Julie's Birthday Adventure - Age 30 edition

For my 30th Birthday Adventure, I knew I had to do my best Adventure yet.  30 is kind of a big deal and is the age where people need to start proving that they're still young, hip and with it (dukka dukka dukka dukka). Plus, it was more motivation to do something awesome that I wouldn't have otherwise been able to muster up the nerve for.

Ergo, Sky Diving.

I've always been open-minded about sky diving, but not exactly chomping at the bit to do it. Everyone I know who has gone has told me that it was one of the more thrilling experiences of their life and how free falling is actually very peaceful and serene.


I disagree.  Here is my account of the happenings on Saturday August 25th, at the Parachute School of Toronto.

*****

We had mustered up a group of 10 people to go Sky Diving for my Birthday Adventure.  We arrived for our 3pm appointment and, as per the guy on the phone, had anticipated 3-4 hours of total sky dive ritual - perhaps including some sort of adrenaline inducing chant to pump us up.  Instead, we signed some paperwork while a video played in the background, were told that our first group was to be on the plane in 20 minutes, and then were ushered into their garage to get fitted with a harness while my jump escort Garrett tells me to put my head back and starfish as we jump out of the plane.  That was about it.  To be fair, I guess 'falling' is a pretty self-explanatory activity, especially when you're jumping tandem...but really...I feel like I could have benefited from that false sense of control.

At the last minute I decided to get a camera man for my jump.  It was an additional $150, but I figured this would probably be the only time I ever jump out of a plane (recreationally anyway...I'm not ruling out last minute heroics should the need every arise) and there is a strong chance I'll only turn 30 once (though I'm not ruling that out either...just in case).  This turned out to be a great decision.

Drew, Jackie, Steven, Adam and I were the first group to jump, so we were loaded onto the plane like a can of Pringles, each person sitting between the previous person's legs.  The door was left over during our ascent.  That was freaky.  At around 5000 ft, the first couple jumpers high-fived everyone they could reach and somersaulted out of the door.  As cool and calm as they were, their exits only incited more panic from the rest of us.  We had to scoot up closer to the door for our turn next.  While our tandem partners started rechecking and tightening our belts to the point of cutting off circulation, I remember thinking, "Oh shit, I'm actually doing this" and resigning myself to fate as there wasn't any option left. 

Another 9000 ft higher and the door was rolled opened again.  We had arranged to have Drew jump first so that we could record his jump on my video, which also served the purpose of me not having to go first.  Drew and his tandem partner scooched up to the open door and knelt on the ledge, half hanging out.   Watching him get sucked out of the plane was pretty stomach churning but there was no little time to get upset about it.  Mr Video stepped out of the plane first and then Garrett and I stepped to the edge.  I was strapped so tightly he was nearly lifting me off my feet as he got us ready to jump.  I tried looking over the edge to see where Drew was, and saw for the first time our height - it was memorizing.  I had heard before that it's unlike a typical fear of heights since you're too high to actually calculate how high you actually are (did you get that?).  I would agree with that.  You can't compare it to any other height you're familiar with because it's just not. Unless you've been sky diving before.  Then I guess it is.  It like of looked like we were going to jump into an old, soft, faded quilt.
Then Garrett snapped my focus by grabbing my forehead and pulling it back against his chest.  Crap.  One of the only two rules I got, I already disobeyed.  Bracing us by holding onto a bar, he rocked us back and forth preparing to jump.  One....two...THREE!  He threw us out of the door and the wind wrenched us out behind the plane.

Just passing the line of no return

I tried screaming as it happened, but I'm not sure if I succeeded.  It was so loud I couldn't hear myself.  The sheer pressure of gravity was shocking and almost painful as I could feel my skin being stretched around my bones, likely trying desperately to get back into the plane.  Staring down at the ground, I tried to breathe but found that with the force of wind pushing up against me, I just couldn't.  Beginning to feel panicky, I struggle to breath while Garrett tries to impress me by spinning around in circles.  I stopped being able to spin about 10 years ago and get very motion sick, very fast.  So now I'm dizzy, gasping for air, feeling nauseous and praying for Garrett to pull the shoot before I pass out completely.

Not happy...can't breathe and skin is trying to escape

Garrett and Mr Video have been communicating with sign language, and Mr Video noticed that I'm freaking out and begins pointing to his nose.  At first I thought he was still chatting with Garret, but Garret thinks that my goggles are falling off, so he smacks me in the face a couple times to make sure they stay on.  I finally understand that my nose is also capable of breathing, and am finally able to regain some composure.

All that happened within 30 seconds, so I still have another 30 seconds of free fall to enjoy.  And it really isn't all that bad!  I can't say that it was peaceful or serene, but it was quite thrilling.

Ejecting the shoot (is that the right term?) was really neat.  First you're plummeting to the ground, then you're suddenly yanked back up into the air.  I imagine it was a bit more of a painful experience for the dudes, but it might have been my favourite part of the jump.  Now that we were falling at a controlled pace, Garrett and I were able to chat a bit and he decides to inform me that our shoot was twisted for a bit, but he got it sorted out.  That was what he and my video guy were communicating about...Mr Video more than earned the $150!

During our parachute down, Garrett showed me how to control our speed by extending or lowering my arms, and how to steer the parachute by drawing in one or the other arm.  He quickly dipped back and forth a couple times before I was able to tell him that me and my poor stomach couldn't handle that type of motion.  He was able to point out to me where Drew, Jackie, Steven and Adam were by the colours of their tandem partner's parachutes.  Although really neat to see where all my friends were floating around, finding them really threw off my sense of horizon and my stomach started to turn again.  Before the end of my parachuting experience I was already eager to get on the ground in fear that I was going to barf on all the poor sods waiting to get on the next plane out.

We had originally intended to land on the slip'n'slide that was set up as an end-of-the-summer treat, but had to follow where Mr Video landed so he could capture our landing.  A few minutes before we actually touched down, I was instructed to lift my legs up as high as I was capable of, and Garrett would do the rest.  It was a really smooth landing and I couldn't have been more excited to be on the ground.

I smiled and lied through my nausea while Mr Video filmed my post-jump reactions.  Afterward, I had to lay on the ground for a solid half hour while my body reorganized, while Drew, Adam, Jackie and Steven were already planning their next jump.  Apparently I'm the only one who forgot a key function of the nose and who's stomach can't handle rotating. 



Would I go again?  Maybe...I would definitely enjoy myself more armed with the knowledge of how to breathe, and would wear sea bands and take gravel before jumping. 

