When we first visited Toronto, I had just turned 13, and my little sister was 10 (she would turn 11 the following month.)
We stayed at my cousin David's place, a beautiful house just off Lakeshore in Etobicoke. He played the perfect host; he let our family stay in his master bedroom, showed us all the fun and touristy areas of Toronto (with Kristyn and I in mind the whole time), and even helped us find our way around Montreal when we went on a road trip. We couldn't have asked for a better "tour guide" to initiate us to Toronto. He was there when we needed assistance and help, and let us do our own thing when we wanted to venture off by ourselves.
The only time he questioned what we were doing (and my Mom's judgment) was when my Mom told my sister and I that yes, you can play with matches on the front porch.
Kristyn and I had picked up a book of matches at one of the many restaurants we had frequented during our trip, and for some reason we really wanted to play with them, and see what would happen if we lit the whole book of matches at once. After asking for permission Mom allowed it, as long as we played with them on the front porch outside.
As Mom watched us from behind the screen door, David walked up to her and incredulously asked if Mom was actually going to let (and watch!) us play with matches. On his front porch, no less!
Mom, (knowing best, as most Moms do) urged him to just wait and watch.
To David's amusement, he quickly realized that a) Kristyn and I had no clue how to light a match in the first place and b) we didn't know what to do with one when we finally managed to light it.
Too nervous to gain enough momentum, it took a number of strikes against the matchbook before I finally managed to get the mass of matches lit, which was promptly followed by squealing (on my part) and the dropping the miniature fireball to the concrete below (also me.)
Immediately, I was more than done with playing with fire. I marched back up the steps towards the laughter emitting from my Mom and David, and didn't play with matches for the rest of my trip (and for a good long time after that.)
Yes, I like to learn lessons the hard way, and despite burning the crap out of my fingers just a few years earlier, I couldn't be content not knowing what would happen if I tried to light an entire book of matches.
Really, can you blame me?
- Kyla
thankful thursday: a leap of faith
Posted in bucket list, college, fear, thankful thursday, video on by
I've know I've told this story over and over again, so I apologize in advance, but it is one of my most favourite and cherished moments of my life.
During my third year of college, our student federation was offering a discounted trip to do something I had always considered, but had never really given any serious thought - skydiving. When I learned that a friend from my program was going, it took little coercion to get me to hand over my $150 and sign-up to jump from a plane.
We arrived at Skydive Toronto on an ominous looking day in October. Hoping the weather would pass, we did our training (which consisted of watching a cheesy video), got our jump passes, and paid for our videos ($90 if you wanted one, which I did.)
Then then we waited. And we waited. And someone did a McDonald's run. And we waited some more. Finally, as the light started to fade away, we were told that we wouldn't be getting into the air that day, but if we could bring back our jump passes anytime we wanted on a future date and go diving.
Fast forward to August 18, 2007.
I had asked my father if he would be interested in coming to the skydiving site to watch me jump as a belated birthday celebration for myself. I admit that part of this request was because I needed a ride to get there, but part of it was the fact that I wanted someone to witness this special moment in my life. To my surprise, Dad told me he'd do one better: he wanted to jump as well.
We arrived at Skydive Toronto as early as possible, as jumping is on a first-come first-serve basis. After viewing the cheesy video again, we were paired with an experienced jumper (our tandem partner) and then geared up for a very long wait. Not only had a couple of the regular tandem jumpers been injured (in a car accident, no less), the school only had a couple of planes that could take a maximum of two jumpers at a time, so waiting was the unfortunate and inevitable downside of an otherwise amazing day.
Skydive Toronto.
From the outside looking in.
The wait isn't so bad when you realize that part of the reason you wait so long is so they can observe all safety precautions. When the experienced jumpers and videographers hit the ground, their chutes are lovingly and carefully repackaged before they head up into the sky again.
Workers repackaging parachutes...
...while Kyla waits.
And waits.
And waits.
After a nerve-wracking couple of hours (waiting only makes the fear and nervousness build up that much more) we were finally called to get into our jump suits. I met my dive partner, Juan, and he helped me get fitted for my suit, helmet, goggles, and altimeter. Having paid $90 for a video, my videographer interviewed me, and as you can witness from the video (towards the end of this post), my high-pitched squeaking and incessant giggling meant that I was as nervous as I could possibly be.
Harnessing up.
Cue the nervous laughter.
Nervous, but incredibly excited at the same time.
Doing my own inspection.
Admit it. I'm a fox in my red jumpsuit.
Getting nervous again...
...but ready to roll!
Dad gearing up as well.
Inspecting the harness.
You can't tell, but he's quite nervous.
Because of how we were scheduled, Dad's plane had already taken off, so I wouldn't see him again until I hit the ground.
To this day, my Dad and I joke about the quality of the planes that we were jumping out of. People who would never be caught dead skydiving have been known to ask, "Why would you jump out of a perfectly good airplane?" Truth be told, we didn't have any issues vacating these particular planes. With stripped bare insides, randomly placed duct tape, and parachute-wearing pilots, we never had second thoughts when it came to leave these less-than-perfect aircrafts.
Itty bitty planes.
