It all started Saturday morning in the kitchen. I leaned against the door frame while Henry made breakfast, and we talked about hockey.

“You know, one of my old high school friends has season tickets and sometimes if she can’t make it to the game, she’ll put them up for grabs on Facebook,” I told Henry.

“Huh. Well, maybe sometime if we catch her in time, we can buy some,” Henry said over the sizzle of grease.

Less than a minute later, I sat on the couch checking my Facebook newsfeed from my phone. And just like that, there was my old high school friend Stacey, selling two tickets to Monday night’s game versus the Sabres, for $50.

Henry couldn’t justify us both going, because we’re still trying to catch up on past bills, and I guess I couldn’t really justify myself going either, but that selfish part of me won out. “It’s the fucking Pens,” I reminded myself. So without hesitation, I texted Alisha to see if she wanted to go with me. That was a no-brainer because she put up with me during the entire Stanley Cup playoffs and finals last year when I did nothing but rip off my fingernails with my nervously gnashing teeth and chew on my hair; it was only right that she should be rewarded for that. When my question was immediately answered with a Caps-locked FUCK YEAH, I pounced on Stacey and called dibs.

Two nights, one Radioshack employee crush, and a dozen street-crossing yelps later, Alisha and I were walking to Mellon Arena. On the way there, we witnessed a loud-mouthed portly white man, a total fucking dickhead Yinzer (one of the reasons I don’t love this city as much as I should) running his mouth at a horn-blowing elderly black panhandler (who wasn’t bothering anyone, I should add).

“Get a real job!” the Yinzer snidely barked. And then, “How much money did you give to Haiti?! Fuck you!” And the panhandler, who stood there dumbfounded and initially took some of the abuse, finally started screaming “Fuck you!” which prompted the fat Yinzer to holla back “Fuck YOU!” and it was so tense, all these vacillating “fuck you”s, that my right strawberry knee high began creeping down around my ankle. Actually, I’m so angry about this right now that I’m trembling. I mean, did that Yinzer asshole feel good about himself after that? Yeah, you’re fucking cool, you Steeler-loving douchebag. Go home and rub one out while replaying your machismo.

Once Alisha had her suitcase rifled through by security, we made our way up to section F.

I thought it was going to suck, that we’d be too far away, but it turned out that we were in the first row of that section, which hung right over the side of the rink where the Pens shoot twice. In fact, during the second period, I could actually hear Fleury yelling.

This was Alisha’s first hockey game, and it was important that she was there that night because it’s the last year the Mellon Arena will be around. When the lights went out for the pre-game theatrics, she was like, “OMG I’m so excited” and it was completely without sarcasm. I cried a little during the pre-game stuff and was thankful for the darkness.

I don’t care much for the Sabres as a whole, but I really have mad respect for their goalie, Ryan Miller. It was really cool to be that close to him. And even cooler 47 seconds into the 1st period when our Mark Letestu got his first NHL goal and ALISHA MISSED IT.

Unfortunately, the Sabres answered with two goals later in the period. This spawned an onslaught of disparaging remarks from a few fickle fans nearby and suddenly I was 12 and at a Pens game with my step-dad, who loved to yell, “Stick a fork in them!” whenever the Pens would flounder. Or, my favorite (read: there’s some sarcasm there), when he would yell, “Lay down, Coffey!” anytime my ALL-TIME FAVORITE PLAYER Paul Coffey would have an off-night.

At one point, I started laughing to myself. I leaned over and said to Alisha, “I hope someone spills something on you.”

“Oh, too late. That already happened.” If it weren’t for what was to come during the 2nd period, that might have been my highlight of the night.

When the 2nd period started, I remember thinking, “It’s going to be OK. They can’t lose. Not when it’s Alisha’s first hockey game!” And before I could finish that thought, the Sabres scored again, making it 3-1. But then Sidney Crosby scored, and in the span of eight minutes he went on to score two more times (along with one from Staal). So not only did the Pens regain the lead, but Crosby got a motherfucking hat trick.

I got to see Crosby get a motherfucking hat trick. I’m not even going to pretend that I didn’t cry.

