Ketchup and mustard.
When normal people think of these two things they think of relatively harmless condiments. One's red, one's yellow and when placed on meat they generally appeal to the eye. One tastes like rotten tomatoes, the other, well I have never tasted anything that comes as close to being as nasty as mustard so I don't have anything to compare it to. Nonetheless, despite my opinions on these two condiments, most people seem to like them.
When I think of ketchup and mustard together, two memories come to mind. One of these memories could quite possibly be one of my favourite memories from when I was an innocent child. The other memory makes me run to my closet, curl up in a ball and stare at the wall while my teeth chatter and tears drip out of my eyes. (I might have exaggerated that last part there by a tad, but not really).
I'll enlighten y'all on the second memory first, just so I can get my feelings out and hopefully move on quickly. Just a note, I'll probably end up just posting the two stories in two different posts because I do have other things to do.. although it may not seem like it :P)
On a side note, what's up with y'all. How is y'all a word? (Seriously, it must be because my spellchecker - in Mozilla - says it's a word. IT'S NOT A WORD! It's two words, and for some reason, people string them together because...? Are they lazy? Do they think it's cool? Does it have some secret hidden meaning behind it? (Oh.. if that's the case we should contact Dan Brown to investigate - it could be the 4th Robert Langdon mystery ;)) Maybe we should start combining more words together: Salad dressing could be sa'dressin, as in, "pass the sa'dressin you crazy mofo for shizzle." Or bank robbery could be ba'robber, as in, "Dude the bad robber just comitted some sick ba'robber foo!" So'we re'ain't gu'be ma'no mo'sense! Really y'all, how hard it is to say you all?
That's just a little ramble/rant. I just despise it when y'all make a mockery out of the English language.
So back to my traumatizing story.
One summer, after I read Sweet Valley (and yes - I read Sweet Valley books!) In fact, I loved loved LOVED Sweet Valley books - I practically devoured them anytime I could - and anyone who says they suck (he-hem, Moe from the Simpsons) is seriously delusional and needs to up their medication by a couple of doses. While reading these amazing books (I still highly recommend them if you're looking for a fun read to relax with and take the weight of the world off your shoulders) I became obsessed with horses (mainly because one of my favourite characters, Elizabeth, was also obsessed with horses).
I know.. As much as it pains me to admit it, I was brainwashed by Sweet Valley. I fell for the subconscious messages lurking within the chipper texts big time - luckily, however, this brainwashing didn't last very long - thank-you to a little nightmare I like to call horse camp! Or more accurately, the horse camp from hell.
After months, ok well weeks, alright, days, of begging my dad to buy me a pony and teach me to ride we reached a compromise: he agreed that he would send me, my sister and my brother to horse camp for one week in the summer instead of buying me a pony at the time. Since I never really wanted a pony in the first place this compromise was fine by me - at first.
It turned out that horse camp was the worst idea that I've ever had (and I've had some pretty gosh darn bad ones.. maybe I'll enlighten you about those ideas later - if you're lucky).
THAT HORSE CAMP WAS THE WORST CAMP THAT I EVER WENT TO IN MY LIFE. By far. And I'd know, I've been to a lot of day camps that I've despised in my life (thanks mom and dad), but this one takes the cake - easily.
The camp itself was run by a fascist she-farmer who got a perverse pleasure out of torturing the campers (a small group of 8 people) with her little tricky mind games. I swear, I have no idea what the hell she was doing running a camp like that because it was incredibly obvious that she did not like small children - with the exception of her own.
Ugh, Cassandra. I still remember Cassandra. I will never forget Cassandra, I don't mean that in a good way. Cassandra was ... ugh, can I just say, a nightmare. She immediately latched on to me, because let's face it, I was the coolest person there (naturally) and as a result we got ... special ... privileges. However, about halfway into the week I had an epiphany of sorts: I asked myself, "Kelsey, what the heck are you doing with this chick (although, in retrospect, when I asked myself I probably didn't use the word chick)? You don't even like her!".
Those who knew me back then, and even sometimes now, I was never one to sugarcoat things, or do anything that I particularly didn't want to do. As a result, I told Cassandra (who constantly complained and made fun of the other campers and was just mean in general) to STFU.
Man, I've never seen anyone go to so nice to so mean so quickly. I swear, it was like as soon as I told her off, bam, a totally different person. A person who, well lets just say, made life extremely difficult for me the last half of the week: she constantly got me in trouble and separated from another girl, Ashley, who I actually did like. (It's weird that I still remember their names as it did happen ages ago, but I don't know, I remember a lot of things about this camp).
Anyway, I kind of got off track there, at that camp, everyday, the fascist dictator, as I will forever remember her as, forced us, the wee little innocent campers, to clean animal shit out of the stalls. This may sound weird and everything, but that's not really my idea of fun! (I know, shocking right?)
Basically, my dad paid a small fortune (which could have been used to buy me a 'little barbie car that goes down the street' like I always wanted) for his three children to muck away in the stalls and clean up horse crap and be treated, probably, more inhumanely than most slaves ever were.
NOT FUN!
