"Working the crease" and other things that sound dirty but really aren't

So I went to a hockey game this weekend.

College hockey, to be exact.

The Mister's family has had season tickets pretty much since the beginning of time. I'm fairly certain that the VonPartypants men burst from the womb wearing Bulldogs sweatshirts and shouting "C'mon! Work that puck!" or...something "hockey-esque" like that. Every year for christmas, in an attempt to finally get me to join the ranks, I get my own Bulldogs sweatshirt, hat, colostomy bag, t-shirt, or (in this year's case) knee-high socks that I could (in theory anyways) wear to actually go and witness the glory that is College hockey. Even Bubs got a sweatshirt this year- he sure looks cute in it, but no matter how much I try and coach him I don't think he's ever going to be able to hold a hockey stick without thumbs. Plus, "working the crease" has a completely different meaning for him, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with sports.

The funny thing is, my girl Waffle and I used to go to tons of Bulldog games when we were in 8th-9th grade. Her family had season tickets, but only two. It was a good few seasons for the 'Dogs, so she and I usually ended up getting standing-room only tickets, which we loved. "Standing Room" meant that we weren't obligated to hang out with her parents (especially her Dad, who still to this day seems to really enjoy the freedom and stretchyness of high-watered polyester pants), and we could roam the arena freely in search of awkward teenage boys that we could shamelessly flirt with over chocolate malt cups and nachos.
This love affair with hockey ended about the same time that we discovered our love of punk rock/skater boys and ended our pursuit of sporty/"normal" boys.

I haven't been to a game in years- usually I have obligations of my own if I'm in Duluth on a Friday or Saturday night (read: anything instead of hockey), but for whatever reason this weekend I not only willingly agreed to go, but I was actually looking forward to it.
College Hockey is a big deal in Duluth- most of the season ticket-holders have been going since birth- and the whole thing kind of feels like a really big family reunion. Everybody knows everyone else- if not by name, then by things like "the guy who tucks his team jersey into his dad jeans with bad feathered hair" or "that obnoxious woman who yells 'put it in the net!' over and over and OVER".
The smell of chili dogs and popcorn wafts through the air, and kids get excited to see the zamboni during the period breaks. If you can tune out the section of "student fans" shouting chants that they should be ashamed of (seriously- there are kids there and it's totally unsportsman-like) using words like "asshole" "fuck" and "faggot", the whole thing would have a old-timey, Norman Rockwellish feel to it. Unfortunately, tuning out those assholes (yes, it's appropriate here- kids don't read this and they ARE assholes- the students, not kids, you know what I mean) is nearly impossible. They seriously suck.
But, other than that it was a good time for me overall. I like watching hockey for the most part- it's fast-paced, fairly easy to understand the rules, and the fact that there is always potential for mayhem, missing teeth, and bloodshed makes it a must-see in my book.

So I went, it was fun, I actually watched the game. And no- I didn't wear a team sweatshirt. Or socks. Or a hat. I'm pretty sure that I'm not ready for that level of commitment yet.

But...I think I might go again. Someday.
Stranger things have happened, right?

Right?

Googly eyes of death

For whatever reason (no, I wasn't drinking), I felt compelled to buy this at Swank Retro today:

It was labeled "heinous owl with glass eyes."

Sold.

Though, I'm starting to get a bit worried that they're starting an army, plotting and planning how they'll overthrow Queen Whiskeymarie:


I heard whispers of "poisoned Doritos" and "is there enough room in the freezer for the head too?"

If I go missing or am found floating face-down in a bathtub full of tapioca...

...it was the owls. Damn owls.

...or the cats. Damn cats.

...or the dog.

...or I drunkenly tripped and fell into my weekly "tapoica baptismal."

But my money's on the owls.

Party in my lungs, not to be confused with the party in my pants.

I know, I KNOW.

"Post every day for a week, blah, blah, blah..."

You all should know by now that any promise of mine involving time constraints and actual effort on my part usually isn't worth the sticky candy wrapper that it's written on. Life is full of little disappointments, people. You should probably also know that there is no Santa Claus, and that babies come from Mommy's no-no bits.

