Remember being in high school and doodling the name of the person you were hopelessly infatuated with? Over and over again.
Mrs. Bronwyn Feldman
Mrs. Bronwyn Slater
Mrs. Bronwyn Swayze
Alas, what teenage girl hasn't done something along those lines. Sometimes, even with boys who weren't movie stars but equally out of my reach. Mrs. Bronwyn Howden. Sigh.
Of course, now that high school alumni will stumble across this and be horrified. Whatever. He was red-headed and tall. In those days, that was all it took.
I liked to take my teenage dreams and ramp it up a notch. No sense just doing something half way.
Like the time I drew a huge heart on my hand and doodled my name plus a short dorky guy I had a crush on in Grade 8. Then, when the cool girls caught a glimpse of my hand and mocked me (and him undoubtedly) I was stuck spending the entire recess trying to erase all records of it with soap that smelled like chemicals and paper towel that could take the paint off a car, but not the ink off my hand.
You would think I would have learned after that embarrassment, but alas, teenage girls are stupid.
In Grade 10 algebra, I took stalking and moping to a whole new level.
I started inserting the guy's name into my algebra equations. You know how x= 2+5? Well, in my book it went like this
i = 2+5
l = 3-4
o=4x6-8
v=3/4 x 4/6
e=14+5/7
b=26-5x45-13
r=3-7x2
a=2x5-37x2
You get the picture.
Imagine my horror, when after finishing an hour worth of assignments in my notebook, we were told to pass our books up the row so another classmate could correct our work.
Thank God I used a pencil.
Showing posts with label My life in stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My life in stories. Show all posts
Monday, June 06, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Running back to Mommy -- my 22nd year.
My life in stories are here.
My favourites are: The year I got a brother instead of a pony; The year my sister ruined Christmas; The year I fell down a hill; and The year I was allowed to hit people for sport.
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I have a firm belief that everyone should move out the year after high school. Everyone needs a cheap apartment that smells like cat pee and has a crazy old lady living next door who doesn't come outside but peers at you through a crack in her door as you leave for school or return after a late night out.
Everyone needs to learn to live on $500 a month. Well, you can adjust that with COLA to make sense in today's market.
When I first moved out, I lived in an apartment for $210. I had the rest of the $290 to spend frivolously on food, phone, and school supplies. It wasn't my money -- my parents gave it to me -- but I had to know how to spend it. There was no getting more when it was done.
When I dropped out of school and had to live off my own funds, I had slightly more a month. I had a whopping $700 a month, but I also adopted a car. And a room mate. I had slightly less panic in the month, but more responsibility.
And then, I decided to move home.
I believe that all people need to move out after high school and, at some point in their early 20s, should move back home.
Why?
So they will want to get the hell out again as soon as possible.
You see, I went from living at home with everything I could ever want to living alone with nothing I needed. Except freedom. Glorious, glorious freedom.
I moved home to go back to school. I moved from a two bedroom apartment of my own (with room mate) to an 8x10 bedroom beside my parent's room. It was... a learning experience.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents. But being free to make my own decisions and my own choices and my own supper (of cereal) was amazing. Being back home -- with siblings and parents and meal times -- well, it was an adjustment. I had had the taste of sweet freedom and I would have done anything to get it back.
Some really good things came out of my choice to move home. I got into a school program I loved. I became better friends with my sisters. I became a lot closer with my mom. I started my paper route again. My mom did my laundry.
Part of me needed to return home that year. So many things had happened that I didn't know how to deal with. Part of me needed to run home to Mommy. I needed to know that there was safety and comfort somewhere.
But a year later, I had to get the hell out. And that was even better.
My favourites are: The year I got a brother instead of a pony; The year my sister ruined Christmas; The year I fell down a hill; and The year I was allowed to hit people for sport.
***********************************
I have a firm belief that everyone should move out the year after high school. Everyone needs a cheap apartment that smells like cat pee and has a crazy old lady living next door who doesn't come outside but peers at you through a crack in her door as you leave for school or return after a late night out.
Everyone needs to learn to live on $500 a month. Well, you can adjust that with COLA to make sense in today's market.
When I first moved out, I lived in an apartment for $210. I had the rest of the $290 to spend frivolously on food, phone, and school supplies. It wasn't my money -- my parents gave it to me -- but I had to know how to spend it. There was no getting more when it was done.
When I dropped out of school and had to live off my own funds, I had slightly more a month. I had a whopping $700 a month, but I also adopted a car. And a room mate. I had slightly less panic in the month, but more responsibility.
And then, I decided to move home.
I believe that all people need to move out after high school and, at some point in their early 20s, should move back home.
Why?
So they will want to get the hell out again as soon as possible.
You see, I went from living at home with everything I could ever want to living alone with nothing I needed. Except freedom. Glorious, glorious freedom.
I moved home to go back to school. I moved from a two bedroom apartment of my own (with room mate) to an 8x10 bedroom beside my parent's room. It was... a learning experience.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents. But being free to make my own decisions and my own choices and my own supper (of cereal) was amazing. Being back home -- with siblings and parents and meal times -- well, it was an adjustment. I had had the taste of sweet freedom and I would have done anything to get it back.
Some really good things came out of my choice to move home. I got into a school program I loved. I became better friends with my sisters. I became a lot closer with my mom. I started my paper route again. My mom did my laundry.
Part of me needed to return home that year. So many things had happened that I didn't know how to deal with. Part of me needed to run home to Mommy. I needed to know that there was safety and comfort somewhere.
But a year later, I had to get the hell out. And that was even better.
Monday, May 02, 2011
When I was 21, I may have been the worst room mate
The rest of my life in stories can be found here.
After living on my own for a year, I decided it was likely best to find a room mate. This is mostly due to the fact that I had dropped out of university and was no longer being supported by my parents.
I know, parenting FAIL, but they were poor so I forgive them.
I moved into a basement suite with a good friend from summer church camp. Since I had the most furniture, I took the big room. She took the small room. She said she didn't mind.
We had great conversations in the middle of the night perched on the kitchen counters while enjoying Slurpees. We went for long walks without our bras and shared a kitten for about a week. We had a great time.
However, there were some other bad things about living with me. I didn't like to clean unless I was mad, so she did the majority of the cleaning. I was a terrible cook, so I would eat her left-overs she had saved to take to school the next day. I left my books on the counter and her very serious boyfriend read one of the sex scenes out loud before dying of embarrassment.
Seriously, to this day, I have no idea how she is still talking to me.
After living on my own for a year, I decided it was likely best to find a room mate. This is mostly due to the fact that I had dropped out of university and was no longer being supported by my parents.
I know, parenting FAIL, but they were poor so I forgive them.
I moved into a basement suite with a good friend from summer church camp. Since I had the most furniture, I took the big room. She took the small room. She said she didn't mind.
We had great conversations in the middle of the night perched on the kitchen counters while enjoying Slurpees. We went for long walks without our bras and shared a kitten for about a week. We had a great time.
However, there were some other bad things about living with me. I didn't like to clean unless I was mad, so she did the majority of the cleaning. I was a terrible cook, so I would eat her left-overs she had saved to take to school the next day. I left my books on the counter and her very serious boyfriend read one of the sex scenes out loud before dying of embarrassment.
Seriously, to this day, I have no idea how she is still talking to me.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The worst waitress in the world: my career choice at 20
I decided it was time to continue my life in stories. So far, I've done from years 1 to 19.
After my disastrous attempt to go to school in a different city, I dropped out. I decided to branch out into the world of the employed.
After numerous failed attempts to join the minions of the minimum wage, I was chosen to start as a waitress at the Elephant and Castle. I think that I clinched the interview by telling the manager that I wanted to make her proud of me. Can you say issues?
The next week I was decked out in my waitressing attire -- black pants, red polo shirt and a smile. I had high hopes for me.
I should have known.
Why would someone who can hardly walk across an empty room without falling down think she could balance a tray of anything while crossing a crowded restaurant?
My first day was a disaster. I was settled with a nice family with a little boy. They ordered drinks, I put them in the system. They ordered food. The little boy ordered fish and chips. The food never came.
Know why? Yeah, I forgot to put it in the system. They left in a flurry of anger and starving cries of a toddler.
It went down hill from there.
One day, I had a tray of 4 iced teas. I carefully balanced them all and braced myself because there was a cute boy at the table with his parents. I walked slowly and gracefully towards the table. Up one step -- all good. One more step -- I made it.
Then I tripped on my shoelace and dumped the entire tray in his lap.
Another day, they sent me to work on the mezzanine. That is a fancy word for second floor with a circling metal staircase. I had a couple of tables -- nothing too strenuous -- and very little to actually do. However, it meant climbing up and down those stairs for everything: drinks, food, bills, etc.
