celebrate in life, and I do, since my mom has huge cans. They got attention (I'm sure they still do but I shutter at the thought). The difference from her to me is that I  mostly need a bra for both my front and back boobs, she at this time, was a beanpole with melons.

    My dad saw my mom and noticed her, and from my mom's side, she had noticed my dad as well (must have been the sideburns). They had briefly talked a few times and I'm told were flirty. My mom tells me the first time she really noticed my father, he was acting rather odd.

    Surprise surprise.

    My mom said it was a sunny summer morning, and she was reading to pre school children a lovely story in the classroom. As I imagine it, the sun was gleaming in the window as my mother read, and my father hid in the background painting (which nowadays would not be allowed in a classroom full of children due to our many, many phobias about children exposed to anything).

    She said as she read she looked up to make eye contact with the room full of young children. She scanned the room noticing at the back of the group, behind the small children, was a full grown man sitting crossed legged on the floor.  My father sat, holding his paintbrush, and listening to her story with a serious look on his face.

    My mom didn't know what to do, she could feel herself wanting to giggle as she looked out upon the faces of the children staring back; unaware that behind them sat a very special man, joining in on story time.

    She did what she could to repress the humour, and asked him “are you enjoying the story?”
   
    I guess this is called the mating dance of the not yet proved criminally insane (sounds like a Monty Python Skit). It worked, what Nor Anderson did so many years back, actually freaking worked, because they are still happily (holidays exempt) married.

    Within twenty four hours, they found themselves back at the school alone in the hallway. My mother was child free and my father painting the walls. They agree they were flirting, they agree there was paint involved, and that is where their mutual agreement ends.

    From my fathers side of the story, he was painting the walls up on a ladder, working away, and minding his own business, while my mother was distracting him with her flirting. My mother says they were both flirting, and she was also minding her way around his work area. The end result, is my parents in a bathroom with my mom's head in the sink trying to get the paint out of her hair.

    Before your mind starts going places, this story is rate PG. My mom claims they got close at one moment, and my dad painted her head on purpose. My dad states clearly that he was painting, and my mom walked herself into the brush, on purpose.

    I've racked my brain over this story for years, and with what I know, my conclusion, is that they both wanted to make some form of contact. The only reasonable idea apparently present,  was to use the paint to get closer. This would mean they both came to this conclusion separately, which scares me. But hey, why not? Why start a conversation or flirt with each other using silly jokes when you can simply get right too it, and get painted.

    That is the logic they were working with before the met, never-mind my dad's earlier classroom shenanigans, and by some miracle the courts and church allowed them to holy matrimony their lives together. Maybe it was a Monday morning or Friday afternoon when they allowed this, but the end result is two silly nitwits in wedded bliss, who then went on to bring children into the madness.

    My sister and I inherited the backwards way my parent's minds work, and my sister went ahead and got married to someone of equal decision making. The cycle continues and there you have it, it started with ludicrous, and it has trickled down into my life since the stork dropped me at their door.

    At any pivotal or memorable moment in life, my family has used odd tactics to obtain things (like emotional response) and their methods are as off as their minds. Which in reality makes sense.

What time do they shut the Falls off at night?

 

Growing up in a family of maniacs has an impact on all areas of ones life. My career life is one of a ridiculous nature. There have been many interviews I have sat through and had to deal with the surprised look on the interviewers face when then list off where I have worked.

I don't list all my jobs, indeed the banquet hall I worked at when I was fifteen really has no place on my resume, but if I was to list it all out you would be puzzled.

I've worked in retail, fast food, turf care, landscaping, public education, domestic violence, law enforcement, addictions and brain injury to name a few. All have been highly entertaining jobs, which have provided me with an abundance of life experience and great stories (lest confidentiality dictates otherwise).

The job I would like to tell you about, is the job I held with Niagara Parks. It was the summer of 2003 and I had turned down a promotion at a summer camp to stick around in the region for my sisters wedding activities.

I had mixed feelings about the summer to start, I felt sad that I was missing out on a summer away, but excited to be a part of my sister wedding plans and such. I am glad I remained in the area now so that I didn't miss out on such important events in her life, but the summer was a struggle for me. I was a tid bit angry once the summer got going.