Not only that, but the counselors were spineless little jellyfish who knew nothing about riding or speaking up against illegal child labour. Annd (yes, there is more), I still remember the bathrooms from that camp - N-A-S-T-Y! The pleasant (sarcasm) aroma was a cross between old lady urine and a corpse that has been rotting for 324 days. I also got forced to ride Western on this dumb-ass horse and, upon being made to go bareback, I almost fell off.
Basically, at this camp I almost died! And I'm not even exaggerating, much.
Oh, and on another side note (yes there are a lot in this post), I believe that this camp is part of the reason as to why I fear birds so much. Yes it's true. Deep down inside me, part of the reason that I resent horse camp so much is because I was scarred for life there.
How?
Well, it all started on this one warm rainy day. The FD (fascist dictator) didn't want us riding the horses because it was raining - although it wasn't really raining, it was more of a drizzle. So what does one do at a horse camp when not riding horses while it's raining?
The answer, have chicken races! (Yes, that logic was sadly lost on me as well. I don't know how one equates rain + horse camp - horses = chicken races, but maybe that's just me).
Chickens, while they are poultry and do not look so much like most birds, they are in fact birds (or if they're not, they should be - I wouldn't know, I don't really pay that much attention to stuff like that). My logic is, if they have wings and beaks and oddly shaped feet, they are birds.
Anyway, as much I as I didn't want to, FD forced me to participate (I believe that she threatened to take away my riding privileges or something). I was given a ribbon and told to go find a chicken and tie the ribbon around there neck.
Uh, excuse me? You want me to pick up a chicken and hold it long enough to tie a ribbon around its neck? What the hell are you smoking? No, really.
I wasn't afraid of birds at this point, but I wasn't their biggest fan either. I sure as heck didn't want to even touch a chicken, let alone pick it up for what would seem like eternity. But I did.
In retrospect, after horse camp in general, I'm pretty sure that this was the second worst mistake in my life.
I picked up the chicken, fumbled with it, tried to think about my happy place (I don't entirely remember what that would be, but I'm pretty sure that Sweet Valley was involved with in somehow), eventually managed to get the ribbon on it and set it down.
The bird, well, it was ok for the first few minutes, but then it looked a bit .. well lets just say, strange. Being the humanitarian (or is it animalitarian in this case?) I was, and still am, I was worried that I might have tied the ribbon too tight around its neck (I'm an awful judge about things like that - honest, it's not intentional or subconscious - just what I think is good, usually isn't).
I bent down and took the ribbon off. *cue creepy music* As soon as I did, it was like the devil materialized in this chicken. Or that the chicken was just mad. You know, I think it's understandable, if I was a chicken I certainly would get mad if this stupid kid was manhandling me and forcing me to run around like an idiot.
IT ATTACKED ME! The freaking chicken actually attacked me! It started pecking at me and chasing me - This may be hard to picture, but I swear, I'm not making a word of this up.
To get the full effect of the result, I think that you should imagine a young child - scrawny with a mop of blond hair - shrieking girlishly while bawling and attempting to run away, her stickish legs failing her several times, and eventually ending up in the smelly bathroom where she then locked herself in for a good hour or so and sucked her thumb - yep, I'm pretty sure that I just painted an accurate picture of what happened there.
*shudders*
And ever since that fateful day, chickens and birds just give me the creeps. Every time I see a bird, this memory pops up in my head. It's funny, I think I'm cursed: most people, when they experience a traumatic event, forget that it happened or their mind represses it. Not me, no luckily I go the complete opposite way and remember every darn thing that happened, like it happened yesterday. Not only that, but I am also cursed when it comes to birds: I have also been attacked by at least two other birds as well, one of which I told you about in a previous post I believe.
Anyway, back to the ketchup and mustard story (wow, this post is really long - and keep in mind, this is only the first memory that I associate with ketchup and mustard).
One day after I essentially told Cassandra what a tool she was and blah blah blah she got mad at me. I don't remember exactly how I got roped into doing what I did, but there were definitely threats and blackmail involved.
(I know, I told you, this camp was INTENSE - With a capital "I")
You see, by this point I had ditched being politically correct (although, that in itself was a huge headache) and was hanging out with Ashley. I believe that we did something we weren't supposed to do, although I don't remember what it was. Anyway, Cassandra saw us do it (she was incredibly sneaky like that. In fact, I do believe that, when I left, she had a very promising career of being a successful international spy) and being the vindictive little weasel she was, threatened to tell her mother (FD). I had already been in trouble enough that week (I know, it's so hard picturing me actually being in trouble ;), especially because you know, I'm so innocent now, but yeah, back then ... not necessarily the case) so I decided to play along and she what she wanted.
You know, much like how terrorists sometimes state their demands, and you have no choice but to give into them.
Anyway, I'll admit, playing along with her was a big mistake on my part. It was much like a mouse walking right up to a cat and then mooning it or something (haha, I'm tired and that was the best I could think of).
All this was going down at lunch, so when I asked Cassandra what she wanted to keep quiet, she looked around and after a few seconds her eyes landed on what our lunch was (ketchup, mustard, ham, lettuce, bread, tomatoes, etc - essentially a sandwich bar) and a devious smile slowly spread across her face.
Without saying a word, she reaches out, grabs a piece of bread, grabs the mustard and squirts a huge blob on the bread. Then she did same thing with the ketchup. She folded up the bread and told me to eat it.