I was heading up the stairs with a freshly brewed pot of coffee in one hand and a pint of beer in the other when disaster struck. Again, it came in step form. I tripped on the landing and fell face first. One arm over one edge of the landing and one arm over the other.
Did I mention there were tables near the steps? Yup. Once couple got a lunch full of ale. The other, a lap full of coffee.
That was my last day working as a waitress. They moved me upstairs to cover the horse racing crowd. I spent the rest of my career pouring coffee for Greek men who bet hundreds and left no tips.
And the waitress who replaced me on the main floor?
Only spoke Spanish.
After my disastrous attempt to go to school in a different city, I dropped out. I decided to branch out into the world of the employed.
After numerous failed attempts to join the minions of the minimum wage, I was chosen to start as a waitress at the Elephant and Castle. I think that I clinched the interview by telling the manager that I wanted to make her proud of me. Can you say issues?
The next week I was decked out in my waitressing attire -- black pants, red polo shirt and a smile. I had high hopes for me.
I should have known.
Why would someone who can hardly walk across an empty room without falling down think she could balance a tray of anything while crossing a crowded restaurant?
My first day was a disaster. I was settled with a nice family with a little boy. They ordered drinks, I put them in the system. They ordered food. The little boy ordered fish and chips. The food never came.
Know why? Yeah, I forgot to put it in the system. They left in a flurry of anger and starving cries of a toddler.
It went down hill from there.
One day, I had a tray of 4 iced teas. I carefully balanced them all and braced myself because there was a cute boy at the table with his parents. I walked slowly and gracefully towards the table. Up one step -- all good. One more step -- I made it.
Then I tripped on my shoelace and dumped the entire tray in his lap.
Another day, they sent me to work on the mezzanine. That is a fancy word for second floor with a circling metal staircase. I had a couple of tables -- nothing too strenuous -- and very little to actually do. However, it meant climbing up and down those stairs for everything: drinks, food, bills, etc.
I was heading up the stairs with a freshly brewed pot of coffee in one hand and a pint of beer in the other when disaster struck. Again, it came in step form. I tripped on the landing and fell face first. One arm over one edge of the landing and one arm over the other.
Did I mention there were tables near the steps? Yup. Once couple got a lunch full of ale. The other, a lap full of coffee.
That was my last day working as a waitress. They moved me upstairs to cover the horse racing crowd. I spent the rest of my career pouring coffee for Greek men who bet hundreds and left no tips.
And the waitress who replaced me on the main floor?
Only spoke Spanish.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Moving out on my own and embarrassing myself: Being 19
All my other stories about my life are here.
When I turned 19, I decided I was going to move out. First, I left to work on the bee farm, and from there moved to Saskatoon for university. It was all part of my grand plan to be independent.
I rented a tiny bachelor suite in a building that smelled like cat pee. It was within walking distance from the University and moments from two of my good friends. The window was broken, the heat was always on, the door didn't lock correctly, and it was on the same block as a half-way house. I loved it.
While it wasn't the place to be all the time, my small home became a regular hangout for a few friends -- like the one who came to stay for a week and never moved out -- and we were all comfortable just hanging out watching my 2 TV channels and listening to my neighbours speak loudly in Chinese.
One afternoon, my roommate, myself and a good friend (who is a male) were hanging out. I got a phone call from A BOY! who I was crazy about. He was coming over to my place to hang out with us until it was time to go out with our whole group of friends. I tried to be nonchalant about the whole thing. I calmly got off the phone, announced that A BOY! was coming over and I got up off the couch where I had been sitting.
In my mind, I quietly tidied the room, put laundry away, and relaxed in quiet anticipation of his presence.
I forgot that I'm as subtle as a punch to the junk.
What actually happened is this: I leapt off the couch and dashed around the room gathering things into a laundry hamper. I started hiding things I thought would be embarrassing and then I went and changed my clothes. In my mind, it was a subtly sexy outfit that would play off my best features and make me more desirable.
Remember that thing about subtly?
I changed into a coloured bra (likely teal as it was my favourite) and a white dress shirt. I tucked this ensemble into my tight cowboy jeans (I was attempting to be a cowgirl those days) and put on my leather belt with shiny buckle. I then redid my make-up, put on the brightest red lipstick I owned, and redid my hair.
I finally settled back on the couch looking like an early 20s version of Tammy Faye Baker.
It wasn't until that moment that I noticed my male friend staring at me as though I had lost my mind and had my head spin around in circles while spitting pea soup. He hadn't known anything about my particular obsession and had been quite surprised.
Years later (14 to be exact) my friend is still telling the story about the time he watched me lose my mind over A BOY!
Thank God, I grew up.
When I turned 19, I decided I was going to move out. First, I left to work on the bee farm, and from there moved to Saskatoon for university. It was all part of my grand plan to be independent.
I rented a tiny bachelor suite in a building that smelled like cat pee. It was within walking distance from the University and moments from two of my good friends. The window was broken, the heat was always on, the door didn't lock correctly, and it was on the same block as a half-way house. I loved it.
While it wasn't the place to be all the time, my small home became a regular hangout for a few friends -- like the one who came to stay for a week and never moved out -- and we were all comfortable just hanging out watching my 2 TV channels and listening to my neighbours speak loudly in Chinese.
One afternoon, my roommate, myself and a good friend (who is a male) were hanging out. I got a phone call from A BOY! who I was crazy about. He was coming over to my place to hang out with us until it was time to go out with our whole group of friends. I tried to be nonchalant about the whole thing. I calmly got off the phone, announced that A BOY! was coming over and I got up off the couch where I had been sitting.
In my mind, I quietly tidied the room, put laundry away, and relaxed in quiet anticipation of his presence.
I forgot that I'm as subtle as a punch to the junk.
What actually happened is this: I leapt off the couch and dashed around the room gathering things into a laundry hamper. I started hiding things I thought would be embarrassing and then I went and changed my clothes. In my mind, it was a subtly sexy outfit that would play off my best features and make me more desirable.
Remember that thing about subtly?
I changed into a coloured bra (likely teal as it was my favourite) and a white dress shirt. I tucked this ensemble into my tight cowboy jeans (I was attempting to be a cowgirl those days) and put on my leather belt with shiny buckle. I then redid my make-up, put on the brightest red lipstick I owned, and redid my hair.
I finally settled back on the couch looking like an early 20s version of Tammy Faye Baker.
It wasn't until that moment that I noticed my male friend staring at me as though I had lost my mind and had my head spin around in circles while spitting pea soup. He hadn't known anything about my particular obsession and had been quite surprised.
Years later (14 to be exact) my friend is still telling the story about the time he watched me lose my mind over A BOY!
Thank God, I grew up.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
18 and counting: I rebelled and stayed out too late
The year I turned 18, my parents announced that I would no longer have a curfew. I had always had a curfew and had (with the exception of one time) always been on time for it. I used to stay at friend's homes who had later curfews, but was always on time for their curfew, so I'm sure it counts.
The night my parents told me there was no more midnight curfew, I got on the phone with a friend and made plans. I didn't know what we were going to do, but we were going to do it late into the night!
We did our usual. We cruised Albert St for boys. We played pool at our local haunt. Then, somehow, we ended up at a pathetically small house party. Three guys and ourselves. There was no alcohol or anything, so it's not even like it was a real house party. It was more like 5 strangers in a house with no furniture waiting until dawn.
I spent the evening on a balcony talking with a very handsome young man. That was it. Even in rebellion I couldn't be bad.
At 6am, I strolled into my own house with a grin, but nothing really to show for it. No gallavanting... no rabble rousing... just not coming home.
It was glorious. I never did it again.
The night my parents told me there was no more midnight curfew, I got on the phone with a friend and made plans. I didn't know what we were going to do, but we were going to do it late into the night!
We did our usual. We cruised Albert St for boys. We played pool at our local haunt. Then, somehow, we ended up at a pathetically small house party. Three guys and ourselves. There was no alcohol or anything, so it's not even like it was a real house party. It was more like 5 strangers in a house with no furniture waiting until dawn.
I spent the evening on a balcony talking with a very handsome young man. That was it. Even in rebellion I couldn't be bad.
At 6am, I strolled into my own house with a grin, but nothing really to show for it. No gallavanting... no rabble rousing... just not coming home.
It was glorious. I never did it again.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Inside out: the story of the grad dress
The start of the story was here.
I graduated in 1994. It was smack in the centre of some of the worst fashion choices ever. During the day, we wore a lot of plaid, oversized pants, our father's suit jackets, and chunk ugly boots. When we dressed up, we preferred velvet dresses that reached the floor and chunky heels. Looking back, nothing actually fit us.