The new job did have promise in the beginning, and I was excited to announce to people that I would be working as a Park Naturalist for the summer (I was in school for Geography at the time and this made me feel like I was stepping into my true career path - and if you could see me now I am rolling my eyes at what an ignorant dumb ass I must have been).

If you recall, the summer of 2003 was also the summer of a virus called SARS. It hit the region I lived in, and caused many trip cancellations from outsiders. Toronto even held a music festival with top artists to promote visitors in a time of tourist need.

This issue hit early on in the season, and my first day of work included a conversation with my new boss, as to how my job description was to change. I missed out on a summer walking a sunny boardwalk next to the Niagara river answering tourist questions and giving tours. I thought I would get a tan, get into decent shape (walking all day) and meet really interesting people. Not to mention I could spend my days in the beauty of a class six rapids deep down in a gorge.

It would have been an ideal replacement to not being at the camp working in the wilderness, and I was good with that, until it changed. Due to major cutbacks, two positions had been cut from the attraction I was working.

After this devastating conversation, we went into the staff room so I could pick out my uniform. The park naturalist uniform looked really cool to me at that point in life, it was a tan button up shirt with an official parks logo, and pair of green work pants. The issue, was that I was chubby with large breasts and I didn't fit into it.

I already had very poor body image at this time, so this kicked me in the groin pretty hard (emotionally speaking).  My back up uniform was the "other" uniform. It meant I didn't look like the Park Naturalist, and in fact once I put it on I resembled something closer to a circus tent.

This uniform was 100% polyester. It was navy (I hate navy) pants with a navy shirt that rested on my boobs and fell straight down making it look like a maternity top. Once I tucked it in, I looked like a balloon on a slick, but not in the back of course. In the back, the polyester hugged my back fat nicely.

It was unattractive and hot as fuck in the middle of summer. This was my new reality, and I hated it.

If you've never had the joy of visiting the falls, I will try and paint a picture of what it's like. Take a beautiful natural wonder surrounded by ancient Carolinian forest, eat a bunch of cement, plastic, blinking lights and paraphernalia with Niagara Falls printed on it, then shit that concoction onto said beautiful landscape. POOF - You have Niagara Falls.

It's sad really and an entirely different rant about how I feel people truly fucked up something that was perfect, but now you know. This means that every beautiful stretch of landscape along the river and the falls is littered with tacky tourist shops and places to pay and see the natural wonder, with of course a tacky tourist shop attached (always at the entrance and exit of the attraction). They even made a tourist attraction out of a gift shop as the LARGEST GIFT SHOP in Niagara.

Due to my altered workplace and the lack of staff, they needed help at my attraction to run the gift shops, ticket booth and operate the elevator. My job had the same title, and I had the pleasure of two tours (if we weren't too busy) a day, and the rest of my time was spent in my own personal hell.

I spent the summer running a cash machine in both gift shops, selling tickets to angry tourists who had been waiting in really long lines and operating the 1930's crank operated elevator. Sounds kinda cool, the elevator job right? Wrong.

A shift on the elevator was an hour at a time, with up to four hours in a shift spent in a box. The first time I pulled that crank I felt powerful, and thought - hey this is neat. Then I learnt the speech, the speech required to be announced by the elevator operator.

It has been a decade since I held this job, and I have that thirty second spiel memorized still. It took thirty seconds to ride the elevator down, and in that thirty seconds you said the speech. You drop off the people, pick up new ones and answer their ridiculous questions about the river, then drop them off on the basement floor into a gift shop. You then ride up one floor to the upper gift shop, and pick up the new batch only to say the speech again.

In an hour, the math is simple, you say the same thing sixty times. Factor in that when you open the door to pick up the next batch of smelly sweaty tourists, you face a giant clock. I watched that thing click from minute to minute all summer long, pure hell.

Here's something that seemed funny to me the first time I heard it. A tourist said to me as I closed the doors and started our decent, "Hows the elevator business? Has it's ups and downs EH?!"