Julie's Birthday Adventures

Likely a lasting residual from my Girl Guide days, I still really enjoy good, clean, wholesome, family fun and organized recreational activity.  I used to find it difficult to corral a group of friends to join me on these types of outings, especially since most of the good stuff is dually categorized as summer activity when people's lives seem to be the busiest. 

A few years ago it occurred to me that the best way to make people do what I want is to either bribe them or guilt them.  Since my pockets are not terribly deep, guilting seemed like the best option.  From this notion, and my appropriately situated birthday, the now annual "Julie's Birthday Adventure" was born.

This enjoyable series of has been relatively successful so far, and as I've just celebrated my biggest birthday adventure yet, I'd like to take this moment to jot down some of my Birthday Adventure memories.

I'm going to write these up in chunks, so check out the links below. 
 

Julie's Birthday Adventure - First Annual - Age 26 edition
White Water Rafting - http://www.wildernesstours.com/

Julie's Birthday Adventure - Second Annual - Age 27 edition
Tree Top Trekking and zip lining - http://treetoptrekking.com/barrie-features-courses.html

Julie's Birthday Adventure - Third Annual - Age 28 edition
Hang Gliding - http://www.flyhigh.com/

Julie's Birthday Adventure - Fourth Annual - Age 29 edition
Horse Shoe Resort - Ogo Balling - http://www.horseshoeresort.com/adventurepark

Julie's Birthday Adventure - Fifth Annual - Age 30 edition
Sky Diving - http://www.parachuteschool.com/

Possible future Birthday Adventures include:

• Splunking at Howe's Cavern - http://howecaverns.com/cavern-tours/adventure-tour
• Scuba Diving for ship wrecks in Tobermory - http://www.tobermory.org/page/shipwrecks
• The CN Tower Edge Walk - http://www.edgewalkcntower.ca/
• Caving in Warsaw - http://www.warsawcaves.com/caves.htm
• Eating expired meat - http://i232.photobucket.com/albums/ee109/krymson_tyde/mouseburger2.jpg

Anyone have any other ideas for me?   I hope that I'll continue to live past 36 so I'm going to need some new ideas soon.

Good Girls Do Not Pee on the Floor

Having had a recent visit to the ER, I was reminded of this one hospital visit back when I was 6  years old.

**************

I had had a couple bladder infections that the doctors were concerned about.  My mother had a kidney operation when she was about that age, so they were investigating whether there was some genetic weirdness going on with me.  An ultra sound detected that one of my kidney's was a bit larger than the other, which lead to a series of embarrassing tests. 

On this particular hospital visit, they wanted to insert a tube to fill up my bladder with some crazy fluid they could monitor on a screen.  Doctor's don't feel like kids need to be 'in the know' on such matters, so I was only told what was expected of me for each stage.  For this stage they only told me that it would be uncomfortable.  I would later agree with them that yes it was.  But it was also painful and embarrassing.  They must have forgotten to tell me that part.  Being a good little girl, I just dealt with it and did as I was told.  My mom was there, so I trusted I was in good hands.

Once that part was done, they gave me my next instructions:  The tube would be removed and they were going to monitor the screen while I peed out all the fluid.  I was full and uncomfortable and that sounded like a fine plan.

But wait.  They wanted to WATCH me pee?  All these people!?   Even worse, I was expected to just stand there and pee on a towel on the floor!!!

No.  No way.  Voyeuristic urination was my line.  Good little girls do not pee on towels on the floor.  I wasn't having any of that.

It became a battle of will.  They just stood there and waited thinking that at some point I couldn't take it anymore and had to do what they wanted. 

So we stood there.

And stood there.


Until they got bored and offered a compromise.  I could pee into a bucket.

Nope.

Nope, didn't like that either.  So we waited some more.


Another compromise:  I could sit on a wheelchair-toilet.  But they were still going to watch.

Nope.

We waited some more because they just weren't understanding my position.  Just call me a martyr for the good little girl tribe.  I was not budging, whether or not it was going to kill me.


Finally, when they were concerned that my bladder might rupture they admitted defeat and let me enjoy the privacy of a washroom. 


Later as we were preparing to leave the hospital in triumph/failure/embarrassment, one of the offending nurses found me and said she knew I had a rough day, and offered me the treat from her Burger King lunch.  It was an ALF Melmac Rock record*.  I was so thrilled to have this piece of cardboard that it made the whole experience worth while.

*Please note:  A record, not a CD.  It was 1988

Epilogue:  There turned out to be nothing wrong with my kidneys.  One is simply just bigger than the other. 

Assholes.

Finding Hope

It's been a long time since I wrote anything here...my apologies.  It's kind of exciting that since I last checked my hit counter is a bit higher anyway!
This entry title sounds really deep.  It's a bit misleading.  This is a nice memory, but definitely not as life-altering at the title would suggest. 


My first real job was working at Wild Water Kingdom when I was 14 /15 years old.  Despite the long hot hours working outside in an airless pen filled with potent rubber tubes, it was a pretty good first job.  Working in a water park was pretty awesome, since after your shift you could cool off with a few trips around the lazy river.  It also served to learn an important lesson about wearing flip flops in public change rooms, as I remember getting a planter wart from going barefoot. 

NB: I just Googled "planter wart" to add an educational picture to this post, but apparently Google only sees fit to show the most extreme disgusting cases available.  I don't suggest looking them up. 

One afternoon, a friend and I were manning the tube pen and noticed a cute little girl about 2 years old wandering around by herself near the wave pool.  Since Wild Water Kingdom is crawling with kids, we watched her for a couple minutes to make sure she wasn't being chased by a parent.  We figured she alone and I left my post to go bring her to the Lost Children's station.  She was happy as, well, a kid in a water park, totally unphased at having lost her mother.  I barely understood a word she said, but was able to figure out her name was Hope from the little gold bracelette she was wearing. 

As we crossed the bridge over the lazy river, we were able to see the Lost Children's hut, where a young mother was bawling her eyes out...full convulsions, completely loosing it.  She saw us coming down the stairs and raced over faster than I've ever seen a human being move.  She grabbed her daughter and hugged the air out of her, then ran away, both of them crying now.  It was such a touching scene that I still get a bit choked up when I think about it.

About a week later she wrote an email to the water park, thanking the staff for finding her daughter and apologizing for running away to fast to thank me herself.

Side note: At Wild Water Kingdom staff could earn "Hugo Bucks" when they did something above and beyond.  At the end of the season, they had an auction for a bunch of cool stuff that you could purchase with your Hugo Bucks.  I think I got a sweet 5 Hugo Bucks for that one :)

Dad vs Hornets

I'm becoming terrible at writing in this thing.  Chatting with a friend last night I remembered a good Dad story from one or two summers ago.