When it came to graduation, I did not want to be like the other girls I knew -- the ones who spent hundreds of dollars on a dress they would wear to a supper, a lame dance, and then throw up on after getting sick on smuggled in booze. I wanted something different and unique and, apparently, super shiny.
I started designing my perfect dress. I took one of my sisters' old paper dolls and -- using her as a body template -- started drawing. I wanted something semi-off the shoulder (despite the fact I already had the shoulders of the line backer) and something semi-low cut. It should be well fitted, but not so much that my "fat rolls" (like I knew what fall rolls were) would show.
Finally, after a hundred versions (or three) I was ready. My friend, Rae, and I had a seamstress and she said she could make the dress to my specs. I was pumped. We went out and found material that would be perfect for it. My material was shiny, emerald green and slippery. I loved it. The wrong side of the material was a dark green, creepy feeling, weird looking material.
The day of our first fitting, I was super excited to see my creation in real life. The seamstress brought out the dress and laid it out in front of me in anticipation. My heart sank. The dress was inside out. The ugly, dark green, creepy side was out for the world to see.
I tried it on and it fit perfectly. I was polite and thanked her for her time. We would come back again for one more fitting. We left and I'm pretty sure I broke into tears.
My friend took pity on me and called the seamstress, telling her about the dress, and asking her to fix it. Thankfully, because it is the epitome of bad 90s fashion choices.
It just wouldn't have been the same otherwise.
I graduated in 1994. It was smack in the centre of some of the worst fashion choices ever. During the day, we wore a lot of plaid, oversized pants, our father's suit jackets, and chunk ugly boots. When we dressed up, we preferred velvet dresses that reached the floor and chunky heels. Looking back, nothing actually fit us.
When it came to graduation, I did not want to be like the other girls I knew -- the ones who spent hundreds of dollars on a dress they would wear to a supper, a lame dance, and then throw up on after getting sick on smuggled in booze. I wanted something different and unique and, apparently, super shiny.
I started designing my perfect dress. I took one of my sisters' old paper dolls and -- using her as a body template -- started drawing. I wanted something semi-off the shoulder (despite the fact I already had the shoulders of the line backer) and something semi-low cut. It should be well fitted, but not so much that my "fat rolls" (like I knew what fall rolls were) would show.
Finally, after a hundred versions (or three) I was ready. My friend, Rae, and I had a seamstress and she said she could make the dress to my specs. I was pumped. We went out and found material that would be perfect for it. My material was shiny, emerald green and slippery. I loved it. The wrong side of the material was a dark green, creepy feeling, weird looking material.
The day of our first fitting, I was super excited to see my creation in real life. The seamstress brought out the dress and laid it out in front of me in anticipation. My heart sank. The dress was inside out. The ugly, dark green, creepy side was out for the world to see.
I tried it on and it fit perfectly. I was polite and thanked her for her time. We would come back again for one more fitting. We left and I'm pretty sure I broke into tears.
My friend took pity on me and called the seamstress, telling her about the dress, and asking her to fix it. Thankfully, because it is the epitome of bad 90s fashion choices.
It just wouldn't have been the same otherwise.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Seventeen: Grad, black eyes, and a shiny green suit
Seventeen. The last year of high school. The year where your future is out in front of you and has the potential for anything. At seventeen, I was looking into the future and seeing my future self as a popular, sporty, active, and successful. Instead, I joined the year book committee as editor and started working at Zellers as a cashier.
But still! It was graduation!! I was going to rule the school in my senior year. I called teachers by their last names only (no "Mr" or "Mrs" for me!) and skipped a class. Yes, it was only one class and I got busted at the mall by my teacher, but I was BAD ASS. Seriously.
I was playing Rugby again that year, but was seriously hampered by the fact I had to have a job. It's funny. My brother played basketball and therefore did not have to work because he was too busy. I played rugby, edited the year book, was in choir and band, and in a couple of advanced classes, but I had a job. Not that I'm bitter.
A week before graduation, we played a particularly rough team. Not the team from the year before where I had told their captain we didn't want trouble and then proceeded to (ACCIDENTALLY) break her leg, but another team with similar toughness. We did a couple of plays and then someone mentioned that someone else was bleeding.
When someone is bleeding in sports, you're supposed to stop everything and stop the bleeding. I looked around for the culprit. It was then someone pointed out it seemed to be coming from me. My nose was gushing blood. I seemed to have broken it by running into another girl's shoulder. With a giant maxi-pad held to my nose, I stopped the bleeding and sat out the rest of the game. Later I went to the doctor and confirmed it was broken. A WEEK BEFORE GRAD! He stuck his fingers up my nose, did a hard yank to the other direction and pronounced me cured but for the start of two black eyes.
Just in time for year book pictures. Thank goodness grad pics had been ages before, or it could have been ugly. Instead, it was just kind of funny.
By the time grad came around, I was still a little bruised and swollen, but I was healing. It took a lot of makeup, but I managed to make the bruises look like somewhat-on-purpose eyeshadow.
So, I spent 3 hours curling my hair and pinning it up. Then I squeezed into an emerald green dress I had designed myself. If you look at my pic, you can see the swelling in my face, but otherwise I didn't do too badly.
I just wish I had picked out a better dress, I look like the guy from Good Morning Vietnam! Shiny green suit!
This is a further installment to My life in stories. I would list them all, but... that's a lot of things to link to.
But still! It was graduation!! I was going to rule the school in my senior year. I called teachers by their last names only (no "Mr" or "Mrs" for me!) and skipped a class. Yes, it was only one class and I got busted at the mall by my teacher, but I was BAD ASS. Seriously.
I was playing Rugby again that year, but was seriously hampered by the fact I had to have a job. It's funny. My brother played basketball and therefore did not have to work because he was too busy. I played rugby, edited the year book, was in choir and band, and in a couple of advanced classes, but I had a job. Not that I'm bitter.
A week before graduation, we played a particularly rough team. Not the team from the year before where I had told their captain we didn't want trouble and then proceeded to (ACCIDENTALLY) break her leg, but another team with similar toughness. We did a couple of plays and then someone mentioned that someone else was bleeding.
When someone is bleeding in sports, you're supposed to stop everything and stop the bleeding. I looked around for the culprit. It was then someone pointed out it seemed to be coming from me. My nose was gushing blood. I seemed to have broken it by running into another girl's shoulder. With a giant maxi-pad held to my nose, I stopped the bleeding and sat out the rest of the game. Later I went to the doctor and confirmed it was broken. A WEEK BEFORE GRAD! He stuck his fingers up my nose, did a hard yank to the other direction and pronounced me cured but for the start of two black eyes.
Just in time for year book pictures. Thank goodness grad pics had been ages before, or it could have been ugly. Instead, it was just kind of funny.
 |
| There I am 5th from the left in the back row. See how scary I am? |
So, I spent 3 hours curling my hair and pinning it up. Then I squeezed into an emerald green dress I had designed myself. If you look at my pic, you can see the swelling in my face, but otherwise I didn't do too badly.
|
| Faces have been removed to protect those guilty of 90s fashion. |
I just wish I had picked out a better dress, I look like the guy from Good Morning Vietnam! Shiny green suit!
This is a further installment to My life in stories. I would list them all, but... that's a lot of things to link to.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Sweet Sixteen: the year I found rugby and beat people up
My life in stories can be found here. Start at the beginning though or you'll think I'm aging backwards.
Is there anything worse than being a teenager? I mean, other than a parent of a teenager? I think not. A friend from high school and I were talking the other day after my year fifteen post and she reminded me that what I thought about myself was not how others perceived me. And then, she reminded me about rugby.
I don't know what made me try out for rugby. I don't remember, but what I know that when I stepped on the field I knew I belonged there. The toughest of the tough girls and the fastest of the scrawny girls gathered together to play a game normally reserved for guys.
It was the first year that a girls league was starting in the city and we took to it with passion. We practiced our hearts out -- running, tackling, scrumming, laughing. We had comradery even with girls who wouldn't have spoken with us on the school grounds. We compared bruises and injuries and tackle techniques. We were suddenly smiling when we used to act sullen and hide from the world.
I loved it. I loved the scrum (huddle like thing) where we all interlocked. I was the 8 Man. The muscle and power at the back end of the scrum. I held people up and pushed them forward. That was my role. Then, when the scrum was finished, I got to run like hell and hit whoever had the ball. It was everything I loved all rolled into one.
As a teen, I was angry. I was angry at me and the world and my parents and my siblings and my school and... well, you get the point. In rugby, I found a place for my anger and violent tendencies that did not involve getting me arrested. And I was good at it. I was big, solid, fearless, and would have run directly into a train knowing I could at least slow it down. I spent a great deal of that season with major bruising and numerous concussions, but I was happy.