Once we were all loaded, the plane roared to life, and as we took off we had to lean forward to balance the tiny aircraft as it gained momentum and climbed to our jumping altitude.
The experienced jumpers chatted jovially while the other newbie and myself sat there in nervous silence. For those wondering why I couldn't be in the same plane as my father, it was because we both wanted videos, and the plane only held six people - two newbies, two experienced jumpers, the pilot, and the videographer (so there was a maximum of one video per airplane.)
At about 6000 feet, the videographer turned on his camera and did a brief interview about what I would do when I once again reached 6000 feet (only travelling in the opposite direction). I answered correctly: after free-falling for 4500 feet, at 6000 feet I would pull the chute.
When the black line hits '6', it's time to pull the chute!
Finally, it was time to jump. I turned around in the plane (with whatever space was actually available), and my instructor hooked me to his harness before they released the hatch door.
The moment they opened the door, I think my heart stopped. While the flight itself was hardly quiet, the noise that entered the cabin with the wind was overwhelming. Instantly, I experienced an incredibly amount of sensory overload as I peered onto the tiny step where my feet were supposed to rest, and realized that I would be jumping from the plane (to the world below) within the minute.
I shuffled forward on my knees, and put one foot in front of the other. It was harder than expected to plant my feet on the step as the wind (and my nerves) kept sweeping my feet out from where they were rested. I finally got into the jumping position and, without warning, my instructor threw him and myself out of the plane and hurtling towards the ground below.
If I thought opening the door was sensory overload, I don't even know how to describe the free-fall. From the sensation of the wind around you to the pure exhilaration of falling towards the clouds below, it was a moment that I don't have proper words or talent to describe. Lasting less than 30 seconds, the free fall was unbelievable. I watched my altimeter quickly drop as we plunged towards the ground. At 6000 feet I opened the chute, pumping my fists into the air in pure ecstasy.
After the overwhelming wind, the silence that descends upon you as you as the chute fills is deafening. I couldn't help but cheer as I looked out and saw the Toronto skyline in one direction and the Georgian Bay thousands of feet below me. My instructor had us doing some fun twists and twirls before we focused in on the landing pad on the ground below.
Floating towards the ground.
My landing was less than perfect, but I'm sure it could have been significantly worse (I stumbled a bit, but regained myself pretty quickly.)
Landing. Sort of.
Post-jump interview with the videographer.
Juan packs the chute up.
You might not be able to tell, but that is happiness.
Instantly, I wanted to jump again.
As we left the jump site, we watched other lucky divers take the plunge. We also took the time to call various family members to let them know that we had landed safely and they could stop their worrying (c'mon people, we were only leaping from airplanes! Sheesh!)
Dad drove me back to Toronto and we went for dinner, and we couldn't help but brag to the waiter that we had both just jumped from a plane earlier that day.
I would honestly recommend skydiving to anyone. Those who know me know I am unbelievably terrified of heights, but I honestly found climbing the scaffolding more terrifying than taking the leap.
For those who haven't seen them (or those who are inspired to watch again), the (re-edited) skydiving videos of my father and I are featured below. I think they adequately capture both the pure terror and pure happiness that was experienced on that amazing August afternoon.
Epic.
During my third year of college, our student federation was offering a discounted trip to do something I had always considered, but had never really given any serious thought - skydiving. When I learned that a friend from my program was going, it took little coercion to get me to hand over my $150 and sign-up to jump from a plane.
We arrived at Skydive Toronto on an ominous looking day in October. Hoping the weather would pass, we did our training (which consisted of watching a cheesy video), got our jump passes, and paid for our videos ($90 if you wanted one, which I did.)
Then then we waited. And we waited. And someone did a McDonald's run. And we waited some more. Finally, as the light started to fade away, we were told that we wouldn't be getting into the air that day, but if we could bring back our jump passes anytime we wanted on a future date and go diving.
Fast forward to August 18, 2007.
I had asked my father if he would be interested in coming to the skydiving site to watch me jump as a belated birthday celebration for myself. I admit that part of this request was because I needed a ride to get there, but part of it was the fact that I wanted someone to witness this special moment in my life. To my surprise, Dad told me he'd do one better: he wanted to jump as well.
We arrived at Skydive Toronto as early as possible, as jumping is on a first-come first-serve basis. After viewing the cheesy video again, we were paired with an experienced jumper (our tandem partner) and then geared up for a very long wait. Not only had a couple of the regular tandem jumpers been injured (in a car accident, no less), the school only had a couple of planes that could take a maximum of two jumpers at a time, so waiting was the unfortunate and inevitable downside of an otherwise amazing day.
Skydive Toronto.
From the outside looking in.
The wait isn't so bad when you realize that part of the reason you wait so long is so they can observe all safety precautions. When the experienced jumpers and videographers hit the ground, their chutes are lovingly and carefully repackaged before they head up into the sky again.
Workers repackaging parachutes...
...while Kyla waits.
And waits.
And waits.
