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.