Ice Cream Sundae

   My mom would always get on my dad's case for telling jokes that were not kid savvy. She believed children should be somewhat shielded from this side of life until a certain age. The nano second I became a tween, she turned on some switch and suddenly, she turned into an inappropriate story and joke telling monster (like my father).

    My parents friends the Chakis owned a cottage in Huntsville Ontario, and we were invited up countless times. The Chakis are a couple my parents played volleyball and drinking with, and they had two sons. Their eldest was my sisters age, and their youngest Treve was one year my senior. They had a Nintendo avec games at the cottage to go with the lake and stars, so I was in heaven.

    One night the youth were at the table playing cards, and I assume it being past dinner my mother was mostly likely a few glasses into the night. I'm not saying my parents are alcoholics (not once have they been to a meeting) they just enjoy letting loose at the appropriate times. Much like my parents, I enjoy leisure drinking as well.

    At the cottage, drinking starts usually around three on a weekday and noon on a weekend. One year my dad was so into his leisure activity, that he didn't notice the front of his running shoe melting because he was too close to the fire (it's these memories I cherish).

    So, my mother well past Wine O Clock sat down and joined the four of us at the table. She was feeling spirited (literally) and decided to tell us a joke (anytime at this age my mother sat down to do anything while I was in the company of non family members, especially after wine I was petrified)

    Taking a side note here for a moment (it's what I do best) my mom's shenanigans were not localized to alcohol or events. Her performing was a regular thing, much to the delight of grocery store clerks, doctors, dentists, receptionists and teachers all across my region. She was not on a mission to embarrass me, I know this. She is just who she is, an entertainer.

    Now that I am an adult (my drivers licence indicates at least) I get my mom. I get her because in many ways I am her. If she hadn't put on such a spectacle when I was growing up, I would never have crawled out of my shell. I was always worried other people may thing I am not normal if I let loose, my mom taught me, I'm not normal, and who cares what they say.

    She is OK with herself, and is indeed an entertainer. When you add alcohol to her however, you increase said entertainment value, and remove a filter. My mom actually has one (my father does not) and it's usually so handy. Again, after a few bevvies, it's gone. 

    Although my mom has missed the punch line on a few jokes, and tends to also get halfway through a joke an forget the punch line, this time she got it bang on. Seating herself down, she placed her wine glass on the table, and told us all she had a joke.

    It's a good one when she tells it, my mother is animated, silly, and gets right into character. No one can tell this joke like my mom. It's hilarious now, but when your a tween who wishes their parents (no matter how much love they have given) would go away, because they are embarrassing, it's downright painful. Tweens’ can barely admit to having parents on a good day.

    With that my mom jumps into character (actually there are two, she does both), and tells this joke:

    A young boy walks into a Ice Cream Shop, about eight years old, dressed up in a little boy's cowboy costume. He wearing a cowboy hat, has spurs on his boots, a bandana around his neck and a holster on his hips holding two toy guns. The boy walks up to the counter, pulls out his guns and points them at the lady. He says, “give me a hot fudge sundae”.

    The woman smiles, and says she will, then asking him “would you like sprinkles on that?”

    “Give me some sprinkles” he says again withdrawing his guns.

    “OK”, says the lady, “would you like cherries on that?

    “Give me some cherries” he answers, guns drawn.

    “Would you like nuts on your sundae” the woman inquires.
   
    “Give me some nuts” the boy replies.

    “Would you like your nuts crushed?” the lady asks.

     The boy pulls his guns out a final time and says “you want your tits blown off?!”

    By the end of her joke I was red faced and embarrassed but no one would have noticed since everyone had burst out laughing. Treve almost fell off his chair, and tears streamed down his face. Let's be real here, if you say tits to a thirteen year old boy you will get laughs (at least in the 90's you did). It's like saying the word poop to grade ones, you are guaranteed a laugh (but should you really be “going there” at all?)

    The story of-course, does not end there. Cat Chakis, Treve's mom, was none too impressed with this joke her son was now aware of, not her eldest, her youngest. It was of no help then, that weeks after this trip when school had started back up, he her concerns were verified.

    Cat was making her way home from grocery shopping on what I imagine to be a warm sunny fall day. When she drove past Treve's grade school which was around the corner from their house, she came face to face reality with what it means to have my mom as a friend (outside of the love, care, entertainment and support mind you).  Out in the yard, she could see her son, and he was surrounded by a group of boys. He was talking, and they were all listening.

    Then suddenly, she saw her sweet shy little angel,  raise his hands up like he was holding two (toy) guns, and watched as the group around him burst out laughing. As she was driving down her street, she says she openly and out loud said to herself, “I'm gonna fucking kill Kim Anderson.”

First Steps

    It was a November afternoon and I was a first year University student, experiencing the joy of midterms for the first time. It was the new millennium, and I was looking sharp in those days. Nothing says “trendy” like baggy man’s jeans, inch long pixie cut bleach blond hair and a rainbow seat belt belt with an array of retro t-shirts to complete the look. The problem being, I'm not a lesbian; were I, this would have been appropriate fashion at the time, but I needed a break from being a hippy so that’s the direction I went.