After a nerve-wracking couple of hours (waiting only makes the fear and nervousness build up that much more) we were finally called to get into our jump suits. I met my dive partner, Juan, and he helped me get fitted for my suit, helmet, goggles, and altimeter. Having paid $90 for a video, my videographer interviewed me, and as you can witness from the video (towards the end of this post), my high-pitched squeaking and incessant giggling meant that I was as nervous as I could possibly be.
Harnessing up.
Cue the nervous laughter.
Nervous, but incredibly excited at the same time.
Doing my own inspection.
Admit it. I'm a fox in my red jumpsuit.
Getting nervous again...
...but ready to roll!
Dad gearing up as well.
Inspecting the harness.
You can't tell, but he's quite nervous.
Because of how we were scheduled, Dad's plane had already taken off, so I wouldn't see him again until I hit the ground.
To this day, my Dad and I joke about the quality of the planes that we were jumping out of. People who would never be caught dead skydiving have been known to ask, "Why would you jump out of a perfectly good airplane?" Truth be told, we didn't have any issues vacating these particular planes. With stripped bare insides, randomly placed duct tape, and parachute-wearing pilots, we never had second thoughts when it came to leave these less-than-perfect aircrafts.
Itty bitty planes.
The experienced jumpers chatted jovially while the other newbie and myself sat there in nervous silence. For those wondering why I couldn't be in the same plane as my father, it was because we both wanted videos, and the plane only held six people - two newbies, two experienced jumpers, the pilot, and the videographer (so there was a maximum of one video per airplane.)
At about 6000 feet, the videographer turned on his camera and did a brief interview about what I would do when I once again reached 6000 feet (only travelling in the opposite direction). I answered correctly: after free-falling for 4500 feet, at 6000 feet I would pull the chute.
When the black line hits '6', it's time to pull the chute!
The moment they opened the door, I think my heart stopped. While the flight itself was hardly quiet, the noise that entered the cabin with the wind was overwhelming. Instantly, I experienced an incredibly amount of sensory overload as I peered onto the tiny step where my feet were supposed to rest, and realized that I would be jumping from the plane (to the world below) within the minute.
I shuffled forward on my knees, and put one foot in front of the other. It was harder than expected to plant my feet on the step as the wind (and my nerves) kept sweeping my feet out from where they were rested. I finally got into the jumping position and, without warning, my instructor threw him and myself out of the plane and hurtling towards the ground below.
If I thought opening the door was sensory overload, I don't even know how to describe the free-fall. From the sensation of the wind around you to the pure exhilaration of falling towards the clouds below, it was a moment that I don't have proper words or talent to describe. Lasting less than 30 seconds, the free fall was unbelievable. I watched my altimeter quickly drop as we plunged towards the ground. At 6000 feet I opened the chute, pumping my fists into the air in pure ecstasy.
After the overwhelming wind, the silence that descends upon you as you as the chute fills is deafening. I couldn't help but cheer as I looked out and saw the Toronto skyline in one direction and the Georgian Bay thousands of feet below me. My instructor had us doing some fun twists and twirls before we focused in on the landing pad on the ground below.
Floating towards the ground.
My landing was less than perfect, but I'm sure it could have been significantly worse (I stumbled a bit, but regained myself pretty quickly.)
Landing. Sort of.
Post-jump interview with the videographer.
Juan packs the chute up.
You might not be able to tell, but that is happiness.
Instantly, I wanted to jump again.
As we left the jump site, we watched other lucky divers take the plunge. We also took the time to call various family members to let them know that we had landed safely and they could stop their worrying (c'mon people, we were only leaping from airplanes! Sheesh!)
Dad drove me back to Toronto and we went for dinner, and we couldn't help but brag to the waiter that we had both just jumped from a plane earlier that day.
I would honestly recommend skydiving to anyone. Those who know me know I am unbelievably terrified of heights, but I honestly found climbing the scaffolding more terrifying than taking the leap.
For those who haven't seen them (or those who are inspired to watch again), the (re-edited) skydiving videos of my father and I are featured below. I think they adequately capture both the pure terror and pure happiness that was experienced on that amazing August afternoon.
Epic.
- Kyla
"that was the worst" wednesday: lead foot
Posted in driving, mistake, punishment, worst wednesday on by
I can't even count the number of times that I have driven the route from Toronto to New Brunswick and back again. My Mom, my sister and I drove from Toronto to New Brunswick when we moved there in the winter of 2002. My Dad and I drove to Toronto and back again when I applied for college, and again to move me out when I was accepted. There have been multiple other trips to and fro between these two locations, so we pretty much have the drive down to an art.
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The most recent trip was two years ago, in the May of 2007 when I wanted to make one more driven trip to New Brunswick to pick up the rest of my stuff and "officially" move out on my own.
Of all the trips we had ever made, this would be the first one where I would have a full license that allowed me to drive in different provinces other than just the province in which I reside. This was good news for my Dad who wouldn't have to drive the entire 1500 kilometres by himself, a usually grueling task as we would do the drive over the course of a single day.
Dad picked me up super early in the morning, and I drove out of Toronto to our first stop. We then switched places and I napped while he navigated our way through Montreal (too stressful for an inexperienced driver such as myself.) After Montreal, the trip is pretty straightforward, and navigating the Trans-Canada highway isn't too stressful or difficult.