~ ~ ~ ~

Trevor, Kat, Sarah and I had all gathered for a BBQ at my dad's place.  My dad and I go out to the shed to drag the BBQ out.  Inside the shed, I point out to dad that there is not one, but two hornet's nests tucked up against the roof.  He mutters something akin to "not for long" and we continue tugging the gorgeous piece of meat-grilling machinery out onto the patio.

Quick rant here, if you'll indulge me.  I won that BBQ in a raffle once.  It's a $1500 Napoleon stainless steal BBQ complete with an automatic chicken rotisserie.  I'm damn proud of that BBQ as it's really the only thing I've ever won.  Since I was  living in an apartment at the time, I told my dad he could hang onto it for me until I have a house one day and can use it myself.  So dad takes the BBQ, gives his BBQ to Trevor, and Trevor gives his garage sale BBQ to me.  And I have to buy the propane tank myself.  That free BBQ ended up costing me $60.

Okay, back to the story.  As previously mentioned, my dad muttered "not for long".  I didn't take much notice of that statement at the time because I was stressing out over the stains on my beautiful BBQ.  Once we had it in place on the patio, I begin fussing about cleaning it up for dinner while my dad slinks off towards the garage.  Moments later  he comes back with a 2x4 and a mission.

It doesn't take me long to figure out his maniacal plan.  My usually calm, intelligent father was afflicted with the classic "man solves problem with a big stick" paradigm... whilst in a small shed with only one exit, two hornet nests, and likely three hundred pissed off bees.

Inside, Sarah has heard the unfolding drama and gathers TreKat to the window to witness the showdown.

I quickly try to run interference:

Me: "What are doing?!  They're going to sting you!!"
Dad (nonchalent):  "It's fine."
Me: "There are TWO nests!!"
Dad (annoyed): "Julie, stop being dramatic."
Me: "Do you know if you're allergic?  You can die if you get too many stings!"
Dad (confident, nearly in the shed now): "They'll have to catch me first."

Clearly my dad thinks he's invincible so at this point all I can do is run to at the very least save myself.  I hop inside the kitchen to join the viewing gallery.

Moments later, dad comes running out the shed and we let him inside, too.  He's pouting and genuinely surprised at this unexpected outcome of his heroism.  Like it hadn't occurred to him that the hornets would be less than impressed with him destroying their house(s).

Dad: "The little bastards stung me".
Us: "No!/ What?/ Really!/ Seriously?"
Dad: "Shut up."

The Aptly Named "Uh Oh"

When I was fourteen, the day camp where I worked as a junior leader was contacted by YTV.  They needed contestants for a new game show called "Uh Oh".  Excited by the memories of toy mountains from "Kid Street", my friends and I eagerly auditioned.  If the casting directors were looking for outgoing kids who were willing to make fools of themselves on television, they found the right place.

Jackie and I were both selected as contestants.  We were not allowed to be partners because I was taller than her, and we didn't look good standing together on TV.  We were disappointed, but you know, whatever. We were just thrilled at the opportunity to be the centre of attention and win some cool stuff.

The filming day finally arrived, and YTV sent a bus down to the camp to pick us up.  All our friends were allowed to come sit in the audience and cheer us on.  I was put on the blue team and Jackie on the green team.  We bid each other good luck and stared cooly into each other's eyes, knowing that for the next hour or so, we were enemies.  Children's game shows have a way of doing this to you, I suppose.  Exposing the competitive, conceited, conniving, greedy little monsters teenager's are.

As the audience was arranged, the contestants were herded into the green room where we were instructed on the rules of the game.  I don't remember most of them, but assume they were unoriginal:  Spin the wheel, answer a question, play a game, incorrect answers might get you slimed by "The Punisher".  This was Canadian programing, after all, so no creative boundaries were broken. I secretly hoped my partner would get an answer wrong so I would be slimed, as part of the overall game show experience, but otherwise I was cool, calm, collected and ready to win! 

Our very first task was to come tearing onto the stage, slapping high-fives with the audience as we ran up to the podium.  Easy enough, though wickedly lame.  I was really embarrassed to be high-fiving the audience, and also worried that they would be too cool to high-five me back. Worst still, I had to go first. 

What they neglected to tell us was that the lights would be off when we came running onto the sound stage, with only coloured strobe lights to guide our way through the twisting ally of arm-flailing kids.  Without much choice in the matter, I was shoved into the dark flashy auditorium.  Thank God the kids high-fived me back, because that would have been the worst type of embarrassment - or so I thought.  Then I ran into the camera man, knocking him over, causing him to drop the camera on his own head. 

They obviously stopped taping and had to bring up the lights while they checked his face and camera to make sure that neither were broken.  Not the type of "look at me" attention I was aiming for. 

Luckily for his face, everything was fine and we resumed the show.  To Cole's Note this for you, I didn't get slimed but my partner did as a result of me not knowing how dentures were attached when they were first invented.  We ended up winning, and went home with an electric keyboard, which I later sold via the Penny Saver for $100.

I would give that $100 to see the blooper reel one day.






AND now, thanks to Jack MacDougall, here are some clips from the show!

Truth, Truth, Lie

I recently learned a new road trip game.  It's called "Truth, Truth, Lie", and as it's fitting title suggests, you and your companions take turns telling stories, two of them true, one of them a lie.  Let's play!

My stories below all evolve around a family road trip to Prince Edward Island when I was about 7 years old.

Story 1
On the ferry boat crossing to PEI, we were given permission to wander around the boat so long as we stayed together.  Sarah was only 3 at the time and was harnessed on a leash, so Trevor and I decided to take her for a walk.  The ferry was quite large, with the lowest level full of cars and two decks for passengers to explore.  The upper deck was entirely open air, and the lower deck was partially enclosed with a wrap around observation deck.  Upstairs was a bit too windy for us; Sarah's leash turned out to be a saviour as 3 year old's in high wind proved to be great kites.  Downstairs was much more fun, with a snack bar and pin ball machines inside and the great view outside.  I had never been on a boat before and was very excited to lean over the edge and water the water churn out behind us.  It all felt very Titanic, and we even passed some huge chunks of ice (icebergs to my young mind) with penguins on them.