    I was preparing for my midterm for a week in this particular class (epic comparative to my night before usual) and felt extremely nervous about it. Important to note, I am not (but continue to improve) a prompt person. I am laid back, easy going, and often late (always for important things, I'm never late for a lunch break).

    When I was in grade-school, I drove my sister insane with the amount of time I took to do anything, especially when it came to getting ready and out the door on time in the morning.

     In grade-school, my father approached me one morning and pitched a brilliant idea to race me in the morning to see who could get ready faster. No one knew I had the ability to move so quickly at that time, and I gave myself a pat on the back because 95% of the time, I won!

     It wasn't until I volunteered with children in high school that I connected the dots on this “race”. I was volunteering at a resource centre in a housing project with children. I announced to the children that it was clean up time, and we could race to see who's done first. It was brilliant I thought to myself, I'll make it a game, and they'll be none the wiser.

    Suddenly, I flashed back to my dad racing me, and realized it was all a ruse. Worse, my dad told me recently my sister use to wink at him in the mornings while I was scurrying around trying to “win”. That being said, in University, there was no race to get ready. It was up to me to make sure I was adult enough to get where I needed on time.

    So the day of the big midterm arrives, and I could barely move for the butterflies bouncing violently in my stomach. I took my time making sure I looked nice, read over my notes one last time, and made my way out to the car to head up to school.

    When I got there, I found myself with no place to park. I had forked out the money for a parking pass, with no actual available parking spaces available. I circled and circled and could see my time running out on the clock. My palms became sweatier than usual, and my heart started to flutter.

    The exam started at eleven, and it was five minutes too. I still had no space to park and it took five minutes to walk to the lecture hall. I could picture the hall now, it was one of the largest and held over six hundred students, and on a midterm day, all but one seat would be taken at this time.

    I spoke out loud as I circled around, “Oh holy fuck, late for your midterm...fuck no...fuck...space...why are there no spaces!”

    I could feel the panic set in, and red hot tears forming behind my eyes,  just then a car pulled out, and I pulled into a spot with three minutes to go.

    The second my car was locked and I had my stuff, I started to sprint. Desperately I raced across the parking lot, through the sea of students at the front lobby, and down the hallway like a lunatic, making it with one minute to spare. I didn't stop running when I got to the door however, I kept going. The exam was probably being handed out now I figured, and I still had to find a seat.

    I bust through the doors into the lecture hall of six hundred or so students, and spotted a seat in the very middle of the crowd available. I could feel myself relax, and must have somehow told my legs to follow suit. I lost it somehow, my footing that is, my legs went to jello, and down I went.

    I didn't just fall, I bailed. I crashed like a ton of bricks, then, I rolled. That's right folks, my books went flying and I rolled down the stairs, stopping, one below where I had planned to sit.

    There was not a sound to be heard in the lecture hall aside from a few gasps, and some repressed giggling. What do you do in a situation like this? The floor did not open up and swallow me, I was there, on the steps, dumbfounded. I did what any self respecting human being would do, I stood up, and I took a bow.

    Taking a bow after a stunt is still the choice I would go with if ever I had to relive through this moment (knowing me, something similar will occur again). It indicated to the audience, that I admit to it, it's funny, and I am so OK with myself, that you can now enjoy. They did, laughter erupted throughout the lecture hall, and the professor eventually had to request that people calm down.

    This became a story in my program,  and for years to follow people would talk about “the girl who fell” first year in front of me, not knowing I was that girl (note: I changed my look in this time frame).

    Take a bow, it's all you can do. With the help of another student, I collected my books, and located the seat that was smack dab in the middle of everyone. I can't say I wasn't embarrassed, I was fucking mortified. My face showed it too, with a bright red glow that I am sure even the cheap seats at the back could see, if not feel the heat coming off.

    As mentioned, I was rocking some very short hair, and had nothing to hide behind (you don't realize it's use until it's gone). I sat down in the cramped hall after such an event, red faced and still hearing the odd chuckle here and there, all while writing my very first midterm.

The Goal Heard Round the World

    My Uncle (my dad's closest brother) once said that I was like the son my father always wanted (we were discussing hockey at the time). In fact, my mother claims to have seen a psychic (as a lark of course) long before marrying my father. She was told she would be married, have two children, the first a girl (correct) the second a boy (incorrect). The lady also informed her that her second child, would “write the book on stubborn” (correct, or at least it’s in the works).

    This is indeed funny to other people, especially when I add, that any time I get my blood work done, I am told that I have abnormally high levels of testosterone. This explains my loud voice perhaps, but it explains nothing else. If I am suppose to be like “a dude” (here's where I include stereotypes I feel are gender bias) then why I am not the “tomboy” girl. Wheres the high level of competitiveness? Ability? Performance?!

    I am a good example, of why gender stereotypes don't fit (we all are if we look close enough). If you met me, you may expect that my love of the Chicago Blackhawks and the NHL are connected to a pair of skates and and all woman’s league somewhere. Negative. I watched it with my father growing up and still do, love hockey. The missing link; I cannot skate. I can't. I've tried, other parents sought me out as a child to prove that I could be taught, but no one could teach me, because plain and simple I can't skate (Too add: I can't roller-skate, roller-blade or downhill ski either). At my level of clumsiness, why add wheels or blades to my feet when I have enough issues with them on their own. I don't even wear heals unless made too (see: always a bridesmaid, never a bride).

