I was 18 years old and friends with a rock star. He wasn’t famous, but he was dangerous with a set of drumsticks and every chance I got to watch him perform I truly believed he was destined for greatness.

I also believed I would always have a 24-inch waist and an ass so tight you could bounce marbles off it. I was a tad naive. What can I say; I was young and stupid as are most 18 year-old girls.

I had known this rock star my entire life. He was the eldest son to one of my father’s best friends and he was five years older than me. He taught me how to swing from the barn loft from a rope, how to catch frogs by the local pond and later, how to sneak into the racecar track to watch the weekly drag races.

As I grew up, we grew close. We became friends. There was never ever any romance involved with our friendship, we had known each other far too long for that and I was already in love with someone else. His cousin, named Boo. We talked on the phone almost daily and managed to see each other the odd weekends when neither of us had a date or had to work.

One such weekend I twisted his arm (which was no easy feat since he had massive biceps from all that drum beating) into taking me out to the bar. Rockstar, or Rocky for short, was often taking me places as I sat beside him in the passenger seat of his pimped out pick up truck, but he didn’t like taking me to night clubs.

Rocky didn’t like having to watch my sorry ass get pickled drunk off of two beers and then spend the rest of the night beating off the hormonal males that inevitably sniffed around a young intoxicated blonde. It was like waving a raw steak in front of a pack of wolves. Rocky had better things to do with his time than to act like my bodyguard.

It’s hard to pick up chicks when you constantly have to baby-sit another girl. I was lady-repellent. I was a horrible wingman for Rocky.

Still, I was Rocky’s friend and as his friend he agreed to pick me up for a night on the town. Because I knew I was just lucky to be out of the house and with Rocky, I agreed when he suggested we go to this little hole in the wall bar, a rock bar. This suited Rocky’s sensibilities for several reasons. It played primarily hair rock, which Rocky loved and played himself on his drumset as he dreamed of becoming the next Bret Micheals. It was also a rather dinky bar, with an older clientele so Rocky wouldn’t have to beat off a hoard of young men when I became a slobbering drunk and starting dancing wildly on tabletops. And the biggest reason, the most important reason, was this bar was next door to a skeevy strip joint.

It would be like killing two birds with one stone. 

(Yes I’d go to strip joints. I love strippers. One day I’ll write about my love of the pole. But not today.)

Well, the inevitable happened. I drank one beer and morphed into a raging wild thing, hauling every man who dared glance at me onto the dance floor to thrash along with me to whatever 80′s rock song was blaring from the speakers.

Rocky just rolled his eyes and focused on trying to keep a watchful eye on me while flirting with any woman in the bar that wasn’t over the age of forty and still had all her teeth. (Ya, it was a classy establishment.)

Eventually, Rocky decided the night was over when he noticed there was a dark, longhaired dude who was almost seven feet tall watching me from the corner of the bar. Rocky didn’t feel like having to fight off this goliath to protect my honour so he bundled me up and ushered me out of the bar while I laughed and giggled at his over-protectiveness.

In my drunken state, I didn’t pick up on the bad vibe from the dude wearing a long leather trench coat with beautiful black hair. I hadn’t really noticed him because I was too busy dancing (either by myself or with whatever perverted letch who wanted to see how far he could get with me) but I trusted Rocky’s judgment enough to allow him to take me home. 

Besides, the world was starting to spin sideways. That always seemed to happen to me if I drank more than one beer at the time. (Oh to be a cheap drunk once again…)

As we made our way outside of the bar, Rocky ran into some old high school buddies and struck up a conversation while making sure I didn’t run down the street half naked, singing the chorus of Warrant’s Cherry Pie. Meanwhile, the mysterious giant with long black hair and the leather trench coat had followed us out of the bar and was standing back at a distance, watching us, watching me.

When Rocky was distracted with his friends, my new admirer decided to approach me. He introduced himself and told me he thought I was beautiful. I was surprised by his attention, for this man was obviously older than my 18 year-old self and he was striking looking. Not handsome, nor beautiful but he had beautiful green eyes and his hair just begged you to run your hands through it.