I laughed, he laughed, we all laughed. Great gag. The first time I legit thought it was funny, the second to ten thousandth time I heard it, it lost it's humour. As it lost that, I lost my fucking mind. I would smile and force a giggle every time I heard it, but part of me died inside each time I did.

One day I was feeling silly, and assumed a gentleman who said it to me would be game for a laugh. When he asked me the question and finished with "has it's ups and downs" I chimed in with "it's not the ups and downs that get ya sir, it's the jerks in between." 

I have always prided myself on the ability to read people, this was one of those times I was way the fuck off. The man lost it, and I nearly lost my crappy job at the boardwalk.

Another bubble that burst in 2003, was the prospect of meeting interesting people. Either the world is filled of mostly idiots who do no research before travelling to an area and have an utter lack of common sense, or Niagara Falls is a travel destination these types flock too.

Here's a question I never imagined I would have to hear. "What time do they shut the falls off at night?"

Really? It's a natural fucking wonder, as in, it's NATURAL. Its like asking a tour guide in Banff AB what time they put the glaciers back into the freezer at night. I heard this questions at least three times a day.

By the end of the summer, I was tired of explaining that indeed the falls are natural and no they do not shut it off (although yes they have control over the flow due to the hydroelectric plant). When people would say "what time do they shut the falls off at night?" I would reply with "around 10:30pm, after the fireworks."

To this day I not only have my speech memorised, I wonder how many people stood there after the summer fireworks and waited for the falls to stop.

Here's another one I heard a lot. "Where is the nearest ski resort so we can ski?" This question would have made sense had this not been my SUMMER job. I am not sure why parts of the world think that Canadians spend the year in a winter wonderland, but when it's 30 degrees Celsius out and you see idiots driving around with snowboards and skis on their car, it's hard to maintain faith in the human race.

To this question I would usually tell them the directions two closest resorts (both hours away from Niagara), then let them know they most likely wont open until December. When we get snow.

The idea that we live in igloos is also still popular apparently. People would often ask where they were, if I drove a dog sled in the winter and what time of year we roll up the sidewalks and close up (as in the entire area).

Why do people get so stupid on vacations? Why did people ask me what currency the gifts are priced in, or if they have crossed the border from the states yet?

The only answer I can come up with, is because they entertain. Had it not been for the ridiculous tourists all summer pissing me off, I would have missed out on the stories they created for me.

That, and generally speaking, I work ridiculous jobs. It's what Lovable Maniacs do.

To close out this chapter, I must say this:

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the White Water Walk, my name is LB and I'll be taking you down. We are currently descending 230 feet or 70 meters in approximately 30 seconds. When we arrive at the bottom you will turn right and follow a tunnel out to a platform. From that platform make a left onto the boardwalk and follow that down to the end. While walking you will be looking at a class six rapids, class six being the highest class in North America. The boardwalk is about 305 meters or 1000 feet with two observation points. When you are finished make your way back up boardwalk and tunnel, press the button for the elevator and I'll be happy to come down and get you. Thank you for choosing Niagara Parks, and enjoy your walk.

 

ANOTHER SILLY INTRODUCTION: MOM

A SILLIER INTRODUCTION TO MY MOM

On Glacial Debris: “Wow, so this is like, really old dirt.” Kim Anderson

KIM ANDERSON

    There is no official way to introduce you to my mother, but I most likely wouldn't get the chance anyhow because she would jump in first to let you know she was my older sister, and make you laugh about something within minutes (and it's most likely about the time I did something I didn't want you to know about). 

    You would love her, and you would tell me how lucky I am to have such a fun mom (you would indeed be right). She would use one of her many delightful lines, and you would walk away hoping you could remember it to pass it on later. She is a master linguist. She can sum up a feeling in a word, and can make statements that will most likely outlive us all.

     I find myself starting many of my sentences now with "as my mom always says" and fill in the blank. The things my mother has never really said anything repeatedly that is remotely normal.

Example: When I was in high school, it was common practice for my mom to pass advice to my friends and I anytime we went out anywhere. It was the same thing every time. We would collect ourselves at the door to head out and she would say, "Now girls, don't forget to get the money up front."