    I am not an athlete, but my sister and I shared the joy and pleasure (note sarcasm), of my father pushing us in sports in a very intense manner. I enjoy that he saw no gender differential there, but I secretly wonder how it would have been had I turned out to be a boy (I shutter at the thought).

    My parents had my sister and I involved in the arts, and we excelled. School was not an issue for either of us (ahem, especially not the Doctor) and we loved being a part of activities. My parents knew that we were both slightly challenged in the ways of sports, and thought it a good idea to en-roll us both in soccer while we were little.

     We both started young, both remaining in house league, never moving up into the competitive world. My dad was at every game we ever played. He was devoted, even coached my team one year.

    When I played soccer, I had a lot of fun. There was so many people to socialize with, especially when you played other teams. New friends to talk to out on the field which was full of dandelions to pick. It was outside, there was fresh air, and halfway through the game, you got orange slices.

    That is how I saw the game of soccer in the beginning. I loved it (if that's how it really was, I would still play). My mom tells me I once asked her on the way home what the score was, and followed that up by asking which team won (that's how competitive I'm not). My dad, being the star athlete sport nut that he is, saw this as a major problem.

    The at home coaching began, along with some impressive parent bribery. I enjoyed kicking the ball around at home, my mom not so much when I did it inside, with my dad. I did not however, enjoy the series of obstacle courses and drills we ran out in the yard.

    The bribe was simple, if I touched the ball once a game, I got to hit up a blizzard at Dairy Queen on the way home, and so suddenly, I became interested. As the time passed, I improved slightly in the game, and started to enjoy actually playing. I still made friends with the other team.

    I always played a defensive position, I liked it. I like to defend rather than attack, in life and in soccer. The years in that spot however at that time (for both my sister and I), meant no goals scored. Not one. I knew my dad wanted to see it happen, because he reminded me on a daily basis.

    At games, he yelled. It was supportive, it was loud, it was things like “get in there LB!!” or “Knock em dead number 5!” or “LB! Pay attention!”. The other parents all knew him by holler, and often he would be yelling these things at me as the ball was in the other end of the field. I was as far up as I could go and waiting. Nothing like getting yelled at to get in there when you are standing alone, no where near any action.

    My sister started yelling back at him eventually, a vision I enjoy reliving, as her teenage attitude shot out with “Leave me ALONE dad!”

    There was a game I played, about eight years into my soccer career when something happened, not sure what, probably someone ran into me or hurt one of my teammates, either way I got mad. Once I got mad, I magically improved. I was all over the game and it was as if all the drills over the years finally kicked in full force.

    Nor went nuts. He high fived me so many times my hand hurt after the game, and was literally beaming on the way home as he have me a sports centre recap of my performance. “That's it,” he said to me, “you just need to get mad.”

   
    That's when the conditioning began. On the way to any soccer game henceforth, my father decided he needed to get me mad for the game. That's right, beautiful summer evenings, windows down in the car heading to a friendly soccer game, and my dad would pull stunts to piss me off.

    My game certainly improved, but sitting in the car getting tapped in the arm repeatedly and being told to “get in there today, get tough, get mad” was annoying.

    It was perfect for him if I had a fight with anyone that week, he could bring it up an rehash it to get me angry and upset again, good parenting all round. My dad will stand by his choices, and he will tell you it's because this got results.

    My game improved, and my blood pressure increased as this phase of my soccer life occurred. I decided it was time to give something back, I knew my dad just wanted to see me score a goal, just once. He thought it would make me proud and knew sports help build character (or whatever bullshit the gym teacher always use to say) so he did all he could (again, the man is crazy, so his methods for results match the thought process).

    It was around the age of fifteen, and nearing the end of a tolerance for soccer in the summer. It had been over a decade and I had given it my all, besides, I wanted to start smoking cigarettes and staying out past curfew by this time, not playing soccer.

     I knew deep down it was likely my last season (and indeed it was). I wanted to score that goal, my sister was done playing by now and I was the last hope. At this time movies with super happy amazing turn around endings were popular, so I assumed I could make one happen.

    On my own, I approached my coach and requested I be able to start playing a half position; I will never be a forward, I can live with that. He agreed, and my father was delighted. The games that followed had nothing but close calls, and the chance I might actually score become possible.

    If you have ever seen the movie Parenthood (if not do so) there is a scene where Steve Martin's son finally catches a fly ball in baseball after much effort and practice. Steve Martin then does a victory dance like no other, leaping, rolling, and dancing across the diamond. It's hilarious, its wonderful and my father had always promised that if I scored a goal, he would recant this scene, across the soccer field. It was almost more incentive that the earlier attempt with ice cream.

    It was hot July day back in the 1990's, and my family and I went to a BBQ at a family friend's house. It was a game night, and after dinner my mom stayed back to help clean up and my dad came with me to watch the game.

    The park was a short walk down the road and I was feeling extra powerful that day. My dad nudged me the entire walk to get me “into the game”. I felt it would be a game like any other game I had played, but I still knew I wanted to try my best.

    The game was moving on, my dad was yelling as usual, and I was on fire. It was the second half of the game, and by some miracle I found myself standing ready and open at the goal, while a forward made her way with the ball. She kicked it to me, and I knew this was it, just had to boot it in as the goal was wide open. This was it, it was my time.