After high school, I didn't get to play again. I worked two jobs right out of school. I went straight into university while still working and then moved to Saskatoon for a few years. It's sad that I have glory days that I look back on, but those moments on the field were the happiest of my teenage life.
Even if I was unconscious a lot.
Is there anything worse than being a teenager? I mean, other than a parent of a teenager? I think not. A friend from high school and I were talking the other day after my year fifteen post and she reminded me that what I thought about myself was not how others perceived me. And then, she reminded me about rugby.
I don't know what made me try out for rugby. I don't remember, but what I know that when I stepped on the field I knew I belonged there. The toughest of the tough girls and the fastest of the scrawny girls gathered together to play a game normally reserved for guys.
It was the first year that a girls league was starting in the city and we took to it with passion. We practiced our hearts out -- running, tackling, scrumming, laughing. We had comradery even with girls who wouldn't have spoken with us on the school grounds. We compared bruises and injuries and tackle techniques. We were suddenly smiling when we used to act sullen and hide from the world.
I loved it. I loved the scrum (huddle like thing) where we all interlocked. I was the 8 Man. The muscle and power at the back end of the scrum. I held people up and pushed them forward. That was my role. Then, when the scrum was finished, I got to run like hell and hit whoever had the ball. It was everything I loved all rolled into one.
As a teen, I was angry. I was angry at me and the world and my parents and my siblings and my school and... well, you get the point. In rugby, I found a place for my anger and violent tendencies that did not involve getting me arrested. And I was good at it. I was big, solid, fearless, and would have run directly into a train knowing I could at least slow it down. I spent a great deal of that season with major bruising and numerous concussions, but I was happy.
After high school, I didn't get to play again. I worked two jobs right out of school. I went straight into university while still working and then moved to Saskatoon for a few years. It's sad that I have glory days that I look back on, but those moments on the field were the happiest of my teenage life.
 |
| I'm the one with the arrow pointing at her head. |
Even if I was unconscious a lot.
Monday, November 01, 2010
Fifteen: The year I don't remember but learned to drive
A year ago this month, I started telling stories about my life. And then I got distracted -- likely by something shiny -- and never finished it. I am here to rectify this.
***************************
For some reason, when I get to 15 years of age I am stumped to think of a story. Seriously, I got nothing. It's like 15 was either so unoriginal or so traumatic that I blocked most of it from my memory. It is possible that it was both. Teenagers are like that.
I am sure of the time lines and I think I was in Grade 10 that year. I might have had my first real boyfriend that summer (if "real" is considered on and off for an entire week!) and I know that it was the fall where a well-meaning teacher introduced me to the class as the girl who tries out for all sports and never gets on a team.
But then, I remembered that I learned how to drive when I was 15. Well, 15 and a half, but we won't split hairs. Suddenly a plethora of stories flooded my brain. And here we go...
In my high school, we were offered driver training. It happened a couple of days a week, after school -- in a classroom. You know, where all driver training should be. I spent a month or two (who can remember now!) taking classes, reading on rules of the road, watching videos of accidents, and thinking about driving. After all that, I wrote my exam and was pronounced ready to drive!
At this point, I had still never sat behind the wheel other than to be in control of the heater when my parents left us in the car to go grocery shopping. But that didn't stop my father.
One day, Dad announced we would start with me driving. We got into the van and I don't know how but we drove a little ways down the street. My dad was a farm boy who likely drove his first vehicle at 6 years old, so I don't think it dawned on him that I had never in my life put my foot on the gas pedal. And yet, here we were, driving Ky to her friend's house.
It was a disaster. I didn't know how hard to press the gas, the brake pedal seemed to slam the van to a stop, and I had no idea how to keep the van on the road or between the lines. I seem to remember there being a lot of yelling.
Much of my driver training went badly. I'm not sure how much of that had to do with the teacher or the student. Well, a lot of it had to do with the student.
One of my first excursions resulted in me driving the van beside a Loraas bin and clipping the side of the van on the metal extensions used to lift the bin. Next, I turned into a parking lot and caught the edge of the van siding on an electric pole. It did not damage the van at all, but cleanly slid the siding out of the metal that held it in place. Shortly after that, I tore the side view mirror off as I pulled into the garage.
Much of my student driver experience was like that. I had difficulty staying in the lines on the road. I could not figure out how to change lanes safely in front of another vehicle. I couldn't figure out how long it should take to change lanes. It was all a disaster.
After awhile, we figured out a system. The middle line of the road had to disappear into the far corner of my windshield. That way, I stayed in the lines. It took three dots on the road to change from one lane to the other. (Although, this does not apply on the highway which I found out by scaring all the occupants of the vehicle to near death.) There had to be a small amount of the road showing between me and the car in front of me when pulling to a stop light. And on, and on.
It was 5 years before they discovered I had no depth perception. I got a pair of glasses and, suddenly, the world made sense. Unfortunately, the damage had been done. I had been taught to drive by my father.
***************************
For some reason, when I get to 15 years of age I am stumped to think of a story. Seriously, I got nothing. It's like 15 was either so unoriginal or so traumatic that I blocked most of it from my memory. It is possible that it was both. Teenagers are like that.
I am sure of the time lines and I think I was in Grade 10 that year. I might have had my first real boyfriend that summer (if "real" is considered on and off for an entire week!) and I know that it was the fall where a well-meaning teacher introduced me to the class as the girl who tries out for all sports and never gets on a team.
But then, I remembered that I learned how to drive when I was 15. Well, 15 and a half, but we won't split hairs. Suddenly a plethora of stories flooded my brain. And here we go...
In my high school, we were offered driver training. It happened a couple of days a week, after school -- in a classroom. You know, where all driver training should be. I spent a month or two (who can remember now!) taking classes, reading on rules of the road, watching videos of accidents, and thinking about driving. After all that, I wrote my exam and was pronounced ready to drive!
At this point, I had still never sat behind the wheel other than to be in control of the heater when my parents left us in the car to go grocery shopping. But that didn't stop my father.
One day, Dad announced we would start with me driving. We got into the van and I don't know how but we drove a little ways down the street. My dad was a farm boy who likely drove his first vehicle at 6 years old, so I don't think it dawned on him that I had never in my life put my foot on the gas pedal. And yet, here we were, driving Ky to her friend's house.
It was a disaster. I didn't know how hard to press the gas, the brake pedal seemed to slam the van to a stop, and I had no idea how to keep the van on the road or between the lines. I seem to remember there being a lot of yelling.
Much of my driver training went badly. I'm not sure how much of that had to do with the teacher or the student. Well, a lot of it had to do with the student.
One of my first excursions resulted in me driving the van beside a Loraas bin and clipping the side of the van on the metal extensions used to lift the bin. Next, I turned into a parking lot and caught the edge of the van siding on an electric pole. It did not damage the van at all, but cleanly slid the siding out of the metal that held it in place. Shortly after that, I tore the side view mirror off as I pulled into the garage.
Much of my student driver experience was like that. I had difficulty staying in the lines on the road. I could not figure out how to change lanes safely in front of another vehicle. I couldn't figure out how long it should take to change lanes. It was all a disaster.
After awhile, we figured out a system. The middle line of the road had to disappear into the far corner of my windshield. That way, I stayed in the lines. It took three dots on the road to change from one lane to the other. (Although, this does not apply on the highway which I found out by scaring all the occupants of the vehicle to near death.) There had to be a small amount of the road showing between me and the car in front of me when pulling to a stop light. And on, and on.
It was 5 years before they discovered I had no depth perception. I got a pair of glasses and, suddenly, the world made sense. Unfortunately, the damage had been done. I had been taught to drive by my father.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
That's some development
See that white building to the left? I pooped on the step there once.
We were driving into North Battleford in The Guy's truck with Ky dozing in the back. Passing the Western Development Museum sparked a memory for me. So, I blurted it out much to the amusement -- and likely amazement -- of my co passengers.
I was about 8 years old or so when my family and a million of my closest cousins went to the museum. The entire grounds contain a museum and a semi circle of buildings: each mini museums, where people could see what a settlement town would have looked like. We had wandered through the museum itself and then continued on to the little example town.
It was full of all sorts of amazing things that children aren't allowed to touch and desperately want to anyway. Doodads and knick knacks, books and pictures, shiny things and old machines. It was while we were in one of the buildings that my tummy started to gurgle.
I knew I had to go to the bathroom. I hadn't been feeling well that day anyway, but since it was likely due to the considerable amount of candy I had purchased without my parents knowledge and scarfed down before they noticed I was missing, I figured it best to keep it a secret. I also wasn't about to use a public bathroom to do number 2 so I set out to wait.
