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Let them eat timbits! and other things I’d say as a benevolent Queen.

Once upon a time, on a blog far away, Poof wrote a story that would be one of those stories. Everyone has those stories — the ones they tell over and over because they’re just that good.

I love to tell the Zamboni tale, or the time that my Dad accidentally left my sister and me at a gas station, or the time that VS parallel parked my car on the curb. Because the point was that the car was all in the space.

These are the stories that are still funny, or if they aren’t, then I either probably hate you or love you, depending if you’re still laughing.

I went onto timehop today, and came to the realization that there was a story that had gone untold. Two years ago today, I would give up doughnuts. Specifically, cake doughnut holes.

In real life, I tell this all the time: whenever the JumboTron gets mentioned or someone offers me a doughnut hole and thinks I’m completely cracked out because who does not like a tiny hole made of doughnut?

This is the story of the Doughnut Queen

JumboTron

Once upon a time, Poof and I made plans to go to a hockey game. We had a group of girls, a ridiculous amount of Sharpie’d posters saying phrases that probably shouldn’t be allowed around children, and a hotel room for the night. We had the capacity for ridiculous things to happen.

Hotchtics at the Game!

Hotchtics at the Game!

In true form, Poof and I began our day overly excited and exposed to social media.

Twitter: where all things good and wonderful happen.

After all, ever since she and I had both ridden the great bright ice cleaner that is the Zamboni, I’d been crazy gung ho to have Zambattle 2012 happen. Who doesn’t want to see two girls strapped to the top of Zambonis with light sabers battling it out?

zamboni war

That question was clearly rhetorical. Because not long after Poof and I had begun our early morning banter, we had received notification from “the social media guy”.

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Everyone likes the idea of a Light Saber Zamboni Battle. Except apparently, safety regulations and the like – which meant that on this day, we might not be able to Zambattle, but we would be fighting on a completely different battlefield.

Baked Goods.

@AyronattheWings offered us in exchange for our light sabers and souls, a Timbit eating contest. It sounded simple enough. Here is a box of doughnut holes.

Eat.

Compete.

Win.

Thus, we accepted.

Fast Forward.

It’s the first intermission. Poof and I have spent the first intermission trash talking each other about our eating abilities and downing whalebones. We’d been approached at the beginning of the game, and we knew that at some point during the intermission, someone would come fetch us for our shining moment of infamy.

The exact phrase was they’ll come for you.

Doughnut holes should never sound so ominous.

We’re standing in front of a camera with a woman brandishing a microphone. We’re wearing Tim Horton’s shirts that were given to us, because everyone also loves free advertising. We’re movie star waving to our adoring fans as the woman tells the crowd that we’ll have one minute to eat as many doughnut holes as possible.

Start the clock.

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Within the first three seconds, things go bad. Bitches gave us powdered sugar. Poof and I both had the strategy of shove as much into your mouth as possible [insert jokes here] because we only have one minute.

We had one minute. We did not have enzymes.

My mouth is full of powdered sugar and cinnamon and doughnut and I have no saliva left.

It’s like the Sahara Desert in here, and I. Cannot. Swallow. [insert more jokes here].

I glance at Poof. She’s looking at me. There are tears in my eyes and I don’t know if they’re from laughing or crying. The woman with the microphone is still counting down and I’m debating if it’s acceptable to drink alcohol on the JumboTron because my whalebone is RIGHT next to me and liquid would be perfection right about now.

Poof eats another doughnut hole. I debate which I hate more – losing or doughnuts, and losing wins. The next doughnut hole was a terrible idea.

Poof and I make eye contact again and a combination of laughter, doughnuts, booze, and peer pressure overload my senses. I hold the box up to my face — more free advertising for Tim Horton’s — and pray to the hockey gods.

For the love of all things holy, please don’t let me throw up on the big screen at a Red Wings game.

And then, in the best display of multi-tasking I’ve ever done, I managed to swallow [jokes], not choke, dodge a doughnut hole thrown at me by Poof, and not throw up on the Joe Louis Arena version of national TV.

They count the remaining doughnut holes. I have two. Poof have four.

I’m simultaneously thrilled and nauseous. I’m both proud of myself and mentally swearing that I’ll never eat another doughnut again. The arena is cheering at the spectacle of it all and I scream out,

“I AM YOUR DOUGHNUT QUEEN.”

As I celebrate, the woman gives me my prize.

It’s a gift card.

For doughnuts.

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VD.