I believe my reaction was somewhere along the lines of what the hell are you thinking? Oh, and who the hell do you think you are?
I'm pretty sure she was also a mind reader, and she pretty much said, "If you want me to keep quiet, eat this. If not, I'll go to my mom and tell her what you did". (I know that sounds pretty ominous and all - like we did something seriously bad - but we didn't, I just didn't want to get in trouble anymore. Not only did she say that, but she also had that glint in her eye. You know, the one that is daring you to do something.
For those of you who know me, I could never, and still can never, turn down a dare. Naturally I did it. No matter how much my brain was telling me 'don't do it moron, don't do it', I didn't listen to it.
*cue dramatic music*
I flinched while picking up the sandwich, slowly raised it to my mouth, took a bite. AND GAGGED! BLECH BLECH BLECH! It was easily the worst thing that I had ever tasted, and still takes the cake today. I'm pretty sure I turned green, although, I wouldn't exactly know because there weren't any mirrors.
Let's just say then, it felt like I was green. As green as you can get too.
Ashley was staring at me horrified, while Cassandra was smirking. I got mad when I saw that smirk. Because of that smirk, oh and because of the fact that I think I like to torture myself, I took another bite.
It was worst than the first, I'm pretty sure that if it wasn't for my stomach's ability to handle what I did to it, I would have tossed my cookies. I couldn't eat anymore. I just couldn't. I debated hurling what was left at Cassandra in a pathetic attempt for revenge. I didn't. I wish that I could say that I didn't because I was a nice person and would never do that, but I can't(had it been anyone but Cassandra, I wouldn't have fathomed doing it in a million years). No, the reason that I didn't hurl it right back in that biznitch's face was because I was interrupted.
Yep, FD, with impeccable timing I might add, came out right in the middle of my idea and yelled at me for a good 10 minutes about wasting food and then punished me for the rest of the afternoon - thereby making me lose my glorious opportunity for payback. The punishment? Not being able to ride, and having to clean up the chicken co-op *shudders* while everyone else was riding.
Looking back, I don't even know if what I was forced to do is considered legal.
Fun times. Fun times. No wait, who am I kidding?
The moral of this story: do not go to horse camp! Or if you do, do not piss off the organizer's daughter, or you too could be forced to eat a ketchup and mustard sandwich - and trust me, no matter how much you may like ketchup and mustard, you do not want to eat that nasty business.
Blergh. My palms are getting sweaty and my stomach is tinging just thinking about it.
Man, this post has more words than most of my essays do for school, is that bad?
Kudos to you if you managed to read the whole things and sift through the many layers of horse camp horrors that I provided you with (I know, this post especially was SO deep)- hopefully, unlike me, you don't have nightmares about it.
Look for part two soon, although I will try to limit the length of that one just for the sake of your eyes - oh, and my sanity!
PS. Now you see what took me so long with posting another story :P.
Showing posts with label Childhood Recollections. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childhood Recollections. Show all posts
2010/01/21
I Hated the Top Bunk Because of the Dinosaurs
Me and my sister used to share a room when we were younger (and by younger I mean I only got my own room a couple of years ago).
Sharing a room with my sister was ... awful. Just plain awful! If you picture the two messiest kids alive in a room that literally had clothes and garbage and, quite possibly dead pets, up to the knees you're picturing our room.
I recall at one point when we were in grade 2 and 4 (or something like that) we even shared a queen sized bed because our room was so small there wasn't any room for two beds. However, that didn't last long after our nightly punching fights and screaming cover-hog accusations. Most nights ended with a loud 'M-o-o-o-m!' at one in the morning with my mother stumbling in the room, half-asleep, telling us to shut-up.
In retrospect, I would like to know what my mother was smoking at the time. With me and my sister, there was no possible way that that arrangement was going to work out.
My mother, after losing too many nights of her beauty sleep, quickly came up with the solution to this problem: bunk-beds. After a few more weeks of unbearable cat fights with the end result being one of us two stealing the blankets and going to sleep in the closet, the day where we got our glorious bunk-beds finally arrived!
I swear, I think when the beds were first set up, the sky parted and warm sunlight poured down on our room with angels singing Hallelujah!
All our problems were solved! My and my sister each had our own bed and my mother would be able to get a good night's sleep.
Or so we thought: but that wasn't really the case at all.
I should tell you right now that the bunk beds that we had gotten weren't your usual bunk beds, but rather, the bed on the bottom had a queen sized mattress and the bed on the top was a twin. Naturally this in itself caused a fight between me and my sister: we both wanted the bottom bed.
In the end, after much conflict, my mother ended up deciding that every other week we were at her house we would have to switch beds in order to be fair.
I didn't, still don't, and most likely never will get along with my brother or my sister - it's just one of the natural laws of this world. Even as a child I disliked them immensely. My mother tells me stories of how, when she brought them both home, I didn't even acknowledge them for about a year. Cheebert/Steve and Gramma, their nick-names in our family, get along great and everything is fine and dandy. Me and them on the other hand go together about as well as cheese and pinecones do - I don't know if there is anything more catastrophic then eating cheese on pinecones (and I do speak from experience).
Honestly, I don't know how my mother has managed to prevent WW3 from erupting in our house - it is truly an impressive feat.
Anyway, getting back to the story: we both wanted the bottom bed and it was decided that we would have to share it.
