Hockey Stick to the Face

Let me start out by lowering your expectations for this post. I didn’t mean to end the last post so dramatically. I’m basically a victim of my own personality, and y’all just got a taste of my day to day. You’re welcome.

I realized my ‘Hockey Playa’ post was getting lengthy and I had to pick a cutoff point. I certainly wasn’t going to edit out important details like the embalmed guy at the bar, or the dance floor domestic, so I made do. I am hoping this ending I call a colon blow lives up to all of your shit show aspirations.

So Ashley, Wings, Canada and I walked next door to their hotel and hung out in the lobby. Ashley is a true ride or die friend and told Canada, “If you’re not good to my friend, I’ll fly to where you live and kick your ass.” I think she even grabbed his jacket collar at one point. It was pretty friggin sweet to see her lil’ 5’4” cuteness all fiercelike. #wingwoman

Ashley and I felt our 0100 hotel lobby rendezvous was high tea time and made ourselves some Earl Grey. Upon reflection, I think those herbs helped me recover and I almost didn’t have a hangover the next day. In fact, I raked my whole Eastside lawn that following morning. On like 3 hours of shitty sleep. I didn’t even care if there was a drive by, I was so in the zone. We have a motto over here in my neighborhood – ‘Welcome to the eastside. Bullets are flyin’, people are dyin.’

Of course my dad helped me do my lawn work, and with some other home improvement projects that day. My pops is a thoughtful, generous and dependable man; he always rescues me from crisis. (Thanks Daddio!) No wonder I can’t find a man who interests me. He’d have to live up to my Grandpa and Dad’s greatness – and that is a big challenge.

Anyway back to our drunken tea party. I asked Canada if he had been married before or what his story was. He hesitated a bit and I thought oh great Andrea, he’s still married! F.

But then he tells me… he’s a widow. A widow y’all. Of course out of that whole damn bar, I find the widowed 30-something. I mean honestly, my luck. What the friggin hell. He told me he had been really sad for some time now and felt a bit messed up. I can be a real bleeding heart and of course I had to counsel him for the next 20 minutes. Because as you all know, I really have my shit together.

We put the kybosh on teatime as we were ready to rumble and Ashley apped us an Uber. Before we left, Canada kissed me again. He thanked me for listening to him and not calling him a ‘whacko.’ Can y’all believe that? I actually listen to people sometimes. Who would’ve thought? Of note, I used to treat my phone number like it was a precious gem. I’m noticing however, the quicker I decay, the more I throw my digis around like dollah dollah bills. Sheiiitt.

Fast forward to when I’m researching Canada on Google. I find him on social media and I decide to message him. Now I will disclaim my actions by saying I was consuming wine on a ‘fasting’ day. I’ve been attempting intermittent fasting for the last month or so and it’s been interesting. Maybe I’ll post on fasting at some point; just know that it blows. I have not gotten used to consuming zero calories (or my adapted 500) every few days like the literature says one would. I’ve been friggin’ hangry as hell. In fact, I’ve been feeling a bit like a cast-off disciple, all this fasting and then drinking wine talk. So I’m Doubting Thomas the disciple and I reach out to Canada to tell him I was thinking of his ridiculous accent and I asked him how he was doing. I retired to bed and thought nothing more of my actions. My friends know I’m a bit impulsive, I’m trying to learn how to control that a bit more these days. My bottle of Hope’s End (the name is no coincidence) red made it possible to fail that shit royally that evening.

The next day at work, I was about to present to a group of new nurses and I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I glanced at it before I started speaking and saw a number I didn’t recognize. I quickly read: “I got your message last night…” and I remembered what I did when I was in my fasted wine stupor. (You’d think my early morning mad case of heartburn might have been reminder enough, but nooooo.)

I get back to my phone after presenting and I’ve got multiple messages from Oh Canada. In my head I’m thinking, this guy is totally crunching on me! I was in for a surprise.

He told me he read my message from the night before. Andthat hislive-in girlfriend also read my message. {Insert colon blow here} Yep, that’s right. If there is a winner hidden in the crowd, I will find their ass. What the frack.

Apparently his live-in freaked out and threw multiple articles of his clothing out on the lawn, in front of the neighbors. I’m hoping those Lululemon dress pants got caught on a tree and ripped to shit. As I read his messages, my eyebrows were plastered up at my hairline, looking like that surprised drunk with the open bar stool, from the beginning of this story.

Now most gals wouldn’t have responded to this weenis as they probably would have taken the high road and ignored him. Of course, you know I didn’t choose the high road. I wrote this crapsack back and said: “Holy shit. How bad were you lying? You’re not even widowed are you!?” He responded “Yes, unfortunately I am.” I said I’m sure it was embarrassing to get his shit thrown outside, if that even happened, and that I didn’t feel sorry for him. I was just embarrassed for believing him. He told me he was sorry he made me feel that way and that I didn’t deserve to be lied to.

Ejection for a game misconduct penalty, slashing to the face, you Canadian hockey bitch!

Do you see what was happening there? He texted me on my phone (when I didn’t have his number) instead of messaging me back via the more casual medium I used, social media. Then he tried to explain himself and offer consolation for his being a liar. He was apologizing for being a cheater by continuing to act like a cheater. What a f$&@er.

So who the hell knows what the truth is. Maybe he’s still married to a living wife. Maybe he is widowed… and moved on within a year, to have a live-in gal. Maybe he sleeps next to a Joe Dirt blow-up doll with a mullet. Any way you slice it, Canada is a cheater and a prime example of a fickle dick. Turns out lying sissyasses are international and I’ve subsequently learned that hockey players (and male athletes in general) are infamous for this kind of shit.

• If you don’t know, now you know. • Notorious B.I.G.

I am grateful to be on this side of the playa, but I have been the gal on the other side many times; the one getting played. And both positions suck it. Women (and men) don’t deserve such disrespect – it’s appalling to me how often this happens. Cheating (emotionally or physically) is such a coward thing to do. In my experience, cheaters are sorely insecure and/or they’re just straight up selfish. My theory is they can’t manage to fill their own cup so they try to find people of the opposite sex to do it for them. I don’t know and I don’t care – there is no reasonable excuse in my book.

The moral of the story is Canada is probably already suffering in his own personal penalty box. I don’t feel sorry for him, or any other cheater that consciously misleads and lies to another human being. I am sorry to admit that I take some comfort in knowing that liars and cheaters will get theirs. It will come back around, life is good that way. What you are putting out there is going to boomerang right back up yo ass playas.

Until next time my friends, keep it clean. And honest.

4 thoughts on “Hockey Stick to the Face

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