I did a project on St. Valentine once for my 10th grade religion class. My teacher was a nun, and gave me an A- for seeming completely nonplussed about St. Valentine’s martyrdom.

“Are you happy about this Saint, Laura? He dies.

I wish I had a picture of this nun, complete with sound recording, to show you exactly how distressed she was by my attitude. It ever so perfectly sums up how I am towards Valentine’s day.

I wouldn’t be too surprised too, if St. Valentine was in the same boat as me on today’s culture though — chocolate and hearts and OHMIGOD, I DIED FOR MY RELIGION and all.

Here, in no particular order are my favorite Valentine’s tales of my life, thus far.

 

1. My first Valentine.

My seventh grade boyfriend and I fostered a great love, that spanned two skating parties, my first kiss, and approximately five months. That’s basically marriage, guys. Love and marriage, Catholic school style. The relationship did pass by a Valentine’s day, which meant we gave each other gifts and stuff — I actually don’t remember what I gave him – color me shocked, as usually I remember everything.

It was probably like…a rhyming poem, typed in size 12, impact font.

But he gave me chocolate and a card. It was very nice, and I remember opening it up, all excited and….

Dear Seventh Grade L.A.,

Seventh grade words of like love and stuff.

From, Seventh Grade Boyfriend

Granted, he drew hearts around the word “from.”

 

2. When records are broken instead of hearts.

During my splurge of “I don’t know why social media keeps letting me win things,” NeighborGirl and I entered a Red Wings Wing[wo]man contest. 

Goose and Maverick.

Goose and Maverick.

We submitted why we should be allowed to watch hockey on Valentine’s Day.

Men are good at disappointing. There are the men that don’t call, the men that won’t stop calling, and the men that don’t appreciate you. That’s why we want to spend our Valentine’s Day with the Red Wings, the men who have never really let us down. 98 new potentials couldn’t hurt either. This Valentine’s Day, we don’t want chocolates, roses, or even a candlelit dinner. We want cold beer, rowdy fans, and a Red Wings victory. The only red we want to see is blood on the ice.

Which we won, along with a bunch of other single people, which meant that we were watching hockey on Valentine’s Day. This was actually a wonderful Valentine’s Day.

 

3. Anonymous.

High school really did more of the same thing that middle school did. Holidays would come around and we would send candy to each other to support like…athletics and stuff. I’m not actually sure where the money we spent went. Except the bon bons. If you bought bon bons, you were definitely supporting the Latin Club and the Latin teacher’s probable drinking habit because my latin class was definitely a reason to drink.

By this point of life, I had realized that I was really socially awkward, and had no idea how I’d managed to straggle successfully through my formative years thus far. I was single probably because of all those things, and maybe because I once tried to make a utility belt out of crushed velvet and the back pockets out of a pair of jeans to carry my pens and TI-83 in.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 "punk rock" costume.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 “punk rock” costume.

Weird little L.A.

Imagine my surprise then, and the surprise of my girl friends, when I received a candy-gram.

To L.A.

From: ???

Instead of a message, this person drew an arrow, pointing to the computer printed bear saying Happy Valentine’s Day. We never did find out who sent that one.

 

4. Nothing says I love you like a text message.

Because the college version of me was so romantic, I chose to send my love not by flowers or candy, but by text.

This was college L.A. You're probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine's now.

This was college L.A. You’re probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine’s now. Please note that I am wearing an NES wristband and have a flip phone clipped to my pocket.

In honor of the holiday, I sent this text off:

Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you!

The response:

Who’s number is this?

 

5. Finally,  I’d like to direct your attention to Valentine’s conversation with my sister, VS.

“I’m going out with some girls for Valentine’s Day.” VS tells me.

“That’s always so depressing,” I lament.

“No, it’s empowering,” VS argues.

“Oh yes,” I say. “A toast to our empty vaginas!”

VS shrugs this off. “We’ll put chocolate in them.”

 

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Playoffs, Lucky T-shirts, and I’ve got a plane to catch.

So, it’s off to a sunny vacation after today. Which means you might be blogless without me for a few weeks — however, don’t worry, I leave you in very capable hands:

Wikipedia.org

That’s right. It’s playoff time.

It’s depressing that as I leave, round two is starting and I’ll basically be missing it, but I get notifications from every app on earth, really, not counting my hockey friends that text me in capitals letters when things happen, and oh, yes.

I have twitter.

This got me into a conversation over sushi on exactly what kind of fan I am, since let’s face it, now that the playoffs are in full swing, so are the bandwagon fans.