One would think that we wanted the bottom bed for the reason that it was bigger, more comfortable and had more space. I'm 99.234% positive that was my sister's reasoning, however, it was certainly not mine.
I've always preferred having a twin bed to a larger one, I just find it more comfortable for some reason. The reason I wanted the bottom bed was because of the dinosaurs.
Yes, you read that right, because of the dinosaurs.
Around this time, and please keep in mind that I was a young'un, I had watched Jurassic Park. Being the hyperactive child with the overactive imagination I had, at that time in my life, convinced myself that dinosaurs were real: they were just simply hiding, and one night, when everyone was sleeping, they would come out and rule the earth once again.
I know it sounds ridiculous now, but it is truly what I believed back then.
So why did I want the bottom bunk?
Simple, I thought that if a dinosaur ever came to where I live and ripped the roof off my house, because my sister was on the top bunk, he would see her first and inevitably eat her first. Because I was on the bottom bunk, I would be safe because dinosaur would have been full from my sister and wouldn't have been able to see me, since I would be hidden.
Hey, it may sound ridiculous, but logically, it makes sense!
For this very reason I had the worst time sleeping on the top bunk: I feared that the dinosaurs would come and eat me. And, I really didn't want to be eaten by dinosaur - although, while it would be painful, it would be an epic way to go.
While this may sound absurd to think about, and even mean, I couldn't help it: it was the way I was as a child (and semi the way I am now :P). Better my sister to be eaten than me!
I would like to say that I've matured and made great strides in combatting this unusal fear. However, that is not the case. Even today if I have a choice between the top and bottom bunk, I scramble, bite, claw, scratch, chew and dive to the bottom one, while secretly thinking to myself, 'I'm glad I'm not the sucker on the top bunk that will get eaten'.
Because let's face it, it's better to be safe than sorry.
Rawr! ;)
Sharing a room with my sister was ... awful. Just plain awful! If you picture the two messiest kids alive in a room that literally had clothes and garbage and, quite possibly dead pets, up to the knees you're picturing our room.
I recall at one point when we were in grade 2 and 4 (or something like that) we even shared a queen sized bed because our room was so small there wasn't any room for two beds. However, that didn't last long after our nightly punching fights and screaming cover-hog accusations. Most nights ended with a loud 'M-o-o-o-m!' at one in the morning with my mother stumbling in the room, half-asleep, telling us to shut-up.
In retrospect, I would like to know what my mother was smoking at the time. With me and my sister, there was no possible way that that arrangement was going to work out.
My mother, after losing too many nights of her beauty sleep, quickly came up with the solution to this problem: bunk-beds. After a few more weeks of unbearable cat fights with the end result being one of us two stealing the blankets and going to sleep in the closet, the day where we got our glorious bunk-beds finally arrived!
I swear, I think when the beds were first set up, the sky parted and warm sunlight poured down on our room with angels singing Hallelujah!
All our problems were solved! My and my sister each had our own bed and my mother would be able to get a good night's sleep.
Or so we thought: but that wasn't really the case at all.
I should tell you right now that the bunk beds that we had gotten weren't your usual bunk beds, but rather, the bed on the bottom had a queen sized mattress and the bed on the top was a twin. Naturally this in itself caused a fight between me and my sister: we both wanted the bottom bed.
In the end, after much conflict, my mother ended up deciding that every other week we were at her house we would have to switch beds in order to be fair.
I didn't, still don't, and most likely never will get along with my brother or my sister - it's just one of the natural laws of this world. Even as a child I disliked them immensely. My mother tells me stories of how, when she brought them both home, I didn't even acknowledge them for about a year. Cheebert/Steve and Gramma, their nick-names in our family, get along great and everything is fine and dandy. Me and them on the other hand go together about as well as cheese and pinecones do - I don't know if there is anything more catastrophic then eating cheese on pinecones (and I do speak from experience).
Honestly, I don't know how my mother has managed to prevent WW3 from erupting in our house - it is truly an impressive feat.
Anyway, getting back to the story: we both wanted the bottom bed and it was decided that we would have to share it.
One would think that we wanted the bottom bed for the reason that it was bigger, more comfortable and had more space. I'm 99.234% positive that was my sister's reasoning, however, it was certainly not mine.
I've always preferred having a twin bed to a larger one, I just find it more comfortable for some reason. The reason I wanted the bottom bed was because of the dinosaurs.
Yes, you read that right, because of the dinosaurs.
Around this time, and please keep in mind that I was a young'un, I had watched Jurassic Park. Being the hyperactive child with the overactive imagination I had, at that time in my life, convinced myself that dinosaurs were real: they were just simply hiding, and one night, when everyone was sleeping, they would come out and rule the earth once again.
I know it sounds ridiculous now, but it is truly what I believed back then.
So why did I want the bottom bunk?
Simple, I thought that if a dinosaur ever came to where I live and ripped the roof off my house, because my sister was on the top bunk, he would see her first and inevitably eat her first. Because I was on the bottom bunk, I would be safe because dinosaur would have been full from my sister and wouldn't have been able to see me, since I would be hidden.
Hey, it may sound ridiculous, but logically, it makes sense!
