ANOTHER SILLY INTRODUCTION: MOM

A SILLIER INTRODUCTION TO MY MOM

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

KIM ANDERSON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    


 

A SILLY INTRODUCTION TO MY FATHER

BEHOLD THE MOST INAPPROPRIATE OF ALL MEN in THE WORLD

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

 “Don't Fuck Up”

NOR ANDERSON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turkish Delight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was dedicated to that character from then on.

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

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

Stir Fried

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Example:

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

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

The EIGHTH FLOOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh Christmas Tree

    Teenage years were most difficult growing up with sister, a sister who had a great memory of my embarrassing childhood and would use this information at her leisure. To understand this in full, I have to take you further back, to a time when I was seven.

    Have you ever seen National Lampoons Christmas Vacation with Chevy Chase? If you haven't, stop reading immediately and go watch it. My father actually looks like Chevy Chase, and has the same ideas about Christmas lights, spirit, and trees.

    Each year, the family would drive out into the country to chop down that years tree from a tree farm. There was always hot chocolate and horses, and I loved being out in the fresh air. When I was seven, I was told I was allowed to bring a friend, and it seemed the Christmas season couldn't get any better.

    As we made our way out to the farm, my family and two friends,  I could feel my stomach dance with excitement. I was wearing my very stylish 80's pink and green full body snowsuit, and rocking a thick pair of wool gloves. Hidden beneath it all was the real gem; my very own pair, of mickey mouse underpants.

    Perhaps my stomach was overjoyed, because eventually the excitement and dancing became upset, and the upset became shitting my pants in the middle of the woods in a fucking snow suit.

    I can still feel the embarrassment of pulling my mother aside to tell her, and worse the cold air on my ass as she wiped up what she could in between the trees with my wool gloves. The gloves, and my white pair of mickey mouse underwear would become garbage, and I was made to sit in the car the whole way home, after literally shitting my pants. Luckily, nothing hides the smell of poo like a full snowsuit.

    In any other family, the embarrassment and trauma would most likely end there, but not in my family, we're messed up. My mom can't keep a speck of information to herself, and eventually told my father and sister. They laughed about it then, they still laugh about it now.

    I figured when all was said and done, my family and somehow I would be able to forget about it all, but that's not the family I was born into. My sister, loves this story, she loves it so much she enjoys sharing it with the people in my life.

    When I was in grade 11, I was bringing a boyfriend home for dinner for the first time, and pleaded with my sister not to breath a word of my past, especially the one about the Christmas tree, she agreed. Surprised, I thanked her, and was slightly less nervous about the meeting (but still nervous, I have a family full of lunatics)

    My sister is a woman of her word, and she indeed kept it. She did not once verbally mention the story.  My boyfriend entered the house, shook hands with the maniacs and then we all sat down in the living room to get to know each other.

    My dad didn't bust in with anything inappropriate, and my mom kept the one liners at bay. I started to feel at ease. I started to think everything was going to be OK (NOTE: anytime I think or say this in my life, within 36 hrs, things go to shit) My sister, keeping her word, decided to get up and serenade all company with a song on the family piano that still sits in my parents living room.

    It's almost like a moment out of a movie, everyone gathered round the piano for some family time. It seemed perfect, that is, until my sister hit the keys to the tune of “Oh Christmas Tree.” Please note, that it was June.

    I could feel my face glowing red as my sister belted out the words to the tune, and my parents started to laugh. My boyfriend at the time looked at me confused, and asked if there was something he was missing, to that I added, “It's funny because it's June.”

    I admit my nerves were jangled, but I managed to make it out of that situation unscathed. Time moved on as well did my boyfriend. The following Christmas, my sister's boyfriend (now my brother in law) joined us for dinner, and nervously sat to become initiated as part of the family. I felt it deep down, now was my chance for revenge.

    There were never enough seats in the house to accommodate all parties, so the piano bench would get brought out for large family meals. At this particular meal; my parents, my sister, my aunt, my cousin and a jittery future brother in law were all in attendance. No piano bench meant no chance to sit at the piano, my story, was safe.

    Dinner had started and the conversation was going overall well. There was no political or religious debates ending in tears (it happens) and now would be my time to chime in with silly things from my sisters past (which she stresses still there are none).

    As the conversation lulled (miracle if you ask me) my opportunity knocked, and I cleared my throat to tell her potato chip story (later, I promise). Before any words could escape from my mouth, my sister started to hum a familiar tune. She then turned and looked at me all the while with a giant smirk on her face as she hummed her best version of O Christmas Tree, to which all parties laughed (yes, the whole fucking family knows).

    My brother in law looked puzzled, and asked about the song. This time, it wasn't June, it was an appropriate song for the time, but my sisters face and the giggles gave it away, he knew there was story there.  I had no escape,  they all looked at me, and asserted that I tell the story (you know, it being my story and all).

    My family then persisted, asking me to tell him the story. This back and forth yes and no continued on for a good ten minutes, and I was grasping to the hope that everyone would simply drop it and move on, but they didn't. They persisted.

    As they pleaded, my sister kept chiming in with “come on LB, Oh Christmas Tree Oh Christmas Tree...”

    This scenario is a familiar one in my family, I call it, Dance Monkey Dance. If you share a good story, you will be made to share it time and again to newbies. If you do an impression, or something embarrassing in our presence, prepare to relive it. If you say no when asked, you will be badgered to the  point of eventually giving in, because my family is insanely persistent.

    After an eternity of them pleading and me saying no, the chatter got louder. All parties pleading,  my brother in law looking at me expectantly, so finally, with no strength left, I gave in to them. With no fight left, I belted out “FINE. When I was really little, I shit my pants in the woods when we were getting a Christmas Tree.”

    That did it. Everyone lost it, laughter, tears, it was pandemonium at the table. My sister, lovingly adding to it, proclaimed “you weren’t THAT young!”

    Burst of laughter hit again, and I sat there sour faced. My sister was breathless and crying, sitting next to her man who was belting out laughs I didn't know he was capable of having (he was known as painfully shy prior to this).

    “Hey LB,” my sister could barely form the words “what ever happened to that favourite pair of mickey mouse underwear you had?”

    With that my brother in law nearly fell off his seat laughing. I think that was the night he officially joined our family. My sister, dodged any attack from me and turned the tables in a surprising twist (she IS a Doctor after all). I, on the other hand, became the center of the family circus, and never lived it down.

    The following Christmas, I did the only rationale thing I could. I put on a snowsuit, bought a pair of mickey mouse underwear, stretched them over the snowsuit, and had my sister take a picture of me with a ridiculous grin on my face. I then put it in a nice frame, wrapped it up in Christmas paper, and gave it to him for Christmas. Who's idea was this? Why my sister's of-course.

    She is the genius, and for the most part, I get to benefit from this fact. However, she is a member of the family, so she is a super genius with excellent timing like our father, sometimes, this bites me in my mickey mouse wearing ass.

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.”