So we switched places again, and I took over the wheel.
Now, I had recently switched my New Brunswick license for an Ontario one, and hadn't received my picture ID in the mail, so I only had a paper license stating that yes, I was indeed licensed to drive within other provinces.
I started cruising along, ready to just be in New Brunswick so I could rest and prepare for the journey back that would happen in a mere two sleeps.
What I neglected to remember was that this was the May long weekend, and the cops were out in full force, grabbing anyone who was over the speed limit.
My Dad had barely said "you'd better watch out for the cops along here" before I saw red and blue in my rear view mirror.
With a painful sinking feeling in my gut, I pulled over, and prepared for the worst. The worst came to my window a short minute later.
The cop asked for the license and registration, and looked at me as though I was a criminal when I handed over my paper license. He barely spoke a word of English, so he disgustedly marched back to his car, my license in tow. He had clearly been waiting for someone like me, as during our waiting period only a couple dozen cars drove by, and all of them (at least, I was convinced) were travelling way faster than I had been.
And so we waited. And waited. And waited.
I'm pretty sure he was pissed off that he pulled over someone who didn't speak French, and therefore decided to take his sweet time before he came back to my window. I'm pretty sure I saw him reading a book while we waited for what seemed like a lifetime (probably closer to half an hour.)
When he finally came back, he started arguing with me, telling me that I wasn't licensed to be driving in Quebec. Unfortunately the paper license wasn't very clear, and he was reading the section about motorcycle licenses (which I don't have) as opposed to the section that actually stated which license I did have.
After we convinced him that I was a legitimate driver, he handed me a ticket. He pointed out that I was going 110 in a 100 zone, and handed me a ticket for around $125.00 (I can't remember the exact amount.)
(UPDATE: My Dad tells me I was actually travelling closer to 130. Whatever.)
I had held myself together to that point, but the moment the officer left the car, I broke down into tears. I slowly drove away, sobbing and bawling my face off. You would have thought someone had told me the world was coming to an end. Here I was, freshly moved out on my own, no job in sight, and a $125.00 ticket to pay off. I was mortified.
We took the next exit, and Dad took over driving for the rest of the trip. I was too nervous to even look at a steering wheel let alone be behind one. It took me awhile to compose myself, and I was still miserable by the time we crossed the border from the evil Quebec into my beloved New Brunswick.
The story doesn't end there. Upon future review of the ticket, I noticed that every single word of it was in French. I don't speak French (or at least, I haven't since I dropped it in Grade 10.)
Once my shame and embarrassment had finally dissolved, it quickly turned into anger. I wanted to fight them. Badly. I wanted to fight the idiot cop who treated me like an idiot because I spoke English (and who I am certain only pulled me over for being Ontarian.) If I was going to be fined, I wanted to be fined in a language I was comfortable with!
I sat down and composed a pretty sharp letter telling them I wasn't impressed with the way I had been treated, and that I wasn't comfortable paying the fine until I received a translation of the ticket into my language. I mean, this is Canada after all - we have two languages that our citizens are allowed to be addressed in, and I wasn't addressed in the one I wanted! I am Kyla, hear me roar! Rawr!
I sent off the letter and forgot about it completely. A couple months later, lo and behold, a translation appeared in my mailbox. I paid it and it was over.
I haven't had any tickets since, mostly because I haven't really driven since. I don't have a car in the city, and I walk everywhere. But I assure you, the few moments I have been behind a wheel, I pay super close attention to the speedometer.
- Kyla
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A 17+ hour day to remember.
The most recent trip was two years ago, in the May of 2007 when I wanted to make one more driven trip to New Brunswick to pick up the rest of my stuff and "officially" move out on my own.
Of all the trips we had ever made, this would be the first one where I would have a full license that allowed me to drive in different provinces other than just the province in which I reside. This was good news for my Dad who wouldn't have to drive the entire 1500 kilometres by himself, a usually grueling task as we would do the drive over the course of a single day.
Dad picked me up super early in the morning, and I drove out of Toronto to our first stop. We then switched places and I napped while he navigated our way through Montreal (too stressful for an inexperienced driver such as myself.) After Montreal, the trip is pretty straightforward, and navigating the Trans-Canada highway isn't too stressful or difficult.
So we switched places again, and I took over the wheel.
Now, I had recently switched my New Brunswick license for an Ontario one, and hadn't received my picture ID in the mail, so I only had a paper license stating that yes, I was indeed licensed to drive within other provinces.
I started cruising along, ready to just be in New Brunswick so I could rest and prepare for the journey back that would happen in a mere two sleeps.
What I neglected to remember was that this was the May long weekend, and the cops were out in full force, grabbing anyone who was over the speed limit.
My Dad had barely said "you'd better watch out for the cops along here" before I saw red and blue in my rear view mirror.
With a painful sinking feeling in my gut, I pulled over, and prepared for the worst. The worst came to my window a short minute later.
The cop asked for the license and registration, and looked at me as though I was a criminal when I handed over my paper license. He barely spoke a word of English, so he disgustedly marched back to his car, my license in tow. He had clearly been waiting for someone like me, as during our waiting period only a couple dozen cars drove by, and all of them (at least, I was convinced) were travelling way faster than I had been.