    The ball came racing across, I propelled my foot forward, and by some glorious miracle, the ball went straight in. I scored. In my mind I yelled it, I SCORED! With no waiting I turned around to the onlookers in lawn chairs, and my eyes dashed around looking for a man about to make a scene.

    I couldn’t see him, my eyes dashed through the parents looking for him. I thought he would pop out at any minute with mad dancing and cheering, but nothing. As I looked closer, I could see the looks on the parents sitting watching, it was like someone had died.

    That's when I heard someone yell, “he just left to use bathroom two minutes ago.”

    Oh holy no. The referee then approached me to get my name (which was misspelled in the paper may I add) and it was official, my dad missed it. He had attended every single moment of my soccer career, he missed ten minutes, one time to take a piss. In that time, I scored, he missed it.

    When my dad returned he said the parents started crying out that he missed my goal, and he assumed they were playing a joke. After he realized that they were in fact serious, I know his heart broke. There was no victory dance, he stood there with grief, and watched the rest of the game in hopes I would score again.

    I didn't. He attended every moment of my soccer games for the rest of my final season, and I waited for another goal. I never scored again.

    Never did I get to see my father dance across a field like a lunatic, but in retrospect, he may have used all his lunacy rantings up over the years of screaming encouragement.

 I am blessed with a dad who is dedicated to me, and the things I do (just more so when it's sports related). No matter what, he never gave up on me, no matter how many times I physically indicated I am not an athlete. But he stuck with me and never stopped getting me to try. Turns out he may be a maniac who's on to something, after all, I DID SCORE.

Happy Anniversary

I have dated many suitors over the years, and none have been prince enough for me. I am the Princess that has gone running around ponds since puberty struck, kissing any frog that shows promise. Alas, they have all turned out to just be frogs (and people wonder why I hate Disney and fairy tales so much).

    To add to that, Disney has also indicated I am not actually a Princess, because I can't sing so beautifully I summon birds and rodents. My singing has the complete opposite affect, I don't have thick long flowing locks and my parents never locked me in a tower...surprisingly. 

    I am no Disney Princess, I know this, I don't think they needed to go out of their way and remind me so many times over the years. (it's one thing to see the movies, it's another to receive officially documentation from them). OK, so I am not a typical Princess, actually I am a thirty year old singleton who lives alone with her cat. Either way, I've kissed some frogs.

     In some cases they were nice, in some they were not, in all cases they were nuts (wait, is this a ME thing?...no, it's them). I don't feel the need to pour out all the sad details of my dating life, besides, that's an entirely different book. I will tell you this, there have been times in my life, that I have ignored my intuition, fell victim to loneliness, and settled for what turned out to be bad men. There have been two who were abusive, and this story involves the first.

    The first such boy who is not what I consider a man, was Justin. He was a an off medication bi-polar fellow with serious mother issues and the moral compass of Genghis Khan. So picture a skinny Genghis with glasses and an evil glare and you've got a mental image of this boy.

    My family didn't like him from the start, they knew he was the wrong assortment of nut and gave me fair warning about continuing on seeing him. My mother said the first time she met him the hair stood up on the back of her neck, and at the end of the relationship his step-mother of twenty years told me to stay away from him because, he's “crazy.”

    This story is not one that is light, it does takes a rather dark path. I do promise a happy ending for you, and know that in order to see any light at the end of a tunnel, one must first walk through the dark tunnel. Poetic, I know.

    I knew he was not taking his medication, I knew his past, I thought I could give that frog a big old kiss and he would turn into a Prince. He didn't. They never do, and after years of emotionally damaging research, I now know, they never will. Searching for a Prince? Forget the frog, forget the Prince, locate good friends. 

    In the beginning like many abusive relationships, it was all consuming and failytale-like. Or rather just like beauty and the beast without the happy ending. If you think deep about that story, Beast was an abusive asshole Belle tried loving into a prince. Disney ended it wrong, he would have stayed a beast forever and she would have remained locked in that tower until escaping and obtaining a restraining order.

    Think about it, he abducted her, isolated her, and her friends were the household appliances, enough said on that matter. Don't get me started on Disney...

    Justin was no beast at the start it seemed, because he wore a mask.  He had nothing but nice things  to say, and made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. I was convinced in my silly brain that this was it, despite my gut crying out that something was wrong.

    There was passion, good memories made, and I started to fall fast and hard. There were a million and one warning signs, I ignored them all. As the relationship progressed, it turned into a roller coaster. He was emotionally and verbally abusive, jealous and constantly trying to control almost all aspects of my life.

    Our relationship did not survive a full year, but within that we broke up four times, and he moved cities to follow me, twice. When I finally ended it he became physical, but I was able to take him down and toss him out the front door (silly move for him to come at someone in training for law enforcement...even if she's insanely clumsy).

    I assumed the nightmare would end there, but it didn't. After I broke it off with Justin, he moved himself into the shelter down the road from my apartment, and the stalking began. It took two months of convincing the small town police where I lived that I had reason to be fearful, but eventually he was charged with Criminal Harassment and Assault.

