…… *quietly discards Leafs jersey.*

I ended up checking out of the hotel way later than I had expected. I was watching HBO or something while I was packing, and He’s Just Not that Into You came on. I was very against the whole idea of that movie when I first heard about it. I really hate all that self-help dating stuff, especially considering it’s usually based on the experience of the individual, and centres around women having to modify their behaviour to be even remotely worthy of any man. I won’t go off on one of THOSE tangents, though. And, like I said, I don’t read those books and haven’t read this particular book either. All I know is that my friends that do subscribe to this brand of garbage, basically turn into walking doormats the moment a penis enters the vicinity. Whatever works, right? I’m personally not a doormat, nor do I find doormats attractive. So, I would definitely rather be without someone who wants that type of person *ahem* stereotypical hockey wife.

Anyway, when the movie was about to come on, I reached for the remote to flick it off, but had a curious change of heart. I thought that I’d see how this movie handled all the grade A advice staining the pages of the book. I was only going to watch it for twenty minutes or so while I finished getting my stuff together, but I have to admit that it was surprisingly good. Long after I had packed and put my coat on to leave, I could not pull myself away from it. I had to see how it ended. I was literally perched on the end of the bed in my winter coat, boots, and with car keys in hand for a solid hour at least! What I found interesting about the movie was that all the main characters ended up being “exceptions.” I kind of like that big F you the writers appear to have sent to the author of the book by doing that. After all, what good can the theories and “rules” be if they can’t even hold up?

At 1PM, I finally left my hotel and was bound for the big Victoria’s Secret on Michigan Ave. Surprise! They just happened to be having their Semi Annual Sale. I knew this was going to be more than a quick run in to pick up a new bra. I spent two whole hours in that place, and came away with some gems like the top photo suggests. Mine’s black, though, and it looks better on her, I’m pretty sure. It was great for me to actually have something to declare when the border guard asked me how much I spent on goods. They usually find it suspicious that I never go shopping when I’m away on my trips. Sorry, I just really HATE that activity. This time around, my border guard was a femme, and we had a nice little chat about the sale.

At three, I was back on the road and headed directly into the same hideous weather I hit on my initial journey to the Windy City. Luckily, I stumbled upon Easy Street somewhere in the-middle-of-nowhere, Michigan. Literally. I stopped for gas in some no name spot, which happened to be off a meaningless road with Easy St. labeled on the street sign. So, that’s where it is! Unfortunately, the streets weren’t easy for very long. I still had the 402 to conquer, and, of course, it did not falter in providing me with another one of its usual winter whiteout challenges.

What I love about driving, even in terrible snowstorms, is that the road gives me a place to think. Naturally, finding an NHL team to call my own was a major topic of internal debate during this trip. In my head there were really only three candidates, the Ducks, the Leafs, and the Coyotes. The Ducks have a lot of things that I like, but this trip made me feel like the team and I don’t have enough history to keep a long distance bond like ours alive for long. The Leafs and I go way back. They are the team I grew up with, and we’ve been through a lot. I was there when the team was hot, just like I was there when they were not. And the support was mutual. The Leafs were there for me when I had no one. I sometimes wonder what I would have done without my Saturday night Leafs game at certain points in my life. However, the home games are ridiculously overpriced and tickets are hard to come by. Granted, I’d spend more money paying for a flight, accommodations, and a hockey ticket in the Pacific Division, but the Leafs don’t satisfy the adventurer in me seeing as it only takes me ten minutes to get to the rink. Then there’s Phoenix. I don’t have much to say in their favour at this point, but something someone told me a month and a half ago has played over and over again in my mind.

A woman felt that she needed to weigh in on that whole Arizona Prophecy thing. She told me she lost me at the point that I decided to ditch the Coyotes. Basically, she felt that everything seemed to say that Arizona was where I needed to be, so, no matter what, I shouldn’t have pulled myself away. Maybe that’s true, and maybe it’s not. It’s hard to know what events to pay attention to and what to filter out. She makes some sense, but I don’t know if I can really go back at this point. Going to see a team play, just so you can cheer against them, is not all that enjoyable. Trust me.