Photo credit: MemeGenerator.net

So, what exactly separates the bandwaggoners from the true fans?

Random Hockey Fan at a game I went to: We’ll get them in the fourth period.

ANYWAY. In no particular order, here are things that probably mean you’re [not] a bandwaggoner.

1. Eye rolls at the band waggoners. (See above comment from Random Fan). I asked twitter exactly what they thought of these fine sports folk, and that seemed to be the general consensus. You grin, and you bear it, or you post it on your twitter afterwards because this chick is legitimately concerned that everyone is upset now that the third period is over.

2. Superstition

I have a t-shirt. It got signed by Patrick Eaves (twice, in the same spot, because my Mom washed it and he signed it again for me, announcing, “shoot guys, we have a washer!”) and I’m afraid to ever wash it again. But every game I’ve worn it to — the Wings have won.

Superstition

I was gifted an epic pair of Red Wing scrubs. I used to wear them, clean laundry providing, on game days. But everyday that I wore them, the Wings would win. So, that last day of the regular season, when the Wings were playing for their play off life? It was jean day in the office. I wore Red Wing Scrubs.

3. You tweet about your sport. You tweet obsessively about your sport. You write about your sport. Your social media friends are fans of the same team, because twitter likes to connect everybody like that.

4. Your closet may or may not look like this:

5. The following type of conversation:

Dodger: Ah, the Equinox with the Red Wing Sticker.

L.A.: Says the KIA with the Dodgers license plate.

On that note.

Enjoy the playoffs, tweet me to keep me informed, and I’ll see everyone today, tomorrow, because it’s already tomorrow where I’m going.

When in doubt, write more. Or bitch more, in which case, someone will tell you to write.

You guys all owe Scott (found @ThisDaddys_blog and www.thisdaddysblog.net) a big fat gigantic thank you for finally getting me to publish something, since I’m sure you’re terribly sick of reading the same 80 some odd posts I’ve deemed acceptable for Chicks in the Mitt.

Or you might owe him a big fat gigantic F U, depending how you’re feeling when you get to the end of this post.

I posted on twitter today in a fit of desperation —

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-which is really rather inconvenient for me because lately it’s felt like everything I’ve written has sucked, sucked, and sucked more.

Blog about kidney stones? Not as funny as the FRIENDS episode.

Blog about the twitter? It’s already been done by me a few times, and to be completely honest, I am mad at the twitter for allowing me to be funny in 140 characters, and unable to be funny in 500 some-odd words.

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Blog about the hockey even? Well, I’m pretty sure a lot of hockey blogs have covered the popular topic of the Red Wings Power Play. In that, right now, we really don’t have one*.

So then, what does one write about with the blog and the block and the lack of funny?

If only I had a small child who said such hilarious things that I could basically topple Bill Cosby’s Kids Say the Darnedest Things

OH WAIT.

So, we’re at the Griffins game and there’s a very vocal guy sitting a few seats over from us that is just screaming bloody murder at the ice. I bet he and I could be friends.

Boo is watching the game but is totally distracted by this guy yelling. “Mommy, he’s loud.

“I know,” I tell him. “It’s okay. You know you can be loud at the hockey game.”

Boo proceeds to let out a shriek that ‘s rather reminiscint of a hungry pterodacytl.

“Not that loud,” I remind him. “We don’t need to break the sound barrier.

At that moment, the Griffins do something good and the very vocal guy lets out a cheer. “Griiiiiiiiiii-fffffffffons!”

“MOMMY.” Boo is very upset by this. “MOMMY, HE BROKE THE SOUND BARRIER.”

I shake my head, but Boo cannot be disuaded

“HE BROKE IT AND HE IS CHEERING FOR THE BAD GUYS.”

“No, buddy, he said ‘Griffins,’ he’s on our team-

“HE SAID GREEN ONES!”

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At this point Boo leans around me to the guy. “YOU CHEER FOR THE GRIFFINS. WE ARE CHEERING FOR THE GRIFFINS!

I don’t know where he gets this super fandom from.

Oh, and also:

Boo: Mommy, what are you doing?

Me: Mommy forgot how to be funny, BooBoo

Boo: Don’t worry. When you grow up, you can be funny like me.

Well, thanks, Bud.

*The Red Wings scored a PPG as I was writing this blog. RELIEVED FACE HERE.
And seriously. No idea where my kid gets the hockey love from.

WHAT IS THIS, BETTMAN?!

I’d like to open this post with a letter to Gary Bettman.

Dear Gary,

Love, Hockey Fans Everywhere

That about sums it up.