While I had grandiose plans for the weekend that included actually putting on big girl clothes, leaving the house and doing things like "socializing", the plague-like sickness that I thought I was almost over made a dramatic comeback on Friday. Instead of actually enjoying my three-day weekend, I spent a large chunk of it comatose on the couch, coughing like I need an iron lung, drinking buckets of tea, and inspecting my mucus. Turns out, it looks nothing like those sassy animated green globules in the commercials for Mucinex. Mine couldn't talk, let alone throw a party in my lungs. Stupid inferior mucus.

So...yeah, that's what I've been up to. Fun, no?

I promise that tomorrow I won't mention any of my bodily fluids/excretions. But then again, you know what my promises are worth...

Things the rest of us learned in third grade.

Yesterday at work, the fire alarms went off, the entire building had to be evacuated, and no less than three fire trucks/vehicles showed up. Since we haven't had a false alarm in a while (unlike the frigid winter of aught-seven where we had no less than 5 in the span of a few weeks and I may or may not have lost a few toes due to exposure- the lawsuit is pending), we all assumed it was something real.

"Oh my god, is it a gas leak?"
"I heard that two rooms are on fire!"
"I smelled toxic smoke- maybe it's a terrorist attack!!"
"Everybody run for your lives!!!!!" (Okay, that last one might have been real, and it might have been me yelling. It was crowded, no one can say for sure. The investigation is ongoing.)

Yeah...not so much an emergency as it was an unfortunate near-miss for the Darwin Awards.
Turns out, one of the "brighter" students in the building put something wrapped in foil into one of the cafeteria microwaves, set it for oh...an hour, and just walked away, oblivious to the fact that both their dinner and the microwave in question had literally gone up in flames.

Hmmm.
If that were my student?

Insta-FAIL, moron.

Since you obviously haven't learned some of life's basics, Einstein- here are a few pearls of wisdom for you, to help you through this crazy thing called life:

• Leave knife-juggling to the professionals.
• Don't play with stray, frothing dogs after eating chicken wings.
  
• Use your hands to drive, not your toes.
  
• Broken glass is NOT the same thing as hard candy.
• Bacon fat is not an acceptable substitute for sunscreen.
• Cops aren't amused when you try to tickle them.
• The phrase "stick it in your ass" is not meant to be taken literally.
  
• "The Clap" isn't as fun as it sounds, and has nothing to do with the performing arts.
• Don't put salt in your eyes.

You're welcome.

Happy Thursday, my salty little idiot nuggets. Happy Thursday.

XO

Hiney ho!

So...

...I got the stupid H1N1 shot (or "hiney shot", as Gwen would call it), and then I got the stupid non-hiney flu because the Universe likes to mess with me like that. I took two days off from work, and today I'm going back, despite the alarming number of fluorescent-yellow/green globules escaping from two of the several orifices in my head. I almost saved the one that kind of looked like a Smurf. Almost.

...I've been busy doing lots of stuff that probably isn't all that interesting to y'all, considering that I can't really remember what most of it was anyways. I vaguely remember pudding at some point, and for some reason every time I walk by a yellow house I break into playing wicked awesome air guitar. It will all come back to me eventually, I hope. But I swear I've been busy doing...something.

...At some point between now and March 2, my Podiatrist (yes, you heard that right- my Podiatrist) said that I need to wear one of these (the big one) for two weeks:
It seems my right foot is possessed by the devil, and the only way to expel Lucifer from my extremities is to pretend I'm Frankenstein on the right half of my body. To complete the look, I'm super-gluing a bolt to my neck and throwing in a guttural "URRRGGGHH" every other word. Should be sexy, no?

...To get back on that horse called blogging (not to be confused with that one horse with no name), I am going to post something every day for a week, starting today. You may just get my grocery list and my deepest thoughts on flossing, but at least I'll be here. If I can complete my thesis- The impact of pork products on late-80's pop music- I'll post that for you as well.

There you go- back with not so much a "bang" as a muffled "Mrffphhh".

Happy Wednesday, my phlegmy little Smurf nuggets. Happy Wednesday.

XO