Story 2
Also on the ferry boat as we approached PEI,  Trevor and dad were on the upper deck of the boat, and my mom, Sarah and I were on the lower deck.  We were approaching shore, and I decided I wanted to see from the top level.  I ran upstairs, but wasn't able to find my dad or Trevor.  The boat was beginning to dock so I rushed back downstairs trying to find someone from my family amidst the crowd of people exiting.  They weren't downstairs either.  I ran laps around the ferry until I was the last person on the whole boat, terrified that I'd been forgotten.  As the crew was raising the ramp to depart, they realized I was a stowaway and ushered me off the boat, alone.  Just as I was approaching a complete nervous breakdown, I saw my family gathered at the bottom of the dock, watching and waiting to see what I'd do.  It was one of those classic "I thought YOU  had her" parenting moments, but they somehow turned it into a "and that's why we don't wander away" lessons.  At least it reaffirmed any self-consciousness about having one of their children tethered to a harness.

Story 3
While in Prince Edward Island (on Prince Edward Island?) we were staying at the house of some friend's of the family who had two kids a bit older than we were.  Their play room humbled me...it was in the loft above their laundry room, and was accessed by a ladder.  One afternoon they took Trevor to the beach to see their secret cave, but my parent's wouldn't let me go since they thought I was too young to climb the rocks with big kids.  I was pouty and wanted to go sulk it out in their awesome playroom.  While climbing up the ladder, I slipped and fell, bashing my nose on the way down.  Too prideful to admit that I fell from the ladder - thus proving that their point about not being able to hand climbing to the cave -  I stiffed my nose bleed with one of the family's guest towels, and then hid the bloody evidence behind their washing machine.

So which one is the lie?  Guess below :)

Neil-wycik

Living in Neil-Wycik was definitely a bitter-sweet experience. On one hand, it provided subsidized housing for students in downtown Toronto (I think rent for my room was $420). On the other hand, the rooms were so small you couldn't rotate a twin mattress, and you co-habitated with vermin. Either way, during the formualative years of 2002-2005, I called Neil-Wycik my home.

The very first day I lined up in the foyer with all the other newbies waiting to move in, my dad grew bored of waiting, as he is apt to do. After doing a little bit of sleuthing (read: he walked over to the admin desk like he owned the place and rooted through paperwork until he found my name) my dad hiked up four stories worth of stairs and explored my new accommodations on his own. After a measly 5 minutes he returned full of glee, and that's when I knew I was in for trouble. His proud look of self-satisfaction was the embodiment of years of preaching "how good I had it" finally coming to fruition.  He didn't even hide his taunts from the other newbies waiting in line: "Your room is smaller than your bathroom at home" he told me, and my stomach knotted.

As true as his statement was, I check-mated him later when I noted that Stella and I were going to be living with three dudes. This revelation was not as amusing to him.  Growing up under his roof, boys were literally not allowed to step foot on our staircase, and now my room was sandwiched between two of them.  At the very least, perhaps he found comfort in that they were both aerospace engineers; Worse case scenario if I were to fall for one of them, his grandchildren wouldn't grow up in a house on wheels. 

Circle Square Ranch - Part 2

After a year of hearing us boast about our camp experiences (see Part One), Jackie and Sandra decided to join us at Circle Square Ranch the next summer.  The four of us shared a wagon with Hannah, Cynthia and Linday.  Cynthia had already been there for a week where she met a boy, who was so taken with her, he paid for her to come back again to spend another week with him.  I remember being taken quite aback that she'd accept such a gesture, especially considering she insisted she didn't 'like' him.

We had an honourary bunkmate named Montana.  She didn't sleep in our wagon, but her bunkmates didn't like her for some reason (how very un-Christian of them...) so we befriended her and talked crap behind their backs and gave them all the mean squinty eyes (un-Christian of us, too, I suppose).  Montana was obviously cool, since she had long cornrows and, well, her name was Montana.

There was another camper named Annette.  She had short blond hair and seemed much more mature than the rest of us.  I wasn't actually present for this happenstance, but when her group was at the rock climbing wall, she slipped on a rock at the top and started to fall.  Her partner wasn't paying due diligence at the time so the rope was tearing through the grigri.  Rope burn prevented him from grasping it, so in a heroic act to save her spine from possible snappage, he shoved his hole hand into the metal device, grinding the rope to a stop.  Annette jerked to a halt without injury, but her poor partner's hand got mangled in the process.  He was a reluctant hero and Annette continued to walk.  She further cemented her reputation when her leather-clad father picked her up on his motorcycle at the end of the week with her duffel bag bungeed to the rack.

We followed the same basic itinerary as the previous year: horseback riding, rock climbing, camp fire and the such.  This year I recall a much higher fervour of Bible lessons, prayer, and confessions.  Our councilor had a particularly heart breaking back-story that she shared with us, and possibly because of that we all decided to turn a leaf and embrace a stronger set of Christian values.  After the week was done, the four of us returned to Brampton feeling very religiously inspired, though I can't say how long that lasted.  I also have some drunken teenage memories of house parties where Laura climbed into a dryer.   

The "shmuck the staff" that year was much more successful for me.  I had the ultimate pleasure of finding the camp director, so whereas anyone else who found a councilor got a can of whipped cream to douse them with, I got an Italian-family sized can of tomato sauce to pour on poor Steve.  I savoured this honour.  Not because I didn't like Steve, but because what person gets full permission and approval to paint another human being with tomato sauce?  Seriously.  I fully recognized that this was a once in a lifetime honour, and I was prepared to enjoy every second of it.  I let it drip on Steve's head until it streaked down his face like he'd been scalped.  Then I used handful's of it to chuck against his shirt until he looked like a massacre victim.  By the time I was finished the entire gallon (remember I said Italian-family sized can) I too looked like I'd been through significant trauma. 

Almost as if I was suffering from withdrawl, knowing that my tomato sauce painting days were over, was nearly too much to bare.  Whats more, the ground beneath where poor Steve had once knelt was a thick pool of the substance.  As I am a firm believer of reduce/reuse/recycle, it was beyond my self control to simply leave it lay.  I scooped up a handful and continued my human sauce painting movement on Sandra, Jackie and Laurie.  Within minutes, the four of us had a makeshift mud wrestling pit.  We didn't even notice that our escapades were not appreciated by the councilors and unfortunate bystanders who got the back spray.

5-Split Split End!

I just wanted to share this. 

Not so much of a memory...let's call it a memory in the making.

Circle Square Ranch - Year 1

Summer camp was always the highlight of each summer of my childhood. I was an avid and enthusiastic Brownie, Girl Guide and Pathfinder - all of which I attribute my high level of morality and neurotic necessity to obey rules. I went to countless camps through these groups, but the singular camp that stands out above all else without question was Circle Square Ranch.

I came to hear of Circle Square Ranch through Laurie. Both Laurie's parents worked, so each year her summer vacation consisted of week after week of some camp or another. This one, she told me, you get to sleep in a wagon, go horseback riding, rock climbing and swimming every day. My interest was piqued. I had to be a part of it. It didn't take much convincing on my part for my parents to send me there too. Neither my brother nor sister had any interest in being more than kilometre or two from the TV, so all the 'child recreation funds' were generally allotted to me. The fact that it was a Christian camp didn't hurt either.