He was charming and he made me laugh. (Granted, that wasn’t necessarily a laud-worthy feat since I was extremely intoxicated but still.) Rocky noticed the giant talking to me and started to move towards me to shove my sorry arse into his truck.

Meanwhile, my new suitor, a crafty fellow, maneuvered us so that he was between Rocky and myself and there was a throng of people in between us, thwarting Rocky’s attempt at rescuing me.

For a few more minutes my new goth-like friend charmed me and I flirted back.  Then the mysterious man in the trench coat smiled a coy smile and told me he had a secret he wanted to share with me and asked if he could whisper it to me.

Drunk and stupid and a bit curious, I agreed, flirting and laughing and watching Rocky try to get through the throng of people before us as the dark stranger leaned down from the heights of the sky where he towered above me to whisper in my ear, “I’m a vampire.”

I stopped laughing and looked up at the man standing before me and I realized just how stupid I had been to stray from Rocky’s safety. Rocky must have seen the look on my face because he started throwing people out of the way in his effort to reach me.

I suddenly fathomed what my drunken self had not earlier recognized. This man was a lunatic. Granted a good-looking lunatic but still a nut-job nonetheless. 

I laughed nervously while watching for Rocky to rescue me and politely declined to give my vampire friend my phone number when he asked for it. I was drunk at this point but not stupid. I bantered with him warily and tried to extract myself from his presence because suddenly I was all too aware of how large this man was and how tiny I was.

My vampire friend picked up on my nervousness and tried to calm me. He told me he had no interest in harming me, he was just captivated by my presence, my beauty. I rolled my eyes at him, recognizing a cheesy pick up line when I heard it.

Still, time seemed to stand still in those few seconds as Rocky tried to reach me and this delusional vampire stood between us and before I knew it, my new suitor bent down towards me, his eyes locked on mine.

I thought he was going to kiss me so I started to push him away, suddenly repulsed and scared by him. He grabbed me by the forearms, (so hard I had purple bruises on my arms for a week) and pulled me towards him. Before I had time to even breathe, his mouth was on me.

On my neck. That facker was biting my neck. Hard.

I screamed at him to get off me just as Rocky ripped him away from me. I grabbed my neck to check for blood as Rocky threw the man against the brick wall of the bar and punched him. Suddenly there was a throng of angry men surrounding the vampire lunatic and Rocky abandoned him to the the vengeance of the mob to attend to me.

I was shaking and near tears and my neck was on fire. Rocky grabbed me and asked me if I was okay and I shakily told him I’d live. But make sure you have a wooden stake to stab through my heart if I suddenly morph into the undead, I joked.

Rocky wasn’t amused as he hustled me into the safety of his truck and once the doors were locked he turned to examine the extent of damage inflicted on my flesh by my vampire’s love bite.

“Jesus, Tanis,” he breathed. “You’re bleeding. You can see his teeth marks.” I looked at myself in the mirror of his sun visor and was shocked to see just how bad the bite was.

“No wonder it hurt. I thought vampires were supposed to have sharp teeth. It felt like he was ripping my skin with a dull butter knife,” I half joked, half shuddered.

I ended up spending the night in the emergency room getting my love wound treated as Rocky had his hand bandaged up after busting it against the vampire’s face.

Hours later, we walked out of the hospital as the sun was just starting to rise. I laughed and told Rocky we were safe from any further vampire attacks now that the sun was up.

That was the last time I ever went to that bar with Rocky. We found a new stomping ground to visit, one with fewer crazy vampire lunatics hanging around.

After that night I became interested in vampire lore and the culture surrounding it. I read every vampire related book I could get my hands on and immersed myself in the knowledge of the undead. I couldn’t forget the brilliant green eyes that had earnestly declared he was a vampire right before he bit me.

I’ll be thinking of those green eyes and that long thick black hair as I take my children to watch the movie Twilight today.

