The Significance of the Back of the Bus

Back in grade 7 or 8, we were going on a ski trip and had been corralled like cattle into the GP room to wait for the buses to arrive.  The room was thick with anticipation, both for the actual trip and to see who would get the back of the bus.

- Quick pause for those of you who have never been bussed to school.  Seating on a school bus is like a hierarchy of coolness.  Like chickens sorting out their pecking order, so too are tweens in determining the seating arrangement of a bus. -

Back in the GP room, I was front and center at the closed door, fiddling with the metal latch to control my tension.  Little to my knowledge, the buses had arrived out front and the teachers, having heard the excited din of the auditorium, were strategically arranging themselves so as not to get trampled.

Suddenly -with my thumb still in the metal latch- the doors were flung open, tearing my thumbnail nearly clean off.

I ran at the head of the stampede...both out of searing pain and stubborn determination to stake my claim.  Once my gear was safely guarding the most coveted of all vinyl benches, I had to wait for the rest of the bus to fill up before I could do anything about my mangled thumb.  

As soon as I was able, I bee-lined for the office.  At this point my thumb was on fire and shooting flaming needles up my arm.  The nail was now only partially lodged in my nail bed and the soft white flesh underneath was curdling with blood and oil. I threw open the office door and as my vision went black and my hearing faded I shouted "I need Tylenol!"

Back then Tylenol counted as medicine so instead I got an orange juice box, a bandaid, and a stern suggestion to not go skiing.  Which I obviously ignored.

After a few hills my hands were too cold to register the pain anymore, but by the end of the day when I took off my glove, I left the thumbnail behind in the pocket of my mitten.

Such is the cost of popularity.

Some Ass Over Tea Kettle Memories

I can't even remember the last time I went skiing/boarding; all I know is there is a dry, rusty snowboard sitting angrily in my dad's cold cellar in Guelph and the foam around my goggles has started to crumble.  But with Toronto's recent snowmagedon, today's perfect weather, and --most importantly-- a free day pass with gear rentals (sorry cellar-captive board), we rented a car and headed to Mansfield to see if our knees were too old to handle a day on the hills.  Despite a few falls, I am happy to discover that snowboarding is just like riding a bicycle...only in that it all comes back easily, otherwise the two have absolutely nothing in common.

Being on the hill lead me to recall a couple fond skiing/boarding memories of yonder, which I'd like to share with anyone who stumbles upon my blog:


Story One - 
A leading cause as to how my friends and I caught the skiing bug in the first place, was back in middle school when our math teacher formed a Skiing Club.  Looking back now, it was a brilliant tactical maneuver on both his and our parts.  He was able indulge a personal passion and veneer it as extra curricular participation, all while skipping work for a day every three weeks during the winter.  Genius!  We were able to skip a day of school every three weeks during the winter months and mask it off as school spirit...and get exercise, learn a new sport, blah blah blah...but mostly skip school.  All that, plus my mom used to buy me a litre bottle of the sparkling flavoured water every time I went on a ski trip, so that was pretty special too.

On one of these such trips the skiing conditions were not so great, and Laurie had just passed her skills test to have free run of the park.  Sandra, Jackie and I decided that trial by fire was in order, and we led her straight to one of the black diamond runs.  Not only was the hill steep and covered in moguls, but unbeknownst to us it was also layered in a respectable sheet of ice.  We charged down that hill the way that only fearless tweens can, and that sheet of ice reached out and sucker punched Laurie.  Sandra stayed with her, but Jackie and I were at the bottom of the hill before we realized that she was hurt, and rushed back up to 'rescue' her.  The ice went for round two and tried to give us the same treatment it bestowed upon Laurie.  We both went ass over tea kettle and nearly took her out bowling ball style.  Luckily, our aim was as good as our skiing and we managed to avoid damaging her any further.  That trip ended with Laurie being put in a body bag and snowmobiled to the first aid room.  She was later found to have torn her ACL and needed to be on crutches for months afterwards.

Story Two - 
My second time ever snowboarding was at Lake Louise, because it seems I like punishment.  I rose to the occasion and was able to follow my born-in-Alberta friend Dale on nearly all the runs that day.  So impressed with my new found ability, he decided it would be a great denouement for our last run to be from the top of the mountain.  From that peak we'd be able to see all the mountains and nearly touch the sun.  Sounded like a good plan.

We took the ski lift for a good 15 minutes to what I thought was the top of the mountain, but it was actually only as far as the ski lift was capable of going.  From there we still had to board a t-bar and travel damn near vertically up the precipice.  Now, I know you're like "So what? They use t-bars on bunny hills", but to you I say using a t-bar on a snowboard is more difficult than using it on skis since you have to face sideways.  Furthermore, using a t-bar to go up an unreasonably steep slop is bloody hard on your muscles, particularly after a whole day of 'sink or swim' snowboarding.  And finally, to ice the damned cake, using a t-bar at the end of the day after a ton of people before you have carved ruts into the route with their skiis is nearly impossible.  I managed to get a third of the way up to the top of the mountain when my board caught a rut and my wussy arms couldn't re-balance me.  I. Just. Couldn't. Hang. On. Any. Longer.

So I bailed, but with the last of my energy I bailed to the side so as not to take out nearly every single person behind me.  Except for Dale.  He dove out of line in hopes of literally saving my neck, but instead, I just crashed into him and he joined my human snowball.

We flipped ass over tea kettle, picking up speed with our snowboards ratcheted to our feet, flailing all over.  The people in the line behind us were wide eyed and gasping in horror as we tumbled all the way back to the top of the chair lift.  Again, I know you're thinking "Big deal, I used to roll down hills all the time when I was a kid", but to you I say this hill was not a hill, it was a freaking MOUNTAIN.  And we tumbled with planks of metal rimmed wood strapped to our feet in a double human snowball forever...kilometres...hours...DAYS!  We were motion sick, bruised and disoriented when we finally stopped, and it's only by the grace of God that neither of us were broken or missing any teeth.  We called it a day after that.

Actually wait...I guess that's why I haven't been snowboarding in years.

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.

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.

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.