Adult in Training

It’s been awhile since I last felt like throwing up.  Even when I had the Lead Fist, I didn’t really feel like throwing up, I only considered “pulling the trigger” as a possible solution to my woes.  Last Saturday I thought for sure I was going to throw up.

Sometimes throwing up is expected.  Like when you have the stomach flu.  People expect you to be barfing your brains out.  A smart person keeps a bucket beside their bed, so that if they do need to vomit, they have a safe place to do it in.  Please note that after extensive research, I have discovered the following: A wicker basket being held up by your mother as you throw up over the side of your loft bed does make an ideal receptacle – seeing the puke run down her arms will only make you want to throw up more.  Also, if you think you are planning ahead when you are drunk by placing a plastic bag on your bed post before you retire for the evening, please ensure that said bag has no holes.

In college I used to throw up a lot.  My first two years of school I had no idea how to hold my liquer and no idea how to party within my limits.  Consequently, I spent more than a few nights hugging a toilet.  Three nights stick out for me though. 

The first was a friend’s nineteenth birthday party (that’s right, not even my own).  I was so drunk I didn’t even make it to midnight (when it would have been her actual birthday).  Gonzo walked me home, wrote her number on my hand if I needed anything and set me up with a barf bag.  I woke up to the smell of my own vomit.  In the night I had sat up, thrown up in my own lap, and then gone back to sleep.  I had also managed to throw up at least once in the bag, only to find that it was riddled with holes and now leaking vomit all over my room.  In addition to all that, I had drooled on my hand, and now had Gonzo’s number stamped at least three different places on my face.

The next was my sophomore year.  The Boston Red Sox were  in some pennant race or another.  I didn’t care, but my boyfriend at the time was a huge Red Sox fan.  After a night (and by night I mean a few rounds) of Beirut we retired to my bed.  Which might have been romantic if I wasn’t throwing up.  I was heaving my guts up while Jeff was rubbing my back and trying to make me feel better.  I will never forget one of his soothing lines: “Keep going.  Every time you throw up, the Sox score!”

The last memorable time I yazzed was also my sophomore year.  It was probably around March, and one of Megan’s friends had come up to visit.  I wanted to celebrate for her, naturally.  Only I celebrated a little too much.  Once again, Gonzo had to come to my rescue.  She walked me home – later telling me that the entire time I thought I was spitting ahead of myself, I was really spitting, and then walking into it, so well done me!  I went directly to the washroom where in addition to barfing, I also passed out.  Gonzo woke me up before she went to sleep, at which point I started to cry, telling her “I just want to go home!”

Ah, to be young and reckless.  Or young and stupid, to think that was my idea of a good time.

This Saturday I thought I was going to barf from lactic acid build-up.  That has only ever happened to me once before.  What was shameful about this was: the coach wasn’t skating us.  Everyone else on the team I was skating with was fine.  I was just so horribly out of shape, having not skated for almost three years, that I couldn’t keep up.

The point of the story: The coach liked me anyways, and I now I have a new team.  That’s right friends, after more than a little time off, I officially play hockey again!  And it’s a good feeling.  A feeling I was really starting to miss, but too afraid to do anything about.  But after a little gentle nudging, a more than a few pep talks, I was convinced. And I’m glad of it.

So I’m used to being somewhat sexually harassed at POE.  That sounds weird to say, but it is what it is.  I work with a bunch of guys.  And it’s not an office, where everyone is always using their manners, it’s POE, where I swear like a trucker and have inappropriate comments made either to me or around me all the time.  Which is why I’ve sort of grown used to it. 

It started with my Sexual Harasser.  We’ll call him Dick, though that wasn’t his real name.  Dick was the only guy I worked with that was my age.  And usually when we were split into smaller teams, my team would be me, Dick and this other guy we’ll call Kyle.  So I spent a lot of time with Dick.  And he spent a lot of time making inappropriate comments which ranged from: “So how often do you masturbate?” to: “I want to lick you.”  And at first I was like a deer in the headlights.  I’d like to think that most nice girls would be.  But then, after like a month of these comments coming at me every night, all night, I became desensitized. 

Sadly, Dick was fired.  POE totally discriminates against kleptomaniacs.

After Dick left, I thought that I would be a harassment free zone.  It was not to be.  Instead, I became – jokingly – Kyle’s mistress.  We would still get split up into smaller groups, but with Dick gone, mine was usually just me and Kyle.  But Kyle was funny about it.  It was more dirty innuendo and plays on words.  Kyle’s favourite is: “Can’t find the hole… no hair.”  I will admit, it shocked me at first, but now it’s sort of like an inside joke, and I laugh whenever one of the new guys say “I can’t find the hole!”  It’s not my hole they’re looking for, so why should I be offended?