I feigned boredom at the constant gawking of old timey things and went outside to wait for the group. I wandered around until I realized movement was not helping things. Then I sat on the top stairs of one of the buildings hoping the added pressure on my bottom would keep things in place.
I thought I was in the clear. Until I heard the dreaded gurgle again. It seemed to have a life of it's own and soon, so did my bowels. I sat on the steps in my short summer shorts and died a little as I filled my cute little beige with brown flowers underwear and overflowed from the bottom of my shorts onto the step.
It was there Mom found me. She was very matter of fact about the whole thing, though I imagine slightly horrified to find her 8 year old rather than her 2 year old with a full set of shorts. She carted me away, cleaned me up as best she could and got me back to Grandma's somehow. We never spoke of it again, but I cannot drive by the museum without thinking,
See that white building to the left? I pooped on the step there once.
We were driving into North Battleford in The Guy's truck with Ky dozing in the back. Passing the Western Development Museum sparked a memory for me. So, I blurted it out much to the amusement -- and likely amazement -- of my co passengers.
I was about 8 years old or so when my family and a million of my closest cousins went to the museum. The entire grounds contain a museum and a semi circle of buildings: each mini museums, where people could see what a settlement town would have looked like. We had wandered through the museum itself and then continued on to the little example town.
It was full of all sorts of amazing things that children aren't allowed to touch and desperately want to anyway. Doodads and knick knacks, books and pictures, shiny things and old machines. It was while we were in one of the buildings that my tummy started to gurgle.
I knew I had to go to the bathroom. I hadn't been feeling well that day anyway, but since it was likely due to the considerable amount of candy I had purchased without my parents knowledge and scarfed down before they noticed I was missing, I figured it best to keep it a secret. I also wasn't about to use a public bathroom to do number 2 so I set out to wait.
I feigned boredom at the constant gawking of old timey things and went outside to wait for the group. I wandered around until I realized movement was not helping things. Then I sat on the top stairs of one of the buildings hoping the added pressure on my bottom would keep things in place.
I thought I was in the clear. Until I heard the dreaded gurgle again. It seemed to have a life of it's own and soon, so did my bowels. I sat on the steps in my short summer shorts and died a little as I filled my cute little beige with brown flowers underwear and overflowed from the bottom of my shorts onto the step.
It was there Mom found me. She was very matter of fact about the whole thing, though I imagine slightly horrified to find her 8 year old rather than her 2 year old with a full set of shorts. She carted me away, cleaned me up as best she could and got me back to Grandma's somehow. We never spoke of it again, but I cannot drive by the museum without thinking,
See that white building to the left? I pooped on the step there once.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Age 14: the year the Titanic sunk, I got in trouble, and our teacher retired early.
This continues the story of my life. Remember how I was going to do 33 instalments in 30 days and it took me 4 months to get to 14? Good times. Go here to read about being 13 and here to find the other stories.
The year I turned 14, I entered high school. I spent the summer terrified because of horror stories of Freshie week and the meanness of Senior girls. I figured I would enter the school not knowing anyone, not knowing where I was going, and that I would spend the next 4 years trapped in a locker somewhere strapped into a coconut bra and covered in Silly String.
Instead, I arrived at school with 4 other friends (two who had attended Grade 8 at the school) and found my home room with minimal fuss. I was sat in order of my name and looked around at the students whom I would spend significant amounts of time with over the next few years. A very handsome red head sat in front of me, a creepy tall guy sat behind me, and the rest was a sea of awkward teens. I did manage to make a few good friends in that class, but it took me awhile.
Our home room group went to almost every class together. There was little choice that first year of what you wanted to learn versus what "they" felt you should learn. We all sat through Mr. Seimans' math class, Mr. Tidball's drafting, and Mr. Heliwell's science. But the worst of it all was Mrs. Forreiter's English class.
I only write her name because I'm pretty sure she's dead by now. She was a hundred if she was a day at that time and she must have been a drill sergeant in her past life because she was not taking crap from anyone. She had an outfit for every day rotated through the week. Blouse, calf length skirt, sensible heels. You knew it was Tuesday by the colour.
She taught us all the things Freshmen should know -- Greek mythology, poetry, Shakespeare. At least, I think she did, because I don't remember any of it. I do remember that her class was the first time I read about the Titanic. A Night to Remember was on the must read list for every teen and we were no exception. I loved it. Nothing better than a story about doomed travellers. It enthralled me the way no other heartbreaking story had since Anna Anderson and the Tsarina. I loved that book, but could have done without the rest of it. Well, except the tormenting the teacher part.
Although Mrs. Forreiter didn't take guff from anybody, we sure tried to give it to her. Our class specialized in tormenting her. Since her eyesight wasn't the greatest, we scattered white cherry bombs on the floor between rows to make her jump when she would step on one unaware. One student, when handed a test, stood up and tore the exam (starting at the top corner) into a paper spiral while she stood there mouth agape.
One particularly harried and horrible day, I stormed into class. I tossed my books onto my desk and threw myself into my chair as only 14 year old girls can do. Mrs. Forreiter came up beside me, calmly told me to pick up my books, leave the room, and enter again without the attitude. I stood up, picked up my books, came back into the room, and threw my books with such force it overturned the desk. I spent the rest of the class in the hallway to "think about what I had done".
At the end of the year, Mrs. Forreiter announced her surprise retirement. She hadn't planned to retire for a few more years, but decided "enough was enough".
Oops.
The year I turned 14, I entered high school. I spent the summer terrified because of horror stories of Freshie week and the meanness of Senior girls. I figured I would enter the school not knowing anyone, not knowing where I was going, and that I would spend the next 4 years trapped in a locker somewhere strapped into a coconut bra and covered in Silly String.
Instead, I arrived at school with 4 other friends (two who had attended Grade 8 at the school) and found my home room with minimal fuss. I was sat in order of my name and looked around at the students whom I would spend significant amounts of time with over the next few years. A very handsome red head sat in front of me, a creepy tall guy sat behind me, and the rest was a sea of awkward teens. I did manage to make a few good friends in that class, but it took me awhile.
Our home room group went to almost every class together. There was little choice that first year of what you wanted to learn versus what "they" felt you should learn. We all sat through Mr. Seimans' math class, Mr. Tidball's drafting, and Mr. Heliwell's science. But the worst of it all was Mrs. Forreiter's English class.
I only write her name because I'm pretty sure she's dead by now. She was a hundred if she was a day at that time and she must have been a drill sergeant in her past life because she was not taking crap from anyone. She had an outfit for every day rotated through the week. Blouse, calf length skirt, sensible heels. You knew it was Tuesday by the colour.
She taught us all the things Freshmen should know -- Greek mythology, poetry, Shakespeare. At least, I think she did, because I don't remember any of it. I do remember that her class was the first time I read about the Titanic. A Night to Remember was on the must read list for every teen and we were no exception. I loved it. Nothing better than a story about doomed travellers. It enthralled me the way no other heartbreaking story had since Anna Anderson and the Tsarina. I loved that book, but could have done without the rest of it. Well, except the tormenting the teacher part.
Although Mrs. Forreiter didn't take guff from anybody, we sure tried to give it to her. Our class specialized in tormenting her. Since her eyesight wasn't the greatest, we scattered white cherry bombs on the floor between rows to make her jump when she would step on one unaware. One student, when handed a test, stood up and tore the exam (starting at the top corner) into a paper spiral while she stood there mouth agape.
One particularly harried and horrible day, I stormed into class. I tossed my books onto my desk and threw myself into my chair as only 14 year old girls can do. Mrs. Forreiter came up beside me, calmly told me to pick up my books, leave the room, and enter again without the attitude. I stood up, picked up my books, came back into the room, and threw my books with such force it overturned the desk. I spent the rest of the class in the hallway to "think about what I had done".
At the end of the year, Mrs. Forreiter announced her surprise retirement. She hadn't planned to retire for a few more years, but decided "enough was enough".
Oops.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Perils of the Playground
When I was in elementary school, our playground was not like the ones now. There was nothing made of plastic, nothing covered in tires to protect you, nothing low to the ground so you wouldn't fall. Our playground was a death trap and we loved every second of it.
We had monkey bars of pure steel. The entire structure was about 6 feet tall. It had two bars at various heights akin to the ones used by gymnasts. Across the top stretched a horizontal ladder connecting the structure and lower bars ran perpendicular along the bottom to allow for stability and other roughhousing.
I used the gymnast bars as they were intended. I crawled up the side of the iron beast, swung my right leg over the bar, snugged it into my knee pit, and -- swinging myself back and forth for momentum, I started to spin. And spin and spin and spin. I could do up to 12 spins without stopping to push off or rocking again.
