The Final Straw

 

Sometimes all it takes is one tiny little irritating thing to launch you over the edge and project you into a flaming rage. We’ve all been there, at least I sure as shit hope we have. Yes people, many of us have the cognitive ability to rationalize emotion and calm ourselves down in times of adrenaline surge, but sometimes it’s just easier to let it go, and not in the Frozen sense.

My good and long time friend Balls (clearly her nickname) recently whirl-winded herself into my house in a frenzy I can relate too. She was having one of those days where nothing was going right. It was a series of events that had piled on her from the time of wake up and spiralled into one hell of a bad day. It included several things, snow shovelling, icy steps, a recent guy she met on a popular dating site had turned out to be a creep, her car gave her problems, messes were left around the house she had just cleaned, she smacked her head on a cupboard etc.

The final straw she huffed after recounting her impossible day, was that when she went to get ready to leave her house and come see me, she attempted a pony tail in her hair.

“You know when you get that one fucking loop of hair?!” she yelled, “That was it. That did it, fucking perfect pony tail except for the one tiny fucking little loop of hair sticking up right HERE.” (as she mentioned to where on her head this monstrous hair loop had lived)

She then recanted what around the house she slammed, kicked or whipped across a room. We ended up laughing the matter off and the remainder of the day mellowed her mood, but it got me to thinking. Thinking about those days I have where it all just seems to stack up. Recalling times I had slammed this or that and cried over a compilation of tiny little issues that always seemed to culminate with one last tiny thing.

The last snowflake that breaks the branch, the straw that breaks the camels back, the final hair loop that causes a person up a bell tower with a sniper rifle picking off civilians while muttering. What is really behind it all though? Is it the day that causes people to freak out? Is it a persons mood? And why, if we are so evolved and mature do we still throw tantrums from time to time when shit just isn’t right?

In order to really look into this, I decided to relive a day that almost ruined me.  Last January I attempted a trip to Collingwood Ontario to celebrate my friend Bilbo’s birthday (mutual friend with Balls, my friend Balls, not like man balls...Bilbo is female). It was to take place at a lovely luxury cabin in a winter wonderland with spa time, snow shoeing and wine. I couldn’t wait to get out of Dodge, and away from the daily stresses.

It turned into one of the longest and most stressful days of travel I have ever had.

I think I will take a note from Dane Cook, and Tarantino this story, starting of course at the end before jumping my way back to the beginning. So let’s do this...

I am a calm rationale person with respect for the employees of any establishment. However, Monday January 27th, 2014 at 11:52pm I found myself red faced and spitting while screaming across a hotel lobby reception desk at a Front Desk employee with a crowd of shocked hotel guests watching in horror. All this before dramatically grabbing my room key off the counter and dragging my luggage across the Best Western lobby floor, tears rolling down my face while screaming "THIS PLACE IS FUCKING RIDICULOUS!"

I am not sure who I was by the end of that day, but let me rewind. There were definitely other “snowflakes” that fell before breaking my branch. 

I need to add that I studied Geography in University and never lost an interest in weather, but over the years due to it’s unpredictable nature, had lost interest in the weather channel at this time. I laughed recently when my friend told me he had more faith in the ground hogs' weather predictions than he did the weather network. I have decided recently to start pay closer attention to both.

It all started, with a very early alarm. It was a cold Monday in the Niagara region and the sound of my alarm shattered my deep sleep. I dragged myself out of bed, and stood in my hallway feeling dizzy and tired.

I had just come off a long stretch of night shifts at work, and had only 24 hrs to try and switch my sleep pattern to normal. It had failed and I could feel the weight of overtired.

I was scheduled for a training session out of town at my work's head office, and was set to keep heading north afterwards for my week of snow related activities (aka drinking in a lodge). I was excited; there is nothing quite like snow covered pines and fresh air.

I had packed the car up the night before and was prepared for a long day. All I had to do, was take my cat to my parents house, and hit the highway. My cat always seems to know when I am about to abandoned her for awhile, she sees the luggage and she knows.

In the morning, sensing this inevitable departure, she hid. It took me twenty five minutes of searching and eventual chasing to capture my kitty, and when I finally slid her into the pet carrier I felt relief. That was, until I realized I had not closed the other side, and she simply walked right out, and hid for another ten minutes.

