Rules of Engagement

I hate to think of myself as losing momentum so early in the game, but here we are: three days later. You know I've been making decisions the old-fashioned way. Logic, logic, logic. Does anything say mid-thirties like a responsible, well-balanced decision-making process?

I've got to kick it into gear here.

In the past two days, I've driven out to the Hangar at Downsview Park twice, and both times I was convinced I'd come home with a story. Last night we watched what I'm sure is the closest derby bout I've ever seen, between the Death Track Dolls and Chicks Ahoy. You'd think I could have RPS'ed Mach Wheels for a place in the bathroom line-up, or at least thrown down with the Derby Nerd for a beer. I was back there today with the Hellatubbie for jr derby practice: nothing. This brings about an interesting question. I've been so interested in the response of those in the know, I forgot the one who knows most: me. Is it possible that I'm censoring my own battles? What I mean is, what creepy mind trick do I need to play on myself in order to hand over the reins? It turns out I don't like to lose. If my son's response is any indication, you people are all going to use this against me. Am I really just afraid this scissors-only gig will turn me into the easiest girl in town?

It gets worse. About a year ago, I paid $40 for a 70s-era, wooden stereo console at one of the weirdest open houses I've ever seen. (I was only sorry I didn't have more cash on me: the pyramid of basement concertinas was a bargain.) I shuffled the console into my hatchback on my own, and then out again into my old digs on Pearl St. The speakers pay out way more than what I'd bargained for, and even though the turntable is less-than-dreamy, we weigh the arm down with pennies and use it to play our collection of Dolly Parton and Yves Montand vinyl, anyway. Last week I awoke to find the dog had chewed right through both the cord I use to patch my laptop into the speakers and yikes! the original power cord. Lesson: no one should ever own a dog.

Yesterday I took the whole thing into the boys at Superfuzz to see if it could be saved. It was raining pretty hard and the shop was full, so Tim brought an armful of fix-it things out to the street and leaned into the car to fix the console, while I perched just inside the back, under the open hatch. (How's the dog? he asked. She's a jackass, I said.) In the end he got a vintage plug back onto the end of the cord and requested payment in the form of six cans of London's Finest Porter. England was about to take on the US, and there's an LCBO within a hundred metres of the shop. I cheerfully complied.

Now don't tell me there wasn't an RPS moment somewhere in that exchange. There was: even I knew it. So why didn't I offer it up? I don't even think it's as simple as win/loss. It's about quality: Tim's an awesome guy, but in the preview of my mind, I knew I just wasn't going to get the money shot in the middle of rainy Dundas West.

In what limp version of a Seinfeld episode do I start deciding whether or not a guy is Scissors-worthy?

Next week: 5 perfect strangers. Promise. Promise.