The legend of Circle Square Ranch was that it was build on the foundations of a century old farm house that burnt to the ground one night. A few sheep managed to make it out of the flaming building, their wool on fire. In desperate attempt to extinguish themselves, they dove into the river that ran behind the barn and drowned. Their death's permanently fouled the water, thereon known as "lamb chop water". Amongst us campers, it was ritual for everyone to have a drink of lamb chop water when they first arrived at camp. It tasted like sulfur, but was unavoidable if you intended on making friends. Our second ritual was grabbing the horses' electric fence. There's really nothing I can say to defend this...in part because I know it was a poor decision, but also because it zapped too many brain cells for me to think of a clever explanation.

Laurie and I were assigned to a wagon with a few other girls - Hannah, Robin, Jen, Sarah, whatsherface, and a leader. Each day we ate in the mess hall, had a horseback riding lesson, went swimming, climbed the rock wall or went mountain biking, did crafts or the ropes course, played sports, Bible study, and sang camp songs around the fire. It was everything that camp should be. For those of us who's parent's loved us, we had an allowance to spend at the tuck shop to ensure that we were sufficiently hocked up on sugar during all of it.

Our bunk-mate Hannah was a self-explained Jesus Jew. I didn't understand what that was at the time, and even now I'm still a bit confused. Regardless, she was way cooler than I was and I kind of looked up to her. At this age, I had very little interest in boys, though I was beginning to notice they existed. Meanwhile, Hannah had fully accepted their existence and had caught the eye of a fellow camper who had taken a liking to her. What's more, they arranged a secret rendezvous behind the outhouse at 10pm one night. We all eagerly stayed up waiting for her date, but she cooly decided to stand him up. The poor boy was discovered asleep behind the outhouse later than night by his councillor. Hannah was further elevated in my books.

Eating at the mess hall was a great deal of fun. If I recall correctly, the most important rule was to not rest your elbows on the table. Each councilor and camper was perched on the edge of their seat in anticipation of catching someone who mindlessly did. I was unfortunate enough to get caught once, and suffered a rendition of "JULIE JULIE IF YOU'RE ABLE, GET YOUR ELBOWS OFF THE TABLE. THIS IS NOT A HORSE'S STABLE, BUT A FIRST CLASS DINING TABLE! STAND UP, SAY YOU'RE SORRY!!" Me: "I'm Sorry". "BALLET! BALLET! BALLET, BALLET, BALLET AROUND THE DINING HALL!" During this chanting I had to spin ballet-style around the circumference of the whole mess hall. Back at my seat, I am now more interested in barfing up my dinner than finishing it.

I looked forward to each day's horseback riding lesson. Each horse at Circle Square Ranch was donated and had a former life as a race horse, show jumper or the like, so they were exquisitely trained and gentle. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the Shetland Pony, Lonnie. Lonnie was donated because she was just a bitch of a pony. Since she was too squat to ride, she only lived at the Ranch as a gesture of good ol' fashioned Christian goodwill. It was impossible to contain her to a stall as she consistently stamped through the latches. From there she'd bully the horses -twice as big as herself- and bite them. She was a source of constant amusement and evasive maneuvers. If she was keen to bite the horses, who knows what she would do to a curious camper.

Each week ended with a camp-wide manhunt for the councillors, called "Shmuck the Staff". If you were fortunate enough to catch one of the leaders, you had the pleasure of spraying them with a can of whipped cream. This year, neither Laurie nor I were fortunate enough to have the honour. Oh well, there was always next year.

Our Peru Trip Video

Inca trail montage from Caroline P on Vimeo.

How I learned to "look before you leap"

Growing up, we loved visiting my Aunt Marg's house in Milton during the summer when we could use her swimming pool.  It wasn't just the pool we loved.  We loved under the pool as well.  Her backyard was on a hill, so the pool deck was level closest to the house, but you could walk around it and get under the deck.  This arrangement made for excellent hide and seek games, and provided a wealth of bugs and plants to find and examine.  In particular, there were always little yellow butter flowers that you held under your chin and your chin glowed yellow from their reflection, it meant you loved butter.  Spoiler!  If it was sunny out, everyone loved butter.  But at the time - gasp!  I DO love butter! 
The spider webs that we found under the pool were incredible and pristine, complete with fat spiders of all sizes munching on untold numbers of bugs.  There were so many snails that it was impossible to go barefoot under the pool as their shells would inadvertently crunch under your feet.  My favourite were what we called pill bugs; the little guys that would curl up into their shells like armadillos and roll around the margarine containers we put them in.  We were told mice lived under there as well, but were never able to confirm that rumour.

As my memory holds, it was a typical day during a typical summer and we were eager for a swim.  Part of the fun at my aunt's pool was the assortment of pool toys kept on her deck in a big wooden trunk.  There were all sorts of inflatable toys, boats, floaties, flippers, and snorkels.  My brother, sister and I would race to see who got the best gear for our aquatic escapades (re: dunking each other until someone cried and we were ordered out of the pool).

On this day day I opted for surprise-under-water-tactics and thus required the snorkeling set.   I rushed to shove my feet into the flippers, and the snorkel and mask set over my pony tail. I dove in ready to begin my assault.  As I ducked under the water I put the snorkel in my mouth and took a big breath.

And filled my lungs full of earwigs.

I came to the surface choking, gagging and gasping for air, but it was too late.  The earwigs of Aunt Marg's wooden pool toy trunk were now scrambing around deep in my lungs. 

To this day, every time I feel a sharp prick while breathing, I think of the pile of little earwig carcase shells that might still be there...cemented to the sides of my lungs with their horny little pointers jabbing my flesh.

But I always check the snorkel tubes now.

Stories...that I will probably regret sharing

Something happened this past weekend which drew up a couple memories for me.  Although distasteful, I find that people take great joy in hearing them.

In descending order of grossness...

It wasn't me, I swear!  I am a LADY!

This past weekend, I saw a small something on my carpet.  I wasn't sure what it was because my eyes are not terrific and I'm too lazy to bend over to get a proper look at it.  So I picked it up with my toes, as I'm apt to do, and brought it upwards to see what it was.  The object didn't make it as far as my hands however before I was able to detect what it was from its consistency.  My dear and loving feline had left a small chunk of poo for me.  And now it was between my toes.  Awesome.

Calm down, I poop in my bed too.