For this very reason I had the worst time sleeping on the top bunk: I feared that the dinosaurs would come and eat me. And, I really didn't want to be eaten by dinosaur - although, while it would be painful, it would be an epic way to go.
While this may sound absurd to think about, and even mean, I couldn't help it: it was the way I was as a child (and semi the way I am now :P). Better my sister to be eaten than me!
I would like to say that I've matured and made great strides in combatting this unusal fear. However, that is not the case. Even today if I have a choice between the top and bottom bunk, I scramble, bite, claw, scratch, chew and dive to the bottom one, while secretly thinking to myself, 'I'm glad I'm not the sucker on the top bunk that will get eaten'.
Because let's face it, it's better to be safe than sorry.
Rawr! ;)
2009/09/28
Damn.. Where's that built in sense of direction when I need it?
So, there was this one time when I was in about, grade 7 or 8, where our elementary school class went on a field trip. I know, you can't get much more vague than a feild trip, but I don't exactly remember where it was. Erh, like most people, as time passes, memories of mine magically escape the confines of my mind. For some reason I want to say it was Wildwood, but I am not sure if that is entirely correct. It was a huge forest that we visited on a cold day - I for sure remember that much.
You may be asking why I have remembered this field trip, out of the many that I have been on and have forgotten, as well, as why I am writing about this one.
Basically, it's because a traumatic event occured during that momentous day.
It was cold, drizzly, miserable and really wet. It wasn't a complete downpour, but it was the type of weather that chills you to your bones, and makes it feel like you'll never really be dry and warm again. It was a day where you're like, of course the sadistic elementary teachers force you to go outside and have "fun". Personally, I think that elementary teachers have an uncanny knack of having outdoor field trips on the days where nobody should be outside, let alone a bunch of kids, and it kind of makes me think that a) they are a tad psychic and b) they get a perverse pleasure out of their students' suffering.
That day's scheduled "fun" was, using a map and a compass, navigate your way around the maze-like forest and reach scheduled destinations. If I may be frank, fun my ass. That is like the complete opposite of fun. (TORTURE).
Just to be safe, the wilderness staff thought that it would be better to put us in pairs of two, because, surely, two brains are better than one. (Although, I'm not entirely sure this was true in my case.)
I was with my friend Jenna. Jenna, like me, was kind of uncoordinated and, klutzy, and, well, just all around like me.
We we're given a map, a compass, and a brief tutorial on how to read the map and compass(during which Jenna and I were both distracted - mostly because of each other). I seriously did not think that I needed a map. Sure, I was a little cocky, but I was also a Girl Guide, and I did this tri-yearly - which was a requirement for a few of our badges. I had common sense - I knew how to read a map and compass.
And yet nothing prepared us for this fateful day.
Soon after the brief tutorial was done, the teachers herded us out of the incredibly small cabin, much like farmers herd cows into their pastures. There was one last thing that was said: "If you, for any reason, get lost just walk north and you'll eventually find your way back to the main lodge.
Oh, and one last note, being the sadistic elementary school teachers the teachers were, they told us that we were getting marked on our teamwork, as well as how long it takes us to reach the last destination - that kind of added pressure to a lot of people.
Not really me though, I was as cool as a cucumber. Well, for the first five minutes.
Jenna and I kept up with the pack for the first 3-ish destinations, but then we fell behind. Why? Well, because we kind of got distracted. By distracted I mean, we saw this really cool log that we absolutely had to try and sit on. This kept us amused for a bit - I know... the things that kept me amused when I was younger is rather embarassing. However, soon after we remembered that we were getting marked on how long it took us to get to the finish line. We were on our way shortly after that realization.
*cue suspensful music - I had dropped something vitally important, something that we really needed to get to the finish line, and I didn't realize that I dropped it until, well it was too late.
We saw the general direction that people went in before we became separated from the group, so we started to walk that way. Soon after that, we realized, we had absolutely no freaking clue where the hell we were.
I went to pull out the compass so we could determine what north was - and much to my complete and utter shock. I had no idea where it was. Without the compass, we would have to rely solely on the map to get us to the finish, there was no way we would be able to find the lodge now.
I still wasn't panicking, I knew how to read a map. (I however didn't have the map, that was Jenna's job - my job was to take care of the compass - and I failed so miserably at that Jenna refused to let the map come within ten metres of me.)
We walked, and we walked, and we walked, and we walked. Nothing was familiar - and we hadn't seen any classmates - and two hours had passed. Allow me to also point out that our feet were blocks of ice, we were wet and completely drenched, and we were absolutely miserable.
And we were completely freaking out - the forest that we were in was HUGE. Like many amounts of acres. (I don't know exactly how many acres, because I have no idea where we went, but trust me, it was HUGE!)
I begged Jenna to let me see the map, it's not that I didn't think she couldn't read a map, although at that point I was having my doubts. Much to her chagrin, she allowed me to look at it. I stared at it for a few minutes, comparing it with my surroundings. I was confused because nothing on the map matched up to the landscape that was surrounding us. I turned the map 90 degrees, and then another 90 degrees. There was silence. And then, a string of swear words came bellowing out of my mouth.
@#&$(@&
Jenna had the map upside down. We were going down a 20 Kilometre trail and I had no idea
1) Where it would end up
2) How far down it we were
3) How to get back to the actual forest part of the map
I stared at her, my face white, but slowly turning purple (and for those who know me will know that my face turning purple - or red for that matter - is quite a feat), my lips were in a slight snarl. I was breathing deeply, as if I was trying to calm myself d-d-down.