I think we all know by now that I’m a hockey fan. If you didn’t know this, catch up, will you? If you’re a hockey fan, or if you like hockey and come to my office regularly for  your tidbit of hockey knowledge from me, then you know that the NHL has locked out again, because Bettman was just looking for another reason to add chatch-nugget to his business cards.

Basically, fans, we’re fucked.

Which is really unfortunate, because through all these debates about:

a) who needs to get more money among the owners and the players

b) just how much of a chatch Gary Bettman is

we still don’t get our hockey fix on.

So, who’s suffering, really? Nightmare on Helm Street wrote a post about everyone else affected by the lockout — the people employed by the Red Wings, the people not making the big bucks, who are not the players or owners but are your fellow average person making a fellow average wage.

And what about the people who just freaking love hockey? You know, the fans?

Well. I have a four year old son now. He’s commonly known as Boo on the blog here, and his birthday falls rather perfectly into pre-season hockey. 

Boo’s 1st Birthday.

So, since I love hockey so much and I wanted him to love it like I do, every year, we’ve gotten tickets and headed down to the Joe for some Birthday Hockey. Boo even learned, when he was itty bitty, to say the entire line up…to a certain extent. I’m sure Zetterberg understood that “Zumberbug,” meant him. Since Boo got to be really into hockey too (don’t know how), we kept this tradition up. Pre-season hockey was much more chill, and so kind of the perfect environment for the little guy.

2nd Birthday. Forgot the sign in the car.

It’s now tradition. And I am big on the traditions of my life.

3rd Birthday. We still forgot the sign in the car. But this year, we lucked into the cheapest fourth row seats I’ve ever had.

 

Well, as of today, as the lockout continues, I’d like to add to that sentiment at the beginning of this post:

Gary Bettman, You are RUINING my tradition.

Boo turned four yesterday. This is the first year that I won’t be able to take my Boo to a hockey game for his birthday. And while, yes, I know, he’s only four, and he is distracted by other things like OMFG, Cake and Candles, I still am a little heart broken that our ritual will have to be postponed.

Maybe the winter classic can serve as his birthday…since they better get things sorted by then.

How about you, out there in the interwebs world? How are you affected by this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, lockout?

 

I’m Back! I’m Back from the Future!

I’m so sorry. This post is technically from last March. But it’s such a strange story that I’m sharing. That, and I’m sure you’re all wondering if GoldDust and I pulled a Thelma and Louise and drove off a cliff to escape you all. We didn’t. We still exist. Believe in us.

Believe.

Lately, if you’ve been keeping track, I’ve been asked out on a number of occasions. Not really, I’m completely lying. I’ve been asked out thrice, and all the occasions were by young’ns with peach fuzz and vertical driver’s licenses. I never had a vertical license. It’s bizarre, really. My quarter life crisis is that I don’t look like I’m a quarter century old.

I have issues.

All this youth in my life made me remember this tale from last year. And reminded me: I need to stop dating down. Granted, I never actually dated this guy. I hung out with him once. That doesn’t count…right?

Originally posted March 12, 2011.
I texted Poof last night, probably midway through the second period of the Wings/Oilers game. I really wanted to be AT the game, but just couldn’t bring myself to dish out the required $90 that would have gotten me there. A girl has limits. Scratch that. A girl’s bank account has limits.

I digress.

So, I text Poof midway through the 2nd period. The wings are down by one. We’re losing to the Oilers. That’s not right. My fingers are crossed. I believe in the Wings. But I’m in a bad mood. I need good things to happen.

L.A.: Should I go hang out with a minor?

Poof: Nooooo

Poof was pretty adamant on this. So I listened, for part of the night. LeBebe was occupied with showing off for BabyDaddy’s parents so I instead escaped to the wonderful world of Buffalo Wild Wings for some old friends, hockey talk, and the third period.

I arrived just in time for Lidstrom’s equalizer.

I ate some boneless wings, drank a tall beer, talked about topics involving my high school playing hockey at the Joe for the State Championship or something like that. LET’S GO COUGARS, etc, etc.

Before long, however, I found my compatriots heading out following the OT win (Datsyuk!), and leaving little L.A. with nothing to do.

I’m sorry, Poof. I saw the minor.

His house ended up being fairly close to where I was at, and being that it was only around 11, I stopped by to say hi.

Now, the minor isn’t illegal. He’s 20. He’d need me to buy him alcohol and he couldn’t come hang out with me in a bar. But it’s not illegal.

