Calabasas Hockey

On Monday night I made the mistake of attempting to "run" at the Zuma beach boardwalk. Ha-ha-ha. As per SD's instructions, I drove up PCH to Trancas Market, made a U-turn, and then parked on the side of the road, behind some other cars. The Zuma beach boardwalk is somewhat deserted at the dusky hour of 7.15 p.m. on a Monday, save for the occasional drunk person, meandering couple, like-minded jogger, lazy beach bum, and surfer unwinding.

I began my jog along the paved boardwalk, which was separated from the sandy beach by a salmon-colored, waist-high wall imprinted with leaping dolphins and sea shells. I gazed towards the shore longingly, though, and it was only a matter of minutes until I had succumbed to the undertow, if you will, and was at the beach, running along the damp, hard-packed sand on a steep sideways incline, with the waves licking at my new red-and-gray New Balances.

So beautiful! I ended up jogging to the end of Zuma, but ran out of steam to run the whole way back. At this point night had fallen and I hastened back to the car, making very slow progress. The sunset draped the sky with mellow fuschia and pnk. Lesson: Don't try to "run" from the "Food" to "Food" snack shacks at Zuma (in other words, from one end to another) if you're starting at 7 pm, unless you've got a buddy. It was a little scary.

I had a grueling Tuesday and Wednesday, whereby I (1) tied up loose ends with my old job, a task that gave rise to a boatload of stress and a number of difficulties, which I shall not get into here; suffice it to say I was very much under the gun, (2) sealed the deal on my new place in Malibu, only to get an earful from the spouse of the owner, then to rethink whether or not I wanted to live there for the summer and deal with a very rude and meanspirited spouse nagging at me from San Diego, where they live, (3) booked tickets for my friend to come visit me from New York, only to realize that my new job wants to send me on a business trip out to northern New Jersey during the same week that she booked her tickets to come here, what the fuck do I do now? (4) played phone tag with several people, including Chewbacca, who's sniffing around for a second date with me, and my hotel roommate for CG's wedding in New York, (5) took my car in to an independent Honda mechanic to figure out what the fuck is wrong with it, only to find out that I've got three different mechanics telling me three different things, so ... what the fuck???, and finally, (6) ironed things over with the "sweet"-boy turned asshole who is now back on my good side.

Life!

Yesterday evening, I stayed late at work and headed over to the pickup roller hockey rink-cum-basketball courts (it doubles as both) at Juan Batista de Anza Park at Las Virgenes and Lost Hills Road in Calabasas. Oh, proximate Valley suburbia! Beautiful rolling hills covered with dense brush and perfumed with the scent of bright yellow flowers!

The game started a little after 8 pm, and I was the only girl, as usual. The players consisted of high school-age boys and their fathers, or men their fathers' age. Maybe one or two college-aged guys as well. They all wore jerseys so I donned my (uh-oh) newly washed Urban Outfitters sweatshirt, so as not to appear too skanky in just my girlie baby tee.

The rink was large and therefore much more menacing for me. The reason being that a larger rink means more room to pick up speed - and that makes for scarier collisions. Since I weigh 110 tops, I function better in a smaller rink, where the emphasis is on maneuvering and whacking people with your stick to get the puck. In a larger rink, speed (not my forte as a short person on small hockey skates) and momentum become more important, and that's where I lose out.

One guy was trying to be nice to me and pass me the puck but he never got a chance to. Another guy kept on commenting on how all my gear fit into a "small" Rossignol ski boots bag (small only compared to the large-sized hockey bags that can fit two dead bodies and a dead cat).

I left early. It was loads of fun, but I doubt I'll be back anytime soon. I miss the little rink back home!

By the way, the pic above isn't actually the rink at Calabasas, but it gives you a good idea of what it looks like. And the dude pictured above in the old school fuck-me rollerskates just cracks me up. I found this image on a UK website. Figures!