Basically, I wasn't that concerned about the fact that we were lost now, or about the fact that we would most likely recieve a failing mark - in fact that wasn't even on my mind because I really didn't care about school back then - but about how I would never live this down. I'm was a girl guide for crying out loud. I should have killed that assignment, and I mean killed. But no, I was stuck, god knows where, and I didn't know what to do.
Jenna probably thought that I was mad at her, I really wasn't. Why? It was just as much of my fault as it was her. I was the genius that lost the compass after all.
Before that day, I generally had a good direction; I knew, basically, where to go when I was travelling along to wherever I was travelling along to. However, ever since that day, my sense of direction is non-existent. I am the last person that you want to be with when you are lost. I have no clue where to go, yet people tend to ask me. DON'T ASK ME! - unless, you want to be hiking down a 20 km trail. You may think that I am exaggerating, but I really am not, it is atrocious. People ask me where to go, and I'll point somewhere, however, I normally end up sending them the wrong way.
It infuriates my friends/family when they ask me where to go and I just shrug my shoulders. But really, I don't know, I'm doing you a favour, because I'm pretty sure that you don't want to end up lost (and if you listen to me that's pretty much exactly where you will end up: right in the middle of I'm-so-lost-I-can't-imagine-being-any-more-lost-then-this-ville - Oh, and if you do end up there, be sure to ask for the mayor, because that's me!).
Anyway, I kind of got a little off topic there, which, happens a lot if you know me. So you're probably wondering how I got out of that mess, because obviously I managed to find a way - I wouldn't be here typing this if I didn't.
Long story short, despite what I learned in girl guides that you should stay put when you're lost, I suggested to Jenna that we should probably get moving, they weren't going to look for us where we were (it technically wasn't even a part of the forest). We stopped talking for a bit and we heard the sounds of cars in a general direction. We, together, decided that it would be for the best if we went that way. So we walked, and we walked, and we walked. And, eventually we ended up at a campground (it was one with motorhomes where people live year round so we were lucky).
We knocked on the door of the home we saw and, while bawling our eyes out, we explained to the person that answered the torturous trials that we endured. They called the forest people, and they came to pick us up. All was well in our worlds again, well minus the laughing and the teasing that I both forsaw and feared.
But, even today, sometimes I have nightmares about that day.
I'll never forget the day where I lost my direction, perhaps forever, as it still has not come to me yet. This worries me, as I'll be navigating through a maze of a university campus next year. That would really suck if I ended up going down a 20km trail the first day. Eek!
Later Gators.
You may be asking why I have remembered this field trip, out of the many that I have been on and have forgotten, as well, as why I am writing about this one.
Basically, it's because a traumatic event occured during that momentous day.
It was cold, drizzly, miserable and really wet. It wasn't a complete downpour, but it was the type of weather that chills you to your bones, and makes it feel like you'll never really be dry and warm again. It was a day where you're like, of course the sadistic elementary teachers force you to go outside and have "fun". Personally, I think that elementary teachers have an uncanny knack of having outdoor field trips on the days where nobody should be outside, let alone a bunch of kids, and it kind of makes me think that a) they are a tad psychic and b) they get a perverse pleasure out of their students' suffering.
That day's scheduled "fun" was, using a map and a compass, navigate your way around the maze-like forest and reach scheduled destinations. If I may be frank, fun my ass. That is like the complete opposite of fun. (TORTURE).
Just to be safe, the wilderness staff thought that it would be better to put us in pairs of two, because, surely, two brains are better than one. (Although, I'm not entirely sure this was true in my case.)
I was with my friend Jenna. Jenna, like me, was kind of uncoordinated and, klutzy, and, well, just all around like me.
We we're given a map, a compass, and a brief tutorial on how to read the map and compass(during which Jenna and I were both distracted - mostly because of each other). I seriously did not think that I needed a map. Sure, I was a little cocky, but I was also a Girl Guide, and I did this tri-yearly - which was a requirement for a few of our badges. I had common sense - I knew how to read a map and compass.
And yet nothing prepared us for this fateful day.
Soon after the brief tutorial was done, the teachers herded us out of the incredibly small cabin, much like farmers herd cows into their pastures. There was one last thing that was said: "If you, for any reason, get lost just walk north and you'll eventually find your way back to the main lodge.
Oh, and one last note, being the sadistic elementary school teachers the teachers were, they told us that we were getting marked on our teamwork, as well as how long it takes us to reach the last destination - that kind of added pressure to a lot of people.
Not really me though, I was as cool as a cucumber. Well, for the first five minutes.
Jenna and I kept up with the pack for the first 3-ish destinations, but then we fell behind. Why? Well, because we kind of got distracted. By distracted I mean, we saw this really cool log that we absolutely had to try and sit on. This kept us amused for a bit - I know... the things that kept me amused when I was younger is rather embarassing. However, soon after we remembered that we were getting marked on how long it took us to get to the finish line. We were on our way shortly after that realization.
*cue suspensful music - I had dropped something vitally important, something that we really needed to get to the finish line, and I didn't realize that I dropped it until, well it was too late.