    When my school program ended months later, I packed up my car and moved out west, leaving the pain of everything in my life behind (trying to actually, again, whole other story). I worked a job as a Conservation Officer and began to revive back to my old self, and when the season ended I moved into the closest town from the Park I lived in, and found myself working at a Woman’s Shelter.

    I was good at my job, not only was I educated on the subject and a former volunteer at a shelter, I knew what it felt like to be abused. All seemed to be running smoothly, until winter hit. I received a letter that the court case concerning Justin would be in January and that I was required to appear. It took me back to a scared victim, and I counted down the days till Christmas so I could go home and see my family. Being far away from these maniacs is well worse than being too close.

    The northern Alberta city I lived in froze over at the end of October that year, and by the time I got the letter in early December my eyelashes were freezing on the walk to work. Freezing. I am not fucking joking for those of you who have not had the joy of northern Canadian winters, your nostrils freeze too.    
   
    When my time off at Christmas came, I couldn't wait to get home. I missed my maniacs, I couldn't wait to be reunited with my manic cat after months apart and there is nothing like my mom's home cooking (salads had been improved by this point in my life).

    I stepped off the plane in Southern Ontario, and removed my coat during the walk to the terminal (yes, I walk on the tarmac because I fly cheap). It was a balmy minus two, and I had just left minus forty. This was going to be a beautiful Christmas vacation I remember thinking.

    As I approached the terminal I started to feel the tears rising. I made my way inside and stepped out into the crowd of people waiting, I saw them through the crowd and dodged my way through thickets of hugging to reach them. The minute I reached my parents and my parents threw their arms around me, I burst into tears.

    It was emotional, and I am sure a spectacle. After waiting for my luggage and downing a diet Pepsi we made our way out to the car where I repeatedly told them about how warm it was. My parents and I made our way down the highway back to their house, and my father was surprisingly well behaved. When I got their my sister headed over with my brother-in-law and we all gathered around the table for a family meal.

    I finally felt at ease about everything, as glanced around the table. I finally let out a sigh of ease, and the door bell rang. I ran to get it hoping it was a friend welcoming me home, but opened the door only to find a police officer on the other side (bonus, he was cute).

    Many thoughts run through your mind when you are face to face with an officer at the door, and I had not factored in anything to do with court. My mind went all over. The officer then requested me by legal name, and when he didn't then add that his name was officer loaded gun while taking off his pants, my heart sank. When I confirmed who I was, he handed my a piece of paper and informed me that I was now given notice to appear one Month and a day from now in court as a witness to the charges against Justin. He had to say his name, and when he did it stung. It was official now, and the officer went on to explain they would fly me home, and provide a hotel room in the rural town.

    I looked at the officer and said “gee thanks.”

    He told me not to worry, and that I could bring family for support to the courtroom if I needed it. He obviously didn't know my family. I can say that I have dealt with some police officers in my time that have needed some lessons on people skills, but this gentleman was not one. He shook my hand wished me luck and a Merry Christmas.

    I closed the door and looked down to the paper he handed me. There was my name, my information, his name, and his information. It was all in-front of me. The screaming, yelling, put-downs, grabbing, fear and overall torment I lived came flooding back.

    My parents had come to the door, my sister and brother in law peeking from the table. I looked back up at my parents and said, “this had to happen the day I get home, what are the fucking odds.”

    My tone was intense, and at this time in our family history, they had to tread lightly around me as I was a constant time bomb of emotion waiting to go off (side-note: to get rid of this feeling, deal with your emotional baggage). I could feel them all stiffen. I was still in many ways not healed, I hadn't learned that lesson fully yet, so I was sitting on top of a pile of anger.

    My mom suggested we all sit back down for dinner, and I returned to the table. With the family all around, and perhaps to pick a fight or to have permission to lose it, I read the document out loud. I got to the date last, and as I read it I interrupted myself.

    “Wow”. I paused and then added, “today is a year to the day I kicked Justin out the door.” I could feel myself getting ready to unleash the sob monster.

     I slouched down and was ready to lose my shit. My family sat there in solitude only for a moment, all secretly trying to figure out a way to diffuse the bomb. The moment felt stretched out as they all watched me sink down into a dark place, and I repeated in an irritated voice “a full year to the day.” 

    As soon as I finished my sentence all persons at the table took no time in responding in the most inappropriate manner. Suddenly; and with no pre planning for this event, in complete unison and starting at the exact same millisecond, my lovable maniacs bust out with “Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary.......Haaaaaaaaaappy Anniversary!” all the while stomping their feet and clapping their hands.

    Picture it if you will, a table full of lunatics, smiling, clapping and signing in the joy of this event. The end of an abusive relationship anniversary can only be celebrated in our household, with the flailing of limbs and the loudest of cheer. These are the collective choices we make.

    For a long time I have been plagued with nightmares and restless sleep, awaking in the middle of the night, trying desperately to remind myself I am OK. I can say the nightmares of that variety are in the past and I am no longer kept awake by the monsters of my past.

    What keeps me up in the middle of the night now is not the fear of the past, it's the full puzzle of how it is every member of my family had the ability to know that every other person was going to sing the same damn song.  How the heck they did it I will never understand, I don't think they will either. I can only walk away from it knowing that indeed, they are the same kind of nuts.

