Scottish Parents and Woolen Swim Trunks....

There is a black and white photo of my parent's taken on a warm summer day, on a white sandy beach somewhere here in Southern Ontario. I believe it may be the Sandbanks beach area....but it really doesn't matter that much where it was taken,  because it's what my father is wearing in the picture that really matters.

I absolutely cherish this photo.

My parents arrived in Canada sometime in the 1950's via a big 
boat. I can not imagine what that would have been like, I can't imagine being given all that sailing time to ponder: " what have we done? What will happen to us?" Any time I have made a life changing decision like that, the plane has  already landed and debarked before I can even comprehend what I've done.

However, I believe that no matter how you come to the decision to 
relocate, once you get to the destination, you just make it work. 



My father told my sister and I that for the first few years of " making it work in Ontario" he had a bag packed, ready to go back to Scotland. It took my father years to come to love Ontario as his new home.
** on a side note my father had two choices for relocation dictated by employment. This always struck me as completely fascinating, but his other choice was:  São Paulo Brazil! What a toss up! I mean how do you choose? Small town Ontario or São Paulo Brazil?? 

Some how I bet the boat trip to Canada w my mother vs. the boat trip to Brazil won out. Still, this didn't stop my sister and I fantasizing about being raised by nannies, speaking Portuguese and going to private schools...all in jest mind you. 

**Scottish parents in the 1970's and 80's meant for a myriad of slight linguistic misunderstandings, mostly by my young friends:  " what did your dad just say Sheila? It sounded like he was talking about wearing a bra and eating Cheerios!??"

That would be my father commenting on what a a beautiful day it was out, and that he was away to enjoy it. " Ach wee Pat, come in, Sheelah's jis aboot ready. It's a braw dee oot, isnny a cloud in the sky. I am awaw doon the toon, cherio the new." I mean, what's to not understand?  

Perhaps most importantly however, the 70's and 80's meant that my mother decided that knitting, and by knitting I mean she could have put Far East sweat shops to shame, was her job. My mother knit everything! I am surprised the 3 of us kids weren't cocooned and birthed by Phentex yarn itself.  
  
If you had a birthday party to go to, " here, you'll tak this lovely han knit soffee arm rest, I am sure wee Nancy will love it  Shelah!" If you needed a present for the teacher, " Shelah, dinny gee me tha face, I know Miss. Davies wheel jis luv this han made breed baskit"
  
I was quickly becoming known as the kid who gave the absolutely weirdest hand spun brick a brack for gifts, and!! always in the wildest colours that only Phentex could deploy. Bright orange hues, speckled with lavish dark green threads, artfully plucked atop putrid beige and washed out ham pink. (for those of you who aren't familiar with the "yarn" Phentex; imagine anything next to your skin knit with those metal SOS pot scrubbing pads. Think prickly, fully flammable, hideous colours! and lasted for years) All I ever wanted from my mother from her incredible knitting accomplishments was a black sweater. 

In the 80's I was all consumed by the punk rock and new music uprising. To be honest, it wasn't so much the music, although, do not get me wrong, I still adore most of my 80's faves...I was more consumed by the flamboyant fashion, and "no rules " of that one-of fashion period. It wasn't like today, you couldn't just go out and buy what you wanted. That kind of fashion style was never available in stores ( in fact today, when I am somewhere and hear a song I had to beg to get played on a dance floor or radio in the early 80's , and here I am in the grocery store, or mall in the year 2016 and it's just being played as back ground " musac"!?! I always reflect on my generation's pioneering for change.) 

It was quite sometime before a corporate store began reflecting what a kid into that scene wanted to wear. And, by the time they did, we had all grown out of it anyway....Le Chateau anyone?... An oversized, strategically ripped black sweater was an essential wardrobe piece to any new music/punk rocker worth their salt back in the early 80's. Much like now how a Chanel, Prada or Louboutin piece has taken over, but we just didn't have a brand name to slap on the coveted sweater. 

I hunted high and low for that perfect sweater, every second hand store I could think of was rummaged through. Then one day, much like little Ralphie in the now classic Christmas movie; 'A Christmas Story", I had a brain storm idea! Just like Ralphie concluded he would ask Santa for his much dreamed of toy, I decided this: " I know! I will ask my mom if she can knit me a black sweater!" I was over joyed with my new most excellent idea! So I approached my mom. " Mom, for Christmas I was wondering if you could knit me a black sweater? But make it like dad size, and use acrylic instead of Phentex.!? What? You can? Really? Wow...thanks mom!" 

