Now that I have a real job, I thought that maybe I should start to be organized. My mom is in love with her Palm, and so I asked her today what she would recommend. I go to her with pretty much any question I have about technology because it’s her job to know these things. And, because technology deals a lot with numbers, I don’t understand it. She recommended that I wait, “because pretty soon they’re going to come out with a new one.” Really Mom? Are you sure, because last time I checked, I was still using my trusty Commodore 64. But, in her defence, she told me that Palm hasn’t come out with anything new in two years, so they’re probably cooking something. Well, okay, now I guess it sort of makes sense. Right again. Then, she cursed me with the following words: “You should check out the new iPod Touch. I think it can work like a Palm.” So I did.
And I spent over an hour oggling the iStore on apple.com. And now I am more broke than I have ever been, more in debt than I have ever been, and want more Apple products than ever before. Worst idea ever! Now I want the iPhone (even though I can’t really use it in Canada) or the iPod Touch (even though my iPod works perfectly well) the iMac (because my laptop runs fine, but it’s falling apart and I can’t imagine it will last much longer, and I refuse to buy a computer that runs Windows Vista) and who doesn’t think that the new MacBook Air is sexy? You’d have to be crazy if you didn’t. And I don’t know how exactly the Apple TV works, but it sounds pretty cool, and it seems to combine my two currently favourite things; TV and Apple products. And I also still want a Palm, because while all these products are sleek and sexy, none of them will fill my organizational void.
Also, I would like to go in a totally different direction for a second. I’m currently watching the news and the lead story is the fact that Tom Brady of the New England Patriots was seen wearing a walking cast. Are you serious!? Are you really telling me that nowhere in the entire world there is something a little more interesting or important going on? Really? The most important thing I need to know is the fact that Tom Brady has a mild ankle sprain? Oh good, I’m glad that the world is doing so well that the biggest thing I need to worry about is Tom Brady. I HATE FOOTBALL! And I hate that Americans are obsessed with football. And I hate that they don’t see that there is something seriously wrong with the fact that Tom Brady’s walking cast is the top story. Toronto loves the Leafs (even though they are sucking hard), but I guarantee you that unless one of the died, they would wait their turn for the Sports Reel like everyone else.
On a happier note, the American stock marketing is plummeting (though not enough to beat Tom Brady’s ankle in importance) because the economy is doing so badly. Maybe it’s the trillions (I don’t care how many times you say it, one trillion dollars will always sounds fake) of dollars of debt? I mean, I’m not an economist, but it makes sense to me. Why is this good news you may ask? Because half my student loans are in US dollars, and the more the greenback drops, the less money I’m going to have to pay back. America may hate George Bush – and so may my Grandma – but he’s doing wonders for me.
Remember how I said that I think my job is totally awesome, and I wish I could do it forever? Not if every night was like tonight. In fact, if I knew that every night was going to be like tonight, I would quit.
I emailed my boss a couple hours before I was supposed to start work: Katie is feeling really, really sick. I know we’re short-staffed tonight, but if I give you one of my workers, can she stay at home and not spread her germs? Sure. Cool. It seemed like a good idea in my head. I just have to open the penalty box every once in awhile, not a big deal. Totally do-able.
I get to the rink two hours before the game, and have a note from my boss: You’re working the box, and you’ll have to train Holly to do the shot chart. Seriously? Berman, could you be any more selfish, choosing to work at the Peak where you will make more money, and leave me high and dry? So I decide: I’ll just do the shot chart myself. A men’s game is not a good “learning” game. And while I’ve never done it before, I used to play hockey, and I know the basics. Okay. So now I’m doing a penalty box, the shot chart, the music and announcing…. something isn’t going to work.
I rally the troops (aka Meg and CJ) and we decide that teamwork will see us through this one. Meg is going to do the game sheet and the music. CJ is going to do the clock and helping Meg, and I am going to do the box and announce, with Meg and CJ writing all the info down. This is a much better plan. It even seemed likely to work at the beginning of the game. Everything was running as smoothly as could be expected until about half-way through the second period.
When the refs went on a penalty-calling spree. All for the home team. Who’s box I was working. At one point I told Meg to not even bother writing anything down for me, because there were five men in my box, all of them irate and malodourous. All of them basically sitting on each other while I perched precariously on the back edge of the box, clinging to the glass while I tried to keep an eye on the play for shots, and the clock to make sure that everyone was leaving when they should. It was nothing short of a miracle that I, the clumsiest person in the universe, did not fall off the edge of the box, plummeting to great injury. Like last year when I fell off the top row of the bleachers at one of Katie’s softball games. Embarrassing.
By the end of the game – which of course went into overtime – I was practically ready to collapse from having been in a constant state of high-stress basically since the game started. CJ was throwing up, because really, why wouldn’t she be? Meg was shaking her head and mouthing “this is a mess” to me every time I looked over at her. It was brutal.
After the game the three of us trudged upstairs, where it took us forever and a day to compile the shot stats, and then another year or so for the refs to make sure that Meg had recorded all the penalties properly. I was an unhelp, since I am terrible at math, and at this point basically brain-dead. After that, I had the pleasure of informing the coach that he had been given a secret misconduct penalty for abuse of the officials (who called a brutal game and deserved it). That was fun. And then I had to go and try to explain the whole clusterf**k to my boss. Cool.
Good teamwork tonight ladies, I couldn’t have done it without you!
Today I finally made it into my parking space. I felt like celebrating afterwards with a much deserved beer, but as it was 4:00 and I was all alone, it seemed like a step in the wrong direction (ie towards alcoholism).