By the time I pulled into the drive way at my parents’ house, I made no decision about my new NHL allegiance. Instead, I began to get some crazy ideas in my head that I might branch out altogether. I was thinking that maybe it was time to take a little vacation from the NHL, and switch leagues for a month or so – for my sanity. Luckily, the Olympic break is right around the corner, so the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Stay tuned for details.

Roll the credits…

Understatement of the century.

There is a reason they call it The Madhouse. I have NEVER, in my entire extended history of hockey misadventures, stood in such a long and slow moving line to get into an arena! Did I mention how cold it was?? Yeah. Unpleasant. I was beginning to worry that they were going to run out of bobbleheads before I was able to get my hands on one! Luckily, that was not the case, and I’m now the proud owner of a Marian Hossa bobblehead, which will likely live out the rest of its days in the trunk of my car next to the bobblehead I got at Nassau Coliseum (not even sure what player that one bears the likeness of).

People often ask me what the best NHL arena is that I’ve been to. For some reason, I automatically answer this question purely based on the quality of the facility alone. However, I know that a lot of people prefer to rank the rinks based on the atmosphere and the intensity of the crowd. The United Center in Chicago is my nineteenth active National Hockey League rink visited to date. Finally, I have officially visited ALL of the Original Six cities!! Anyway, in terms of atmosphere, the Madhouse takes the cake. The fans are so insane, it makes this Psycho feel like she finally belongs somewhere. They are hardly ever in their seats, and if they are, they are a million times louder than the fans I’ve heard anywhere else. And have you heard the national anthem??! I feel like I definitely need to make a return trip when one of the six Canadian teams are in town, just so I can hear the guy sing my country’s anthem!

What was kind of funny was that I saw more people wearing London Knights jerseys that night than I did when I saw London play in Guelph only a few days before. Naturally, I asked everyone if they were from London, but, to my dismay, they weren’t. I was surprised to discover that the guy sitting next to me, also in a Knights jersey, was actually from my motherland. He and his family were from Brantford (home of the Great One), which is pretty close to my hometown! This wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve been conveniently placed next to other Canadians at hockey arenas far away from home. I have a crazy conspiracy theory that Ticketmaster does that on purpose! Keep the Canadians close together if they managed to make it past clearance at the border. You know how they hate hockey fans (me) coming into their county. I’m on to them…oh, yes!

I was finally getting to see the Duck play again for the first time in a long time, but, unfortunately, most of my fun players were injured and out of the lineup! SAD! Like I mentioned in Day 1, my harrowing adventure the day before was making me question whether the Ducks were really the right team for me. All night I had been racking my brain trying to think of another option. I still wasn’t sure which team should be mine, but one thing became a lot clearer at this game, and that was the fact that the Ducks weren’t it! Nevertheless, I still had a lot of fun, and by that I mean I had a lot of fun with my camera. AHEM! You’re welcome, ladies!

After the Ducks were completely annihilated by the Hawks, I loitered around the arena. I thought it might be a good idea to go for a drive around Chicago and at least check the city out by car before I had to leave the next day. I ducked into the little girls’ room to freshen up before I left. A stupid strand of hair kept sticking up out of place on my forehead. I was annoyed with myself that I didn’t bother to use my straightener before I left for the game that afternoon. Then that sinking feeling of terror hit me. “Shit. Did I turn the straightener off when I decided not to use it?”

It was a race against time to get back to the hotel. I drove like a crazy person knowing that I would likely pull up to the building to find some fire trucks outside and a disapproving look on the doorman’s face. Up in my room, however, it was a false alarm. The straightening iron had been turned off after all. I decided to go back out for my drive around town. It was a Sunday, so everything was closed. Looks like it was going to be another night of hotel room service for dinner! On the plus side, while I was out on my drive, I discovered the exact location of the Victoria’s Secret. My mission was clear.

Roll the credits…

(I know what you’ve been thinking!)

Traveling westbound on the 401, every single song on the radio was choking me up. I didn’t know what was going on. I knew I wasn’t sincerely worried about dying on the trip, even though my sequel to Down the Rabbit Hole predicted that I was going to die in a bitter snowstorm in the States after a hockey player did something horrible to me. Those that know me best know that my current circumstance is not all that different from the situation described in my book five years ago. I suppose, this time around, I was more conscious of the dangers of winter travel more than usual on account of these eerie coincidences, but the sadness I was feeling was not that of fear. It was a sadness that I haven’t felt since the beginning of March last season.