For the next 2 months all I could think of was that new black sweater....loosely knit, oversized to my knees, I could even put a few well placed holes in it to make it extra cool! And hey, for a kid who took a pair of solid white Ked sneakers and stayed up till 4am one night going through at least 3 black markers to create a much coveted checkered pattern on them, all to emulate the Ska fashion trend at the moment; surely to gawd cutting some well placed "worn" looking holes in the sweater would be a breeze! 

Christmas Day finally arrived, and once I made it past my dad's blinding 8mm camera lights (the 80's version of a tanning bed) I made a bee line for the box I knew that sweater was in! I ripped it open, peeled back the carefully placed tissue and pulled out the black sweater of total coolness. Cept this sweater wasn't my version of cool. I looked over the heaping Princess Diana shoulder puff sleeves at my mother's beaming face, my mouth was hanging open. What was this Teeny, fitted girly black sweater from Vogue-does-ugly?!? Where was my oversized, loose knit cool factor outer wear? 

Now I am sure that on any other day my hideous, teenage hormone induced naughty self would have said something not very nice about my mother's creation. Today was Christmas though, and I could see she was so proud of herself. "Are yee happy wee it Shelah? Isn't it jis lovely?! I used acrylic wool, jis like yee wanted." Then and there I thought I could make that sweater cool, I'd come up with something. " yeah! Thanks mom, it's great!" **I did try to make that sweater cool to me, and well, unfortunately the arms fell off of it. As I was in the hall at high school, talking to a boy I really liked...that was after it almost strangled me at a Flock of Seagulls concert...this teenage bitch was getting Vogue pattern served** 

At about this time my father was opening his gift from mom, in the box he was given he pulled out a steaming huge pair of knit swimming trunks! His face was still as he pondered for a moment what it was that he actually received, the more he unraveled them, the bigger they got. Then he looked at my mother, " fer Cris sake, wit the hell are these?!" My mother was all too happy to tell him: "Woolen swim trunks yee eejit, they'll keep yee warm when yee swim!" To which my father replied: "swim? Bloody sure they'll no! Droon is mare like it!" This is where our family excelled, humour and sarcasism. Our biggest sign of love for one another was if you could make each laugh with a tinge of unintended cruelty, served straight up on the rocks of truth. 

Which brings me back to the picture of my more youthful parents which I cherish... on the beach...my mom with the skinny cigarette in one hand, pointed bikini top on, toes meshed in the sand, her one arm around my father as he stood boyish and goofy in his woolen swim trunks...the both of them beaming happy together in the hot sun, each content in their new found country.

The Perfect Shit Storm....

Apart from choosing poorly in the Internet dating world for far too long, ( it got better, I ended up meeting my now husband),  it would seem I have also chosen to work at some slightly crazy making jobs.

 I should clarify: I chose jobs I clearly had no business doing. No, I didn't pretend I was a doctor or mechanic, and I made sure for the safety of everyone involved, to keep away from jobs which required advanced  mathematical skills. I especially never mixed chemicals, not even when I worked for a large DIY box store. However, I did try my hand at serving tables while I was in art college, but that is another story. Let's just say the bald spot at the back of my head healed rather nicely...

 The type of employment I am referring to is: Customer Service. More specifically: Retail Customer Service.

I have often said throughout my lacklustre career of serving the public, that it is the person behind the counter, or on the sales floor or at the other end of the telephone that should be the one receiving an Oscar. We are unscripted, mostly undirected, sometimes uninformed, even if we are in wardrobe complete with all our corporate flare. Mostly though, we are vulnerable. Hiding behind shelves hoping and praying certain well known crusty customers can be avoided at all costs.

 Once while hiding behind a shelf pretending to be very busy and very important indeed I was privy to a rather stunning conversation.
A young woman with Albinism who was clearly pregnant  walked passed me, she also passed two
local young men,  and one of them said this: " hey, who fucked the albino?" I lost my breath for a  
second, I froze , thank gawd she didn't hear them. But here is another reaction I had, I also
snorted....yes!! Yes! Yes, I did....think of me what you will folks, but in a very inappropriate way, it struck me as a bit funny.
You need to get a glass of wine now, right??!.... get one, I will wait....