And so we waited. And waited. And waited.
I'm pretty sure he was pissed off that he pulled over someone who didn't speak French, and therefore decided to take his sweet time before he came back to my window. I'm pretty sure I saw him reading a book while we waited for what seemed like a lifetime (probably closer to half an hour.)
When he finally came back, he started arguing with me, telling me that I wasn't licensed to be driving in Quebec. Unfortunately the paper license wasn't very clear, and he was reading the section about motorcycle licenses (which I don't have) as opposed to the section that actually stated which license I did have.
After we convinced him that I was a legitimate driver, he handed me a ticket. He pointed out that I was going 110 in a 100 zone, and handed me a ticket for around $125.00 (I can't remember the exact amount.)
(UPDATE: My Dad tells me I was actually travelling closer to 130. Whatever.)
I had held myself together to that point, but the moment the officer left the car, I broke down into tears. I slowly drove away, sobbing and bawling my face off. You would have thought someone had told me the world was coming to an end. Here I was, freshly moved out on my own, no job in sight, and a $125.00 ticket to pay off. I was mortified.
We took the next exit, and Dad took over driving for the rest of the trip. I was too nervous to even look at a steering wheel let alone be behind one. It took me awhile to compose myself, and I was still miserable by the time we crossed the border from the evil Quebec into my beloved New Brunswick.
The story doesn't end there. Upon future review of the ticket, I noticed that every single word of it was in French. I don't speak French (or at least, I haven't since I dropped it in Grade 10.)
Once my shame and embarrassment had finally dissolved, it quickly turned into anger. I wanted to fight them. Badly. I wanted to fight the idiot cop who treated me like an idiot because I spoke English (and who I am certain only pulled me over for being Ontarian.) If I was going to be fined, I wanted to be fined in a language I was comfortable with!
I sat down and composed a pretty sharp letter telling them I wasn't impressed with the way I had been treated, and that I wasn't comfortable paying the fine until I received a translation of the ticket into my language. I mean, this is Canada after all - we have two languages that our citizens are allowed to be addressed in, and I wasn't addressed in the one I wanted! I am Kyla, hear me roar! Rawr!
I sent off the letter and forgot about it completely. A couple months later, lo and behold, a translation appeared in my mailbox. I paid it and it was over.
I haven't had any tickets since, mostly because I haven't really driven since. I don't have a car in the city, and I walk everywhere. But I assure you, the few moments I have been behind a wheel, I pay super close attention to the speedometer.
- Kyla
film and television tuesday: beakman's world
Posted in film and tv tuesday, video on by
Television was smart when I was a kid. Sesame Street was an obvious staple (and I'm glad that it is still on the air for today's generation.) And even though kids these days have their shows like Dora The Explorer to teach them things like Spanish, there doesn't seem to be as many learning-centric shows like the ones that I remember watching as a child. A whole ton of the shows that defined my childhood television viewing experience had a very obvious educational component that inspired continual learning beyond what was seen on the television.
One of these shows (and I have a couple more in mind that will feature in later weeks) was Beakman's World.
The show featured Beakman, a mad scientist who would answer viewer questions with the help of his 'lab rat' Lester (a man dressed in a rat costume), and a female assistant (who changed throughout entire run of the show.)
I recall watching it and desperately wanting to send Beakman a question to answer. My Dad promised me that if I came up with a good enough question, I absolutely could sent it to him in the mail, but I never did. I very much wanted to know 'which came first, the chicken or the egg?', but that wasn't a good enough question to send to the amazing Beakman! Besides, no one knows which one actually came first.
Until I started looking up clips, I didn't realize that Beakman, his female assistant, and his lab rat were (very!) clearly from New York. Apparently younger Kyla was unaware of accents, even clearly defined ones.
The six clips below are from his 'Best of Beakman's World" special.
The show is very much in-your-face and full of nonstop corny jokes and gags, but when you get right down to it, it was highly educational, and is a lot of fun to watch, even now. Kid's today just don't know what they are missing!
- Kyla
One of these shows (and I have a couple more in mind that will feature in later weeks) was Beakman's World.
The show featured Beakman, a mad scientist who would answer viewer questions with the help of his 'lab rat' Lester (a man dressed in a rat costume), and a female assistant (who changed throughout entire run of the show.)
I recall watching it and desperately wanting to send Beakman a question to answer. My Dad promised me that if I came up with a good enough question, I absolutely could sent it to him in the mail, but I never did. I very much wanted to know 'which came first, the chicken or the egg?', but that wasn't a good enough question to send to the amazing Beakman! Besides, no one knows which one actually came first.
Until I started looking up clips, I didn't realize that Beakman, his female assistant, and his lab rat were (very!) clearly from New York. Apparently younger Kyla was unaware of accents, even clearly defined ones.
The six clips below are from his 'Best of Beakman's World" special.
The show is very much in-your-face and full of nonstop corny jokes and gags, but when you get right down to it, it was highly educational, and is a lot of fun to watch, even now. Kid's today just don't know what they are missing!