     As they finished the last Happy Anniversary, with no hesitation, we all burst into laughter. The bomb was diffused, and we could continue on with catching up, and enjoying a salad that was fully stocked with good stuff.

    There are definitely some very sad moments in my life; such is life. I struggled with trauma from abuse for many years, along with a continuing stream of unexpected set backs, and can say I get there are sad times. I do feel that there is a reason we walk the road we do in life, sometimes we make wrong turns and it can take years to find the way back, but we are stronger and wiser for the journey.

    I know it sounds sappy and lame, and you have heard that concept preached before, but here is one more person confirming it's worth. The people around the table with me on that particular night, know how to make me smile. They all know me so well, they were able to demonstrate it in unison. They are, and have always been my light at the end of any dark tunnel. It's what lovable maniacs do.

    So if ever you find yourself in a pit of sorrow, do what I now do, break into song. Find something that fits. Getting fired? Why not sing Jolly Good Fellow to yourself on the way out the door. Feeling lonely on Valentine's Day? Who ever said serenading a restaurant full of couples with Love Stinks was a bad idea, after all, you will feel better.
   
    Basically, I want to say thanks to my family, for having such appropriately inappropriate timing. If ever you feel like your life is going directly down the crapper, I recommend doing something stupid about it (the silly kind), that, or call any member of my family, we'll know what to do.

BARBIE: THE JOURNEY OF A THOUSAND STEPS

    My sister and I, are both feminists (don't hate the word, educate yourself on it, you are most likely a feminist too).  We strongly believe in equity, and both agree that the societal pressure on women is a problem. My sister grew up reading books, talking to boys, socializing with friends and when playing with toys, usually micro machines. She sounds cool among other feminists (there are lots of us) when talking about herself as a kid, I on the other hand, loved me some Barbie time (among feminists, this is the equivalent of being the kid that brought the tuna sandwich for lunch in grade school). It's a shame that I now loathe and despise most things about this doll (despite having the occasional dream where I'm playing with them) but at that time, it was all Barbie.

    I liked to play with Barbies, and I liked to do it alone for the most part. I even had my own little room under the stairs in the basement where all the dolls lived, stacked with Ken's, clothes, and a wooden house. I felt so special to have one and a quarter rooms, even if I did encounter the odd crawler (I have since connected the dots in my later years, and realize it was really smart planning on my parents part to have basically and under the stairs cell for their loony child).

    One year for my Birthday I got the ultimate gift, the Barbie Ferrari. It was white with pink decals, silver rim black tires, and a convertible that made putting Ken and Barbie in and out easy. I am proud to proclaim that Barbie always drove, and drove well.  It was a great gift, that I wanted so badly to share with my sister.

    I begged her to play with me, just one time, so we could drive the car back and forth between us (work with me here, I was a kid). I didn’t give up, and eventually she gave into the nagging. She agreed, and after a very short lived play, suggested something brilliant. She told me to go to the bottom of the stairs so the new ride could take a trip. There are several stairs leading to the top floor when you walk into my parents house, that come perfectly straight down with no curve in sight.  I was too excited for words and almost bailed racing down to make this happen. I stood there ready, and looked up at my sister, holding on to the white vehicle. Behind her the light coming in from the upstairs window was catching the dust particles and making the moment dream like.

    “Ready?” she yelled.

    “Ready!” I called back.

    She let the car go, and amazingly, it drove straight down the first two steps. That was also about the length of the car. As it hit the third step, something terrible happened. The car bounced. It bounced off the stairs aggressively, then took flight.

    My parents are athletes, did I mention that? Cat like reflexes the both of them. The genetics must skip a generation there, and my sister and I, well, not so much (we did try though, we really did).

    As the Barbie Ferrari, equipped with two passengers, came soaring at me, I stood frozen, unable to move. I can still picture it, mid air, slow motion almost, the light illuminating the glory of the brand new white car; Barbie with her long blond locks blowing in the breeze was glorious (if Barbie was not plastic with a smile painted on her, I assume she would have been screaming, so would Ken) It was a vision alright, and it was coming right for me (picture if you can, the slow motion car scene in Ferris Buellers Day Off, something like that).

    The light slowly dimmed out, and the next thing I knew, I had gone from fun play time, to being involved with a one vehicle (and one centre of forehead) collision. The Ferrari had picked up some serious speed, and smashed right into my head. You ever headbutted a toy car? Don't. Not much worse then getting smacked in the face by one (in-front of a sister with a great memory). From what I recall, there was a backwards indent of Ferrari on my forehead, which indicates the magnitude of the situation.

    Through insane laughter I could hear her yelling down to see if I was OK. This is sadly, not the only time an unfortunate event has occurred at her doing, aka, “Hey, let's take your mattress, and ride it down the stairs,” or “hey, lets take these crutches and hop over the hedge”. To both may I add, I had to put the mattress back on my bed alone (limping most likely), and there is a permanent hole in my parents hedge.

    When two insane people procreate, it only makes sense that their offspring, would inherit some (not nearly as much) insanity. We are smart, I swear. Did my sister plan the attack of the car? I don't know. She is either so smart that she knew she could end the torment of playing with her baby sister by pulling such a stunt, or, she is so smart, that like my mother, sometimes there is no room for the small stuff. 