It was like a goddamn Visa commercial. Eight minutes. That was all Crosby needed to get a hat trick.

The last three minutes of the 3rd period were harrowing. The Sabres came back to score one more time and the last two minutes found the Pens defending a 6-on-4, but we ultimately prevailed which obviously made it even sweeter. While we all stood and applauded Crosby for being the #1 star of the game, I turned to Alisha and said, “It’s not often I wish to be a boy, but I wouldn’t mind being Sidney Crosby for a day.” Most non-Penguins fans will say he’s “over-rated” though, just like people who don’t know shit about hockey will say the same about Alex Ovechkin, who is unequivocally one of the best hockey players in the world right now.  People who can’t appreciate that get on my nerves.

(However, when the Capitals play the Pens, Ovie will always be “Obitchkin” to me.)

Alisha and I later compared our applause-inflicted wounds while admitting that it was worth so much more than $25.

That night, as I tried to get my body to stop humming with adrenaline and excitement, I actually cried a little because I was that happy to have been at the game. It really meant a lot to me. Now that I got all that sentimental bullcum out of my system, I’ll be back on my game* tomorrow. I promise.

(* You know, the asshole game.)

Hey, so something you might not know about me is that I kind of like hockey. Yeah, a little bit. Here and there. So when I heard there was a Pitt vs Duquesne hockey game last Friday, first I said, “Pitt has a hockey team?” and then “Duquesne has a hockey team?” and then “Tickets are only $5? I’m going.”

The whole way to Bladerunners in Harmarville, Alisha asked questions like, “Wait, what are we going to see again? A lacrosse match?” and “Is there going to be nude entertainment of any sort” and her most oft-asked question “Do you know that you’re totally the coolest person I know? I’m so lucky.” So we get there and follow a pack of Pitt students who knew which way to go. I appreciated when the ticket guy had to ask hesitantly, “Adult?” instead of just assuming that this broad is clearly not a student. He didn’t ask Alisha. In fact, he tried to give her the Downs discount. I kind of felt bad.

Since both of us went to Pitt for a minute, it was logical that we root for the Panthers and not the snobby Duquesne Dukes. I made sure to ask which side of the rink was for the Pitt fans, so as not to have any tense situations like when I accidentally sat on the visitors side at a roller derby bout I once went to.

Initially we sat all the way down by Pitt’s goal, until Alisha reminded me of my poor eye sight, and we moved slightly closer to the middle to ensure both sides of the rink could be seen. We were actually seated right next to the glorified runway that the Pitt players used, and you just know how idiotic I acted about that. Alisha’s suggestion ended up being quite serendipitous because we moved seats right as the busloads of Pitt students poured into the rink and about 20 of the loudest skinny-jeans, Ugg-wearing girls with their respective frat boy partners all ascended on the side of the bleachers we had just moved from. Now, I’m all about getting rowdy at sporting events. That’s the POINT. But even I’m able to mute my asshole-isms during the National Anthem. Unfortunately, no one told this group of kids that, and they proceeded to yell and scream and heckle and sing along in mock tenors and I was so thankful to not be standing in their midst and get labeled as a douchebag by the dumb luck of proximity. There were groups of students behind us who were furiously shushing them.

How embarrassing.

Not that I was expecting slick NHL action, but goddamn is college hockey sloooow. I mean, time-wise it goes fast without the TV timeouts, but there was little action. The passing on both teams was pretty shakey and neither team had a good grasp of puck control. I teach hockey to mutes, so I know these things. However, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t fun for what it was. Alisha and I found ourselves heavily supporting Pitt, and we learned from the loud-mouths to our left that Steve, Brad and Mike were the popular players. I was frantically trying to check the roster on my phone and I still have no idea which ones were Steve, Brad and Mike. But you better believe I was a little minah bird every time I heard someone shouting their names. It was like this:

Pitt students in the know: “STEVE!!!!!”

Me, half a second later: “…..YEAH, STEVE!”

Alisha called me an asshole a lot.

