When I was young and my Bro was younger, my family went on a trip to Florida. The typical Canadian escape over March Break to a place filled with other Canadians off for March Break. My Papa being the efficiency expert he is, forced a 3 day drive into a 2 day window. Which would of course be the best way to start our vacation. My father pushing through Michigan and racing through Georgia, and the 3 of us sleeping for almost everything in between. In a race against an unknown timekeeper, challenging him to stay up all night; stopping only for vending machine coffee and rest stop bathroom breaks. When we arrived in Florida he was tired and grumpy. That much I recall. And what could make a grown man even grumpier? How's about Disney, Epcot and Universal with 2 kids complaining about standing in line and too young to really appreciate the value of a family trip...Ya I think that would do it.
One of the reasons my Parents chose Florida, was the free stay at a timeshare resort, 40 mins from all tourist destinations, a great location with quality amenities and guaranteed property amelioration. After the last few years in the US economy, I guess they are happy they declined, even though they sat through (with us) 2 long winded slideshow presentations and 5 different pushy sales tactics in increasingly smaller rooms. Including: Bribing the children, free tickets to local attractions and lots more exciting and incredible offers. But they obviously didn't know: my family doesn't feel guilty for taking the free shit. That's how they trap those other poor buggers*insert thumb point at the rube next to you.
The most memorable parts about this vacation though was the cheap- side of the highway Croc farm that we went to... Not quite a zoo, not a petting farm, it was a strange mix of domestic and exotic animals. With a GIANT concrete crocodile out front, acting as the doorway to this not so foreign land. It's huge teeth rounded down from the probable sharp points they used to be, before people got all worked up over things like that. The crocodile show was every 15 mins, not very exciting though a burly man in blue coveralls did put his head into the mouth of a small crocodile. The croc was the size of a chocolate lab with a longer snout and tail. Though the safari expedition host empathically assured us, it was very dangerous. He was later selling souvenirs in the gift shop.
On our visit to this park, my Papa's mood improved drastically. We were 6 hours from starting back towards home and he was finally smiling. Starring at a screaming monkey. You know the kind with the pink bums, that have clearly been using rough toilet paper. Papa had put a quater into the turn machines filled with food pellets for the caged animals and was holding a handful of those dried out nuggets. And that monkey was reaching as far as he could while still hanging from his rope, screaming for all that food. Papa throws a pellet. Monkey makes a lame attempt at catching, misses, pellet falls to the floor, monkey shrieks, and holds his hand out for another. Papa laughs, throws another pellet. Another lame grab at the air and another missed pellet. More screaming and angry bouncing- monkey begging for another try to catch another pellet. And so it goes, throw, swat, scream, laugh, throw; until my Papa is on his very last pellet. Making eye contact with this high hanging Monkey, Papa says: "It's the last one, you better catch it." With an exaggerated lob my Papa sends that last pellet high into the air, Monkey extends his hand like God to Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, catches it triumphantly lobs it into his mouth, blows a raspberry then sveltely slides down the rope to collect the handful he's missed. Starring at this, it dawns on me, even at that young age. That monkey has tricked my Papa out of his handful of pellets. Pretending the whole time that he was trying desperately to catch those pieces, knowing he could, but if he did, that was the end of the game. That monkey was smarter than all those timeshare sales people put together.
On our way back out the crocs mouth the safari expedition host tells me to pick any souvenirs I want for a dollar. I choose a tiny message in a bottle filled with sand: Beachfront Property. Then clutching it closely, I climb back into the Winstar, saying goodbye to Florida and Papa aims us Norh, towards home. We made it back in 1.75 days, a record for even my driven Papa. But what's the point of a record if you don't keep trying to break it.
Interesting side note. While researching this blog, I learned that southern Florida is the only place Alligators and Crocodiles live side by side. This little Monkey says: who's teaching who?