There is one guy at work, we’ll call him Jason, who teases me a lot.  He’s a grandfather, so it’s like the token dirty, old man.  He says inappropriate things to me all the time, and teases me about how much time I spend with Kyle, but he’s also old.  My grandpa does crazy, weird things all time time. So when I ask Jason what’s up and his response is: “Nothing, yet…” accompanied by a lewd hand gesture, I take it in stride.

But there are some things that I cannot take.

Last night at work, Jason came in late.  When he saw me later on, working, he came over.  “Don’t get mad at me if I tell you something.”  Okay.  I guess.  Though, I get nervous when people preface comments like that.  “Last night, in my dream, we were having sex.”  WHAT!?!?!  Why would you ever tell me that!?!?!  I was a deer in the headlights all over again, and I’m pretty sure that all I could muster in response was an awkward laugh and an attempt to leave.  Jason followed.

“You know it’s going to happen, right?”  Well, actually, no.  For a number of reasons, not the least of which being the fact that you are a married grandfather!  But when I reminded him of the fact that he was married, he brushed it off.  And when I told him that I wasn’t that type of girl, he told me that you don’t need to be any type of girl for it to happen.  So I told him that even if that was true, the girl would still be a home-wrecker.  He couldn’t deny it, and I was able to get away.

But I still feel itchy all over when I think about it.  Why can’t I attract nice, single guys my own age?  Instead I seem to attract perverted baby-daddys (Dick) or dirty, old men (Jason).  Clearly, I am doing something wrong.  And clearly, I need to get a Big Girl Job, where I won’t be sexually harassed in the work place.

My entire family is short.  Not just my parents, but all my aunts and most of my uncles as well.  So when I was growing up, I was basically surrounded by short people all the time.  And, being a girl, I had my growth spurt fairly early, which meant that for a little while I was the “tall girl” in class.  Most people who know me today would not believe it, but there is at least one school photo that has me standing in the back row.  The point: These are the reasons I often forget that I’m the shortest person I know (who isn’t twelve years old).

The day I realized that I was no longer tall – that everyone else had had their growth spurts, and that theirs was much better than mine – I was at the hockey rink.  And it was pointed out to me that I was the shortest defenceman on the team.  By a lot.  I was, by hockey standards, a midget.  I had never really paid all that much attention to the fact that everyone I ended up facing off with was taller than me.  I made up for that fact by being meaner than them.  It was a system that worked for me.  If I couldn’t always move the big girls out of the way, I used some tricks to make their height work to my advantage.

Since that time I have pretty much continued to surround myself with short friends.  The only exception is Ashley, but she’s been my friend for so long that I couldn’t really find it in my heart to hold her height against her.  She’s never tried to use my head as an armrest. 

Needless to say, since I am still surrounded by like-sized people, I forget sometimes that I’m actually below average height.  I mean, sure, my pants are usually too long, but I also wear them really low. I’m still tall enough to ride all the rides at amusement parks.  The only time that I frequently feel lacking in the height department is a work.

At work I’m the only girl that still works with boys doing the construction-type jobs.  Almost all the boys are taller than I am.  They’re all stronger than I am.  I’m basically kept around as a mascot – and to keep them on task, since for some reason they seem to have the attention-span of a flea. So while all the boys are heaving around heavy things, and grabbing things off top shelves, I get to “supervise”.  Because even when I try to help the boys (and by boys I usually mean men that are over the age of thirty-five) they are so worried that I am going to hurt myself that they won’t let me near anything.  So instead, I get the midget jobs.

I get the jobs that require climbing or crawling into small spaces.  I get the jobs that require climbing through and around obstacles in order to retrieve something – as long as that something isn’t too heavy.  I get the job as the “caboose” whenever a skid is too heavy for one of the guys to pull by themselves.  I basically get the jobs you would give your little sister when she tries to follow you around, and your mom makes you let her.  I think part of the reason why is because I have the uncanny ability to injure myself doing the more ridiculous things.  Probably because I don’t have the best control over my body.  And about half the time that I try to help, I just make the boys’ job harder, because the spend half the time worrying that I’m going to do something retarded.  Like the time I was beaten up by an outside fireplace that I tried to stop from falling.  Instead, it knocked me on my ass, in front of all the boys, who almost beat me themselves for doing something that stupid.

In the end though, I like being short.  I think I would make a terrible tall person.  I never really grew out of that awkward phase that usually accompanies a growth spurt.  I still don’t really know where my body is in relation to the world around me.  And there’s not that much of it to keep track of.  Add another couple of inches, and instead of being the awkward short girl, I’m pretty sure I would become the dangerous tall girl.