Years ago I had a pet iguana named Louie.  Why my parents allowed me to have an iguana, I'll never know, as they grow to nearly 2 meters tip to tail.  Louie lived in an aquarium in my room, but I often left the top of her cage open so she could stroll around as she pleased.  This was never an issue as she always returned to her heat rock and food before too long.  One evening after returning from working a late shift at the movie theatre, I got ready and climbed into bed without turning on the light.  My feet felt cold at the bottom of the bed, but I disregarded that simply assuming they'd warm up shortly.  After a little while I started questioning whether my feet were actually cold or perhaps wet instead.  It took me a while to rouse the energy to get out of bed to flip on the light to verify, but once I did, I discovered that Louie had suffered an impressive bout of diarrhea on the end of my bed, which I had been lying in for a good 15 minutes.


Lastly, and worst of all...

I'm so sweet, I poop chocolate chips

During university I had a pet guinea pig named Venus.  During the summer when I moved home we kept her cage in the kitchen where she could enjoy the most attention as well as close proximity to the vegetable bin.  One afternoon, Sarah and I were enjoying our lunch (read: PC Decadent Chocolate Chunk Cookies) and as we passed by Venus' cage my cookie crumbed a bit and fell on the floor.  Being a good Otten I don't allow cookies to go to waste so I picked up the remnants and ate them anyway.  Another step forward I see a rogue chocolate chip on the floor.  So I ate it.  And then immediately realized that it wasn't a chocolate chip at all.  It was a guinea pig poo.

Running Away from School - AKA - In the Trees Talking to Birds

If only I were this cute...

I was fortunate enough not to have to grow up with having a terrible last name.  Or at very least, was fortunate enough not to grow up around terribly clever children.  I embraced "Rotten" myself fairly early on and so even if the other kids had though of calling me that, it wasn't an issue for me.  Other than that I was only ever called Otter, but otters are wicked clever and freaking adorable so that's hardly an insult.

Back in grade 5, we had a substitute teacher for French class.  Childhood rules clearly state that no work is to be done while under the supervision of a substitute teacher.  As such, Jeremy was testing out how I responded to being called an otter.  In kind, I tested out how he enjoyed being called Frosty the Snowman.  After a short period of consideration,  he let me know that he'd rather be cool than swim well.  The two of us were at a standstill.  Lesrick decided to try jumping in, but neglected to realize that with a name like Lesrick, he was a bit vulnerable to being called "Lessy-rick".  And by sitting across the desk from him, my shin was vulnerable to a good swift kick.

I was too proud to show weakness and cry, despite feeling like my bone had cracked.  Luckily for me and the poor substitute teacher, the lunch bell rang then and we were able to leave for lunch.

Both feelings and shin bruised, I opted to walk home and play sick for the rest of the day.  Unfortunately, as my mom wasn't expecting me home for lunch, my house was locked and I couldn't get in.  No matter, I went next door to camp out at Aunt Barb's until mom returned.  Wincing in pain from my shin, Aunt Barb believed I was sick, called the school to report my absence, and I spent a relaxing afternoon lying on her couch watching The Flintstones and Out of This World.

An hour or so later, my mom is at the door and looking very serious.  She had arrived home to find teachers looking in our windows and in our backyard.  My homeroom teacher had noticed that I was missing after lunch, causing a school wide lock-down (or what was then known as all grade 5's hang out in the gym with minimal supervision) while the teachers combed through the parks and creeks between my school and my house.

Holy crap was I in trouble.

My mom sent the teachers back their classes and I was due to meet with the principal the next morning.  My fake-sick day turned quickly into a real sick day thinking about the heap of trouble I was in for.

The next day my mom drove me to school and we went to meet with the principal.  She gave me a reaming about how they nearly called the police thinking that I'd been abducted.  They sent teachers combing through the creek just in case I had drowned.  Everyone was worried sick about where I was, and my teacher had been in tears.  At this point, so was I, so my mom calmly turned the discussion around.

Did they check the auto-absentee phone line?  No, they didn't, otherwise they'd have known where I was.

Did they call my emergency contact?  No, they didn't, otherwise Aunt Barb would have told them I was there.

Should they have called the police without checking those two basic first steps?  No.

I had never been so grateful.  I was able to walk out of the principal's office with my head held high and most importantly without detention. 

Back in class, I was a bit of a star.  Everyone was really pleased about the free gym time and wanted to know where I had gone.  My story wasn't that exciting (I didn't tell them that I left because of being kicked in the shin) but apparently the rumours flying around the school were.  The best one, and consequently the only one I remember, was that I had climbed a tree and was talking to some birds. 

The icing on the cake is that while I was missing, Lesrick and Jeremy were bragging that I had run away because they called me Otter.  Both of them got detension, while I did not.

When I Discovered I Was White

I've sat on writing this post since I began this blog.  It is one of the clearest memories I have as a child as it was such a revelation for me, but race is always a strange thing to talk about because it's so easy to offend, especially when I haven't been victimized by it.  That said this blog is about my memories, and this is my memorable memory as I remember it.

 ~

I recall very clearly the day when it was revealed to me that people come in different colours.  Prior to that day, I don't believe it ever occurred to me.  Brampton was a wonderfully diverse city to grow up in and as my family was quite active in community sports, clubs, and activities, and went to a public school, we were well exposed to many different cultures from the very beginning.  Over the last few years Brampton has apparently gotten worse for gangs, violence, and cultural divide, but when I was young it was a very safe place to live. 

I was in Mrs Maynard's class...aka she whom did not give me a turtle...and the class was called to the carpet for a lesson.  One of the other children must have made some sort of a racist comment as Mrs Maynard began a very stern discussion that even though people's skin may be different, we are all the same inside.  She went on to tell us that sometimes people are judged because of what colour they are, and that is wrong.

I'm that nearly see-through kind

Wait.  What?  People were different colours?  I surveyed the class seated on the floor around me and was shocked to see how different everyone looked all of a sudden.  Shannon was white, and so was Matthew.  Natalie was black and Harman was brown.  I had gone to school with these kids for over a year now and never realized what colour they were.  It was sublimely awe-striking and a concept so bizarre that it just didn't make sense.  And yet...there it was.

Whatever else Mrs Maynard had to say flowed from one ear right out the other.  I was stuck on the suggestion that people were judged for what colour they were, even though they couldn't help it.  I like Shannon, but didn't like Matthew, and they were both white.  I like both Natalie and Harman----

WAIT!  What colour skin did I have???

I looked down nervously to discover that I was white.

And a huge wave of relief flooded me.

Despite just being told that everyone was the same no matter what colour they were, I already know within minutes that my life was going to be a lot easier that I was white.  It's hard to say exactly why I knew that, especially since I can't recall the rest of Mrs Maynard's lesson, but I remember clearly that one moment of complete relief knowing that I didn't have anything to worry about...all the bad things that she warned us about would not be directed at me...