    In fact, I spoke with her on the subject of why our family tends to be intelligent yet do, well really dumb shit. She agreed there is limited space, and informed me that last week she shit out grade ten math. I reminded her to hang on to the knowledge of how to put her pants on, but the math, she can do without.

    My sister is now a Doctor, that's right, a Doctor. Although, if you ask the general population they assume that means she works in a hospital with patients or at a clinic. Negative, she is a Doctor of Philosophy. That means she works harder, went to school longer, and still gets people saying, “oh, so you're not a real doctor.” (It's funny when I do it).

    She has her PhD, and it makes me incredibly proud. I still look up to my sister (despite her being much, much shorter that I am), the same way I looked up to her as a child. The difference being, back then I was standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for the Ferrari, now, it's metaphorical. I do however, get the same goofy look on my face when she continues to wow me. Did I mention she is shorter?

My Mother - The One Woman Band

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY; WE WONT LET YOU FORGET IT.

    My mother had other sayings aside from the one about the dryer. She came from a family of smart asses. They were indeed smart though, so bonus on the genetics there (once the testing confirms that I am in fact related to these people).

    I had heard my mothers family come up with wonderful lines of their own, lines that she and I still use. At the heart of any of them, was a lesson or a laugh, often both. My gramps was a quiet man who would rarely speak (most likely due to lack of chance) but when he did, it was worth listening. I can remember him telling me, “You can lead a horse to water, but a pencil must be lead.”

    So true. I can also recall farting in front of him when I was an early teenager and being mortified. He didn't skip a beat and said “where ever you go, let the wind blow free.” (Warning: I believe strongly is this statement).

    My grandmother used to say “Every dog has it's day, and a bitch has two afternoons.” (no, seven is not to young to hear the word bitch.)

    It is thus no wonder that my mother has a delightful collection of her own sayings. She would always ask me two very important questions growing up, “do you walk to school or take your lunch?”, and “do you sleep in the nude or with the lights on?”

    Crazy? Yes. Impossible to answer, you get creative after being asked on such a regular basis. My mom, is a very smart woman. She is kind, compassionate and hilarious. People are drawn to her brightness. She is a force to be reckoned with and has great power. As you know, with great power, comes great stupidity (at times)

    My family was able to go on vacation every year, whether it be a cottage or down the east coast and I appreciate how lucky that makes me. It was a time for bonding, sharing stories, having adventures, and getting the car washed somewhere before checking in anywhere. Unfortunately for my mother, it was usually a time she would make a statement that would haunt her for the rest of her life. (when in the company of any family member).

    Any time the family went away, we saddled into the family car and prepared ourselves for road trip fun. This is where all the magic tended to happen. I am not sure which car ride it occurred in, could have been somewhere around Bancroft Ontario, could have been driving through the fields of giant crosses in West Virginia, but it happened, and it happened on our way there.

    Jokes can really the pass time when driving in a car of maniacs. How else would we pass the time? It was customary in my family for all parties in the vehicle to provide humour to any riding passengers. It was good times, I use many of the jokes to this day. My father had a knack for telling non age appropriate jokes, or non PC ones, and had been warned many times by my mother to not expose the children to such garbage (FYI, the jokes I tell to this day are mainly the one's my father should not have told me, but since it was so traumatic, I will never forget them).

    On this occasion, my dad pitched in a common but appropriate joke. It's the ever popular: horse walks into a bar, bartender asks, why the long face? At the time of the joke, it was new to us all, and my sister and I let out giggles in support of a well told joke from the back seat. My mom however, looked puzzled.

    “I don't get it.” she said.

    “What's not to get?” replied my father.

    With that, the car went silent and my mother stared intensely out the window. She was clearly trying to figure the joke out, and with the added silence I could feel myself wanting to burst into laughter. I knew it was not the time to laugh, and so clearly, I wanted too (this also occurs in churches, lecture halls and after car accidents)

    After a long and painful silence, I could see my mothers pursed lips curl into a smile.

    “Oh I get it!” she excitedly exclaimed, “he walked into the bar.” And with that motioned to smacking herself in the face, which would clearly make any face long.

    The silence this time was very brief, and broken by my father, sister and I filling the car with outrageous snorts and snickers and in my case tears. My mom sadly joined in, assuming we were all laughing at the joke again, and not the fact that she had missed the point where horses, have long faces.

    My mother is a smart woman, and yes sometimes all that smart stuff takes up to much space and simple things are lost on her.  The lines she has come up with over the years have filled the family with joy, all at her unfortunate expense.

    If ever a quiet moment takes over Christmas dinner, or and hush comes over the family in a time of sadness, if ever a speck of silence sneaks into the family, it is sure that one of us, will jump in with a statement of hers and we all laugh.

    So go on, say it loud and proud explain “don't ya get it? He WALKED into the bar?”

    I know there is always a time we say something stupid, and the minute it sneaks out we wish we could take it back, but don't. Don't wish that for a moment, because you have just succeeded, in making someone else’ day. If it's a really good one,  lifetime.

My Father - Always Inappropriate

THE THING ABOUT SALADS.