When I delivered the furry bundle of joy to my parents (I can see my father rolling his eyes right now) my phone rang. It was a co worker set to go to training, asking if I was going with the snow squall warnings in effect for the area.

I laughed, and said I would be going and it was fine, I had just been out on the roads. My mom then flipped on the weather channel, and showed concern for me driving up north later as the weather channel was saying to avoid travel.

I said I would check in with her later and not to worry, if I was too tired or the weather was bad I would wait a day to leave. I hopped in my car, hit the tunes and hit the road. I made my obvious stop at Tim's on the way to the HWY, as any respectable Canadian would do.

They didn't have the bagel or cream cheese I requested, and I somehow ended up ordering the next thing offered, a cheese bagel with butter. I was good with that, I love both cheese and butter (you don't keep a figure like mine without those things) but when I opened it as I drove away the butter which coated the entire bagel dripped all over my coat and the side of my arm.


I rarely bring things back, but it was not edible. If it has too much butter for me, it has way to much fucking butter. The lady was nice, but this put me back and I started to panic about being late before I hit the highway.

The weather was not entirely ideal but it was just snow. I continued to tell myself that if I could handle living in Northern Alberta, Southern Ontario winter was no big deal. As I started to unwind to the music and make my way up to training, I smiled. I looked out to the right to glance at the lake, and noticed a heart shaped cloud off in the distance. Maybe, I thought, I am going to meet someone soon (when you are single chronically like myself, these thoughts come in from time to time).

The snow continued to fall and suddenly my windshield wipers stopped working properly. Ice had formed and the wiper on the drivers side was creating a thin sheet of icy water and slush making it almost impossible to see out the front window. I began to panic and took the next exit off the highway to fix the problem. As I stepped on to the road my shoes began to draw in all the wet slush and ended up with two matching soakers.

I was able to fix my wipers, and back on the highway I merged, now in full anxiety about being late. I made it to my training and when I reached the parking lot, no spaces. I had to park a street over and walk in the slush again before waiting for a long elevator.  I was ten minutes late, I was embarrassed entering a class of people already settled in as I huffed and puffed from my journey, now overtired and a bit cranky. I took the first available spot, and apologized to the room.

I ended up sitting next to a male student in the agency who I had never met before. This did not stop him from being completely creepy and telling me about the girls he picks up at the club, and asking me what clubs I went too. My answer, I don’t, I’m in my thirties. He continued to make sexist comments all day and be completely inappropriate but I was too tired to care and too focused on the clock, anxious to get on the road heading North.

My instructor for the day, is notorious in my agency for being informative but extremely long winded with a series of um’s and ah’s to take up extra time. He indeed went thirty minutes past the scheduled time of completion for the training, which meant I left Hamilton right at rush hour time instead of thirty minutes before.

Before I got on to the traffic infested highway, I made sure to call Bilbo who was already at the resort with other people attending. She said the roads were clear, that the last guest aside from me was almost there and also said the roads were fine so not to worry. I was extremely tired from my crossover from nights and my long day of training but I figured what’s two and a half more hours to travel to a winter getaway.

I hit the traffic and then I hit the weather. As I made my way out of the thick Brampton jam, the roads began to clear in terms of cars but the snow started to fall and blow all over. The sun was setting and causing serious snow blindness as I gripped the wheel and calmly told myself it was all going to be ok.

My speed was slow but as I made my way around a bend somewhere on the 400 my car slid sideways and I almost drove into oncoming traffic and then a wall. My heart was racing and I pulled over at a rest stop figuring now would be a good time to stop for dinner and rest a moment.

I crammed fast food into my gullet, calmed myself and hoped back into my car, texting my friend before I left to say I was fifty minutes away, according to my GPS. It was at this point I should have realized I was the only one turning right out of the rest stop to head North and that as I made my way down the dark highway no one was on the road.

The highway was ice covered, snow covered and next to open fields that started to create moments of complete white out. At first it was temporary and fast and I figured I was as far as I was; best just keep going North.

There was barely a sole on the road aside from the occasional transport truck pulled over, and the snow started to rush out more intensely. The snow squalls the weather network predicted were happening right in front of me.  There were parts where I could see no more than two feet in front of my car and I began to panic.