So things could be worse. We talked about high school, and about my high school being awesome in hockey. We came to the conclusion that when I was a senior, he was a lowly freshman. Weird.

Minor put on SportsCenter and we watched the highlights from the game. He put his arm around me, because in case you didn’t know, hockey is really romantic.

Seriously. You can propose to me at a hockey game. Especially if you’re Darren Helm.

In this case, however, it was kind of weird. This young boy just put his arm around me, and then his mom brought us brownies. She warned me to be careful, because they were just out of the oven, and we didn’t want anyone getting burnt.

Thanks, Mom.

At this point, I’ve realized. Holy Shit. I’ve time traveled back to 2005.

Young Doc: No! It can’t be; I just sent you back to the future!
Marty McFly: No, I know; you *did* send me back to the future. But I’m back – I’m back *from* the future.

At this point, it’s time to run. It’s moderately early, but I’m freaking out. Isn’t this why I have friends my own age? I’m debating how to plan a smooth exit when this happens.

“You know,” Minor tells me. “I’ve got this old jersey, and it just doesn’t fit me anymore.”

“You should save it,” I tell him. “Give it to your kids someday [when you’re old enough to have sex.]”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think guys do that. I’ll probably throw it out before then.” He then gets up and leaves momentarily.

Five minutes later, he comes back and he throws a jersey at me. It’s a legit jersey, not one of the crappy fan jerseys. It even has the Konstantinov patch (see picture at top) on it. It’s definitely too small for him.

“It’s yours if you want it,” he tells me, sitting back down.

I pull out my phone and text Poof at a furious pace, which is actually about how quickly Poof’s dog can text. Poof’s dog has no thumbs.

L.A.: Can I take a hockey jersey from a random minor? Is that taking advantage?

Poof: Yes and no.

It doesn’t take more convincing. I take the jersey. I hug Minor goodbye. I leave with a Shanny jersey, my morality [mostly] intact, and a zip-lock baggy filled with Ghiradelli brownies.

I think his mom liked me.

Then, I hopped into my DeLorean and drove back to 2011.

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe there is something in my DNA that attracts people far out my age range to ask me out and put me into awkward situations that I can later blog about.

Or maybe it’s because I went to a high school with a motto that pretty much designated that I’d be asked to prom at 25. The world may never know.

Rahr.

We’re so lucky our neighbors are nice, eh?

I have a post stored in the back of my mind that I’ve been trying desperately to write — it’s about why my sister and I are not allowed to be funny anymore, and involves Asians, sunglasses, and touch screens. I’ve been trying so hard for you, our beloved readers — lest you be subjected to another post where Poof is cooking but will not share her cupcakes with you.

But then it became my birthday, and while you’re all super cool, today, I am cooler. Which means it’s Birthday Post time!

And when I say birthday post time, I mean, part one of thirteen billion, or however many posts I decide to write. It’s been a fabulous birthday so far, involving birthday hockey, and birthday cake, and birthday movies, and Justin Timberlake, and birthday heels.

Since my birthday decided to fall on a Monday, I decided to make my birthday a weekend long affair. GoldDust offered to wing woman like the true shenanigan master she is.

“Anything you want to do, we’ll do,” she told me. “I’m your birthday bitch.”

I think you all can guess what I wanted to do.

It’s hockey time, bitches.

Boo’s Grandpa had gotten me tickets for my birthday the year before, and this year, try as he might, the planets did not align. It was the last game of the season, after all. But I wanted birthday hockey, so I took off for the Craig’s listings and ticketmasterings and basically hunted and hunted until…

9:27 a. Text to GoldDust: Tots bought tickets! We be up in here at the Joe!

We Up in Here at the Joe!

Problem? It was an afternoon game. Which means getting ready was going to have to be quick. I scrambled for the shower and the make up, and as a last minute addition:

10:56 a. Text to GoldDust: What are your thoughts on glitter?

10:58 a. Text from GoldDust: Amazing!

Superfan, Glittered up. Credit goes to @jeri_berri for the awesome glitter knowledge.

GoldDust and I drove down to the game, parked the car with no trouble and no men slapping her vehicle, as has happened on other occasions. We walked to the Joe, bought our first whalebones, and headed to our seats.

We sang the anthem. We sat. We drank. We watched hockey. Apart from being in the upper level, I had a great view (are there really BAD seats at the Joe? if there are, I haven’t sat in them.), up until…

This happened.