    Thanks mom. My friends would laugh and I would roll my eyes. It was a constant line that I now quote to other people helplessly. She is famous for lines like this, ones that the family may at times poke fun of her for (we are relentless actually) but we secretly love.

     My mom is fast on her feet, she truly is a one woman band, not only because she does an amazing impression of one, but because she is just that entertaining. She can hit a one liner back at you that will knock you on your ass.

     There is an Italian restaurant in my city that is similar in phone number to that of my parents house. When I lived at home the phone would ring for this place at least twice a week.

      On a side note, people are stupid. My family, being ridiculous, usually had a silly answering machine message, at the very least our family name. People left messages all the time, making reservations, asking about hours, and so forth. Often though, we were home when the calls came in, and usually my mother would be the one to answer.

      My mom tends to make the best of a situation via humour, and so she did. The first call I enjoyed, was one that she took while making supper in the kitchen.

My Mom: Hello?
Caller: Yeah, can you put me through to the kitchen?
My Mom: Well, I'm standing in the kitchen.

      She never got angry with people who called, she understood that it was an honest mistake each and every time. The milk distributor in my region is called Beatrice, and apparently they do the order for the restaurant.

My Mom: Hello?
Caller: Hello and good afternoon, this is Beatrice calling for your milk order.
My Mom: I didn't know they still did home deliveries.

      The call would usually end in laughter on the other end, although occasionally she would get people who would argue that they did indeed dial the right number (see comment above about people).

     Growing up I was at times very shy, and my mother made sure to drag me out of my shell. She was always making a spectacle any place we went. Flashing back in my mind to this time in my life is mostly coupled with circus music.  Leaving doctors appointments, grocery checkouts or the like she would look at the person/s working there and say "Ok, you can all go home now!" See also "You should go home tonight and have a big glass of wine" or when in relation to a cranky person/s prior to us, "that person needs to get laid."

      I would get red in the face and again roll my eyes. My family is a traveling circus, I think.

      It's funny how time changes your perspective on people. The same things my mom alway say are now a comfort to me, and I've started to notice that I am gaining lines of my own.

       Last week I went to leave work and I said "well, I'm off..." and my coworker said "like a prom dress?" Apparently I inherited a slice of my mom, and I couldn't be happier. 

    


 

A SILLY INTRODUCTION TO MY FATHER

BEHOLD THE MOST INAPPROPRIATE OF ALL MEN in THE WORLD

My Dad on Advice for Important Events (interviews, exams, etc) :

 “Don't Fuck Up”

NOR ANDERSON

    My father says things, that are beyond comprehension. Not in a wow that guy’s a genius kind of way, but in a did he seriously just that right now? or did he just say that at all? kind of way. I can thank the ability to work with the public and take any nutcase comment that comes at me with a smile, because my father trained me all my life. He doesn’t mean too hurt peoples feelings, usually my dad means well. His delivery, timing, and overall choice of words is where he is lacking in skill.

    My dad is a very straight forward individual, he likes order in his life and enjoys routine (this he passed to my sister, I ducked out of the way just in time). He is at times very shy, at times you wish he was being shy. My dad grew up in a farm type setting, and worked his way up the latter in commercial lending. Excellent idea when it came to my needing math help.

    Nor Anderson enjoys golf, hockey and having a clean space. He cannot watch TV, until everything in the room is tidy and it a proper place, sadly, somehow despite my laziness I cannot in my adult life enjoy anything on TV in a messy living room. Thanks Dad.

    He is a conservative man who can be at times overly traditional, but underneath all that is a sick and twisted sense of humour, along side a missing element I wish he had, and that is a filter. My father, is filter-less. He does not seem to know what he shouldn’t say, and furthermore does not understand when not to say certain things.

    Example, when I was fifteen years old, I was coming out of the lake at the cottage we rented, and feeling refreshed, climbed onto the dock and smiled at Nor. He then gave me that look (the look is when he intensifies his brow, purses his lips, and stares at the thing he is about to comment on, in this case it was my face). Then he did what he always does, he opened his mouth and ruined an otherwise perfectly normal moment, by adding a touch of insanity.