Text me, Facebook me, Tweet me but whatever you do, don't call me. In the last 3 weeks my phone has rung quite a bit and on the other end has been someone I loved and a few times something completely unexpected but just as special. But it made me realize; it's been a long time since I had one of 'those' phone calls. You know the ones I mean. The phone calls that stop the world and change everything. I've been so focused on being happy and taking advantage of all the good luck I've been having, that I forgot the whole universe is in motion. I'd forgotten things could change drastically and never change back.
When I was growing up I lost 3 Grandparents, an Uncle, a Cousin and one classmate for each year of high school. I've lost people to illness both quickly and slowly. Watched people fall apart and become someone I couldn't recognize. I have watched people loose themselves and forget everything they love. People have been ripped away, without warning. And people have lingered painfully. And the ringing of the telephone has always been the messenger. The phone can be a dangerous tool if wielded thoughtlessly.
On the other hand, I have had phone calls to welcome a new baby. People exploding with joy. Momma calling to share good news and Papa calling to tell me a joke. Phone calls about people traveling to interesting places, asking me to watch their animals. Conversations about raises and engagements. Good friends calling to check-in, and make plans. A job offer that you never dreamed you'd get. Each time the link has been a complex series of satellites and wires, bringing their special messages to me.
What I am getting at is this: Things have been going so well for me in my personal, private and professional life; that I had a shock of worry. Worrying if the other shoe would drop. I have been on a roll. Picking up the phone expecting nothing but the beep or the occasional wrong number. An optimist through and through... I just don't want anything to change. Please, please, please...I love things right now. I want to have my Parents forever, my Hubby beside me, my BFF nearby, my Bro happy, I want the freeze frame. Is that so much to ask? When listening to my BFF's voice carried over those wireless waves; I realized that nobody wants things to change. They would do anything to keep the happy status quo. But sometimes it's not up to us. Sometimes the phone rings and it's the call we've been dreading. So give those you love the 411 and trust that the world will keep changing, every time the phone rings.
It's hard to pinpoint the start of my love affair with all things vintage. But I think it started just after my G'ma Far passed away. She was such a Lady. With gloves and pearls and legs crossed at the ankle. It was with her that I watched my first black and white movie. At the time I couldn't understand why anyone would film in B&W instead of colour; it just didn't make sense. It was also with her that I fell in love with Holly Golightly, Gene Kelly and the Sharks (though sadly, I would probably end up being a Jet). At the time she passed I was in high school and had just made the very educated decision to be an almost vegetarian- who ate the occasional steak; because who can resist Papa B's BBQ? But I did give up all pork, you know, for Babe's sake. I tried not to wear leather and fur was murder. I was a very worldy young lady, as far as I was concerned. But there was just one thing; Grandma's fox stole. This glamours furry, rust coloured wrap that smelled like her and felt like a satin lined hug. While cleaning out her house, the house where my Momma grew up; the house were my Bro and I spent Christmases and giggled and fought and played with the old toys that our grown-up cousins had played with. The house where we watched the Jerry Lewis telethon every year the weekend before back to school. It was impossible to think of the things you hoped would remind you of the Lady she was. For me it was the antique cannonball bed and this very non-vegetarian fox stole. I remember talking it out with my Momma; and her tenderness in a time of such heartache. Letting me know that a fox stole worn by my Grandma was very different than a new fur coat. That having something loved by someone before you makes it that much more special. So, I braved my inner critic and wore the stole home on the 3 hour car ride. Sitting in the backseat, wrapped in the smell of my Momma's Momma; and I slept.
Now, a fox stole wasn't something a 17 year old could easily accessorize in 1998, so it went into storage; wrapped and delicately laid there. As I grew, I tried to find my place in this fashionable world. Not an easy task when you grew up in a small town, move to the big city and didn't/don't have any money. Second hand stores and thrift shops were what I could afford or cheap 3 for $10 tops. So I ended up in shoes that didn't fit properly and clothes that even people with bad taste didn't want. These facts forced me to adopt a uniform: jeans, t-shirt and hoodie. This outfit had many incarnations, variations and colours, but it didn't seem to fit me either. I longed to be a Lady, with a capital L like my Grandma. How was a poor little fashion faux-pas like me supposed to make her mark?