I loved those bars. I had blisters upon callouses along my hands, but I earned them so it was okay. Sometimes I used the gravel dust to help prevent slippage, so I was a real pro.
Another favourite play structure was the round monkey bars. The top looked like a horizontal ladder wrapped back into itself and stood about 6 feet in the air. We would spend our recesses playing a game we liked to call "Sudden Death". Duh duh duh. As many of us as would fit on the structure sat in a circle. We put our legs towards the middle so the soles of our feet touched in the centre. Then, we dared a friend to climb in. The friend would sit on the feet of our classmates until we all yelled "NOW!"
Then we dropped our feet and the middle person plummetedto their death to the ground where they landed like cats.
We were awesome.
Then, there were the swings. Ah, the swings of DEATH. The swings were actually quite normal -- metal chains strung up between giant metal A frames -- we just made them into death traps. We would sit on the swings and twirl. Round and round, we would twirl until the chain could not wrap around itself any longer. Then, a friend would push us front to back as hard as they could and let go.
The person on the swing would unravel rapidly, flying through the air towards the metal posts. It was awesome and dangerous and SO MUCH FUN. The person on the swing would have to watch carefully so as to not hit the bars directly, but instead push off with their feet or throw themselves out of the way if they came too close to cracking something important on steel.
We had many sprained ankles and bumped skulls when we were little.
It explains a lot about us as adults.
We had monkey bars of pure steel. The entire structure was about 6 feet tall. It had two bars at various heights akin to the ones used by gymnasts. Across the top stretched a horizontal ladder connecting the structure and lower bars ran perpendicular along the bottom to allow for stability and other roughhousing.
I used the gymnast bars as they were intended. I crawled up the side of the iron beast, swung my right leg over the bar, snugged it into my knee pit, and -- swinging myself back and forth for momentum, I started to spin. And spin and spin and spin. I could do up to 12 spins without stopping to push off or rocking again.
I loved those bars. I had blisters upon callouses along my hands, but I earned them so it was okay. Sometimes I used the gravel dust to help prevent slippage, so I was a real pro.
Another favourite play structure was the round monkey bars. The top looked like a horizontal ladder wrapped back into itself and stood about 6 feet in the air. We would spend our recesses playing a game we liked to call "Sudden Death". Duh duh duh. As many of us as would fit on the structure sat in a circle. We put our legs towards the middle so the soles of our feet touched in the centre. Then, we dared a friend to climb in. The friend would sit on the feet of our classmates until we all yelled "NOW!"
Then we dropped our feet and the middle person plummeted
We were awesome.
Then, there were the swings. Ah, the swings of DEATH. The swings were actually quite normal -- metal chains strung up between giant metal A frames -- we just made them into death traps. We would sit on the swings and twirl. Round and round, we would twirl until the chain could not wrap around itself any longer. Then, a friend would push us front to back as hard as they could and let go.
The person on the swing would unravel rapidly, flying through the air towards the metal posts. It was awesome and dangerous and SO MUCH FUN. The person on the swing would have to watch carefully so as to not hit the bars directly, but instead push off with their feet or throw themselves out of the way if they came too close to cracking something important on steel.
We had many sprained ankles and bumped skulls when we were little.
It explains a lot about us as adults.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Being thirteen: small fish in a small pond full of big, mean fish
This continues the stories of my life. The twelfth instalment is here. The rest can be found here.
In my last year of elementary school, I had to change schools. No, I wasn't suspended or anything. The year before, my father and the local parenting association had led a crusade to close down the little school I had attended since we moved to the big city. There were 75 people in the entire school at the time. Each class was a split of some kind and the school was just too small.
I was told the reason the parents in the area wanted the school to be closed (or felt it was necessary) was so that the students would not have to suffer the shock of going from a small school to a huge high school. So, I suffered the shock of being separated from all my friends, going to a school I'd never been to, being separated by my former classmates as the only "out of school" person in my split class, and being 13 years old.
Good plan, parental beings. Good plan.
Now, I don't blame my father. For this thing. It turned out to be a good thing for my younger siblings and that was important. However, my best friend decided to go to the local high school for Grade 8, my other friends were put into the bigger class without me, and I was alone. Me, two new immigrants, two dweebie boys, a shy girl, and 4 of the meanest girls elementary school had ever seen. Mix that with hormones of a pre-teen and a newly emerging attitude, the world was a miserable place indeedy.
I started the new school being the 3rd tallest girl instead of tallest. I was sought out for the basket ball team and the volley ball team, but managed to only excel at running into other players and sacrificing my body for the game. I was awkward, but had "heart". That year I won the "Hustler" award. I think they meant it as a compliment, but I had seen those magazines in the corner store and wanted no part of that.
For some reason, this year in my life is one of the clearest. That may be because of the big changes it represented, or it may be that it was a year filled with taunting, teasing, and New Kids on The Block. I remember conversations, crushes, mean comments (like the guy who wrote in my yearbook "You are the ugliest thing I have ever seen." I still hope he went to jail.), and not fitting in with the cool girls. I remember new friends, sleep overs, and babysitting courses. I remember outdoor school, French class, graduation, and the joke that Colby told which got him detention.
How are priests like Christmas trees? Their balls are only for decoration.
In my last year of elementary school, I had to change schools. No, I wasn't suspended or anything. The year before, my father and the local parenting association had led a crusade to close down the little school I had attended since we moved to the big city. There were 75 people in the entire school at the time. Each class was a split of some kind and the school was just too small.
I was told the reason the parents in the area wanted the school to be closed (or felt it was necessary) was so that the students would not have to suffer the shock of going from a small school to a huge high school. So, I suffered the shock of being separated from all my friends, going to a school I'd never been to, being separated by my former classmates as the only "out of school" person in my split class, and being 13 years old.
Good plan, parental beings. Good plan.
Now, I don't blame my father. For this thing. It turned out to be a good thing for my younger siblings and that was important. However, my best friend decided to go to the local high school for Grade 8, my other friends were put into the bigger class without me, and I was alone. Me, two new immigrants, two dweebie boys, a shy girl, and 4 of the meanest girls elementary school had ever seen. Mix that with hormones of a pre-teen and a newly emerging attitude, the world was a miserable place indeedy.
I started the new school being the 3rd tallest girl instead of tallest. I was sought out for the basket ball team and the volley ball team, but managed to only excel at running into other players and sacrificing my body for the game. I was awkward, but had "heart". That year I won the "Hustler" award. I think they meant it as a compliment, but I had seen those magazines in the corner store and wanted no part of that.
For some reason, this year in my life is one of the clearest. That may be because of the big changes it represented, or it may be that it was a year filled with taunting, teasing, and New Kids on The Block. I remember conversations, crushes, mean comments (like the guy who wrote in my yearbook "You are the ugliest thing I have ever seen." I still hope he went to jail.), and not fitting in with the cool girls. I remember new friends, sleep overs, and babysitting courses. I remember outdoor school, French class, graduation, and the joke that Colby told which got him detention.
How are priests like Christmas trees? Their balls are only for decoration.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Twelve and The Hobbit
This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The tenth instalment is here.
The year I turned 12, I was in a split Grade 7 and 8 class. Our class size had dwindled down over the years so there were only a few of us left: me, Candy, Andrea, Corrie, Brad *swoon*, Johnathon, Anna, David, Jamie, Caine and Shari. That was all of us. Eleven. We were a fairly tight knit class of kids who had little in common but age and location of desks.
That year we had a lovely teacher who was French. She was a thin woman with long black hair curling well past her shoulders. She had a long crooked nose and pigeon toes. I liked her very much. She spoke softly and wisely. Also, she introduced us to The Hobbit, which made me love her all the more.
That year I was discovering my artistic side. I had a sculpture that was chosen to be shown at the local School Board -- it was a clay running shoe (high top, white, L.A. Gear) with a puppy inside (Dalmatian). It had a floppy tongue sticking out of the shoe where the puppy was leaning out with floppy ears and a waggedy tail. It had shoelaces and stitching and it was awesome. I believe they instantly threw it out after the showing, but what do I know?
I spent hours working with clay. My parents bought me a box of clay that I kept in the cold storage room and from which I made all sorts of wondrous goodies. I made a turtle for my Grade 3 teacher Mrs. B. It's shell came off to show a place you could hide candy. I made other things, but I don't remember them. I just made things. Things to keep me occupied and to engage my brain in detail.
When I wasn't using clay, I was using Plasticine. I had a pile of it that I carried everywhere. As I sat in class listening to the teacher, I would make copious interesting creatures of all sorts. Once completed, I would squish them back into a ball and start over. The teacher recognized that I listened and retained better when my mind was busy with artsy things, so she never complained or took it away.