On my way to Boston before the trade deadline, I had this same feeling of culmination. Something was off, and something felt over. It was just like how I felt on that horrible day in March, when everything went insanely wrong, and I accurately sensed that the Arizona Prophecy was about to blow up in my face. I felt like I wasn’t supposed to make this trip to Chicago. It felt like it was going to be a wasted trip. It felt like a mistake.

As I drove, I desperately welcomed anything to distract me from my mission, and practically begged that something would force me to turn back. I gazed longingly at the exit that I would have taken to get to my parents’ house, and imagined how nice it would be to jump into my bed, wrap the blankets around me, and never come out. But instead I pressed on, fighting back tears and radio surfing like a crazy person trying to find a song that wouldn’t upset me. Then I discovered that the heinous, Fergie, butchered Heart’s Barracuda. Is nothing scared anymore? Go away, Fergie, you filthy beast!

I finally made it to the 402. The 402 is as reliable as a video game – in the snow and ice level, that is. If you are travelling in the winter, it is a 100% GUARANTEE that you will hit severe whiteout conditions for that entire 103 km stretch of highway. And I mean ACTUAL whiteouts, not like the ones you assholes in Phoenix are thinking of when you pay $10 for a hockey ticket and get a free t-shirt! I’m sorry, that was out of line, I’m still upset from having to recall the Fergie incident. Anyway, when you get to the 402, it’s like you’ve just completed that easy level in the video game, and now must conquer the bigger challenge before getting to the “boss,” which would be the Bluewater Bridge to the US.

Oh, the whiteouts came alright. But seeing as I am a very experienced hockey roadtripper, they were no match for my skills. This time they actually seemed more severe than usual. There were massive snow piles spilling over into the traffic lanes. At one point we were at a standstill because some douche bag decided to do 20 km/h, and no one dared drive in the other lane. Luckily, Killing in the Name of came on the radio and I decided I had enough of the snail’s pace. I pulled out of the lane and blew past everyone. Did anyone follow suit? I don’t know. What was hilarious was that less than a kilometre up the highway the roads were clear.

It was on that clear patch of highway that everything suddenly started to feel like it was going to be OK. The sadness subsided. It was like I was seeing the light, or at least that I felt reassured that at some point on my journey to the windy city something would make sense. It was seven in the morning, yet the moon still hung in the blackened sky like it couldn’t have been more than a stroke past midnight. It was kind of breathtaking. However, over the bridge, day was breaking.

The soft morning light usually hurts my eyes on my sleep deprived, overnight road trips, but this time around it was a welcomed change to the once dark and menacing horizon. Despite the pleasantness of dawn, the roads remained perilous most of the way. There were times that the road conditions were so bad that you couldn’t even pull off to help someone who had taken their car into the ditch. Yet, somehow, through these blizzard-like conditions, I still managed to reach my destination in record time, and in one piece – though, Lynxie didn’t look so hot anymore (really glad I spent $8 on a car wash before I left!)

It was freezing in Chicago; so cold that I could barely stand running a block from my hotel to the restaurant for dinner. I hid away in my hotel room for the rest of the night and watched the Hawks/Blues game on TV. Oh, the things a girl can get into when she’s bored and alone in a hotel room. Loneliness is a terrible thing. While I was lying in bed, I was once again overcome by that same familiar feeling of impending doom. Just like the trip to Boston that altered my life forever; something was about to change again for better or worse.

About fifty miles outside of Boston, the lack of sleep/food/excess hormones finally set in and I hit bottom. Dido’s White Flag came on the radio, and I knew that would do it. I kept thinking to myself, “Katrina, just hold on, you’re almost there!” But it was too late. Emotional breakdown #1.

I knew it was over. If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll know that I’ve been looking for a new team. Philly didn’t feel right anymore. After this harrowing experience, I knew that my Philly days were numbered, and that Tuesday’s game might be the last one I go to. I was upset. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore.

Roll the credits…