I was tired, all alone, and driving in a dark and horrific snow storm. I don’t think I realized at that moment how dangerous my decision to keep going was, but I just kept telling myself it would pass. It didn’t. If at all possible, it got worse, but the thought of turning around and doing all that driving again made me even more tired. I left training at three thirty pm, the drive was estimated by GPS at just over two hours and by this time it was almost seven thirty and I was still somehow thirty minutes away.

I started to run out of gas, and luckily made it to a small town with a gas station open. I stood in the storm and filled up my car and outside the weather didn’t seem to bad. As i went in a paid for my gas and of course a diet pepsi, I overheard the cashier say she as just about to close. I assumed it was just a small town with early hours but now realize she meant because of the fucking snow storm happening outside.

Again I pulled out, texting my friend first who was starting to wonder where I was to say GPS is telling me I am twenty minutes away. I told her to get a drink ready and that I needed a good twelve hours of sleep effective as soon as I down my wine and say goodnight.

GPS told me to turn right as I came to the final intersection in an empty town, and as I turned I noted that both heading left and straight were blocked off with barricades reading CLOSED DUE TO EXTREME WEATHER.

Finally, I thought, some actual dumb luck for the day I would be screwed if my road was closed as it was the only road in to my destination from where I was geographically. As I headed down the new highway turn off, the snow piled higher and ahead I started to see yellow flashing lights. It was a sign, the same sigh for the other roads. Everything was fucking closed, and I was stuck.

I pulled into an empty lot and started to cry.

“It’s ok,” I said to myself, “it’s going to be ok, you will find a way there.”
I turned my car around to check the other roads again, but alas I was correct, they were closed and GPS indicated that to get to my destination, there was only one way. I headed back to the closed sign and parked in front of it, wondering if I could just squeeze around it and keep going.

It was at this time, I called Bilbo and when she answered the tears came again. She told me to calm down and that her friend just drove around the sign and was fine, was there drink in hand. I found out she had been there for an hour, and said there was no way the roads weren't as bad as I was saying.

My friend who I love just didn’t seem to understand the emergency I was having and I felt more alone. I said I didn’t know what to do, I was going to call my parents and get them to look up another route if possible. I called my mom, whose voice made me cry more. She tried to calm me and just as I explained my dilemma, an OPP cruiser pulled up next to me and I rolled my window down. As the snow rushed in I greeted the officer staring at me with concern and judgment.

The look on the officers face offended me, he was looking at me like I was some crazy bitch, but in this moment in time I guess the shoe fit.  I was in a small Honda in the middle of a record breaking snow storm where even transport trucks wont drive trying to made my way down a clearly closed road. I was in the middle of no where late at night and he probably was wondering how stupid I could be to be where I was, and he was right.

“What are you doing?” he yelled across the storm from his car to me.

“I am on my way to Collingwood,” I replied.

“Well,” he said curtly “no your not, not anymore.”

I tried to breathe deep, “is there another way?” I said, “I can see this road is closed.”

“No.” he growled. “Best you head back where you came from, everything out here is getting shut down. Don’t even think about using this road, we don’t need any more casualties on it.”

With that he wished me luck and drove off parking far enough he could watch me, but not enough he could help me. I was severely tired, stressed, alone, scared, and now, completely stranded.

I called my mom again in a panic, and she somehow calmed enough to convince me to head south, find a hotel or motel and they would book me a room, as of course I was travelling with no credit card.

I told my friend who sounded disappointed in me I wasn’t able to make it, and then checked my GPS for the closest lodging. It was back about 40 km and down a side road, I felt relieved and slowly started to make my way back down the highway to the turn off.

The county road was as barren as the main highway but I thought nothing of it. I passed a few farm houses and thought about begging for a room but was so close to a motel I knew I could make it the short distance. It took me another forty minutes but when I saw the sign for the Village with the motel I sighed relief. That was until I couldn’t get into their parking lot without a struggle because it wasn’t plowed. Then it sunk in that it wasn’t plowed because there was no one there. Furthermore, the reason was because it was seasonal and it was not the season for this motel. Fucking GPS doesn’t have that information and now I was forty minutes from the main road I needed to head back to; to backtrack more to the nearest city.