- Kyla
miscellaneous monday: the worst sound in the entire world
Posted in misc. monday, orthodonics, ouch on by
I had braces from grade 5 to grade 9.
Braces weren't the end of my mouth ordeal, however. In addition to the braces, I wore headgear for about three years. I had what was called an 'M' arch in the roof of my mouth. They pulled 14 baby teeth to make room for my adult teeth, and used painful springs to keep the gaps clear. I wore double sets of elastics to connect my upper and bottom jaw for a number of years. I also have a grafted gumline on my lower gums (but I'll get more to that later.) I still have a permanent retainer in my mouth that was installed over 10 years ago.
Braceface in Niagara Falls.
All in all, it was five years of torture. I clearly remember day I got my braces off. I took the day off school due to the amount of time it would take, and as a congratulatory gift, my Mom took me to the museum to see Paris-inspired artwork (I had recently gotten back from a trip to France and my infatuation with its capital city had yet to subside.) I remember the feeling of freedom. I couldn't stop running my tongue over my teeth in amazement.
All in all the orthodontic experience could have been worse. My sister, for example, had her eye teeth trapped up beside her nose, so they surgically went in and connected little chains to them, so they could be slowly dragged down like a drawbridge. She also had her top and bottom jaw broken and reset to fix some underlying jaw issues that braces just couldn't fix. She has issues eating soup since her recovery period.
Other than the massive amount of time the appointments took, the gag-inducing plaster molds, and the amount of time I had to wear the headgear every day (14 hours!), the worst part about the whole process was the drill.
They had this sanding drill they would use to buff down my teeth where necessary. And like regular drills, it dripped cold water to keep it cool. Not only was the cold water painful to my sensitive teeth, the drill made the most uncomfortable, grating noise that still haunts me.
The drill bothered me to such a degree, that now, whenever I hear a person scraping ice off their windshields in the cold of winter, my entire jaw seizes up and my teeth get that sore, sensitive feeling that they did way back when. Even writing about it now is making my jaw tense and sore.
So I may not be able to adequately explain why I am terrified of puppets, but I have no problems explaining my extreme distaste for the sound of scraping ice.
- Kyla
Braces weren't the end of my mouth ordeal, however. In addition to the braces, I wore headgear for about three years. I had what was called an 'M' arch in the roof of my mouth. They pulled 14 baby teeth to make room for my adult teeth, and used painful springs to keep the gaps clear. I wore double sets of elastics to connect my upper and bottom jaw for a number of years. I also have a grafted gumline on my lower gums (but I'll get more to that later.) I still have a permanent retainer in my mouth that was installed over 10 years ago.
Braceface in Niagara Falls.
All in all, it was five years of torture. I clearly remember day I got my braces off. I took the day off school due to the amount of time it would take, and as a congratulatory gift, my Mom took me to the museum to see Paris-inspired artwork (I had recently gotten back from a trip to France and my infatuation with its capital city had yet to subside.) I remember the feeling of freedom. I couldn't stop running my tongue over my teeth in amazement.
All in all the orthodontic experience could have been worse. My sister, for example, had her eye teeth trapped up beside her nose, so they surgically went in and connected little chains to them, so they could be slowly dragged down like a drawbridge. She also had her top and bottom jaw broken and reset to fix some underlying jaw issues that braces just couldn't fix. She has issues eating soup since her recovery period.
Other than the massive amount of time the appointments took, the gag-inducing plaster molds, and the amount of time I had to wear the headgear every day (14 hours!), the worst part about the whole process was the drill.
They had this sanding drill they would use to buff down my teeth where necessary. And like regular drills, it dripped cold water to keep it cool. Not only was the cold water painful to my sensitive teeth, the drill made the most uncomfortable, grating noise that still haunts me.
The drill bothered me to such a degree, that now, whenever I hear a person scraping ice off their windshields in the cold of winter, my entire jaw seizes up and my teeth get that sore, sensitive feeling that they did way back when. Even writing about it now is making my jaw tense and sore.
So I may not be able to adequately explain why I am terrified of puppets, but I have no problems explaining my extreme distaste for the sound of scraping ice.
- Kyla
sunday school: scary scaffolding
Posted in fear, high school, sunday school on by
Back in grade 12, I ran out of courses to take. I had been in accelerated classes since I entered grade 7, and by the time I finished grade 11, I had pretty much completed all my necessary science and math credits. I still had chemistry to take in the first semester, as well as English, and then it was nothing but electives for the rest of my public school career.
So along with art, drama, and journalism (and a couple of AP programs to try to keep things balanced), I took a course in theatre technology that was being offered for the first time that year.
I admit to taking the course partly because all my friends were taking it, but I have always loved theatre and everything involved, so it seemed like a natural step for me to take.
We did a lot of fun behind the scenes things. We created our own gobos out of tinfoil, and built safety cables to hang lights. As a final project, we had to volunteer with the various school theatre productions, so I donned a headset and was the stage manager for the year-end talent show.
The frazzled stage manager.
I was not prepared for the lesson on scaffolding.