    He stared at my face, then said to me, “so...what are those, like, water pimples?” (and with that used his hand to motion around his face, to indicate he was referring to all of my face).

    I’m not sure how I responded, either I said no and ranted about having pimples and being ugly (and probably threw in a “I’ll be single forever” comment, sadly true thus far, thanks a lot dad) or I ran off crying. In response now, I would say, “No father, I am a hormone ridden puberty victim at the moment, and my face has responded in the appropriate manner, but thank you for asking.”   

    The comment in itself is way off, who says that? Water pimples? It’s not even a thing, so what the fuck was he thinking. Secondly, the timing, always with the shit timing. I was fifteen, and if you’ve any clue what it feels like to be a fifteen year old girl in the western world, it’s that you are consistently bombarded with the idea that you must be perfect. Part of that comes from perfect skin you see in every advertisement and the other the fact that every other commercial on Much Music at the time was for acne treatment.

    I guess Nor did not have a grasp of what it felt like, but again, what the fuck are water pimples? He at least could have made himself aware that teenage years include acne of some form, after all, he was a teen at some time.

    There are many lines the famous Nor Anderson drops on people around him, and those who know him love him still, because it is just a part of him. I still don’t get it, however. He says things, and I ponder them for years.

    Example number two (I really am sorry dad, I love you, know that). My sister gets a delivery from my dad one afternoon, soup from my mother. At this time, my sister was in the middle of completing some degree in her travels to doctor, and thus opened the door wearing her reading glasses, mid school work.

    My sister is a very pretty woman, beautiful in fact. She is not however a fashionista, unless track pants aged five years are in style, but attractive she is indeed. When my sister opened the door, my father stood on the other side holding her soup, and without hesitation proclaimed, “WHOA ugly!” then added, “you don’t actually wear those, do you?”

    Seriously Nor? Yeah, he says things like that. I can’t be mad at him for being real, at least I know when I ask his opinion on something, he’s being honest. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I don’t even have to ask. There was a time in my life when my dad noticed that my working out and eating healthy was paying off. How did he let me know? “Wow LB, you’ve really lost weight in your back fat.”

    It sounds harsh, but you can mix the few famous comments like that with a million times more words of love and encouragement, he just likes to keep it real I guess.

    You know that feeling you get when your with a group of people and you want to chime in with something, but deep down you know its probably best to keep your mouth shut? This voice comes into your head and reminds you not to make waves, and not to upset people?

    I was taught to specifically ignore that voice. If I see a red button that indicates it is not to be pushed, I will push it. Years of conditioning have brought me here. Years of learned behaviour, and like anything, it all starts with family. In my case, it starts with my dad. 

Turkish Delight

According to my mother, I was suppose to be a boy. According to my uncle, I am the son my father always wanted. According to me, I am a woman who is consistently frustrated by gender ideals.

I cringe anytime I hear people refer to things as "girly" or "manly". I feel at times I break the mold on gender ideals, I know others who fit into this category as well.

I worked in schools for a bit of time doing public education through a non-profit agency. I created a program about gender issues in hopes to alert students on the dangers of this thinking (I worked for a shelter for abused women and children, so to me this fit).

It was an incredible experience overall. The first activity I would make the class do, is spend a minute writing a list for what comes to mind when I say man, and when I say woman.

I would then write these ideas on the board in separate bubbles, and most times the same words came up. For men: strong, assertive, dad, bread-winner, trucks, sports etc. For women: feminine, mother, caring, home-maker, emotional etc.

I would then slide words around and ask if men or women can interchange, and a solid discussion would begin. Preconceived notions would fly out the window and I would leave feeling really good about things.

Alas, the world we live in is behind on the times, in my opinion. I love to watch hockey (go hawks), I have worked in law enforcement and can take people to the ground, I'm strong and assertive. I don't like trucks or know much of anything about cars, I played with Barbie's and micro machines, I'm caring and emotional and my attire is that of the offspring of a hippy and skater dude.

I break the mold. We all do, but most of my life I have dealt with stupid assumptions about who I am simply because I am a woman with "manly" qualities. I am asked if I am a lesbian, told by suitors that I am too intimidating, and get told things like "you're like the son your dad always wanted".