The row in front of us was an entire group of people wearing blue shirts, from somewhere. They were so excited for the hockey. Which is well and good, until you block my view. I look at GoldDust, aghast. I am about to hyperventilate. I cannot see my birthday hockey. The blue shirts are chanting things in french. I don’t know if I can deal with this. Then.

The row behind us now starts heckling the row in front of us.

“Sit down! We can’t see!Words! Phrases! Pull your pants up!”

GoldDust and I exchange looks. We are stuck between loud and louder. What’s a girl to do??!!

Team Canada in front of us makes a toast. More languages. I decide that if I maybe make friends with them, they won’t block my view. So when they bring in their beer cups to cheers, I stick my whalebone in too. Cheers, boys.

We can all be friends.

Lots of things are said then, and I figure things will all be okay when-

“Hey,” comes a voice from behind me. It’s the hecklers. “Nordiques, we’re from Canada too! Windsor!”

I glance behind us. I glance in front of us. “GoldDust. They’re all Canadians. We are completely bordered by Canadians. It is like we have gotten rid of Mexico.”

The Canadians behind us start talking to us then. They appreciate birthday hockey, and buy us birthday drinks. I tell them I’m seventeen, but I’m no longer sure if people believe that, get scared by that, or what.

Either way, they bought me booze.

“GoldDust,” I whisper, as we begin to drink our freshly filled whalebones. “The Canadians bought us drinks. Can I pay them?”

She debates. “Do you still have a Canadian five dollar bill?”

I try to hand off the hockey money bill. They laugh at me for having Canadian money and tell me it’s a birthday drink.

Sweet.

Meanwhile. The blue shirted Canadians are still attracting my attention. One of them is wearing a furry blue Elmer Fudd hat. And I wants it. I wants it real bad.

“How drunk you think I have to be to ask him for that hat?” I ask GoldDust in a whispershout.

WhisperShout: the drunk portion of the night where you are trying so hard to be quiet that you are unnaturally loud and people stare at you because they're wondering WTF is up with your voice.

“Drunker then this,” she tells me. “Have another drink. Then ask him.”

But for some reason, this answer is unacceptable to me. “But I need it.”

“It’s your birthday,” GoldDust says. “Just take it.”

“…do you think he’ll notice?” I ask. I’m so mesmerized by this hat, that it does not occur to me that he was probably listening to our conversation.

I realize that he definitely was…when he turns around and gives me the hat.

The Canadian, me, and the furry blue hat.

High fives all around.


Until…the game ends. Hard fought battle, but we lost in a shoot out. Which, btw, Datsyuk’s goal totally went in. At least from the upper level, it did. And then, the Nordique took his hat back.

“…but it’s my birthday,” I pout. “Birthday hockey!”

“But it was for my birthday too,” he tells me in his french-canadian talk. “I am 18.”

And thus I immediately gave him the hat back. No more minors in 2012.

We head out and the Windsor Canadians have walked out with us. They can’t believe that he took the hat back. I’m sad too, but it’s okay. There will always be more furry hats. GoldDust and I pass out blog cards to the Canadians and make them take our picture.

My birthday bitch and me 🙂

Then, for good measure, we take a picture with all of them. To prove we are worldly, and that we did meet Canadians. Plus, let’s be serious. I’m turning 25. Which means new driver’s license. And if you didn’t know, in Michigan, that means you can get an enhanced driver’s license.

A.K.A. Passport to Canada.

Happy Birthday to me, eh?

 

Bobbles wobble, but they don’t fall down.

Once upon a time, I was at a hockey game.

It was Griffins hockey, Star Wars night, and it was a sold out game. I took the Boo (this was back when he got a free ticket and life was awesome) and his Nana (BabyDaddy’s mom). We went early because there was a Darren Helm bobblehead giveaway for the first so many fans to arrive. I wanted that Bobblehead. For the Boo. And for me too, because hi, it’s Darren Helm, and I love him.

But alas, since the game was sold out, despite being early, by the time we made it into the arena, the bobbles were gone. The Boo cried, since he wanted one. I cried inside, because I really wanted one too.

Cue to the end of the game. A few weeks early, when Boo’s Grandpa was at a Red Wings game, he paid a small child $10 so he could have a Red Wings lunchbox for Boo. We pooled our cash. Six dollars. We figured some kind soul would sell his bobble for that, and we would have paid less than Papa Bear did.

“Hey,” I find a kid with a bobblehead. He is eighteenish, coming out of a suite, and looking very bored. “I really wanted to get a bobblehead for my kid,” I point at Boo, who waves, little show boater that he is. “…but by the time we got here, they were gone. I was wondering…if we could maybe pay you a couple bucks…”

He shrugs at me and hands over his bobblehead without letting me finish. He doesn’t take the money. I am awesome.