Hockey rinks soothe me.  It’s sort of hard to explain, because a lot of the time they are loud, and filled with crazy parents and usually a healthy smattering of “Rink Rats” – those children who never really seem to leave the arena.  And loud crowds usually have the opposite of a calming effect on me.  But not in an arena.

There’s something almost magical about the way that they are all basically the same.  I mean, not literally, obviously.  But there’s something soothing to me, in the underlying patterns.  It’s almost like a dance.  If it were a dance, it would be the only one I know.  Being in a rink, even if I’m not playing, always washes me with a feeling not dissimilar to a coming home.  Of being in exactly the right place.

I miss hockey.  Some days more than others.  Never more than when I’m in a rink, watching other people play the game I love.  It’s a rough game, and it can easily get ugly.  It’s a fast game, and if you’re not paying attention, you can miss things very easily.  It can easily be over-simplified down to putting the puck in the net.  But it’s so much more than that.  And it’s the unfolding majesty that I see every time I watch a game. 

I remember how it used to feel when I was playing.  The manic-calm that I would find when facing down a two-on-one.  The hidden strength to move a girl twice my size from in front of the net so my goalie could see the shot.  The surprised fear when I found the puck unexpectedly on my stick, while the other team rushed down on me.  I remember how it felt to be a part of something so much more than myself.  How it felt to watch all the small, intricate pieces fell into place as my team claimed victory in an upset.  How exhausted I felt after a gruelling shift, while at the same time impatient to be out on the ice again.  Part of the dance again.

All that never really goes away.  And all that is what I miss when I stand in a rink.  Any rink.  Because all those memories, the ones that are so real they’re almost like an extra limb, they’re what makes all rinks the same.  They’re the reason why I watch games quietly, soaking it all in.  The reason why I love to to watch, but hate to watch at the same time.  Because in the end, I’m still just watching, and not dancing.

First off, I’m fine.  The Iron Fist of Death has released it’s strangle-hold on my stomach, and I am able to walk upright again.  I’m sure everyone was horribly worried.  But more importantly, since I turned out to be fine in time to help my aunt move this weekend, I found my next topic of discussion: Hockey Parents.

Because I am crap at unpacking, I drew Hockey Duty this weekend for my nine-year-old cousin.  Today he had a game.  It always intrigues me to see what happens to parents as soon as they get that first breath of icy air in their lungs.  For instance: My mom is – arguably – a normal person.  She can ride the subway without the people around her fearing for their lives.  She successfully holds down a job that requires a lot of interpersonal skill.  She raised two – arguably – normal children.  But put her in a hockey rink and she loses her mind!  It got to the point where in the last couple of years that I played, if she came to a game, she had to sit by herself, because she felt bad for the other parents around her.  Not that she was insanely agressive, just that she was insanely loud, and easily excitable.

When I was at the rink today, I accidently sat with the parents from the opposing team.  It was totally not my fault, since I was sitting on the “home” side of the rink.  But apparently there is like an unspoken rule that everyone sits on the “home” side, and then you spread out accordingly.  However, I was not going to move once I had already taken the time to warm up the hard, plastic seat.  I’m not a vocal spectator anyways, so I was fairly certain I didn’t have to worry about being beaten.  But I ended up sitting with two of the strangest hockey parents I have ever heard.

The first one I noticed was a mom.  She had an accent, and for the first little while, I couldn’t understand why she sounded so familiar.  Until I realized that she sounded exactly like Sandy from “Grease”.  I’m not exaggerating even a little bit.  Even down to the things she would say.  For instance, one of the kids on her son’s team threw a nice check and Sandy cheered: “Oh, good tackle!… Tackle-y thing… check!” When her son’s team appeared to be losing some steam, she said to her husband: “Let’s start a chant.  I want to start a chant, but I’m nervous.  I’m sure there’s some sort of etiquette for these things, isn’t there?”  She made me smile all game.  Which was awkward for me, since her other children were practically climbing into my lap, and my cousin’s team was spanking her son’s.

At the other end of the spectrum, I came across the oddest Crazy Dad I think I ever possibly could.  We’ve all heard about those Crazy Dad’s that beat the shit out of the kid’s coaches.  Or yell at their kids until they cry.  You could easily picture this dad lambasting his kid after the game in the car, but that wasn’t what made him stick out in my mind.  He was sort of polite about it.  Not like Sandy, in an endearing way.  Sort of like he was in counselling for anger management, but wasn’t really getting the point.  He would say things like: “God damn it, Gregory, get up!  Thank you!”  As though he thought that good manners would temper the threatening malice in his voice, instead of making him sound psycotic. 