 In the DIY big box store I worked in, customers would often think they were alone in the aisles....that's when they would drop them. Big, loud smelly farts.....real rippers even! Some would also laugh when they did it, amusing themselves with their pung ...then they would see me, as I stepped aside from my serious shelf business meeting...looking at them with resting bitch face.....very casually they would saunter away, cheeks on fire...face cheeks I mean.

I learned from the best of them in my retail years. One particular boss would see a customer they didn't like pulling up to the store and he would yell: " she's here! Run to the back of store! Last one there has to serve her!"

It was always a panicked frenzy of stopping whatever you were doing, staring down your nearest co-worker, ready to topel them if need be, every sales associate for themselves. All is suddenly fair in this survivor game. Like the Hunger Games if they wore aprons with name tags, and sat in the employee lunch room for 8 minutes longer than they should have..... I am sure you can sense the panic in each of our hearts as we sized up our competitors . Get.to.the.back.of.the.store.at.all.costs.

 The year was 2002 I think? The setting? A retail chain of stores, this particular one I was in charge of even, manager even. Manager because I was the oldest one there and had finished some schooling, and could lock the doors at 9pm on school nights.
At any rate this particular day was a busy Saturday in December, the store was filled with holiday shoppers and errand running families. We had a policy that the washroom was not for customer use, it was located down a long set of stairs that lead to the basement. The actual washroom was in the far back corner of the basement, we also kept over stock items down there too.
 An older woman with a 3 pronged walking device, wearing a trench coat, along with a middle aged man approached me  and asked if there was a washroom she could use. I was very polite in telling them that our washroom could not be offered to customers due to its unsafe location. I then directed them to the restaurant at the end of our shopping plaza.
 Time went on as usual, I helped people and stayed away from the safety of the shelving units, and as I stood there talking to a co-worker I noticed the woman with the walker and her man friend up at the cash register. The man had the woman's trench coat hanging over his arms, they were taking their time making their purchases. I noticed a very odd look on the cashiers face, in fact I will never forget that look.
He turned to me and made what I only assumed was a fake gagging expression...I thought, " no need to be rude there cashier kid.." And then I noticed it: inside the trench coat that was flung ever so casually over this gentleman's arm, was a whole lotta shit. Like a trench coat liner made of poo, like a
smeared gigantic barnyard mess of poo.
  They left, my cashier almost passed out, I ran to the front of the store where I saw outside in the parking lot the man gingerly laying the soiled trench coat in the trunk of his car!
The smell of shit still heavy in the air.
The cashier then told me, " jeese, they were the stinkiest people! I mean I said they could use the washroom!" Me, in sheer panic, "you what?! You mean they went downstairs?!"
If this moment in time was in a movie, my reaction to hearing that this couple had gotten downstairs would be the special effects one where they use super slow motion, the character's voices are really low and slow, and usually their eyes are half shut:...." Nooooooooooooooooooooo....."

As I staggered to the back of store, avoiding the small yet noticeable 3 pronged walker shit stain marks on the floor, I marvelled at how these stains made it all the way up those long stairs. I stood at the top of the stairs, my eye's stinging in the mix of pung and pungent foul orders, fear was setting in.. choking back my urge to run for the safety of the shelves, there on every step was a shit stain, and as I followed the nasty trail down, it became fresher and more obvious. I stood at the bottom of the stairs, I looked to the back of the basement my eyes following the now familiar trail of poop, prong and feet. Poop, prong, feet, poop, prong, feet and so on and so on. I could barely see in the dimly lit washroom, yet some how I knew, I just knew that a kind of shit hell had been unleashed in there more destructive than a Jack Russel terrier high on meth locked in the pillow section of an expensive boutique.

   It was, quite literally the Perfect Shit Storm folks. I don't know how these people did it, I don't know why, I don't even want to know why! but there was poop every where....floors, walls and speckles on the ceiling that made up tiny poop constellations for future staff to ponder over every time they sat down.

  " And the Oscar goes to?!? Ms. Klein, for her incredibly masterful portrayal of an employee in a hazmat suit..."I will stop the story there, even I want to gag all these years later. The thing that I will never get over is the fact that even after they left their punishing poop, they still stopped to make their purchases!! And they kept the jacket....

 Later that night, I phoned my parents to tell them how my day went..." Hi dad? Yeah doing fine, you? Good to hear, how's mom? Oh nice! She knit some more swimming trunks, awesome....what's that? How did my day go? Well Dad, let me tell you about the Perfect Shit Storm..."

A Wee Welcome...

