The month of December is an expensive one for many reasons:
1. I have to get Erik's Christmas present. Which, despite him having told me multiple times that I don't have to get him anything other than a kiss on the cheek, I have decided to prevail forward with.
I mean, what do you even get someone that can buy anything? A hooker? A one-armed magician with a limp? I don't even know where to begin. I know he likes lingerie; so maybe I buy some tablecloth from the Dollar Tree and craft something for myself - or cop-out the hundred or so dollars and purchase something he'll no doubt rip off my body within seconds, from Victoria's Secret.
And yes, it has happened before. And no, we don't talk about it.
2. On top of having to shop for and figure out what the hell to get for my aforementioned boyfriend, I also have to buy presents for the entire office. And I do mean basically everyone I come into contact with. Is it because I'm trying to buy approval or increase my credit card debt, I'm not sure?
What I am sure of is that I love Amazon and their next-day delivery with Prime. And by Amazon Prime, I do mean the subscription service that I have signed up for the free trial of and cancelled just before my credit card would be billed, many, many times.
3. I have to meet Erik's family at Christmas, which means more presents to buy and clothes to wear. And by clothes, I mean things that would look presentable to a multi-million dollar conglomerate. His family is literally filthy rich; and despite his mother's extra marital affairs, appears to be in good standing.
So, I find myself freaking out on Monday morning, the week of Christmas, as I try to figure out when the hell I'm supposed to get everything done. Also, Erik's cuddling antics caused me to snooze my alarm one too many times, thus causing me to miss my usual train and wait for the next one.
He offered to drive me to work multiple times, as well as offered to pay for my Uber, or Lyft, but I vehemently declined. Why? Because I am an I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T woman; and also a little stupid.
"Do you have the time?" A random man on the subway asks me as I sit and debatably look away from my phone, in disgust. Or irritation, because the time is literally right above him - flashing on the LED screen.
It's a trick I learnt long ago that people (creepy old men) do when they're wanting to start a conversation with you. So, as I would if I were a flight attendant, I motion my arm towards the screen and ignore him when he huffs, annoyed that his attempt at hitting on me or creeping on me, has been foiled.
Why men seem to lack the basic concept of hitting on only women within their age range, I'm not sure. What I do know is that it gives me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies and regret that I didn't take Erik up on his offer. And I do mean the one to drive me to work, not the one to call in sick so that we could roll around in the sheets all day. Though, that offer seems to be on the table more often than a sale at a discount store.
"Pioneer Square." The robotic voice announces, just as we pull into the previously mentioned stop. I make sure that as soon as everyone is on and seated, I move my caboose to the door. Because I know my stop is next and there is not a chance in hell I will risk being stuck in the herd traffic of the average man.
That's one tip I learnt from being a commuter, always getting up and being at the door before your stop. And only once you've reached and passed by the most recent one. Otherwise you're just blocking the door and nominating yourself for asshole of the year.
"Portland State University." The same voice says a few moments later, once we've begun moving again. A few more people crowd closer to me as we move towards the station. And one woman, carrying far too many bags for the train, accidently smacks me with her backpack. She doesn't notice and I don't say anything because I'm not unconscious nor trying to talk to strangers.
As with the regular morning commute, as soon as the train stops and the doors open, everyone files out. There are some impatient assholes, eager to stuff themselves inside before we can even make an exit. But the stench of a nearby homeless man that's waiting, causes them to relocate to a different door.
I walk up the stairs of the train station in the same pace as mostly everyone else; and slightly slower than the fast-walkers. Because I'm not sure why some people go up concrete stairs two at a time, but I'm not willing to risk it and find out the consequences by cracking my head against the pavement.
"Hello dear, have you heard the good news?" An older grandpa resembling man asks me when I stand to close to a nearby Jehovah's witness stand at the crosswalk. I quickly move away after awkwardly making eye contact with his wife, who looks to be about half his age or a child bride, or both.
At 6:00am, the streets have been overtaken by the likes of 9-5ers; students; and anyone else trying to make a living. You would think that this is my final destination: downtown Portland, but no, I am a mere passerbyer I still have to take a 40 minute bus ride to the outer-regions of Portland where the arena actually is.
And before you ask, yes, I love life.
When I finally do arrive at the arena, I'm ten minutes late. Which is still twenty minutes early by normal standards, but as we all know, I'm not normal. Danielle is already at her desk, scrolling through the Twitter feed on her phone. Which is filled with City officials and the Weather Network.
"Hey Rosie." She greets me, the signature polite smile shining from her face. It takes a minute before she waddles on over to where I'm signing in; and hovering behind me for a few minutes before finally saying what she wants to. "So, are you still okay to cover for me during the holidays?" She inquires, sliding her phone into her back pocket a few times before realizing her pants don't have any.
"For sure." I answer, nodding my head in an attempt to show how excited I am to cover for her. In reality, I've already done it twice before: once for Thanksgiving and once for when her son had a week off from University. But I've learnt that enthusiasm is key; and also makes it a lot easier to display an emotion that isn't my resting bitch face.
She nods, adjusting the corner of a paper that's sitting on my desk before moving forward. "We shouldn't have much. There's Winnipeg on the 27th and Pirates Skills on the 31st; but other than that, we'll be pretty quiet for events. And Greg will be away, so there won't be any P.O.s to bring down."
I nod along, as if this isn't the second time, she's told me all this. But I find it makes her feel better to repeat things twice, so, I let it be. "Okay."
"If anything comes up you can always send me an email, or give me a text." She assures herself more than me, as she rocks on her feet like a child. "But I don't foresee much coming up. Oscar will also be here if you need help with anything; Brent's going to be away for a few days, but he'll probably be in at some point next week."
"Okay." I say, not really sure what else I can respond with; other than, Brent coming in during the holidays? As if. But I'm an intern so while I can think these things and listen to others say them, I can never verbalize them, myself.
Thankfully, Brent decides this to be the moment to go to the gym; which means he'll be gone for the next few hours as he guzzles a few drinks down at the nearby pub. I used to think that he was just an asshole but some serious eavesdropping of Oscar's conversations has made me believe that he's actually an alcoholic. Which you might think is weird I couldn't detect on my own - given that my father was/is one; but I just thought he had a horrible personality.
Brent, not my dad - he was just a pushover.
"So, you'll be okay for two weeks?" Danielle asks me later during the day, after she's handled Brent's meltdown and Oscar's search for his glasses. This is after I've given her the gift I got her: colorful sticky notes (she hates the basic yellow ones), colorful pens (she likes the pink ones), and candy (she likes wine gums).
She's a bit more relaxed now and not as tense. I wonder if it's because she's taken her OCD medication; or because she's now without the two men that act like her children. "I'm good." I tell her, glancing towards my own present from her: an LCBO gift card and some candy. I don't drink much, but it's the thought that counts.
She nods, and although there's a trust in her eyes and cautiousness; part of me wonders if the reason for her lack of temperedness is because she doesn't believe that I'll be able to last the two weeks. Or maybe she thinks that I can, but believes my ties to a certain hockey player will render the rest of my career, a bust.