With the seasons being so fickle here, you can't always tell fall has arrived by the crispness of the air. For me, I know it's fall and October when the State Fair arrives and the Carolina Hurricanes' hockey season starts.
After last Friday night's visit to the fair, with the obligatory stops at Charlie Barefoot's and the roasted corn stand, I could finally say welcome fall, y'all. Almost.
What about the Canes' opening night at the
Oh, that's right.
Apparently, there's a NHL lock-out going on, as ridiculously wealthy owners fight with ridiculously wealthy players over--yep, you guessed it--money.
And, from eavesdropping on my husband, Marty's, intense
I confess: the prospect makes me, well, (shhh..., don't tell Marty) almost...giddy.
Before the pucks start flying in my direction, let me explain.
I confess: From the beginning of our early dating days, I knew Marty was a hockey fan.
I confess: Before meeting Marty, I had been to a total of two hockey games in my entire life, so my knowledge of the game was rather limited.
I confess: At first, I thought his enthusiasm for the game was endearing. He certainly wasn't afraid of at least some kind of commitment.
I confess: I should have known his "enthusiasm" was a bit on the
...and then proceeded to have us watch his own personal copy of it on date night.
I confess: At that point it did occur to me that I might not have been the first girl he had tried to warn.
I confess: I wasn't swayed. In fact, I enjoyed those early dates to hockey games: great seats, free beer, cozy snuggling, and on-the-ice fights.
I confess: As our relationship progressed, it didn't take getting hit in the head with a hockey puck to realize that this hockey thing was destined to cause us a few off-the-ice altercations.
I confess: Initially, I didn't understand that, for a season ticket holder, hockey becomes a full-time job. There are 82 games a year--41 at home and 41 others that must be viewed in front of a big screen TV (preferably in a bar) or in extreme instances, piped into the car through one of XM Radio's many hockey channels. And, that's not even counting play-offs.
I confess: I can't think of many things I want to do 82 times a year. And, if I could, I can guarantee you, watching hockey is not one of them.
Don't get me wrong.
I confess: I really have grown to enjoy hockey. (Therapists call the process I experienced conditioning).
I confess: after 7 years, I finally realize icing has nothing to do with cakes, hooking isn't something that just happens on street corners, and slashing is only good when it comes to prices.
I confess: I even partially conceived my kids in a hockey arena.
I confess: I contemplated waiting until the end of this post to explain that last confession. Got to keep the reader's interest, right??
(I won't make you wait, lest you click away, thinking I got busy in a hockey arena. During our fertility treatments, I was due to take my last shot in the middle of first intermission. Rather than miss the game, we packed my injectibles and visited the arena's first aid station where Marty gave me my last dose ever. That, folks, is dedication).
I confess: now that we have kids, hockey has become even more of an issue. Guess who's doing dinner, baths, and bed--alone--41 times a year? Guess who would rather use the babysitter for something other than a night at the arena? And guess who thinks it's insane that we now have to pay for tickets for the Babies if we want to take them to the game?
I confess:I feigned interest as Marty has tried to explain the details of this lock-out to me.
I confess:I just want to know the real bottom line--how much longer am I free?