Then it happened. A tiny hole in the wall with 12 hats in the front window. My college friend dragged me into a softly lit shoe box storefront- filled with cloches, clutches and class. Smelling vaguely like Chanel No. 5 a woman in rhinestone rimmed glasses smiled at us; 2 college girls in our sweaty dance gear; ogling her wares. I couldn't afford anything that day; not that I didn't want to have it all. I wanted the hats, purses, gloves, brooches, belts and most of all the panache. I wanted to be classy.
It was many years of pining before I started adding quality vintage pieces to my wardrobe. It began with a white sundress from my Momma's high school era; found packed away for a sunny day. Followed by many dresses designed in a time when women were classic and mysterious creatures clad in soft and flowing fabrics. Last year Hubby added my most extravagant piece to date; a chocolate brown Persian lamb 3/4 length coat with voluminous Fox collar and trim. That is a coat that gets noticed! When I wear vintage I can feel the love that the previous owner invested in it and it changes the way you feel about yourself. I am amazed to think that someday my new clothes will be vintage. But by then I think we'll be wearing matching jumpsuits like Logan's run, without all that dreadful running...and murder. That's not the best case scenario for a Lady like me, but who doesn't want hover shoes with automatic laces?
When I was growing up my family wasn't rich. That's not to say we were poor. We always had name brand Kraft dinner and Koolaid. My Momma is an advocate for buying the products with accountability. None of that yellow pack No Name shenanigans. Unlike my neighbor who's mother made her eat homemade Mac and cheese- eww, poor thing. Being from a family with such high standards, it was hard for me to hear: No. And it was even worse hearing it when I really wanted something.
I used to think/wish/dream that if I was playing with a toy in a store somebody would see me; think I was adorable and give me that toy. Just give it to me. You know the way special and amazing things happen to everyday average people. Especially middle class blonde haired children from small town Ontario. It's supposed to happen all the time. It never did. Remember when Cabbage Patch kids were all the rage? I sure do. I loved my Norma Betsy in her blue corduroy overalls and sandy brown braids. We were inseparable- except if I was playing outside, she wasn't allowed out; she'd get dirty. My macaroni neighbour had 2 Cabbage Patch kids and I only had Norma Betsy. Life just wasn't fair.
Is there a parent out there who likes Toys'R'us? It was an exercise in patience for my parents I suspect. My little Brother knowing the only reason we went to Kitchener was to drive by the chicken giving the thumbs up to the toysrus- the way he said it sounded more like a dinosaur than a toy store- though either would've been cool.
While shopping I began pestering my Momma. Starting softly and steadily increasing my whining towards an 11. Momma telling me; "No. No-for the last time, ask me again and we're going straight home." I skulked off. Back to the Cabbage Patch aisle; the only place I was understood and among friends. Starring at their smiling chubby faces behind the shiny cellophane I started daydreaming: My Momma realizing the error of her ways collects my brother from the bike, trike and scooter aisle. Pulling him against his will, telling him: 'Your sister needs to have a little brother or sister for Norma Betsy. It was a beautiful dream until suddenly there was a pair of hands reaching past me; towards the wall of dolls, selecting a beautiful redhead with curls and 2 front teeth. With a quick inhale I let out a shriek! Joy! Surprise! Sweet and wonderful and all things great! I am twirling and I reach out for this hand- exclaiming "Oh yes! She's so pretty! She's perfect." Taking hold of that hand I turn to find strangers. STRANGERS! The worst thing in the whole wide world and I am holding hands with one. I snatch my 8 year old hand away from an equally surprised woman and start running down the aisle. Finding my Momma and Bro exactly where I knew they would be. Flushed and embarrassed and a bit scared I take Momma by the hand- a hand I know. Promptly bursting into unexplained tears. I didn't leave her side for the rest of the day; worried that strange woman would find us and tell on me.