I called my mother again, and made my way all the way back to Barrie. I found a Hotel, pulled into a plowed parking space and called my mom to tell her I was safe, and I would call from inside for the card information, I told her I was so happy there was a Boston Pizza across the parking lot and I planned to grab a pint and watch hockey, It was all going to be ok.

As I walked in to the front lobby, I immediately overheard the clerk tell the people in front of me the hotel was full along with all other lodgings in Barrie due to the storm. Fuck me. I said nothing, walked back out into the cold and to my car called my mom and begged for help again.

I ended up driving back more, to Brampton to the Best Western Hotel off the highway because it was the closest place with room. They agreed to take a card over the phone and I was all set. At ten fifty five pm, after being awake and overtired and driving in deadly weather on a route, twice, I finally pulled in to the Best Western and sighed relief again, I was here and I could finally sleep.

I entered the Lobby and approached the desk, and there she was, Cassandra, the front desk clerk. I plopped my stuff down and looked at her, letting out a heavy sigh. I did the usual how are you greeting as I pulled out my wallet.

“You have no idea how happy I am too be here.” I said. “I am pretty sure I almost died out there a few times tonight.” I then went on to explain my mother had phoned and booked me a room.

Her attitude changed from nothing to bitchy right away, and I am not sure why as my mother is an absolute riot, especially on the phone. She then gave me attitude and told me the hotel was doing me a huge favour and that if it was up to her I wouldn’t be staying there without a credit card. I told her I had debit but the hotel didn’t take it, and that I was thankful they agreed to take a card over the phone.

I didn’t want to yell at her, I didn’t want to fight, I just wanted this day to be completely over. She told me they needed information faxed (which my mom was doing at that exact moment from a friends) and that I should sit and wait.

I did just that. I waited for forty minutes while she serviced all other customers. I waited even though I could see the fax that had come through sitting atop the fax machine. I began to huff, I began to puff, I began to feel the rage. I called my mom again, and expressed my anger, telling her I just wanted to go to sleep and didn’t want to end up killing someone at the hotel. My mom said the fax ws sent and told me to breathe.

Finally, after being ignored, I stormed up to the counter, and flagged down the front desk clerk, asserting myself in front of people checking in. She told me he was busy and to sit down, the fax wasn’t there yet.

I pointed to it, and told her it was. She sighed, and said she would help me in a minute, flagging over people that had just walked in to the hotel. She helped them with a friendly attitude, and then she grabbed her cell phone to send a fast text under the desk, which I could see.

Finally, she walked over and began to check me into a room. “You know,” she said with a thick douche like accent “we normally don’t do this for people, so your lucky.”

That was it, that was the one. That was my hair loop. After all I had been through that day, being overtired, getting buttered, dealing with snow and fear and a lack of help from law enforcement, from my windshield wipers to the dick next to me in training, to rush hour traffic and almost crashing, from the cat hiding to the early morning alarm, that comment, pushed me off my cliff.

“Fuck you.” I said as I felt the kettle inside me whistling with steam. “I am a paying customer at this hotel and you should be thanking me for the business. Your attitude is shit, you have been a bitch since the minute I walked in, You ignored me and...”

Well the rest I am not so sure, but as I said, it was me, red faced and spitting while screaming across a hotel lobby reception desk at a Front Desk employee with a crowd of shocked hotel guests watching in horror. All this before dramatically grabbing my room key off the counter and dragging my luggage across the Best Western lobby floor, tears rolling down my face while screaming "THIS PLACE IS FUCKING RIDICULOUS!"

That’s it folks, that’s what it looks like to have one of those days. The thing is, if I dissect it now I can see why I no longer had the ability to keep it in, as I was very angry. It had to do with the culmination of shitty events, but it wasn’t the day that made me scream. It was the emotions underneath it all. What emotions are under anger?

Guilt. I felt guilty I wasn’t able to make it to my friends birthday. I felt like I let her down and that because the weather was to stay this way for a day or two, I knew deep down I wasn’t going to make it and that tomorrow I would be back in Niagara.