I’ll be scanning the crowd for a tall old dude with crazy green eyes and a trench coat. And I’m going to make sure I’m wearing a turtleneck. With a clove of garlic around my neck.

There comes a time in every person’s life where they are forced to do something they really don’t want to do for whatever reason. Today is that day for me.

It’s like eating lima beans to prove to your children that lima beans are nutritious despite the fact they taste like, well, lima beans or being forced to be your cousin’s date to his senior prom because his pocket protector and pimples have acted like escort repellent and your parents threatened to revoke your driving privileges if you didn’t pony up and don the corsage.

Only today is worse than either of those two things. Today I humbly stand before the Internets and bow my head in shame. My big mouth and my arrogance have landed my arse in a sling and I stand before you walking the plank and eating a slice of humble pie.

I made a bet and I lost. This post is my penance; my debt for stupidly believing my sheer force of will could twist the events of the universe to match those of my imagination. Sure I could welch on my end of the deal and not write something that is so spectacularly distasteful even my own brazen sensibilities recoil, but what lesson would that teach my children?

(Besides never place a bet unless it’s a sure thing?)

I am a woman of my word and no welcher. Which leads me to here. It’s all Backpacking Dad’s fault. He is the devil winner. I am the poor sport humble loser. It didn’t matter to him that I swore an oath to forever support one hockey team. My tears for mercy fell on deaf ears.

I tried to wheedle and whine my way out of the terms of our bet, but he is unbending in his will to have me abase myself to him while he sits on his hockey throne. I offered him my first-born child. He didn’t want her. I offered to post pictures of my hairy boobs on the net. He gagged a bit and then politely refused while muttering something about how he’s not a pervert.

I even offered to throw a bloggy baby shower when his newest little bundle of joy arrives, but he dismissed my suggestion with a flick of his hand and bumptiously declared that as his bloggy best friend I was already responsible for that. It says so in the bylines of blogger etiquette.

Damn him for his annoying tendencies to read the fine print. I can’t pull anything over that dude’s eyes. How his wife lives with him is a complete freaking mystery. Heh.

(Wow. All of that prose just to say I can’t believe I lost a damn bet to Gay Ray. Farcklenuts.)

So to satisfy my end of the bet and appease my tyrannical taskmaster friend, I bring to you a list of reasons (gag) why the Detroit Red Wings could be considered best hockey team ever.

Yes, the Wings have won the coveted Stanley Cup 11 times. That is impressive. Absolutely. But seeing as how the Wings are one of the Original Six and have been around since the dawn of time, I should expect them to have accumulated a few Cups along the way. It’s not so impressive really once you take into account the team was founded in 1926. They’ve been playing in the NHL for 82 years for criminy sake. And only managed to take Lord Stanley home with them 11 times. Big deal.

The Edmonton Oilers, however, have been only been playing in the NHL since 1979 and have won five Stanley Cup trophies. Give us a few more years and we’re bound to catch up. (I freaking hope.)

Some people (surely not me) may believe that the depth of talent and maturity the Wing’s lineup contains is reason enough to bestow the title of greatness on them. They do indeed have a talented team, filled with very capable hockey players.

But maturity? If maturity comes from age, then I’d have to agree. I mean, Detroit does have the oldest players in the league. Some of them are so old they’ve been there since the league rules were drafted.

If having the second oldest player to ever play in the NHL gives them maturity and makes them the best, well they’ve cornered that market.

I’ll just overlook the fact they are the only team in the league whose players qualify for retirement benefits.

(No offense to you, Mr. Chelios. I’m almost half your age younger than you and not near as fit. Call me. I’ll tell you about it. Wink.)

Yes, the Wings have given us greats like Gordie Howe and Steve Yzerman. But the Oilers gave the world Wayne Gretzky, inarguably the greatest hockey player to have ever laced up a pair of skates.

You can’t compare apples to oranges, people. (Oh dear lawd, I’m digging my own grave, aren’t I?)