When I was a child, I was mostly unaware of these issues. I enjoyed what I enjoyed with no questions about what any of that meant (because it doesn't mean anything monumental). I think however, that the adults around me noticed, and judged.

My parents sent me to a day camp when I was about twelve. It was an acting camp at the local art theater, and looking back I think it's beautiful that they sent me there.

It was back in the days of large hand held video recorders. Logically, the hip thing to do was make a movie, and we did. We remade the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe.

No one got to pick their part, they based the choice on them getting to know you for a few weeks. I got a lead part, if you can believe it. I was going to be a main character, and should have been over the moon.

Problem was, I didn't get the part of Lucy. I didn't get the part of Susan either. i was awarded the part of the chubby, whiny, traitor of a brother, Edmund. May I please have some more Turkish Delights?

Fuck me. It was time to slick back my hair, tuck in my mini boobs and speak like an English chap.

I went home upset and asked my mother if I looked like a boy. She told me I was beautiful and that I should be proud that they feel so strongly in my acting, that I can act like a boy.

I was dedicated to that character from then on.

What I see now, is that they saw me "acting like a boy" for much of my day. I am proud to say, that I am who I am. Gaga was right, I was born this way, I wear it, I own it, and I never back down from my real self.

I can bake a cake and finish off a six pack at the same time if I want too.

Stir Fried

    My sister and I are not athletes, as mentioned prior. My sister however, is active. She has been dedicated to her physical fitness since high school, even went to the gym in the final trimester of her pregnancy with my nephew. For my sister, there is no excuse not to get active, for me, there are so many excuses I have trouble finding which one to use on any given day.

    When I was in both high school and University, my sister decided that she would become personally responsible for my physical fitness, much to my dismay. Her enthusiasm for the gym is outrageous and causes me to cry sad tears.

    If I was a cartoon character, I would be Garfield. I love food, and I hate mornings (and don't get me started on Mondays and Nermal). I am a grumpy person in the morning, I don't like to talk to people and if you wake me up out of a deep sleep, I apologize in advance for my reaction. I do not, enjoy, getting out of bed. Let's face it, I'm lazy.

    My sister wakes up fully upon alarm, and often, before it even goes off (I know, is that possible?!) She springs out of bed ready to attack the day from the start. I am at that point never, closest to it around 11am.

    With her alertness, she would wake me up for the gym or related physical activity every morning, by pouncing on my bed and singing “Good Moooooorning, what a happy day” repeatedly until having to remove the covers and me from bed. She may as well have let off an air horn to wake me up, would have eased me into the day more effectively.

    No excuse ever worked with Betty Anderson to avoid exercise, no, she was like the gym coach that always told you to “run it off”. I am thankful now, and to this day will only be my best at working out if I have some instructor military type making me. She helped me with this important self discovery.

    Every day after we exercised I thanked her for getting me out of bed, and she would promise to do it again the following day. It was helpful, but also annoying. My sister started to get into running before she was into the gym, and this is the start of where her making me participate began.

    It was a warm spring evening, my sister and I both in high school. I could jog, but I could never run at this point in time, to much effort. Therefore, when my sister went for a run, I would only join her on my bike (besides even if I tried to run I couldn’t keep up). She may be a doctor, but I think I am smarter. A bike has wheels and is a better mode of transport than the old shoelace express (I do not take ownership of this expression, but I do love it).

    Before any good workout, it's important (at least I thought it was) to have a good meal first. On this special day, my mom had gone out of her way to cook up a stir fry (she went through a stir fry phase, note sarcasm). My sister announced to me at dinner we would be going for a run after, and spent the meal convincing me it was mandatory. My parents supported her.

    After the meal was cleaned up, my sister an I changed into our workout clothes, and stretched. My sister's work out clothes at the time included a sports bra with a mesh running top and short running shorts that showed of her fit figure. Being the round shape that I am, I was rocking a baggy t shirt, a saggy sports bra, and sweat pants.