Shame. Shame came with this, as I feel sometimes like I don’t give as much into my friendship with Bilbo as she does, and so letting her down just pulled this feeling out.

Fear. I was scared for my life for about seven hours alone in a vehicle and it had snowballed (literally).

Sad. Sad in terms of disappointed, because all I wanted, was a damn vacation after working so hard. It didn’t help that the vacation I tried to take prior was canceled last minute. I am lucky to be able to take trips, but I was annoyed they just weren’t happening.

All these emotions bubbled up all day, added to tired and yes, my cognitive ability to calmly tell the front desk clerk she was not doing a good job was disrupted and out of order.  I was disappointed in the hotel and could have expressed this a bit better. It could have been less publicly embarrassing for me at least, because no one in the lobby knew the day I had, they just watched me loose it.

So in terms of those days, where we just wanna scream, perhaps we need to take a step back and look at the pieces of why we are there emotionally. Maybe its not just the loop in your hair driving you crazy, maybe you just lost your job and it’s “one more thing” that usually you would ignore and simply redo the pony tail. Maybe dropping your coffee on your work station would be laughable if you didn’t fear that your marriage was ending, etc.

Next time you see someone who’s just broken their branch, remember, maybe they got a lot going on and you don’t need to judge them. We’ve all been there.

On a final note, I think I need to tell you what the training was on the day I lost it at Best Western. It was Collaborative Problem Solving. The training was on how to solve emotional issues or conflict in a respectable mature way. Positive communication.

I think it’s safe to say, I failed. Not the training, just the real life simulation.




And no Cassandra, I am not sorry for yelling at you either, you were kind of a bitch, but maybe you were having a bad day too...and if that’s the case, well then I am half sorry. Kinda.

A Cold Birthday

It started off like any other day in 2009, slow. I dragged myself out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. My cat swished in and out of my legs announcing to me that feeding time had long since passed as I stumbled down the hall. I splashed water on my face and wondered if it was worth taking a shower. I sighed deeply as I patted dry my worn and tired face. I made my way into the kitchen still half asleep and filled my cats bowl with a shower of kibbles. Indeed that would be the only shower in my place that day.

I took in a deep breath and stood at my balcony window overlooking the street and big sky. I was living in Northern Alberta at the time and the ground was covered in a blanket of snow. A very thick blanket, perhaps you may even call it a down filled comforter.

It was late October, it was minus who the hell cares it was cold, and it was still snowing. I tossed my giant winter coat on over my pjs, stepped into my boots and slid the balcony door open stepping outside.

The cold air smacked my face and iced my lungs as I lit my smoke and drew in the frosted air. It was at that moment I realized something, it was my birthday. I was turning 27, meaning I was officially in my late twenties (I am not sure why that was important, but it was). I missed my friends back home, I missed my family, and I missed feeling like my birthday was of any importance.

I was in a very unhealthy relationship with the guy in the apartment next to mine, who loved booze more than anything else and I was a miserable person. My life was in a dank crawl space during this time, and it felt worse thinking that if I was home in Ontario the day would have been better.

I had a pity party, and as the snow started to cover any space left in the sky my cousin called me to wish me well. As she chimed in a "Happy Birthday!" and I started to sob.

I could hear her gasp on the other end, and she asked me what was wrong. I sobbed and explained that I felt alone, that it was snowing on my birthday for the first time ever and I hated it, and that all I wanted was to be home celebrating with everyone.

She comforted me, and once I had stopped crying wished me a better day. As I put the phone down I sat on the edge of my futon and stared at the wall (something I did a lot back then). My eyes burned and felt puffy as the thoughts in my head went silent.

The phone rang again, this time it was my at the time boyfriend. He wished me well and said he had big plans for the evening (which was nothing, because he got drunk and "ruined my birthday", but that's not the story I'm telling.)

I hung up again, and lay down. The phone rang again, and I didn't really feel like answering it, I just didn't want to talk. After a few rings I reached over, and said a faint "hello".

It was my best in the west friend, and she told me she would be at my place in twenty minutes so I best put pants on (I am famously known in my circle of friends to not have pants on while at home - thus needing warning of any stoppers by).