When we started reading The Hobbit, I fell in love. The characters jumped off the page and wandered through my mind. I couldn't wait to make them. Finally we got our class assignment: to make a board game about the book.
I got to work. I couldn't have worried about the board itself, but I knew exactly what I wanted to do for the game pieces. Painstakingly, I made every single character from the book. Out of plasticine. I made intricate details of each character. I molded and stretched. I combined colours and little teeny pieces. I used a toothpick to make details such as hair and clothing ripples. Yes, even the clothing looked like it moved.
I made Gandalf out of blue plasticine. He had a huge hat and a walking stick. He looked just like himself. I made Bilbo. I made the dragon with each scale separate. I can't remember the names of the characters now, but I remember what they look like. Finally, I made my masterpiece: Gollum. He was awesome and creepy and slimy and PERFECT. You know the Gollum from the movie version of The Lord of the Rings Trilogy? Yeah, that Gollum was my idea. Oh sure, they didn't consult me, but they READ. MY. MIND!!!
I kept the playing pieces in a box after the assignment was marked. All lined up in a row. Sometimes we would take them out and play the game, but most of the time I just looked at them and marvelled in their beauty. Oh, and my talent. Don't forget that.
Somehow, in the years, the box disappeared. It was tossed or lost somewhere. I would like to recreate them, but I know they would never be as perfect as when I was twelve.
The year I turned 12, I was in a split Grade 7 and 8 class. Our class size had dwindled down over the years so there were only a few of us left: me, Candy, Andrea, Corrie, Brad *swoon*, Johnathon, Anna, David, Jamie, Caine and Shari. That was all of us. Eleven. We were a fairly tight knit class of kids who had little in common but age and location of desks.
That year we had a lovely teacher who was French. She was a thin woman with long black hair curling well past her shoulders. She had a long crooked nose and pigeon toes. I liked her very much. She spoke softly and wisely. Also, she introduced us to The Hobbit, which made me love her all the more.
That year I was discovering my artistic side. I had a sculpture that was chosen to be shown at the local School Board -- it was a clay running shoe (high top, white, L.A. Gear) with a puppy inside (Dalmatian). It had a floppy tongue sticking out of the shoe where the puppy was leaning out with floppy ears and a waggedy tail. It had shoelaces and stitching and it was awesome. I believe they instantly threw it out after the showing, but what do I know?
I spent hours working with clay. My parents bought me a box of clay that I kept in the cold storage room and from which I made all sorts of wondrous goodies. I made a turtle for my Grade 3 teacher Mrs. B. It's shell came off to show a place you could hide candy. I made other things, but I don't remember them. I just made things. Things to keep me occupied and to engage my brain in detail.
When I wasn't using clay, I was using Plasticine. I had a pile of it that I carried everywhere. As I sat in class listening to the teacher, I would make copious interesting creatures of all sorts. Once completed, I would squish them back into a ball and start over. The teacher recognized that I listened and retained better when my mind was busy with artsy things, so she never complained or took it away.
When we started reading The Hobbit, I fell in love. The characters jumped off the page and wandered through my mind. I couldn't wait to make them. Finally we got our class assignment: to make a board game about the book.
I got to work. I couldn't have worried about the board itself, but I knew exactly what I wanted to do for the game pieces. Painstakingly, I made every single character from the book. Out of plasticine. I made intricate details of each character. I molded and stretched. I combined colours and little teeny pieces. I used a toothpick to make details such as hair and clothing ripples. Yes, even the clothing looked like it moved.
I made Gandalf out of blue plasticine. He had a huge hat and a walking stick. He looked just like himself. I made Bilbo. I made the dragon with each scale separate. I can't remember the names of the characters now, but I remember what they look like. Finally, I made my masterpiece: Gollum. He was awesome and creepy and slimy and PERFECT. You know the Gollum from the movie version of The Lord of the Rings Trilogy? Yeah, that Gollum was my idea. Oh sure, they didn't consult me, but they READ. MY. MIND!!!
I kept the playing pieces in a box after the assignment was marked. All lined up in a row. Sometimes we would take them out and play the game, but most of the time I just looked at them and marvelled in their beauty. Oh, and my talent. Don't forget that.
Somehow, in the years, the box disappeared. It was tossed or lost somewhere. I would like to recreate them, but I know they would never be as perfect as when I was twelve.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
H-E-double ones and the tsarina
This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The tenth instalment is here.
The year I turned eleven, I had the worst teacher imaginable. He made my life a horrible place to be. Myself and one other student in the class were his examples and he made sure we knew it. I've written about him before, so I'm not going to do so again. I've given him enough power over my life. He did teach me one good thing -- how to throw a football with the correct spiral -- so I guess it wasn't all bad.
That year, there was a light in my miserable existence. That light was Social Studies. My Grade 5 teacher Mrs Gellner came into our Grade 6 class every other day and taught us about history. More specifically, Russian history.
A few times a week, I learned about tsars and tsarinas. I learned about the magic of a political time where -- although most of the country suffered -- the royal family flourished and then was snuffed out. It started my intense passion about crimes and violence and true stories of both. I started collecting books on Anastasia the tsar's daughter who got away and created stories in my head of how horrible it must have been. I read all I could about Anna Anderson who claimed to be the duchess herself.* I was amazed by the bravery this young girl showed at living through the worst things imaginable and coming out the other side to show her persecutors they could not end her.
Now, of course, I look at this and think there was perhaps a correlation between my miserable school year and how intensely I looked towards Anastasia. However, to this day, I am still enthralled by the story. It could be my historian genes.
*This was later proved to be untrue, but I wish it had been.
The year I turned eleven, I had the worst teacher imaginable. He made my life a horrible place to be. Myself and one other student in the class were his examples and he made sure we knew it. I've written about him before, so I'm not going to do so again. I've given him enough power over my life. He did teach me one good thing -- how to throw a football with the correct spiral -- so I guess it wasn't all bad.
That year, there was a light in my miserable existence. That light was Social Studies. My Grade 5 teacher Mrs Gellner came into our Grade 6 class every other day and taught us about history. More specifically, Russian history.
A few times a week, I learned about tsars and tsarinas. I learned about the magic of a political time where -- although most of the country suffered -- the royal family flourished and then was snuffed out. It started my intense passion about crimes and violence and true stories of both. I started collecting books on Anastasia the tsar's daughter who got away and created stories in my head of how horrible it must have been. I read all I could about Anna Anderson who claimed to be the duchess herself.* I was amazed by the bravery this young girl showed at living through the worst things imaginable and coming out the other side to show her persecutors they could not end her.
Now, of course, I look at this and think there was perhaps a correlation between my miserable school year and how intensely I looked towards Anastasia. However, to this day, I am still enthralled by the story. It could be my historian genes.
*This was later proved to be untrue, but I wish it had been.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Age 10: When my gracefullness came to light
This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The nineth instalment is here.
What's red and white and red and white rolling down a hill?
Me. When I was 10. In red gym shorts and a white tee shirt.
My family used to go camping. We loved camping. And by that, I mean, we went camping, slept 6 people in a tent, it rained, food burned, and we all got a hundred bug bites. After one horrible and fateful trip, my mother vetoed any further camping trips. But, that's a story for another day.
When I was ten, we went to Saskatchewan Landing to go camping with my cousin's family. Saskatchewan Landing is the only place in the province that has anything resembling big hills. In that there is any rise at all.
My brother, myself and my cousin, Keith were roaming the hills one day being silly. We started to go back towards our parents and headed back down the hill. I did what every kid does when going down a hill. I started to walk. That changed into a trot. Which changed into a run. And finally, it changed into a downward spiral I had no control over.
I tripped. Of course I tripped. I can't walk across an empty room without falling. But, this time, I tripped while I was running out of control down a hill. Head over heels I tumbled down the entire hill. I hit numerous rocks and landed in a cactus pile.
I screamed bloody murder. And then I realized I was bleeding and screamed even more. I had landed head first on a very sharp rock. I was bleeding. I WAS DYING. I screamed at my cousin who came down the hill quickly without falling and helped me get back to my parents who were not far away.
With a beach towel pressed to my head, we made our way to the nearest hospital. I got stitches in my head, antibiotics for my cuts, and a lot of attention. It wasn't until I got back that I realized my trauma had also been a great source of entertainment for my family. It was my brother and cousin who came up with the riddle that plagued me for years.
What's red and white and red and white rolling down a hill?
Me. When I was 10. In red gym shorts and a white tee shirt.
My family used to go camping. We loved camping. And by that, I mean, we went camping, slept 6 people in a tent, it rained, food burned, and we all got a hundred bug bites. After one horrible and fateful trip, my mother vetoed any further camping trips. But, that's a story for another day.