    I pulled my bike out of the garage, and noticed it was starting to get dark. My sister gave me the hurry up and lets go look, and off we went. Every time we did this, I was always surprised at how fast I had to go to keep up with her, and I had wheels. I would entertain my sister by acting out various radio stations as we made our way down the road, and par usual I was suddenly thankful she motivated me yet again.

    The sun set and the street lights came on. Our neighbourhood backed on to a ravine, that provided wildlife sittings (deer and rabbits count) and a place of complete darkness on one side of the road. As made our way to the first turn, my sister stopped running suddenly and turned to me.

    “Get off the bike, I need it.” she was stern and very serious.

    “What?” I had stopped and was sitting on the bike, looking at her very puzzled.

    “I have to go home NOW, give me the bike.” she said louder.

    Now I was completely confused. She wanted me to get off the bike after she pleaded I come with her, to leave me out here in the dark to walk home, alone. “What?” I said again, “Why?!”

    My sister is a much more private person than I am, and so this would have been a tough time for her to live through, I will give her that credit, because she was forced to then say “I have to shit now, get off the bike, I need to go home.”

    I got my leg half lifted over the bike and she was already on it and half way home. As she raced off into the distance she yelled back a sorry, and I found myself standing alone in the dark. For someone in grade nine, this shouldn't have been all that scary.

    I didn't grow up in a “rough” part of town, I grew up in middle class suburbia. I did however grow up in a city where a very famous man and his wife abducted and killed two teens, and when seven years old the second victim was then missing in my town and parents went insane. I recall walking to school with all neighbourhood children and being scared that one of us was next.  I had a sense of fear ingrained in me from a young age, and for a good reason.

    It had been years passed and the man and his wife had been arrested, but suddenly this fear washed over me as I stood on the street in the dark, and for the first time in my life, I ran. I ran all the way home, gasping for air and using the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins. I kept thinking I saw a dark shadow coming out from the wooded ravine and it pushed me forward (it was most likely just the trees).

    In the back of my mind I was cursing my sister, wondering how having to use the bathroom meant we couldn’t just turn around and go home, she just had to leave me out here all by myself. As I turned the corner on our circle (lunatics don't live on streets you see) I could see the house and finally felt safe.

    Red faced, sweating and desperate for air I fell through the front door. As I closed it behind me I looked up the stairs to see my sister coming out of the bathroom. I was mad, and I stood there firm faced and yelled, “Thanks a LOT Bets, you left me...” and with that I cut myself off, raced up the stairs, and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. All I could hear on the other side was her giggling. 

    The lesson of this story, never under any circumstances eat my mom's stir fry and leave the house. If possible, remain on the same floor as a bathroom. OK, so it was probably a one time thing, her stir fry never had that affect before or after. Because it was my mom's stir fry however, my sister and I now use this as a reference point for illness.

Example:

Betty: How was work today?
Me: Ugh, didn't go, stomach flu.
Betty: Bad?
Me: Stir Fry bad.
Betty: Shitty.

    My sister and I have bonded over many strange things, this story of bonding, is one of my favourites.

The EIGHTH FLOOR

    University didn't exactly take me into a related field of work, nor did it turn me into a super genius. I learnt new facts and more importantly I discovered how to learn, made great friends, and had lots of fun between the stress of assignments and exams.

    In the fall of my second year, with my hair longer and now half purple to hide the shame of the previous years fall, I was ready to continue my higher learning. I was working part time at a clothing store for Tall Women (seven years, second shortest employee) and studying hard. I was putting in more hours that usual at work with affected my time management, and come early October the school work had piled high.

    In the middle of my stress, my world was shaken by the loss of an incredible man. He was my religion teacher in high school, and he was the teacher. He taught about love and all religions, told stories of his life to teach us lessons, was compassionate and understanding, loving and giving; the kind of person that changes lives. He changed mine in many ways (but to go on about him, would take hours).

    He had passed away after a long battle with cancer, and I took the news as expected, with a heavy heart. I recall seeing some of my old teachers at the funeral home, ones that I had looked up too and known in a professional sense, standing around crying. It shook me to not only see such a good soul taken, but to see the realities of life and growing up.