Before lunch one of my roommates, Berman, and I went out to check on my car, to ensure that no one had smashed into it while they were leaving for work. Though we both have jobs, neither of us were silly enough to be sucked into a 9-5, and the only reason I was dressed before noon was because I didn’t want to get my pyjamas dirty when I went to check the car. It was safe. But it had been joined by another car, which was parked – and when I say parked, I mean stuck in a ditch – on the other side of the driveway. Sweet. So after plenty of deliberation, Berman and I settled for turning the car around and keeping our fingers crossed that no one came home before I left to drop Berman at work.
Someone did. When we came out again at 3:30, we noticed that there was a third car that couldn’t make it up the hill. A red coupe that neither of us had seen before. We proceeded to curse it and the fact that I am unskilled at navigating icy hills and our landlord for not clearing the driveway and anyone else that came to mind. We decided that our best shot at getting around the car that had very considerately boxed me in was to try and back up, while Berman pushed from the front bumper, to make sure I didn’t roll into the car (love standards!). No sooner had the smell of burning hair and the sound of skidding tires started to fill the air when the owner of the red car – previously known as Bitchy Volvo Lady – steps out of her house and tells us if we wait a second, she’ll move her car. Luckily both Berman and I have an irrational fear of being late, and left more than enough time to dilly-dally before she had to be at work.
Once I get back, I pull snugly into my now-familiar parking spot 400 meters away from my actual house, gather my things and begin the embarrassing walk back to the house. Its embarrassing because I frequently slip on the ice, and on more than one occasion came dangerously close to ripping in half – painful – because one leg started to slide down the hill while the other tried valiantly to stay planted. It’s at times like this I wish I had more control over my body. I made it about 50 meters before another neighbour poked her head out the door and started yelling to me.
“Do you think you could actually make it up the hill?”
Are you serious? Do you think I just like the exercise? “Excuse me?”
“Do you think you make it up the hill? Because I just called AAA to come and tow us out, and I’m not sure the tow truck will be able to make it past your car.”
My car? You car is the one that’s actually stuck in the ditch, blocking my progress up the hill! I’m parked off to the side. “Well, I would try, but I’m afraid if I do, I’ll hit your car….”
“Okay, well, I’m just afraid he won’t be able to get past…”
So the well-being of your car doesn’t concern you? Fine. “Okay, I’ll try…” And before I even make it back to my car, she’s back inside. A little help? No? Nothing?
Don’t worry, after basically red-lining in second gear I made it up The Slippery Slope of Death without even brushing that slut bucket’s car. And don’t worry, the smell of burning hair eventually went away. And I even made it up a second time, after I had to leave to pick Berman up from work. So it looks like I won’t have to sell my liver on the black market to buy a Subaru with All-Wheel Drive after all.
Filed under: Seething
I thought I had finally come to grips with the fact that living (part time) in New Hampshire was a lot like living in the 19th century - or like living with the Amish - but I was kidding myself. I had thought that driving 10 hours - through Quebec no less! Stupid French signs!! – would have been punishment enough. Again, wrong.
Today I made the long and arduous trip back to New Hampshire. This was my first time doing it all by myself, and fearing that the New York-Vermont ferry might be close (for no other reason than the fact that God hates me sometimes) I decided to follow the exact directions of James, my GPS, despite the fact that he took me through Quebec! It may be the shortest route, but it’s very disconcerting when you can’t read any of the road signs – they didn’t cover driving in any of the ten years I took French in school. But I can order a mean sandwich.
After ten long, long hours, during which I had to “drop and drive” with my eye drops on more than one occasion, I finally arrived at my house. Or rather, my driveway. I should explain that the house I rent in New Hampshire is nicer and newer than the house I live in while I’m in Toronto. It’s two stories and has a fireplace and hardwood floors and plush carpeting and I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it. It was one of the only things that didn’t totally suck about the five-year-plan. And I hate it. The stupid company that owns the stupid property thought that paving the driveway would be silly. So would having it be flat. So while my car can navigate Toronto with ease using only two snow tires (great tip Dad) it could not suck harder if it tried in ”the bush” aka New Hampshire.
After thinking myself home free and already imagining myself sitting down with the delicious (albeit cold) Swiss Chalet I brought all the way from Kingston, and a frosty Alexander Keith’s (because I would rather drink my own pee than American beer) that I so thoughtfully brought from Toronto, I spent no less than 30 minutes trying to navigate up the smallest of hills in our driveway. As a side note: You are a huge douche-bag if you drive past, in your Jeep Liberty with your four-wheel-drive, someone who is obviously struggling in their ‘97 Civic and don’t ask them if they need help. It’s unlikely they just like the smell their engine makes when it revs at more than 5000 rpm.
I tried everything in my power, everything I could think of to get up that hill. Though I don’t know why, since I would only have been met with an even larger one before I could have parked properly. I tried shovelling with my “emergency” shovel, courtesy of my Dad via one of the two Emergency Kits I have promised to keep in my trunk. I tried starting in second gear. I tried getting a better “head start.” At one point I even tried rocking the car – keep in mind that I’m by myself - and just barely avoided disaster when the car started to roll away down the hill while I was outside of it.
In the end I resigned myself to the fact that I likely won’t be able to get up the driveway until April and parked in the area the plow man uses to push all the snow. Since he is crap at his job anyway (exhibit a: icy snow and slush all over the driveway!) I figure he won’t mind. I salvaged the beer, the Chalet and my clothes, and figured that if anyone hits my car, I have the luck of being in America and can probably sue someone.
