The rink was blissfully free of derelicts, white trash and birthday parties this past Sunday. We almost went to a different rink, but our late night of gaming plus springing ahead caused us to sleep in. We’re lucky we made it to the 1:30 skate at all. We’re also lucky we have a four-year-old son to wake us from the dead.
My mood was so great that I even attempted to take Chooch around the rink by myself while Henry was lacing up. This probably wasn’t the best idea. Anytime I try to teach someone something, I immediately refer to my inner Svengali and it just never ends well. Case in point: I was rather sternly trying to coerce Chooch to stop body-humping the carpeted wall and skate on his own. He was like, “OH MY GOD LADY ARE YOU NUTS I CAN’T DO THAT!” and I was all, “YES YOU CAN OR ELSE YOU WILL NEVER LEARN AND YES I AM NUTS, DUH.” Eventually, Henry appeared, with his stupid black curls billowing in his wake like he’s some roller rink knight, and he excused me from…what did he excuse me from? Oh that’s right, being an AWESOME PARENT.
Anytime I am in any sort of a mentoring position, it becomes painfully and quickly obvious that I am a Leo and my patience drains faster than veins in Mystic Falls. I remember one time when I worked at MSA, my supervisor asked me if I ever had any interest in supervising positions. I laughed so hard. Lady, the last thing your company wants is for this asshole to have any sort of power.
I feel like I really hit my stride that day. I was effortlessly ducking in and out of congested clumps of roller amateurs and even skated backward for a bit, which I will admit is the ONLY FLAW in my skating repertoire. And there was only one fool I hated on the entire afternoon. He had two immediate strikes against him, in that he was:
- a teenager
- a teenager on rollerblades
One of the cardinal rules is that obviously speed-skating is verboten. But this motherfucker with the shaggy hair and ugly hoodie (he totally wasn’t a scene kid) felt that he was exempt from all roller rink decorum and did whatever the fuck he wanted, felling skaters like dominoes in his rolling back wash.
Meanwhile, rink ref blew his whistle not once, not twice, BUT NO TIMES. Unreal. I’d skate past rink ref seconds after this erratic douche-on-wheels cut through the stream of skaters ON A DIAGONAL and I would scowl at him and his stupid striped Foot Locker employee shirt and with my eyes I’d scream, “I know you saw him do that, blow your whistle, motherfucker!” But he never did.
So it has been decided that I want to apply to be the new rink ref. This current one just isn’t doing it for me. He’s lazy, oblivious, doesn’t blow the whistle when overweight middle-aged men attempt splits in the center of the rink, he doesn’t stare at my breasts nearly as much as all the other men here, there and everywhere do. I know I would be a fantastic rink ref. I think the reasons are pretty obvious:
- I excel at intimidating kids.
- I wear stripes. A lot.
- I love to blow things.