FAST FORWARD. I am in the midst of my work day when it happens. Poof texts me and e-mails me immediately telling me that I must check the twatter. It’s urgent. Our lives (and amazing streak of lucky times) depends on it. I rush to twitter and find this:

The initial bargain.

Bobbleheads are up for grabs.

“I can’t talk to people. Especially strangers,” Poof tells me. “Call them for me.”

“I can’t,” I respond. “I’m at work. I don’t think calling for bobbleheads is considered work in any way shape or form.”

So I tweeted. Obviously, the first offer on the table was for my latest quest: ZamBattle 2k12. My logic is that if I offer this up enough, it will eventually happen. I mean, who doesn’t want to see two girls duking it out light saber style ON TOP of giant machines that polish the ice like china?

Unfortunately, the ZamBattle was a no-go this time…But they told me to keep thinking. I took this as a cue to push the envelope farther, but with less Zambonis.

The next offer.

I offered up my shooting skills. I play hockey with mini sticks on a regular basis with the Boo. I figured I could aim…and also, I offered Poof a goalie helmet. And said I’d use a soft puck. It was still a great offer, however. People are still talking about William Tell-ing an apple off someone’s head with an arrow, after. I just rewrote it for hockey, for awesome, and for bobbles.

The wheels are turning now.

Now that we had our heels (because you can totally rock heels in downtown GRap at a hockey game) in the door, we were excited. Bobblehead talk, people. And it was all because of the twatter.

The SOCIAL MEDIA MAN got involved. All this time, I was sure I had been talking to Griff via Twitter.

Despite the fact that I was mildly disappointed that I had not been twatting with the giant mascot Griff, or even the mini-mascot Finn, I was still thrilled at the Bobble prospects. There was a Social Media Hockey Man offering up Bobbleheads. That wobbly rap song began playing in my head on repeat. If you don’t know what song I’m talking about, be grateful. It gets in your head, and it stays there. Everytime I look at my shelf of Bobbles, I think of it….a shelf, by the way, which now contains one Ericsson 80’s Porn-stache Bobblehead.

Mr. Bobble totally came through...

Poof and I were equally thrilled by the awesome that was PornStarHockeyManBobbleHead. We were so thrilled, that we both tweeted our love for said PornStarHockeyManBobbleHead.

Love.

Love x 2

Double thanks for Mr. Bobble. We even showed how thankful we were by bringing him his drug of choice (Peanut M&Ms) the next week. Two bags.

He was then so grateful for the deliciousness of peanuts, chocolates, and a thinly coated candy shell, that he proceeded to help us begin what I’m calling:

The Candy-Hockey-Bartering-System.

But that’s another story. For another time. Unless you have some item of awesome you’d like to barter with the Hotches for.

Until then, peace, love, and bobbleheads.

Follow Mr. Bobble @jvh33 on the twatter. He's awesome. Trust me.

You can be my wingman anytime.

I have to start this blog by telling you that I was kicked in the twat last night. Seriously. Someone took a shot and his foot landed in my lady parts and it hurt. Following the incident:

Lady part kicker: I’m so sorry!

L.A.: Fuck you!

So, the remainder of the game, I was focused more on the pain in my poonani, then actually playing the game. And then, the icing on the cake, we finished our game to find…

The streak is over. Red Wings went down in a shoot out to the CaFucks.

I was devasted. I yelled things that no one could understand. I could not put my pants on correctly for at least five minutes. I tweeted tears.

TEARS.

So, now, instead of focusing on the fact that the Wings lost, I’m going to focus on the fact that the Wings are AWESOME.

This is the story of the #AmwayWingMan game.

NeighborGirl's 1st Game!

Everyone should know by now, from clicking the link just above, that NeighborGirl and I won some tickets to the Valentine’s Day game from @JakeDuhaime. He’s the Red Wings social media guy, that put together this whole Wingman thing.

I finagled my way out of work, finagled LittleBro to drive NeighborGirl from the airport to the Joe, finagled my car into Tom’s Oyster Bar, and finagled my way to the arena. Early, even.

And I am never early.

We pick up our tickets and some swag bags and head to booze up before the game starts. I treat NeighborGirl to her first whalebone, because it’s her first wings game. I hope she reads this and sees that I WILL ALWAYS GO TO WINGS GAMES WITH HER because her first game was a record setter.