(Interjection:  Okay, there I go being un-PC.  I know racism affects us all, and I know that white people can be racialized too.  This is just an account of my memory, and that was my honest 6-year-old reaction.)

These new revelations rocked my boat a little bit, but didn't change my life very much.  Shannon, Natalie and Harman (but not Matthew...I hated him) were all still my friends, but now I was conscious of our topical differences.

Vomit Stories

Bargain Herold's
Remember "Bargain Harolds"?  I like to think I had somewhat of a role in it's eventual demise.  When I was somewhere in-and-around 10, my mom took Trevor, Sarah and my cousin Amy with her to the Rat Plaza, with Bargain Harolds at the entrance.  As soon as we entered the mall, my stomach turned and I paused to puke while my family carried on ahead of me without notice.  When I was done, I realized that I had ralphed from one end of the Bargain Harolds threshold to the other, completely carpeting their entrance way with my undigested lunch.  I ran to catch up with my mom to tell her what I had done, but didn't make it further than 20 feet before I hurled again.  When I was done my floor pizza, I realized that now I had effectively sealed all the unfortunate Bargain Harolds customer's inside the store with my vomit force field.  I definitely needed my mom to sort this mess out for me, so I caught up and told her I barfed.  Except in my family we weren't allowed to say barf (or puke, or hurl, or yak.  Not sure about vomit force field, though as I just made that one up now) so I had to say 'throw up'.  She stopped in her tracks.  I thought I was in trouble for sure.

Mom - "Where?" 
Me - "Bargain Harolds door"
Mom -"Which one?" 
Me - "Both of them"

Whereas I would have been tempted to run away and pretend that it wasn't my kid that just made a guttural (pun!) statement on the quality of products and services at the store, my mom did the honourable thing and marched back to Bargain Harolds, jumping over the chuck and informed the Manager what had happened.

Manager - "Where?" 
Mom - "Your door"
Manager -"Which one?" 
Mom - "Both of them"

As we all left, my mom and myself quite embarrassed, Trevor, Amy and Sarah all dying of laughter, the unhappy Manager threw some cardboard down on top of my refurbished lunch.

Later, while exiting the Rat Plaza, we noticed that the cardboard had been removed and stacked up next to the mall's candy machine.  That nearly caused us all to puke again.



Doorway Vomit
Here's another quick one that still makes me laugh.  When I was really young, let's say 5, I woke up suddenly in the night and couldn't make it to the bathroom in time to throw up.  My mom had super sonic hearing and always knew when one of us was awake at night.  She came out of her room to see what was wrong.

Me - "I threw up"
Mom - "Where?"
Me - (pointing at her feet) "There."

Luckily for both of us she was wearing her slippers.

Sugar Babies

Sugar Babies.  Neither sugar nor baby

Back in junior high, our biggest project for Home Ec was Sugar Babies.  Not to be confused with these happy little exotics to the right, rather a very translucent lesson in what a pain-in-the-ass a teenage pregnancy would be.

Each 8th grader had to lug around a 2lb bag of sugar for two solid weeks, pretending it was a baby.  I personally found this project embarrassing, but I will conceded that we learned a lot about babies that year.  For example:

• Babies are square and weigh 2 pounds.
• Babies melt in the rain.
• If you drop your baby, you can sweep it up, funnel the mess back into its body, and tape it up.  If it's a big accident, you can buy a new baby from the store and throw the old one out.  No one will know; all babies look the same.
• Babies take up a lot of room in your backpack.
• New parents are lying.  Babies do sleep through the whole night.  And day.
• Your parents will forget that you have a baby and/or don't expect you to care for it at home.
• Babies are fun to throw at each other when the two weeks are up.

In actuality, all our teachers were aware of this project and which of their class members had Home Ec that semester.  As such, babies were not allowed to be carried around in backpacks and to be kept in plain eyesight during other classes, and could be confiscated and marks deducted if you mistreated yours or someone else's.  I believe we were even required to keep the bag of sugar clothed or wrapped in a blanket.  Parents were informed of this project and notified to maintain the strict guidelines at home as well.  Luckily my parents weren't so stringent, but Amanda's mother had her set her alarm a few times in the middle of the night.

Most students did this project with as little effort as they used with all their other projects, but not the aforementioned Amanda.  Even at that age she was quite convinced that she would end up being a high school drop out teenage mother, and no less seemed quite pleased with that notion.  Her Sugar Baby had a name and arrived each day with a new outfit.  She happily carried it around with her for every moment of those two weeks and refused to join in the sugar fight when the project expired.

After school one day, Amanda, Dana and I went to the mall as we were apt to do, and Amanda was intent on renting a stroller for her Sugar Baby.  We went to Guest Services and rented one without needing to  explain, as Amanda's Sugar Baby was wearing a sleeper and had all the extremities stuffed, so it looked like an actual baby.  Mine and Dana's were both halfway between infant-resemblance and looking like we'd just been to the grocery store.  As Amanda carefully loaded her baby into the carriage,  I said to Dana "I'll just put mine underneath."  As I went to do that, a lady came screaming and running at us out of nowhere!  She let us know with no uncertain terms that babies are very delicate and cannot be left under strollers.  She was quite embarrassed when we told her they were bags of sugar, but it only served to teach us yet another lesson about babies - there is always someone watching and willing to tell you what you're doing wrong with them.

The Turtles

As well as frogs and toads, I also raised a host of turtles growing up.

When I was 6, my mom and I went to Big Al's and the turtle tank was right near the front door. I studied the tank for a long time before choosing the tiniest turtle they had. I had saved up my allowance to buy Shelly and I distinctly remember he cost $7.99. Shelly lived on the kitchen counter in a plastic container called "turtle island" that had a bridge and plastic palm tree. He ate a boring diet of turtle pellets peppered with the squashed body of any fly who tried to make our house it's home.

After reading my journal, my grade one teacher Miss Maynard invited Shelly to join my class for show and tell. Always eager for a chance to show off, I happily complied. A week or so later, miss Maynard told me she had some exciting news for me. Her daughter found a little turtle in their backyard and named him Freddy (after Kruger, based on his claws). I was super excited, thinking that she was going to give him to me, after all why would her daughter finding a turtle be exciting for me? Sadly, this was not the case, but it did spark a series of careful backyard inspections and finally the accumulation of another $7.99.