We saw the general direction that people went in before we became separated from the group, so we started to walk that way. Soon after that, we realized, we had absolutely no freaking clue where the hell we were.
I went to pull out the compass so we could determine what north was - and much to my complete and utter shock. I had no idea where it was. Without the compass, we would have to rely solely on the map to get us to the finish, there was no way we would be able to find the lodge now.
I still wasn't panicking, I knew how to read a map. (I however didn't have the map, that was Jenna's job - my job was to take care of the compass - and I failed so miserably at that Jenna refused to let the map come within ten metres of me.)
We walked, and we walked, and we walked, and we walked. Nothing was familiar - and we hadn't seen any classmates - and two hours had passed. Allow me to also point out that our feet were blocks of ice, we were wet and completely drenched, and we were absolutely miserable.
And we were completely freaking out - the forest that we were in was HUGE. Like many amounts of acres. (I don't know exactly how many acres, because I have no idea where we went, but trust me, it was HUGE!)
I begged Jenna to let me see the map, it's not that I didn't think she couldn't read a map, although at that point I was having my doubts. Much to her chagrin, she allowed me to look at it. I stared at it for a few minutes, comparing it with my surroundings. I was confused because nothing on the map matched up to the landscape that was surrounding us. I turned the map 90 degrees, and then another 90 degrees. There was silence. And then, a string of swear words came bellowing out of my mouth.
@#&$(@&
Jenna had the map upside down. We were going down a 20 Kilometre trail and I had no idea
1) Where it would end up
2) How far down it we were
3) How to get back to the actual forest part of the map
I stared at her, my face white, but slowly turning purple (and for those who know me will know that my face turning purple - or red for that matter - is quite a feat), my lips were in a slight snarl. I was breathing deeply, as if I was trying to calm myself d-d-down.
Basically, I wasn't that concerned about the fact that we were lost now, or about the fact that we would most likely recieve a failing mark - in fact that wasn't even on my mind because I really didn't care about school back then - but about how I would never live this down. I'm was a girl guide for crying out loud. I should have killed that assignment, and I mean killed. But no, I was stuck, god knows where, and I didn't know what to do.
Jenna probably thought that I was mad at her, I really wasn't. Why? It was just as much of my fault as it was her. I was the genius that lost the compass after all.
Before that day, I generally had a good direction; I knew, basically, where to go when I was travelling along to wherever I was travelling along to. However, ever since that day, my sense of direction is non-existent. I am the last person that you want to be with when you are lost. I have no clue where to go, yet people tend to ask me. DON'T ASK ME! - unless, you want to be hiking down a 20 km trail. You may think that I am exaggerating, but I really am not, it is atrocious. People ask me where to go, and I'll point somewhere, however, I normally end up sending them the wrong way.
It infuriates my friends/family when they ask me where to go and I just shrug my shoulders. But really, I don't know, I'm doing you a favour, because I'm pretty sure that you don't want to end up lost (and if you listen to me that's pretty much exactly where you will end up: right in the middle of I'm-so-lost-I-can't-imagine-being-any-more-lost-then-this-ville - Oh, and if you do end up there, be sure to ask for the mayor, because that's me!).
Anyway, I kind of got a little off topic there, which, happens a lot if you know me. So you're probably wondering how I got out of that mess, because obviously I managed to find a way - I wouldn't be here typing this if I didn't.
Long story short, despite what I learned in girl guides that you should stay put when you're lost, I suggested to Jenna that we should probably get moving, they weren't going to look for us where we were (it technically wasn't even a part of the forest). We stopped talking for a bit and we heard the sounds of cars in a general direction. We, together, decided that it would be for the best if we went that way. So we walked, and we walked, and we walked. And, eventually we ended up at a campground (it was one with motorhomes where people live year round so we were lucky).
We knocked on the door of the home we saw and, while bawling our eyes out, we explained to the person that answered the torturous trials that we endured. They called the forest people, and they came to pick us up. All was well in our worlds again, well minus the laughing and the teasing that I both forsaw and feared.
But, even today, sometimes I have nightmares about that day.
I'll never forget the day where I lost my direction, perhaps forever, as it still has not come to me yet. This worries me, as I'll be navigating through a maze of a university campus next year. That would really suck if I ended up going down a 20km trail the first day. Eek!
Later Gators.
2009/09/21
I want a giant marsh-mallow! NOW!
So this post is more of a reminiscence of my childhood rather than being revelant to anything I actually did today.
Why, you may ask? Well mostly because I hate mondays. So why would I write about something that I hate? GRR. This monday was no exception, in fact, it was worse than most Mondays, so no way on Earth am I going to write about it - I'm already spazzing out just thinking about it.
I prefer to write about happier, more enjoyable times. Or at least more interesting times.
In retrospect what I am writing about now definitely does not epitomize happy times. But this is the way I feel today - tortured.
I apologize in advance if my writing is atrocious, there is a loud voice quacking in my ear that is making damn near impossible to focus on writing - I'm actually really trying to focus on not screaming shut up. Although, if he doesn't stop soon, well, there are no guarentees that I won't get kicked out of the library for a mental breakdown.
@#$*%@(#*
Ok.. calming down now, breathing in and out. And... we're calm! Or at least calmer than we were. Getting back to what I was actually writing about (I kind of deviated from the original plan for the story by quite a bit).