I told her I didn't feel much like seeing anyone at that moment, but before I could argue more she told me to "shove it" and she would see me in twenty. Feeling irritated, I pulled myself off the couch, did a fast sink wash and dressed.

Happy fucking birthday to me, was all I could think. I had good reason to be down and depressed, and I was doing a really good job of being sad.

Tbe apartment buzzer went twenty minutes later and I let my friend into the building. I could hear her climbing up the stairs in the hallway (not uncommon when your apartment is next to the damn stairs) and with a knock she opened my door.

I was sitting on the couch when she came in, and she told me to get up. She hugged me and wished me a happy birthday, then tossed my shoes and coat at me while standing at the door.

I sighed, put on my shoes and winter coat, and out the door we went. She tossed the car keys at me, and said "you're driving."

What the fuck, I thought. "Fine" I said irritated. "Nothing I love more than driving in a blizzard."

She laughed at me and told me to stop being cranky pants, and I got into her car. As I adjusted the seat I noticed a note stuck to the steering wheel.

"Here's the deal Anderson, you're going to drop me off downtown and then read the note, its a Birthday Scavenger Hunt!!" she smiled. "The last clue will lead you to me."

I smiled and drove towards downtown. She told me to pull over and let her out, and as she exited the car tossed a pirate eye patch at me and told me to wear it while I'm searching. I did wear it for a bit, but it didn't really seem all that safe to drive with an eye patch on. Or walk for that matter, I'm extremely accident prone.

I watched her as she walked away and opened the note. The first note said "The next clue is at the place we listen to music and you point out this CD every time"

It didn't take me long to know what she meant, and to simultaneously realize how repetitive I can be with certain things.  I did indeed point out an Esthero CD at the (only) music store in town, located at the fabulous mall. Off I went and in no time located parking, and headed inside.

I got to music store and hit the E section, then flipped through and pulled out my favourite album. There was the second note. This hunt continued on, from the tattoo parlor with a note under the mat, to the toy store with a clue hidden in a train tunnel, to the book store and beyond. Every single favourite place we shared in town, I went to and found more notes leading me forward.

The final note said "meet me for lunch at our place" and off to the Shawrma Hut I went. For a small town in the middle of nowhere (at least to someone from Southern Ontario it feels that way) I was reminded of how many cool places there were, and although the variety of urban delights wasn't as great, what the town did have felt like home.

I pulled into the parking lot of the Hut, and walked towards the door no longer focusing on the bitter cold but dreaming of rice and garlic sauce. As I walked through the door, there was my best friend, sitting across the room at a table with a giant High School Musical gift bag and a bunch of helium balloons.

This time I cried tears of joy. It was a perfect lunch, and the day was saved. My friend had to run off to work in the evening, and yes the rest of that day was a nightmare I'd rather not relive, but that day....that was one hell of a day.

My birthday scavenger hunt is still one of the warmest memories in my mind. I think hollow times often have bright bursts here and there, and to not appreciate them is to live in darkness. The love and care I received from one friend in one moment, was enough to push me forward and keep me going.

I was reminded of this story recently, as my dear friend has just given birth to her first beautiful baby. I tell you folks, this is one lucky kid. He has a mom who understands how to make life magical with her crazy imagination and huge heart. He has a mom who provides unconditional love and care. He has a mom who will make his life an adventure full of surprises, full of knowledge and perspective, full of fun.

I hate that I am so far away. I hate that I wasn't outside her hospital room pacing back and forth waiting for news. But I love her. I love our friendship, and I love that no matter the distance we will always have each other.

I can't wait to meet her son, and kiss his little cheek. I can't wait to take him out, fill him with chocolate and return him past bedtime either, cause that's what friends are for, right?

Dearest friend so far away....


I love you man.

 True friendship lasts a lifetime - and includes a road trip that also includes a giant sausage along the way. 

Lloyd and Harry 

Summer 2009 (aka The Good Time in 09)

Road Trips with Nor Anderson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks a lot Dad, love you too.

Pulling a Me

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, a miracle; Stans work phone rang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nor Anderson's Lesson on "Bullying"

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Road Trips with Gig: Part 1.5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No." replied Gig.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be honest, neither did I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gig thought this, was hilarious.

.  .  .

My Cousin Gig

GIG GORDOL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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