I am pretty sure I have been telling stories for my entire life. Perhaps it's my Scottish heritage that has allowed me my "great big geb" ( in English: my big mouth), this is not to say I can't keep a secret , or go yapping to everyone, well, not always .

 My idea to start this blog has been rolling around my noodle for sometime. Years ago, after I had graduated art school in Vancouver, I used to type up a monthly letter which was really just about my day to day ramblings ( on an electric type writer no less. The whirling ball of flying letters and numbers!) photo copy it, and then mail it out to my friends.  It was my way of connecting with  my people that I used to see every day while hermetically sealed together in our college atmosphere, but couldn't  always see out in the real world.  Obviously, there was no at home internet at the time...or personal cell phones...or vegans for that matter. Wait, it was Vancouver in the early 90's of course there were vegans.

Guess in a weird way, I was blogging before there was actual blogs. I realize now too ( many years of therapy) I was also forcing my love on my unknowing friends. Just love me! I've always been a little bit like Peppy La Pue, oblivious to who didn't love me, just content to adhere myself to them anyway.


 I like the idea of Coffee stories, and Wine stories...hence the  illustrated couch supporting the two beverages on my  home page. Not exactly sure how I will be catagorizing my future stories under these beverages, however I have a feeling wine stories will contain words like: shit and fuck, whereas coffee stories will not, they will contain profanity's distant and cheeky cousin : near swears. Such as "damn' dang, crap" etc..

 I' ve so far lived a great big life, which would include, but not be exclusive to: 10 years of on again off again internet dating, which includes my story about the guy who threw me a  surprise BBQ w all his friends and family in my honor for our FIRST date....oh yes, that really happened. Then there was the Irish man who came to visit me from Ireland, who failed to mention over the internet that he had tourettes. Not the verbal outburst kind, but the energetic body jerks and quirks kind. Had he previously informed me that he had a compulsive need to stab his arm up and down above his head like he was batting away bugs, I never would have felt like I had to keep ducking and swerving like they were coming for me next. I was exhausted after that dinner date.
 He also liked to rub his man breasts  in a circular motion when he got excited about certain topics of conversation ( mostly politics and kitchen gadgets) which, much to the shock and aw of my friends, did not go over so well...

I' ve lived in small towns , large cities and have been lucky enough to travel a fair bit. Once while in Ireland ( not for Stabby Irish Man ) my girlfriend whom I was travelling with were on a VW bus crammed in with eight other site  see'ers. We were treating ourselves to a "Taste of Ireland Tour". Where upon we were taken to ancient moors of old Pagan Kings, ( our guide had to get the key for the locked midden from Mrs. Tinnery who also ran the local post office. That was after we heard him say " fer feck sake!" ( good example of Wine story here) under his breath as he yanked on the locked iron gate) Next stop folks?! An ancient battle ground set between two now crumbled castles ....our guide stopping our  jittery VW  diesel stead on the side of the road, only to whip out an imaginary tin flute on which he pretended to play a tune,  making the  trilling sounds with his nose and voice
combined, complete with battle sounds made with his stomping feet. At a time like this, one can not make eye contact with one's friend, you must do everything possible to hold back your laughter...you must, even if it means near asphyxiation

I spent many of my childhood summers in Scotland running around the foothills with sheep and my cousins.  Sometimes just the sheep as my cousins ditched me in giant groves of thigh high heather, filled with wee stinging midgies. Scotland's teeny tiny fang filled, blood thirsty equivalent to the North American mosquito. Mid afternoon would find us back down from the hills, running and slavering to the site and sounds of the daily ice cream van. Like wee Pavlov dogs we started drooling whenever we heard that tinkling wonky music. My fave ices were Count Draculas...rich purple ice filled with  smooth vanilla ice cream and a  tart jammy centre ....jam blood! Or a flaky chocolate bar stuffed down a vanilla ice cream cone, what did we call it again? A pokey cone? Nah, it has another name...it will come to me.

Anyway!
These are just some samples of my stories, I welcome you all to stop in and have a read, maybe a laugh, maybe not ! whenever you can! I think I am really going to enjoy the hell out of this! ( Coffee story example, hell doesn't make it on my profanity list)
I would like to thank a very talented friend of mine: Diana Cohen, for setting this blog post up for me. If it were not for employing her highly skilled computer savvy, well I'd be fecked. ( almost a Wine story...feck isn't too naughty a word...)
Welcome folks!