That day I went home with a tight chest. Sitting in the backseat of our Taurus I couldn't even be bothered to keep my Bro off my side. I could have been an orphan like those Cabbage Patch kids- waiting for a home, but I wasn't. I had a Momma and a Papa and a Bro and Norma Betsy! I couldn't leave them. I still didn't have as many dolls as my Macaroni neighbour, but at least I didn't have to go home with new parents. Oh yeah, 2 months after this traumatic day, on my birthday Norma Betsy and I welcomed Austin Merle to our teeny family. A preemie brother whose bald head smelled of plastic and baby powder in a sea-foam green flannel onesie. It's true, you can't always get what you want but if you try sometimes, you just might find- you get what you already had... and a preemie. It turned out for the best, Norma Betsy has never really been a fan of redheads anyways;)
You can pick your nose and you can pick your friends, but you cant pick your friend's nose hairs; your brother's on the other hand that's a different story. Buddy-boy, I know you won't read this, but thanks for pre-approving my telling it:) His actual words being; "I won't read it, so whatever." My brother and I are very similar, though he thinks I am some sort of Golden Child, which is a lot of pressure, cuz I don't like to disappoint, and being the golden child, I am waiting for Eddie Murphy and the "I-ee-i-i-I want the knife". If you see us together, you can tell we're related. We laugh at our own jokes, we laugh before we've even told a joke. We're awesome. You know, we're awesome because we say so. It's a family thing.
Now, Buddy-boy is a tradesman. He works all day with wood and paint and hammers. He breathes in dirt and dust and indignation. He's supposed to wear a mask, but chooses not to. And I think it's for the same reason as I don't like wearing them, they make talking hard. Talking- well, ranting, that's another a family thing. How would the world survive without hearing what we've got to say- luckily, you'll never know, cuz we won't shut up.*insert knowing head nod. So, no mask means- his natural filter- his nose holes, are working OT. (It's unpaid OT as they are contracted under special Ontario Trades apprenticeship program) That being said- I think you can understand where I'm going with this... His nostrils are brimming with rogues- it's like an upside down vase with fuzzy stems poking out. It's amazing.
When he arrived at my house, looming over me, all I could see was nose hair. I was deaf to his words, in my mind what he was saying was: "Hey, sis, you should pluck this. I want you to get rid of them. Please, you're my only hope" What he was actually saying was he's falling in love, which is scary for him but I know it's really wicked! So, before I missed any other important information I stopped him. "Can I get those for you?" Pointing to his schnoze. "Pretty please? You'll look so much, well, less hairy. When your nose hairs start migrating to beard hairs... it's time to take them out." His answer? A resounding "NO!" suddenly Hubby chimes in, "You'd better just let her do it. She won't stop until they're gone". I turn to Hubby smiling, he gets me, he really gets me:) Finally, Buddy-boy agrees. I leap from my seat and reach for the tweezers (which there's a pair in every room and my purse) and a kleenex. Going straight to work, worried he'll change his mind. Buddy-boy tearing up and laughing at the same time. He knows that beauty is pain, just ask his 27 tattoos or piercings and mohawk. Having pulled 6 hairs- one of which I am pretty sure was attached to his brain, he stops me.
"That's good." he says with the matching suppression gesture.
"No, there's only 2 more." I whine,
"No, it's good." Recognizing the tone of his voice as the one that he typically uses before the Green light (green light means all systems Go! No holding back), I restrain myself.
I know that too much of a good thing can be painful, like those Big Gulp slushies no one can ever finish. Having nearly completed my mission, I am nearly satisfied that I will be sending him out into the City like the awesome dude he says he is (and actually is most days). I think for X-mas, I will get him an industrial face hole trimmer, or I'll just invite him over for a spa day with his fav Golden girl, which would actually be like a gift for both of us:)
|
RSS Feed