If one compares hockey fans in each respective city to measure the greatness of their teams, surely Detroit would have the best team. It takes a certain type of person (crazy or deranged) willing to boil an octopus, strap it to one’s waist to smuggle past security so that it can be hurled onto the ice in a misguided attempt to wish the team luck. 

Detroit can keep the Legend of the Octopus. I’m not fond of seafood.

I won’t lie to you, as a die-hard Oiler’s fan, this post has been a test to my writing abilities. As I watched the Oilers get their sorry arses kicked the other night I just about died as I realized I’d have to write a whole post about how the Red Wings are the best team in the league.

The only thing good I could come up with was I kinda liked their hockey logo. Like the true girl I am, I kept coming back to how pretty their jerseys are. But that got me to examining why they may have chosen that festive red as their team colour. 

That’s when I realized not only does it make it easier to spot their players on the sheet of white ice, but it also hides the blood from all the fights the Wing’s bloodthirsty players like to pick. 

Money spent on cleaning bills can go back into player’s salaries. That’s pretty clever, if you ask me.

(Click the fight link if you are into bloodthirsty pummeling. It’s long but it’s worth it if that’s your cup of tea.)

Maybe the Wings are the best team in the NHL. Maybe I’m just blinded by fan loyalty and the tenacious hope of a true underdog. Where else in the world other than Edmonton would a bunch of fans pay good money to sit outside in -30 C  degree temperatures for three hours to cheer on their hockey heros for an afternoon?

I just know that no matter how often the Wing’s trounce the Oilers, they will never be the best team in my eyes, no matter how the stat’s compare.

Because when push comes to shove, there is one thing the Oilers have that will always make them the best team in my mind.

And that, Mr. Burns, is their impressive eye-candy heart. You just can’t beat that.

 

*Special thanks to Erin and Will for holding my hands and helping me out with ideas and linkage. You guys rock. *

As a parent, I like to think every choice I make in regards for my children is well thought out, purposeful and with their very best interests always placed forefront in my mind.

This is what I tell my kids when they whine ask why they have to do the dishes or clean the bathrooms. I tell them I am teaching them the value of hard work and co-operation while giving them the tools to responsibly keep house as an adult.

“Your house won’t magically clean itself you know,” I sagely advise.

What I don’t tell them is that I’ve waited over a decade to finally be able to hand over the feather duster and make the little buggers earn their keep. I consider it payback for all the times I’ve had to lovingly clean up projectile vomit, stray urine splatters and spaghetti coloufully tossed onto walls and the floor.

In the interests of child labour laws keeping the peace and preventing a mutiny (where my offspring corner me against the wall and start beating me with broom sticks to show me who’s boss,) I equitably divide up the house hold chores between the three of us, carefully ensuring we all do our fair share.

(Fair is all in the eyes of the beholder. And I’m the beholder. Heh.)

This means every weekend I bust out the cleaning supplies and my children try to pretend they are invisible while hiding in various crevices of our house until I hunt them down and force them to start picking up.

This weekend was no different. After a playing yet another round of finding and cornering my offspring, I divvied up the chores and we commenced killing as many dust bunnies as we could find.

Fric was off in one end of the house, concentrating her efforts on the disaster she likes to refer to as her bathroom while yodeling at the top of her lungs as she bobbed her head to some mysterious beat thumping from her iPod directly into her ears. Frac and I concentrated on the other end of the house.

Frac needs a little supervision when it comes to finishing his chores, as he is a tad absent-minded. I’ll ask him to wash the dishes and find him sitting at the computer in the kitchen shooting zombies or something. I like to think he’s an airhead and isn’t doing this to completely drive me bonkers, but you never know. The kid is wily like his mother. It may be part of his master plan to gain control of the asylum.

I installed Frac inside my bedroom ensuite, charged with the task to clean my bathroom as I changed my bed sheets and put laundry away and generally just hovered within ten feet of the bathroom door so I could continually keep an eye on my young son and covertly spy on his progress.