During the first intermission, we went to the restroom, where I used the handicap stall after some older ginger woman in a mauve sweater inspected it and decided to pass. There was nothing wrong with it! She wound up in the stall next to me and when she sneezed loudly, I laughed out loud.

It made me feel bad at first, but later I spotted her across the ice on the visitor’s side, at which point I hoped she had heard me laugh and that she will now have a sneezing complex, fucking Duquesne bitch.

The second period was more of the same. We were hoping for a fight. I went so far as to hope someone would get their eye poked out and skidded across the ice. But it was during this period that Pitt scored and tied the game. I don’t know who scored, but I don’t think it was Steve, Brad or Mike. Actually, I’m pretty sure Mike was the goalie.

Duquesne has a midget on their team! A little fucking Napoleon named URSO. Hate him with me, everyone! Alisha pointed him out first. “Look at that small boy. He seems like he has an attitude, so I hate him.” I decided to hate him too, not so much for the solidarity, but because I hate short people. No I’m kidding.

I just hate midgets.

A Pitt student in a fuzzy yellow pullover, with a ditzy-looking brunette at his side, walked past us to take a seat in Section O (for those unfamiliar with the seat chart, that is O for Obnoxious). One of the boys behind me yelled, “HEY MIKE!” at which point Yellow Pullover turned to the side and acknowledged him with a drunken smile. Then under his breath, the boy behind me goes, “Oooh, I’m telling Michelle!” and I took that to mean that the ditzy-looking brunette was not Michelle. And I was right! Because whoever that girl was, Mike is like, IN LOVE with her but she only wants to BE FRIENDS and poor Mike isn’t taking the hint. “I feel sorry for him,” the boy behind me said to his friend, another boy behind me.

So then I was finding myself all wrapped up in this drama that I was barely paying attention to the game and Alisha started asking me questions like, “Wait, what does icing mean again?” and all  I do was blurt  things out like, “THAT’S NOT MIKE’S GIRLFRIEND OMG!”

Then Mike came and sat behind us! And I learned that he’s taking O Chem and some random biology that he doesn’t even need but just because he wants to, and he said it with this dismissiveness like it was merely some intramural kickball and not a fucking pre-med requisite, and my brain just couldn’t process it because he just exuded dumbness. He didn’t know jack about hockey though and even asked, “So, like, do you have to like, try out for this team?”

During the third period, I noticed that some cock roast on the enemy side was standing up and pantomiming in the direction of Section O. Then! Then, a boy from Section O started doing all these flashy finger-flippings back at the other guy and I was like, “Wow, finally maybe some shit will go down,” and I tapped Alisha on the shoulder to alert her of the drama but they had both stopped by then and she totally didn’t believe me.

“It’s true! That guy over there was gesticulating wildly and then this guy was all—”

“Shut up, I don’t believe you.” And then! Then she goes, “And I think it’s safe to say that none of my other friends ever say the things you say.” She wouldn’t tell me if that was good or bad and I found myself feeling paranoid and insecure.

Anyway, 3676489730954 penalties later, the game went into OT and we won less than a minute in! I was so excited about it, I don’t really know why. I don’t actually have much loyality invested in the Panthers, but at $5 a ticket, I’d sure go to another game.

The Penguins are playing the Flyers right now so I had to turn the marshmonsters around to watch. Alisha started preaching about how its unnatural to obsess over marshmallows and how if I lived in Arkansas and tried pulling that shit, I’d get gang-raped by a baseball team called the Galaxies. Then Henry said something stupid and shit-coated, like, “Did you just take another picture of them?

They haven’t CHANGED” and I was like, “But people on Twitter might be curious as to what’s going on with them right now.

”

Then I went upstairs to pee and while peeing I started thinking things through, this whole marshmallow thing I mean, and I started thinking about how I never played with dolls when I was a kid, and maybe this is some latent need to play and dress inanimate objects that just bloomed late inside of me.

Or maybe I just really like to make food into play things, because this is not the first time I’ve lost myself in the world of make believe edible friends.

And it probably won’t be the last, either.

This hockey game is fucking fantastico, by the by.