    Within days of the service, the weather jumped from hot to cold. With that instability, and a lack of overall sleep, I got sick. I had one of the worst coughs I've ever had, and I found myself dragging through the days. I disrupted lectures with coughing, scared customers at work with my sniffles, and fought hard to keep moving because it was my only option to succeed. I was behind in work, and was trying to catch up.

    It was a Wednesday afternoon, and I had no classes on that day, all I had to do, was head up to the University, photocopy an article in the library, and read it at home. I made my way up to the University, eventually located parking, and started the walk to the main lobby.

    The wind was cold, I was sweaty and had a fever, I felt aches all over my body (turned out to be bronchitis) and to top it all off, I was filled with grief. I wanted to give up that day, I remember dreaming about going home, curling up, and sleeping for a month. I was irritable because I was sick, and I was angry at the world because I lost someone dear.

    The University I went to has a massive tower that holds a well stocked library within. The elevator could at times be a pain to wait for, but there were floors designated for full quiet which I utilised to study in from time to time. I love libraries as I have said, but I wasn't feeling the love this particular day.

    I knew the subject I was looking for would be on the eighth floor, so I went straight to the elevators an waited among other students. I repressed the desire to cough, and stood there silently, half fighting back tears. I just wanted to go home, I hated everything.

    The elevator finally took me up to my floor, and I exited. The eighth floor is a silent floor, no cell phones, no music, no talking, and unless you want to be scowled at by the students at the study areas that surround the entire outside of the floor, you best try not to breathe too loudly.

    The floor was packed full of students, but not a sound was made. People were hard at work, and I was relieved to find that of the three computers on the floor, one was available. I logged on and started to search for the information on the article, and found myself clearing my throat, it was itchy. I was between two other students and I shot them both an apologetic look.

    I finally found the article number I was looking for, and began to scribe it down on a scrap piece of paper, when I stared to cough. I couldn't fight it anymore, it's wasn't my fault, I was sick. I coughed a  few times before letting out a loud hack, which unfortunately, due to the force of the cough, caused me to also let out a huge, even louder fart.

    I farted. I farted in the library, and I swear it echoed even three floors down. I paused for only a moment and could see in my peripheral vision that the person on either side of me was shaking with most likely the desire to laugh. I then picked up my bag, turn to the two people separately as they shook trying to fight the laughter (I don't blame them) and said “Yep, that was me.”

    With that I exited as fast as I could, found the stairs (because despite feeling terrible I was not about to stand there for even one second waiting for the elevator) and raced as fast as I could out of the building. I got to my car, and went home.

    I know, terrible thing to happen at such a time. But I think it happened for a reason, because when I got home, I fired up the computer (avec dial-up Internet) and wrote the story down. I then emailed the story to every single person on my contact list, adding that the man who died (who so many of them had loved) always preached about seeing each day as a gift and to enjoy life.

    I let them know that I was feeling down, and all it took, was me farting in the library, to be reminded that life is beautiful, life is sad, and life is fucking hilarious. I sent it out, took some medication, and took a long nap.

    I never thought farting in front of strangers (and one of that magnitude) would be such a blessing. I was shaken out of my sad cloud, and felt a glimmer of joy that day. Having shoulder length hair that was white blond on top and bright purple on bottom (before it was common I will add) made me a bit of a target as I attended a mainly conservative school. That means that those present on the day of the farting, no doubt saw me with friends later on and could easily pick out the fart girl (and tell said story, wouldn't you?).

    Something else incredible happened that day. When I awoke hours later I checked my email, and the email I sent got the most replies I have ever seen in my inbox. It wasn't people consoling me or feeling bad, it was people telling me they laughed, they cried laughing, and that I brightened their day. To add, almost all those who replied, sent me their own story of mortification, all delightfully entertaining. 

    It was amazing, not only did I feel better shortly there after, I used the lessons of a great man shortly after his passing and applied it to life. On any test when I was in his class, bonus marks were given for adding under the date that “today is the best day of my life.” I know the true value of this lesson thanks to bronchitis and gas, and a truly brilliant man. That, and now I have a bunch of dirt on my friends.