Every couple of minutes I’d sneak a peek to make sure he was actually cleaning the bathroom and not fencing an imaginary foe with the plunger and he’d roll his eyes at me and sigh with great heaviness as though he was so put upon by my mere existence and tell me he has everything under control.

“I don’t hear any scrubbing sounds, Frac,” I’d call out as I chased dust bunnies out from underneath my marital bed.

“I’m putting all your makeup away,” he’d call back in an accusing tone as though I have more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker ever did.Â

“It doesn’t take long to stick a tube of mascara and the blush back in the drawer,” I would remind him as I fought a with a particularly vicious dust bunny.

Silence. Then the splashing sounds of water running and Frac would start cleaning before getting distracted five seconds later and we repeat the entire conversation.

Lather, rinse, and repeat. Until I either lose my mind or wear my child down into actually cleaning the bathroom.

As predicted, a few minutes later the sounds of child labour came to a deafening halt and I could tell my darling son had wandered deep into the forests of his imagination and far from the tasks of wiping behind the taps of the bathroom sink.

Just as I was rolling my eyes and about to call out to hassle my child out of his reverie, Frac walked out of my bathroom and into my bedroom with something small and white in his hand and a puzzled look on his face.

“Mom? What’s this?” my precious, innocent 11 year-old boy asked as he fondled my Diva Cup.

Shiiit. So much for hiding it under the sink at the back where he wouldn’t find it.

“Um, it’s my Diva Cup,” I replied honestly while watching him roll it around in his fingers. “You might not want to play with that kiddo,” I gently warned thinking about how high his future therapy bills would be once he realized I knowingly let him play with my feminine hygiene product.

Catching the warning in my tone of voice he looked up at me and realized what that while he didn’t quite know what he was holding, it must surely be the equivalent to a hand grenade without a pin.

“Ew,” he yipped as he tossed it like a hot potato back into the bathroom. “What’s it for?” he asked as he rubbed his surely infected hands on the tops of his pants.

Laughing at him and praying I wasn’t about to be pulled into a Birds and the Bees type of conversation with my preteen son while his father was living the life of luxury working away from home, I looked Frac straight in the eyes and used my most motherly tone, “You don’t want to know, kiddo. Trust me on this. Some things should remain a woman’s secret.”

His blue eyes went as round as pie plates as he processed this information. I could see the tiny wheels of his brain churn like clock work as he struggled to place all the pieces of this puzzle together.

He looked up at me as I tried to avoid eye contact folding a blanket and cried out, “That’s disgusting!”

Thinking the jig was up; I put down the blanket and sat on the bed, prepared to have an intimate mother-son talk about the wonders of a woman’s body.

“Why is that disgusting Frac?” I gently asked as he looked like he wanted to drop into a gaping hole and hide for the remainder of his manhood.

“You…you…you put that thing on your…your…your BOOBS!” he sputtered.

It took a second but then the hilarity of the situation and the complete farcking relief at having dodged this parental bullet momentarily washed over me, and I burst out laughing.

“Yep, yep I do Frac.” Sure. I put my diva cup on my boobs. That’s way better than explaining where I really put it. I’ll totally go along with that.

(Side note: Do I even want to know what he imagines I do with my boobs? Probably not.)

“That’s so wrong Mom,” he griped as he headed back to resume cleaning my bathroom. “Here I thought I could use it to make a dunce cap for Deira. She’s so dumb she needs one. I’m not touching that thing now though. Gross,” he shuddered.

“Good idea, best just leave it alone,” I warned, still chuckling at my innocent son.

For the moment, I’m totally down with letting my boy remain ignorant to the ways of womanhood. I’ll admit it, I’m a chicken. I’m far too young to be sprouting the grey hairs I’m sure that conversation would lead to.Â

I’m tossing this hot potato into my husband’s lap.

Here’s hoping I don’t find my darling puppy wandering around with a Diva Cup tied to her head before he gets home to have a testicle to testicle heart to heart talk with my son.

Heaven help us all.