I couldn't figure out why, during my interview (a prerequisite for taking the course), I was asked whether I suffered from vertigo or dizzy spells. I later found out it was because we were expected to climb up really, really high.
For those who know, I am crazy afraid of heights. It's not so much a fear of being high up, but more a fear of falling and the subsequent impact. I've never had a broken bone in my entire life, so I feel like it's only a matter of time until my luck runs out.
On that fateful day, we entered the theatre to find a three-leveled scaffolding built on the stage. After a quick safety course, we were instructed to climb it.
Looking at it made me feel nauseous.
I watched as some of my classmates climbed to the top level like spider monkeys, as I quietly hyperventilated on the ground.
My classmates (and friends) started to sense that I wasn't a fan of this particular lesson when I would happily let everyone else go before me, and watch nervously as they scaled their way to the top, and then back down again.
Then it was my turn.
With everyone off the scaffolding to minimize the amount of shaking, I was told I only had to go up to the first level. Legs shaking, I slowly climbed, and made it to the first level without too much trauma.
On all fours (to lower my center of gravity), I looked out to the crowd who was urging me to the next level. I cringed when my teacher told me that he wouldn't accept any less than the second level. I didn't have to stand up when I got there, but I get to the second level.
I crawled to the other end, stood up, climbed the rungs and slowly but surely leaned back and sat down on the second level of scaffolding.
The class gave me a round of applause, and I got off that scaffolding significantly quicker than I climbed.
The rest of the course was less scary. I eventually climbed up into the catwalk of the theatre to move some lights. The difference? I was safely harnessed in, and the catwalk was an actual part of the building and not a randomly constructed accident waiting to happen. Even so, I still prefer to keep my two feet firmly planted on the ground.
- Kyla
So along with art, drama, and journalism (and a couple of AP programs to try to keep things balanced), I took a course in theatre technology that was being offered for the first time that year.
I admit to taking the course partly because all my friends were taking it, but I have always loved theatre and everything involved, so it seemed like a natural step for me to take.
We did a lot of fun behind the scenes things. We created our own gobos out of tinfoil, and built safety cables to hang lights. As a final project, we had to volunteer with the various school theatre productions, so I donned a headset and was the stage manager for the year-end talent show.
The frazzled stage manager.
I was not prepared for the lesson on scaffolding.
I couldn't figure out why, during my interview (a prerequisite for taking the course), I was asked whether I suffered from vertigo or dizzy spells. I later found out it was because we were expected to climb up really, really high.
For those who know, I am crazy afraid of heights. It's not so much a fear of being high up, but more a fear of falling and the subsequent impact. I've never had a broken bone in my entire life, so I feel like it's only a matter of time until my luck runs out.
On that fateful day, we entered the theatre to find a three-leveled scaffolding built on the stage. After a quick safety course, we were instructed to climb it.
Looking at it made me feel nauseous.
I watched as some of my classmates climbed to the top level like spider monkeys, as I quietly hyperventilated on the ground.
My classmates (and friends) started to sense that I wasn't a fan of this particular lesson when I would happily let everyone else go before me, and watch nervously as they scaled their way to the top, and then back down again.
Then it was my turn.
With everyone off the scaffolding to minimize the amount of shaking, I was told I only had to go up to the first level. Legs shaking, I slowly climbed, and made it to the first level without too much trauma.
On all fours (to lower my center of gravity), I looked out to the crowd who was urging me to the next level. I cringed when my teacher told me that he wouldn't accept any less than the second level. I didn't have to stand up when I got there, but I get to the second level.
I crawled to the other end, stood up, climbed the rungs and slowly but surely leaned back and sat down on the second level of scaffolding.
The class gave me a round of applause, and I got off that scaffolding significantly quicker than I climbed.
The rest of the course was less scary. I eventually climbed up into the catwalk of the theatre to move some lights. The difference? I was safely harnessed in, and the catwalk was an actual part of the building and not a randomly constructed accident waiting to happen. Even so, I still prefer to keep my two feet firmly planted on the ground.
- Kyla
seasonal saturday: it's your party and i'll cry if i want to
Posted in birthday, cake, games, party, punishment, seasonal saturday on by
This Tuesday, my little sister turns 21 (Happy Birthday Kiddo!)
To honour her (and back by popular demand), I've dug out the home videos, and I'm going to share some screenshots from a particularly memorable birthday of hers. For those keeping score, she was turning 4. That would have made me 6.
What I remember about this birthday is that she was being selfish. She remembers it as the birthday I ruined.
I'll let you be the judge:
It was very clearly not her birthday...
...but that didn't matter to Shoulder-pad Kyla! She insisted on running the games...
...pushing Bib-dress Kristyn out of the way...
...and slyly winning the games that she demanded she lead.
Shoulder-pad Kyla watched impatiently as Bib-dress Kristyn started opening presents.
She continued to wait impatiently as Bib-dress Kristyn got excited about the wrapping paper.
"Just open it!" exclaimed Shoulder-pad Kyla, pointing emphatically.
"Glue! And tape!" was Bib-dress Kristyn's reaction. Oh the simple pleasures of a 4 year old.
Shoulder-pad Kyla insisted that Bib-dress Kristyn get more excited at the gift she received from her. Glue and construction paper clearly were precious commodities.