    It was a rather warm summer day as my family and I headed down highway 7 on our way up for a good old fashion family week of fun at a rented cottage. A cottage we had rented for years prior and years to come.  The central part of Ontario is crawling with cottages stuffed with old furniture, other peoples bedding and a toilet that doesn’t or barely flushes. Cottages surrounded by trees, rocks and clean glorious lakes for swimming, fishing, and in my case catching frogs. This was one of those cottages. I was around the age of twelve and despite sitting next to my sister who is older by three years, I was peaceful and most likely dreaming of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. My father was driving, my mom next to him gazing out the open window which provided fields of cows and hay to look upon. There was not a sound inside the car, all was peaceful, all was great.

    In Canada, there is an ongoing joke that we have four seasons here; fall, winter, spring and construction. We had just escaped an hour or two of construction accompanied with hot air, my fathers verbal hot air and that annoying front and back dance you do from the motion of a car stopping and starting again. It never helped that my mother would and to this day does, grab the dash and sigh every time we are remotely close to another car on the highway. It felt like now, everyone was feeling the relief of being back in one forward uninterrupted direction, and all was well in the world.

    I love my father. I really love him, but sometimes, he's a dick.  I know, shitty to preface loving him to calling him a dick, especially when I am about to share a story that shows a slice of his personal life. Even shittier since my father is a very private man, who has already been embarrassed by me as the result of wild hair colour thought the years, a loud and opinionated personality, and a nose ring he still requests I remove. Again, my father is a good man, he has worked hard at everything he's received, worked for his family and loves us well, but sometimes, he really is a dick.

    Moving forward down the rural two lane highway, silence filled the car. I have always enjoy times of quiet, libraries still make me all warm and happy inside (that and the smell of old books and people crying in the self help isle....not that I haven't done that mind you.) At the start of my life I was a very shy quiet girl, but I have since found my voice (if you met my family and sat in on a dinner, you would see that I had no choice in the matter). I come from a family of talkers. Loud, opinionated talkers. So the silence truly was golden, until my dad stepped in with his amazingly inappropriate timing and delivery.

    In the glory of all this silence, my father turned to my mother and said a phrase I still drop to this day. After eighteen years of marriage, my father on this particular day, heading into a family vacation where it had started off so smoothly, decided to turn to my mother a drop a bomb. “You know Kim,” he said casually, “I've never really liked your salads.”

    Rewinding more here for a moment, my mom did essentially all the cooking in the family household. She cooked on a budget, fed the family well balanced meals, could take any leftovers reaming and create something new, all while providing meals that were delicious. In my adult life, I can now fully appreciate how difficult a task that is; and I can't imagine after all those years of work getting a fail on your side dish.

    The air fell almost even quieter for a moment, and my mom then turned her head to him and in a tone that was shrill and so very freaking angry said “What?!”

    I don't recall the details or particulars after this point, but I know the whistle had blown and the gloves were off. Comments starting firing abruptly inside the moving vehicle, coming predominantly from a red faced monster that had taken over the woman sitting in the passenger seat. I panicked, and wished I was nothing more than a stuffed Garfield happily stuck to the rear window, smiling at passengers in other cars. Instead of course, I found myself turning to my sister for solace.

    At this time in my life, entering teenage years, being a tween whose changing and ugly looking (I'm sorry but kids this age are just awkward looking – and you know I'm right), and having a teenage hormone raging sister meant we didn't always get along. We rarely got along in fact, outside of watching TV, family functions, and moments like the one that was unfolding.

    I turned and we made our usual “holy fucking shit” eye contact, and proceeded to sink into our seats as my father dealt with the wrath of saying, well, something really stupid. He explained in detail what it was he was lacking in his salad, which was other items to go with the iceberg lettuce, carrots and cucumbers. My mother rebutted with the threat that he can make his own meals when we get to the cottage, because it's never a vacation for her, she's always cooking. The dance between them lasted about a half hour, and somehow cooled off. The silence returned, the car continued forward, and it felt like all was well in the world.

    No one spoke for a brief time, and my mom seemed to have calmed down after exercising her vocal cords. I love my father, I really do, but sometimes, he doesn't think before he opens his mouth. And so, he turned to her once more and decided to bring a family friend into the mix. “You know who's salads I like,” as he spoke I tried to eject myself from the moving vehicle but the seatbealt kept locking with my frantic struggling, “Moe's salads” he paused. “She puts stuff in her salads.”

    I don't remember the specifics of the second round, but I know they had a rematch and no one won. I don't remember the rest of the car ride, pulling into the cottage, or which memories at the cottage accompany that particular car ride. I don't know if that was the summer I got covered in red ants, or the summer I flipped over the damn and lost my shoes, but I know that I will never forget the words of my father. Or the look on my mom's face when he said them.

    My father, has impeccable timing, horribly impeccable timing. But why not? It is so much fun the way he operates. I mean, my father never did really like her salads, so why dance around the subject by suggesting a new vegetable or making the salad himself when he can straight forward tell my mom that he doesn't like them. Furthermore, why tell her early in the game when he can wait for almost two decades to let her know. Adding lastly, why do this alone, when the whole family can be there to witness such an event.

    I know how my father works, I just don't full understand why. The end result of this glorious family moment however, is a line I can drop in the company of family and friends (who have heard this story at nausea) to create bursts of laughter. That, and my mothers salads now come fully stocked with leafy greens, and a whole lot of stuff.