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.