Shelton brought new living accommodations with him, and joined Shelly on the kitchen counter. They got along well, sharing flies and playing with the cat.  Blackie and the turtles had a good dynamic.  Since salmonella didn't seem to be a concern in our house, we used to let the turtles walk around the kitchen floor.  They were zippy little suckers, despite the rumours about them.  Blackie would let them get fairly far away from them, then pounced and smack their shells with his paw to make them retreat into their shells.  Then later, if Blackie got distracted  by something, the turtles would attack his tail.  

When Sheldon reached maturity he starting trying to eat and/or kill Shelly.  Shelly was the size of a small dinner plate at this point so we decided to send him to university. That's not a euphemism for killing him, by the way, we literally took him to the conservation area at U of Guelph and let him free.  Now regarded as an unacceptable threat to biodiversity, at the time we thought we were doing a good thing.


Not too long later, I was playing at Fung-Ying's house when I saw a little turtle in an empty margarine container sitting on their kitchen counter.  I was upset and asked why he was in such a small container. Her brother had bought him for a friend's birthday, who wasn't allowed to keep him.  Thus, a margarine container.  To the delight of both myself and Fung-Ying's mom, Rocky joined Sheldon on my kitchen counter that day.

At this time I'm going to invite you to feel free to stop reading at any point...I have another 5 turtle stories to make my way through...

Still here?  You must be bored.  Or love turtles.  Possibly both.  Alright then, thanks for humouring me.  Carrying on...

Laurie and I were bike riding around the twin ponds one after noon when we saw a turtle near the edge of the water.  We got off our bikes to go check it out.  We were quite familiar with those ponds and as far as we understood, didn't support life outside of perhaps three-eyed Simpson-esque fish.  I'm ashamed to admit this, but I was too scared to pick up the turtle.  It was Laurie who grabbed him.  Despite having had three of my own at this point, this pond-caught turtle frightened me.  It might have had razor sharp teeth or some sort of venom.  But of course, it did not.  In fact, he didn't even see her hand coming because he was nearly blind with a disease contracted by neglect.  All of a sudden, me letting my turtle go in the conservation area doesn't seem that bad, does it?  Thus, "Pebbles" came home with me, and my allowance was diverted into turtle eye medication.  Because, yes, such a thing does exist.

At some point in this disjointed memory (remember the whole point of this blog is because my memory stinks), my Sunday morning habit of pouring through the penny saver and flyers got the better of me, and I bargained with my dad to buy a great big aquarium, complete with three turtles.  I was allowed to keep Stoney, Buddy, Frisky, and Sunshine (at this point I ran out of rock-related names) for the rest of the summer and my dad got the aquarium for his tropical fish afterward.

The story stops being interesting here (if ever it was actually interesting to begin with...).  I had six turtles for one summer, and all six went to post-secondary education in September.  I recall very little else about them, but having that many turtles at once must have been a trying summer for me, as it effectively ended my turtle-keeping.

____
Update: May 13
I just found this You Tube video of how turtles bully cats.  Mine weren't quite this vindictive, but it just goes to show you that turtles aren't pushovers. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFP6kzZJGOs&feature=endscreen&NR=1

My First Internet Experience

Brian was the first person who told me about the internet.  His parents were both professors at U of T, so he was also the first kid in the neighbourhood with access to the internet.

The day he told us about it, Sandra and I went to his place after school to check it out.  He explained it to us as a computer program that any computer around the world could access and share simultaneously via a telephone line.  It's comical to think of the dial-up tone now, but at the time when it was still revolutionary, it was nail-bitingly exciting to hear.  It also took forever to connect, sometimes multiple attempts, so the anticipation was intense.

As the internet was still a foreign concept to us, all we knew how to do was log onto chat sites. And being 12 at the time we didn't have anything worthwhile to chat about, so we pretended to be the most interesting people we could think of: teenagers. We amused ourselves by building a web of lies and congratulated ourselves when we had seemingly pulled the wool over our chat audience's eyes.  Ha ha, those idiots think we're 17!  We're only 12!! What losers!!   When our lies were too extreme and we were called out on them, we simply employed our 12-year-old skills of rudeness and then hung up on them.

Though this seems like a colossal waste of time, it did serve the purpose of teaching us some social constructs of the internet:

1) it has the potential to kill a lot of time without accomplishing anything.
2) people lie about everything. Take it all with a grain of salt.
3) manners don't count when you're on the internet. You can get away with saying and doing all the stuff you'd never do or say in a face to face conversation.
4) you can be whoever you want to online. Back then we pretended to be mature, interesting teenagers.  Now I happen to be a dwarf hunter with a pet bear on WOW. Whatever floats your boat.
5) really neat way to meet people on the other end of the world (unless they're lying about their location) and to see that they're no different than you (unless they're lying about that too)

Example:  You're reading my blog about memories.  Nearly everything I've written so far is bullshit.  Just kidding.  I'm a thirteen year old girl who has nothing better to do than lie to strangers on the internet.

South Carolina

Sarah and I took a road trip to Florida with our dad over Christmas a few years ago.  We went to Zephyrhills and stayed in a 55+ community with our aunt and uncle.

Most of the drive there was uneventful, save a late night waffle stop in South Carolina. It was about 2am, but when you've got a hankering for waffles, nothing else will satisfy. I went into the store first, while Sarah was just waking up in the car, and dad was having a cee-gar.

There were two dudes working that shift, a cook and the server, and it really brightened up their night when I walked in.  When I came out of the restroom, I found a tired Sarah trying to explain that it wasn't deja vu, we were sisters. They couldn't believe their luck.  I remember trying to see where my dad was, hoping he'd come in and grunt at them as he was apt to do, but he was just smoking away, amused at the show unfolding through the window.

These guys were the most stereotypical southern diner hicks that could have been designed.  From their lanky stature, wanting oral hygiene, and greasy aprons to their thick twang.  They were very interested in that we were from Canada. In fact, their "boss man" went to Mont-Re-All once.  The cook told us that one day he'd like to take a train to Mont-Re-All...is that where we lived?
Well.  That cunning line was too smooth for the server to handle.  His angry retort was pointing out that the cook was too old for us: "Wud are you, a ped-o-phile!?"  The obvious response followed: "Sheit...ped-o-phile? I can't even SPELL ped-o-file!". That's when things got exciting...and the Shud Up Fight was born:

     Shud up!  No you shud up! No YOU shud up!  Shud up you ped-o-phile! I ain't no ped-o-phile!

That's either when my dad's cigar was finished or simply when he saw fit to end the show. Either way, he walked in and announced he needed some waffles. They ceased and desist their shud up fight and made us some mighty satisfying waffles.

We honour those fine gentlemen and their gift of tasty waffles each and every time Sarah and I have a Shud Up Fight.