"And what do you say to me?" asked Shoulder-pad Kyla as Bib-dress Kristyn pulls a Britney years before the term will be coined.
Still impatient, Shoulder-pad Kyla rips off the card from the next present, before Bib-dress Kristyn can even start on the wrapping paper.
Bored (since the present from her was already opened), Shoulder-pad Kyla asks "After this, can we have cake?" What? She loves cake!
Trouble began brewing when the next present was opened.
Shoulder-pad Kyla had begged and begged and begged for colour-them-yourself posters in the past, and never got any, despite her consistent pleas. She always wanted/dreamed/hoped she would see the day when she too could colour in her own Disney scene with cheap markers!
Excitedly, she stands up and points at the poster, exclaiming how much she wants one of her own!
Realizing that politeness is the only way to get what she wants, Shoulder-pad Kyla asks Bib-dress Kristyn if she could have one of the sheets to colour for herself.
"NO!"
Shoulder-pad Kyla is unimpressed with the negative response.
A party guest attempts to comfort our emotionally wounded heroine...
...but life just isn't fair for our shoulder pad princess.
She grows more upset with jealousy, and realizes that her mother (the Queen) could grant access to the coveted poster. The Queen denies all entreaties and scolds the princess for her behaviour.
Clearly being the worst thing that ever happened to her, Shoulder-pad Kyla breaks down and cries like a little girl. Fitting, because she is a little girl.
She shoots a parting glare at the Queen, and is banished to the tower (her bedroom) for the rest of the present opening. She is invited down later for cake (as we said, she loves cake), and the party comes to a close. Until you turn 5, Bib-dress Kristyn!
The End.
To honour her (and back by popular demand), I've dug out the home videos, and I'm going to share some screenshots from a particularly memorable birthday of hers. For those keeping score, she was turning 4. That would have made me 6.
What I remember about this birthday is that she was being selfish. She remembers it as the birthday I ruined.
I'll let you be the judge:
Once Upon A Birthday Party...
(starring Bed-head Kyla as Shoulder-pad Kyla and Curly Kristyn as Bib-dress Kristyn)
(starring Bed-head Kyla as Shoulder-pad Kyla and Curly Kristyn as Bib-dress Kristyn)
It was very clearly not her birthday...
...but that didn't matter to Shoulder-pad Kyla! She insisted on running the games...
...pushing Bib-dress Kristyn out of the way...
...and slyly winning the games that she demanded she lead.
Shoulder-pad Kyla watched impatiently as Bib-dress Kristyn started opening presents.
She continued to wait impatiently as Bib-dress Kristyn got excited about the wrapping paper.
"Just open it!" exclaimed Shoulder-pad Kyla, pointing emphatically.
"Glue! And tape!" was Bib-dress Kristyn's reaction. Oh the simple pleasures of a 4 year old.
Shoulder-pad Kyla insisted that Bib-dress Kristyn get more excited at the gift she received from her. Glue and construction paper clearly were precious commodities.
"And what do you say to me?" asked Shoulder-pad Kyla as Bib-dress Kristyn pulls a Britney years before the term will be coined.
Bib-dress Kristyn utters a thank you before going in for another present.
Still impatient, Shoulder-pad Kyla rips off the card from the next present, before Bib-dress Kristyn can even start on the wrapping paper.
Bored (since the present from her was already opened), Shoulder-pad Kyla asks "After this, can we have cake?" What? She loves cake!
Trouble began brewing when the next present was opened.
Shoulder-pad Kyla had begged and begged and begged for colour-them-yourself posters in the past, and never got any, despite her consistent pleas. She always wanted/dreamed/hoped she would see the day when she too could colour in her own Disney scene with cheap markers!
Excitedly, she stands up and points at the poster, exclaiming how much she wants one of her own!
Realizing that politeness is the only way to get what she wants, Shoulder-pad Kyla asks Bib-dress Kristyn if she could have one of the sheets to colour for herself.
"NO!"
Shoulder-pad Kyla is unimpressed with the negative response.
A party guest attempts to comfort our emotionally wounded heroine...
...but life just isn't fair for our shoulder pad princess.
She grows more upset with jealousy, and realizes that her mother (the Queen) could grant access to the coveted poster. The Queen denies all entreaties and scolds the princess for her behaviour.
Clearly being the worst thing that ever happened to her, Shoulder-pad Kyla breaks down and cries like a little girl. Fitting, because she is a little girl.
She shoots a parting glare at the Queen, and is banished to the tower (her bedroom) for the rest of the present opening. She is invited down later for cake (as we said, she loves cake), and the party comes to a close. Until you turn 5, Bib-dress Kristyn!
The End.
Ok, so maybe my behaviour was far from perfect, but c'mon Kristyn! It's been 17 years! No more grudge holding!
But despite what may have happened 17 years ago, I hope you have a truly fantastic (and unruined) birthday.
With love,
- (Shoulder-pad) Kyla
But despite what may have happened 17 years ago, I hope you have a truly fantastic (and unruined) birthday.
With love,
- (Shoulder-pad) Kyla
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