The game starts. If you’ve never been to a play off, then I hope you went to this one. The energy in the Joe was infectious. It started with a tribute to Holmstrom’s 1000th game. We were playing the STARS, who the last time I saw them play us, stole Ozzie’s 400th from being at home. I wanted revenge on them. I screamed from beginning to end.

If you didn’t realize by now, we won. Longest NHL home record. Because we’re just that awesome. I can’t explain how epic it was to be chanting “21” over and over by the end of the game.

Winning tickets for this game was by the far, the tops of 2012 so far. Kudos, Red Wings. Kudos.

Now. The actual Social Media experience:

Being part of the #AmwayWingMan game was definitely a guinea pig thing. While it was cool to win seats, it was definitely the first time they’d ever done it. There were so many people there, that we were majorly spread out and it was hard to connect with anyone. I got to briefly meet a couple hockey girls I’ve been tweeting with (@dweezlepip and @jrgrotto) and we talked for a little with the guys sitting next to us. That was a prime conversation.

“Hey,” NeighborGirl leans over me to talk to the boys next to us. “Where are your drinks?” I’m of course sporting a whalebone, and she’s got a beer.

The first boy shrugs. “Not 21.”

We look at the second boy. “And you’re not drinking…for support?”

Awkward.

YAY, social media! You found us on the twatter!

I tried to meet up with blog commenter BowTie too, (@MercBG2k), but with our seats where we were, it was hard to get signal, let alone to twat with anyone. That was frustrating, since we were all supposed to twat during the game. We looked over at one point and saw someone ACTUALLY able to twat. He was sitting on the steps, and after a second, I realized who it was:The Social Media guy himself: @JakeDuhaime.

We talked with him for a little bit about the event, and he mentioned he was on the Joe’s Wifi, that’s how he could tweet recklessly like he was. Lucky dog. But it turns out he was handling the Red Wings account, which saves me when I can’t watch the games. I follow those game tweets religiously when I can’t be there or in front of a TV.

Anyway, he snapped a shot of @jrgrotto for the Red Wings page, and I managed to stick my head in since I helped hold the sign. Love.

#StaySingle

In retrospect, I should have given him a business card. READ MY BLOG, please.

To sum it up. It was an awesome game. I can still hear 21 being chanted. I might frame that ticket. For next time, hopefully there is a pre party or post party. And maybe hook us up to Wifi too, so we may twat along. But besides that, a great event, a great free ticket, and a freaking awesome game.

I’d do it all over again in an instant.

21.

All I do is win, win, win, no matter what. Unless I lose.

A few weeks ago, I was driving home from the D. It was a normal drive home; I was being illegal and the like, and tweeting as I drove, because it’s a long freaking drive when you do it as much as I do. And I saw this:

Yes, I would like to go a hockey game with my BFF and a bunch of men.

I’m sure you remember seeing this when I told you about how VS has seven thousand dates and I have none. Well, that night when I arrived home, after the Boo fell asleep, I headed over to NeighborGirl’s house, and we entered.

Men are good at disappointing. There are the men that don’t call, the men that won’t stop calling, and the men that don’t appreciate you. That’s why we want to spend our Valentine’s Day with the Red Wings, the men who have never really let us down. 98 new potentials couldn’t hurt either. This Valentine’s Day, we don’t want chocolates, roses, or even a candlelit dinner. We want cold beer, rowdy fans, and a Red Wings victory. The only red we want to see is blood on the ice.

We sent in our little less than 100 words blurb, and a picture of the two of us being all hockey in my Red Wings shirts (I brought over a few thousand of mine so NeighborGirl and I could both sport the winged wheel), and we crossed our fingers for the hockey gods to love us, since we figured men do not.

It took at least fifteen pictures to find one we liked.

But something is wrong with the universe. Seriously. Normally, I have the worst luck in the world. I won $200 from GreekTown Casino once, bought a new digital camera, and the camera broke. I have terrible luck.

And with the whole fulfilling life goal’s thing coming true, I figured that there was no way we’d win. Plus, twitter told me they’d announce winners on January 31st. Which came. And went. And nothing. My streak of awesome was clearly over. Until…

Holy Sweet Jesus. These people have let me win again. I’m freaking out to myself and e-mailing NeighborGirl and being thrilled at the prospect that FATE LOVES ME when I realize…

NeighborGirl has just moved to Chicago. It’s four hours away from the D. On a weeknight. I have to work that day until 6. I have a two and a half hour drive to the D.

The game is at 7:30.

Well frack.

Put your thinking caps on, kids.

to the [Game]!”]