We, and by we, I mean myself and my family - or whoever else was in the car at the time - would be driving down the endless stretch of country road. I would often stare out the windows on these long journeys (which seemed to take months, if not years) and admire the view. I would savour the lush green grass, and the light blue sky, wishing with all my might that I was playing out there, rather than trapped as a prisoner in my carseat. (I had a car seat for a long time - my parents were, well, a little, over-protective. And by a little, I mean A LOT. It's probably one of the reasons as to why I can be wound a little tight these days.)
On these drives I knew that I would rather be outside playing in the fields with my greatest toy - my imagination. I knew that these fields would be perfect to be a huge, viscious dinosaur, or a lost princess (two extremes, I know, but nonetheless, I still imagined both of them). I knew I would be happier outside, but still I was relatively content inside the car.
And then it happened. And then I saw the thing that made my mood change from content to agitated so violently. I saw, often more than one, big white marshmallows sitting in the field - with no one eating them - ripe for the picking.
All I wanted more than anything in the world was to escape the confines of my carseat and rush outside to devour that huge marshmallow sitting in the field. I knew that if my parents permitted me to do this, I would be the happiest child in the world. And that's what every parent wants right? Their child's happiness.
Yet, despite this, my parents would not pull over. In fact, they were often quite ignorant, and I was crying too hard to make any sense, they really had no idea what I was going on about. They often just thought, op, Kelsey's is just being weird again. No big deal. (I was weird a lot when I was a child).
Everytime I was in a car this happened. Every. Single. Time. Every single time I screamed my lungs out, and every single time, my parents would not pull over. That is crushing to a child's spirit.
Parents suck. Especially when all you want is a marshmallow, and they deny you that one single pleasure.
Eventually, I learned that these marshmallows were not marshmallows at all, but they were bales of hay wrapped in plastic. And do you know what? I was ok with that. Why, you may ask? Because there is nothing more fun to do, when you're at a friends farm, then to wet them down, and slide across them forever.
Those are good memories, ones that make the marshmallow trauma almost seem worth it.
Hey, I said almost.
Oh, there goes my marshmallow cravings again.
Later days, readers.
"I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying."
Why, you may ask? Well mostly because I hate mondays. So why would I write about something that I hate? GRR. This monday was no exception, in fact, it was worse than most Mondays, so no way on Earth am I going to write about it - I'm already spazzing out just thinking about it.
I prefer to write about happier, more enjoyable times. Or at least more interesting times.
In retrospect what I am writing about now definitely does not epitomize happy times. But this is the way I feel today - tortured.
I apologize in advance if my writing is atrocious, there is a loud voice quacking in my ear that is making damn near impossible to focus on writing - I'm actually really trying to focus on not screaming shut up. Although, if he doesn't stop soon, well, there are no guarentees that I won't get kicked out of the library for a mental breakdown.
@#$*%@(#*
Ok.. calming down now, breathing in and out. And... we're calm! Or at least calmer than we were. Getting back to what I was actually writing about (I kind of deviated from the original plan for the story by quite a bit).
We, and by we, I mean myself and my family - or whoever else was in the car at the time - would be driving down the endless stretch of country road. I would often stare out the windows on these long journeys (which seemed to take months, if not years) and admire the view. I would savour the lush green grass, and the light blue sky, wishing with all my might that I was playing out there, rather than trapped as a prisoner in my carseat. (I had a car seat for a long time - my parents were, well, a little, over-protective. And by a little, I mean A LOT. It's probably one of the reasons as to why I can be wound a little tight these days.)
On these drives I knew that I would rather be outside playing in the fields with my greatest toy - my imagination. I knew that these fields would be perfect to be a huge, viscious dinosaur, or a lost princess (two extremes, I know, but nonetheless, I still imagined both of them). I knew I would be happier outside, but still I was relatively content inside the car.
And then it happened. And then I saw the thing that made my mood change from content to agitated so violently. I saw, often more than one, big white marshmallows sitting in the field - with no one eating them - ripe for the picking.
All I wanted more than anything in the world was to escape the confines of my carseat and rush outside to devour that huge marshmallow sitting in the field. I knew that if my parents permitted me to do this, I would be the happiest child in the world. And that's what every parent wants right? Their child's happiness.
Yet, despite this, my parents would not pull over. In fact, they were often quite ignorant, and I was crying too hard to make any sense, they really had no idea what I was going on about. They often just thought, op, Kelsey's is just being weird again. No big deal. (I was weird a lot when I was a child).
Everytime I was in a car this happened. Every. Single. Time. Every single time I screamed my lungs out, and every single time, my parents would not pull over. That is crushing to a child's spirit.
Parents suck. Especially when all you want is a marshmallow, and they deny you that one single pleasure.
Eventually, I learned that these marshmallows were not marshmallows at all, but they were bales of hay wrapped in plastic. And do you know what? I was ok with that. Why, you may ask? Because there is nothing more fun to do, when you're at a friends farm, then to wet them down, and slide across them forever.
Those are good memories, ones that make the marshmallow trauma almost seem worth it.
Hey, I said almost.
Oh, there goes my marshmallow cravings again.
Later days, readers.
"I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying."
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