When I was ten, we went to Saskatchewan Landing to go camping with my cousin's family. Saskatchewan Landing is the only place in the province that has anything resembling big hills. In that there is any rise at all.
My brother, myself and my cousin, Keith were roaming the hills one day being silly. We started to go back towards our parents and headed back down the hill. I did what every kid does when going down a hill. I started to walk. That changed into a trot. Which changed into a run. And finally, it changed into a downward spiral I had no control over.
I tripped. Of course I tripped. I can't walk across an empty room without falling. But, this time, I tripped while I was running out of control down a hill. Head over heels I tumbled down the entire hill. I hit numerous rocks and landed in a cactus pile.
I screamed bloody murder. And then I realized I was bleeding and screamed even more. I had landed head first on a very sharp rock. I was bleeding. I WAS DYING. I screamed at my cousin who came down the hill quickly without falling and helped me get back to my parents who were not far away.
With a beach towel pressed to my head, we made our way to the nearest hospital. I got stitches in my head, antibiotics for my cuts, and a lot of attention. It wasn't until I got back that I realized my trauma had also been a great source of entertainment for my family. It was my brother and cousin who came up with the riddle that plagued me for years.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Nine
This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The eighth instalment is here.
Nine does not seem interesting to me. I had my first crush during the beginning of that year. A crush on a wonderfully good looking boy who remained that way until... well, I've looked him up on Facebook and he's still hot.
I entered Grade 4 with the shortest teacher ever. I outgrew her almost immediately. She was adorable. We had one guy who was an entire foot taller than her. I used to chase him around with perfume samples at recess until he almost cried.
That winter we made Santas out of old Reader's Digests. After everything I have ever done or made, it is one thing of which I remember every step. I could make those Santas in my sleep. Which is weird because I've never made it again.
This is essentially all I remember about being nine. Wow, I really hope my life improved after this.
Nine does not seem interesting to me. I had my first crush during the beginning of that year. A crush on a wonderfully good looking boy who remained that way until... well, I've looked him up on Facebook and he's still hot.
I entered Grade 4 with the shortest teacher ever. I outgrew her almost immediately. She was adorable. We had one guy who was an entire foot taller than her. I used to chase him around with perfume samples at recess until he almost cried.
That winter we made Santas out of old Reader's Digests. After everything I have ever done or made, it is one thing of which I remember every step. I could make those Santas in my sleep. Which is weird because I've never made it again.
This is essentially all I remember about being nine. Wow, I really hope my life improved after this.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Eight and Awkward
This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The sixth instalment is here.
I was a really cute kid. And then I turned 8. I do not know what happened, but suddenly I looked like I had been beaten with the awkward stick. I went from really cute with long hair to this:
When I was 8, I was in Grade 3 with Mrs. B. She was a great British lady with an awesome accent and a no-nonsense way about her. I loved Grade 3. Here are the things I remember: We were taught to make bread one day (Mom taught us). One day we did cross stitch projects. (Mom taught us).* We did a lot of plays for show-and-tell.
I had three best friends when I was 8. Aaron was the teeny little boy who had announced to the whole (okay, all of Grade 2) that I was huge. Candy was next. She was the smartest girl in school. Then, there was Krista. She was the nicest girl ever and lived down the street.
I started playing the piano that year. Mom started to teach me, but we soon realized that she hated me and I hated her when she did that. So, I went to lessons with Mrs. Guggenheim down the street and Mom loved me again and I loved her. Unfortunately, I had no rhythm and sausage fingers (thanks Dad) so piano wasn't much my thing.
I can still play "Everything I do, I do for you" by Bryan Adams and "Right Here Waiting For You" by Richard Marx. Oh, and "Fur Elise" but that is all.
Otherwise, being 8 was about riding bikes and buying an entire dollar of one cent gum. And being awkward. But that was more about being 8 through 33.
*Seriously Mom, didn't they have Grade 3 when you were in school? You had to hog mine?
I was a really cute kid. And then I turned 8. I do not know what happened, but suddenly I looked like I had been beaten with the awkward stick. I went from really cute with long hair to this:
What is with the constant need for ruffles?
Also, am I on a wagon train to Oregon? That is the only way to explain the gingham.
When I was 8, I was in Grade 3 with Mrs. B. She was a great British lady with an awesome accent and a no-nonsense way about her. I loved Grade 3. Here are the things I remember: We were taught to make bread one day (Mom taught us). One day we did cross stitch projects. (Mom taught us).* We did a lot of plays for show-and-tell.
Lyn, me, Aaron, Candy and Krista
Hey, Lyn. It was my birthday. You didn't need to be in the picture too.
Thanks for stealing my thunder. Turd.
I had three best friends when I was 8. Aaron was the teeny little boy who had announced to the whole (okay, all of Grade 2) that I was huge. Candy was next. She was the smartest girl in school. Then, there was Krista. She was the nicest girl ever and lived down the street.
I started playing the piano that year. Mom started to teach me, but we soon realized that she hated me and I hated her when she did that. So, I went to lessons with Mrs. Guggenheim down the street and Mom loved me again and I loved her. Unfortunately, I had no rhythm and sausage fingers (thanks Dad) so piano wasn't much my thing.
I can still play "Everything I do, I do for you" by Bryan Adams and "Right Here Waiting For You" by Richard Marx. Oh, and "Fur Elise" but that is all.
Otherwise, being 8 was about riding bikes and buying an entire dollar of one cent gum. And being awkward. But that was more about being 8 through 33.
*Seriously Mom, didn't they have Grade 3 when you were in school? You had to hog mine?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Seven: Moving to the littlest big city and finding out I was ginormous.
This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The sixth instalment is here.
The year I turned seven we moved. My dad got a fancy job with the government in the big ol' metropolis of Regina. We packed up one day in November and arrived like thieves in the night. I still remember going in the back door of the Vagabond Inn (which is now a Travellodge, but has the same carpets) and sneaking down the hallway to our rooms. It felt a lot like we were refuges hiding in the dark of night, but now when I look back it is more likely that the sun set early in the winter, and that we were all tired from travel and impatient to get to bed.
The next day, I started school. I wore my best dress because at my school it was cool to wear dresses. I walked into my class that first day (after snottily announcing to the principal I was not 17 like he thought) and landed in the middle of big city terror. The girls wore pants. PANTS! And the boys had weird haircuts with strange little braided tails. The teacher looked like a hippopotamus and was lining kids up in front of the class.
Hippo Teacher was demonstrating the difference between small and big. A little boy stood at one end. There were three girls in the middle and then a tall lanky blond boy. The teacher happily decided to include me and was pleased to find out that I was over a head taller than the tallest boy in the class. I stood beside the blond boy and was mortified. The littlest boy at the other end peered around our classmates in awe. "You're HUGE." he said in an awed whisper.
This was going to be a great year.
The year I turned seven we moved. My dad got a fancy job with the government in the big ol' metropolis of Regina. We packed up one day in November and arrived like thieves in the night. I still remember going in the back door of the Vagabond Inn (which is now a Travellodge, but has the same carpets) and sneaking down the hallway to our rooms. It felt a lot like we were refuges hiding in the dark of night, but now when I look back it is more likely that the sun set early in the winter, and that we were all tired from travel and impatient to get to bed.
Yes, ruffles on my shirt, white stockings and tan sandals. What of it?
I had a dream a few months before we moved. In my dream, I sat on the floor mat beside my bed. It was a latch hook rug -- white with pink roses. Oh, and it could fly. At the time I was sure it was real, but now my jaded self admits it might have been a dream. But I sat on my mat and I flew. I flew to my new house and I took a tour. I picked out which room would be mine and I looked at the neighbourhood. I was very calm about moving after that because I had already been there. The night we got to the house, I knew exactly where my room was.
Me in my room. Yes, I still had a blankie at age 7.
They didn't make me put it away until I was 12.
The next day, I started school. I wore my best dress because at my school it was cool to wear dresses. I walked into my class that first day (after snottily announcing to the principal I was not 17 like he thought) and landed in the middle of big city terror. The girls wore pants. PANTS! And the boys had weird haircuts with strange little braided tails. The teacher looked like a hippopotamus and was lining kids up in front of the class.
Hippo Teacher was demonstrating the difference between small and big. A little boy stood at one end. There were three girls in the middle and then a tall lanky blond boy. The teacher happily decided to include me and was pleased to find out that I was over a head taller than the tallest boy in the class. I stood beside the blond boy and was mortified. The littlest boy at the other end peered around our classmates in awe. "You're HUGE." he said in an awed whisper.
This was going to be a great year.
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