But what always amazes me about all hockey parents is that they think their kids can hear them.  I mean, I could hear my mom when she yodelled like the love child of Ricola Man and a hyena, but then, so could people in China.  If you’re sitting in the top row of the bleachers and you’re kid is nine, I guarentee that you could promise to buy them a pony for Christmas, because they can’t hear a thing. Half the time they can’t hear their own team yelling at them to get onside.  Wave to them at the beginning of the game, and clap with large arm movements.  Those are the things that they are going to notice.

In fact, you could get by with just pretending to pay attention.  Just don’t be like my mom when she would come to some of my softball games.  Which is to say: Don’t sit in the car reading a book.  It makes it hard to fool your kid into thinking you were watching them.

So I’m going to Ottawa this weekend to help my aunt move.  Because I do a lot of schlepping at POE, and have to consider myself something of a professional now.  And also because I am not a dick.  So then why, on the morning I am supposed to leave, has God stricken me with crippling stomach pains?

And no, I do simply mean cramps.  Trust me when I tell you that I have no problems talking about that type of pain.  I went to an all-girls high school, it was weird when of us wasn’t talking about cramps. This time I am talking about a fist in my stomach, made of lead, that has gathered up the contents of said stomach and is holding everything hostage.  That’s what it feels like.  But only when I am standing up.  I’m sort of fine when I am sitting.  Then just my back hurts, but I’d like to think that’s unrelated.  What is my problem!!!

Last time I went to my aunt’s house, I drank a red bull before I left, and then pounded another one when I got there.  Then, about four hours later I’m pretty sure I started having heart palpitations, while simultaneously suffering a huge allergy attack to her (hypoallergenic) dog.  And then I passed out and slept for thirteen hours.  The inside of my nose has still not recovered completely. 

So now, I sit typing, while both my mother and I ponder what could be wrong with me.  I sit, because it’s the only time I don’t feel like there is something very wrong.  Something that neither Tums nor gingerale can fix.  Mom won’t let me have Pepto-Bismol, because she says that my stomach isn’t upset, due to my lead fist analogy.  She says I need to shake it up, so to speak.  I find that extremely concerning. 

So I am hoping that within the next half-hour I am feeling better.  Because I have places to go and people to see.  If I was only missing work, I wouldn’t be so concerned.  In fact, if I was only missing work, I would probably be treating this situation much the same way I would have if I was having exams right now; which is to say that I would be thanking my lucky stars and crossing my fingers, hoping that the mysterious illness would last long enough to stop being inconvenient and morph into awesome enough to get me out of my responsibilities.  Not the case.

I have tried to explain to the guys I work with that most days it would be safer for everyone if I wasn’t allowed to leave the house.  They think I am exaggerating.  It might be because I have something of a tendency to exaggerate.  But in this case, I am not.  My time at POE has left me with more bumps, bruises and scars than all my other jobs combined.  It’s absurd.  Just the other day, I was shaving, and had to skip a huge patch on my shin, because a bruise there made it too painful to run a razor over the skin.  Before that, one of my bosses asked me if I was depressed because I now have gross scars on my forearms that sort of make me look like a cutter.  Cool.  And the best part?  Knowing that I inflicted every single one of these injuries on myself.  The boys at work are so careful around me, I think they would die where they stood if they ever hurt me.

My driving is another thing all together.  I have always maintained that, minus a few incidents, I have a very good driving record.  I like to drive fast, but it keeps my mind on the road.  I like to play loud music, but instead of distracting me, it helps me to focus.  I’m not really sure how.  I guess it would be like playing music while doing homework; it blocks everything else out. But now I can officially say that I have become a hazard on the road.  Why, you may ask?

Because I only have one working windshield wiper, and it’s on the passenger side!  That’s right.  My windshield wiper chose to break during the week that we are supposed to get precipitation every single day.  Last night I had to start my car then, standing beside my car, I had to move the wiper myself a couple times.  Then I got back in the car and drove like a mad woman all the way to work, all the time avoiding driving behind anyone who might spray their tire shit up onto my windshield.  By the time I got to work, I had about 60% visibilty.

So I took my car to Canadian Tire when I woke up – after checking the weather see that we are supposed to get either rain, snow or a mixture of both all night long.  I thought I was being a responsible car owner.  Only when I got there – four hours before they were supposed to close – the lady told me that if they took my car all apart – I hadn’t realized that it would be such an ordeal – they wouldn’t be able to get me parts this late.  Sweet.

So if you are driving down the road tonight and you see a crazy person with the window rolled down and a windshield wiper in their hand, frantically trying to clear the windshield of all the crap that’s falling from the sky, you’ll know it’s me.  Because only someone as hazardous to themselves and others as I am could work themselves into such a predicament.