Post Edited – scroll down, friends and lovers.
I took Boo to a hockey game a few weeks ago, because we like hockey and that’s what we do sometimes.
It turns out that the game is the annual teddy bear toss, so we stop by the store to get Boo a teddy bear to throw. He’s excited, guys.
And then the bears start flying.
Boo: Is it time?
Me: Yeah, you can throw the bear now.
Boo: We’re too high, it won’t go that far.
Me: We can go closer so you can throw it.
Now, we’re sitting in the upper bowl…
…and the kid has a point, so we start moving closer so he’ll have an easier time of getting the bear onto the rink.
Boo: Where do I throw it?
Me: On the ice, see all the other bears?
Boo: Throw him on the ice?
Me: Yeah, see how everyone else is?
Boo: …he’ll get cold.
Me: I think they’ll warm him up.
Boo: …he’ll get wet.
Me: I think they’ll dry him off.
At this point, volunteers are on the ice to start boxing up all these flying teddy bears. The players start helping gather the bears. That’s when it gets really fun.
Me: Just throw the bear, bud.
Boo: THEY’RE USING THE BEARS AS PUCKS.
Me: No, they’re just helping to gather the bears up.
Boo’s face is a cross between Puss in Boots and the Screamer. This isn’t a good cause. This is not for the children, like Mommy told him. This is a mother-effing massacre.
Boo: THEY ARE HITTING THE BEARS WITH THEIR STICKS.
Me: Baby, just throw the bear. It’s not hurting the bears.
Boo: THEY ARE HURTING THE BEARS!
Me: They’re not hurting the-
Boo: WHY ARE THEY HURTING THE BEARS?
And that’s how Dash the polar bear joined our family.
I’m mildly amazed at the amount of popularity this post has gotten……and the various tweets and facebook posts from people who have enjoyed this post (all the good karma to you people) — amazed to the point where I read the whole thing out loud to Boo, as I sometimes do when it involves cute things he says, minus the swears Mommy adds when she writes it.
Mommy: “…and that’s how Dash the polar bear joined our family.”
Boo: He’s a pretty good bear.
Mommy: He taught Mommy that we will probably not be going to the teddy bear game next year.
Boo: He taught me that the only thing we throw at hockey games is the octopus.
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.”
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!
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!
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…
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
My mom is originally from the Philippines. I’m sure you know that by now. Which means that she was born there and she grew up there and she also has a large amount of family there. Not here. Although, a great number of them have come to Canada…which is super close by.
Translation: Road Trip!
I was going to post about this before, but then we actually came to Canada, and let’s be honest —
Who can even think of posting when Dudley Do Right is traipsing down the street singing “Oh Canada” at the top of his lungs?
Am I right? Eh?
I’m totally kidding. Granted, while I’m in this fair country, my money is worth less, I hear millions of languages, and so many men walking past are talking about hockey that I might pee myself. But there is really no time to blog.
Plus, since Toronto is uber multicultural, my mom keeps making friends.
Strange Filipino folk, at the boat we went on, on the island we were on, at the gas station, in line for the effing bathroom…
Stranger(In my Mom’s native tongue): Oh Em Gee, you are the Philippines, yeah?
Mom: I don’t talk to strangers. I’m white with a great tan.
Me (in English): Mom. You aren’t even that tan for an Asian. They know. They all know.
Mom (in Tagalog now): Hey! Yeah! I’m the Philippines too! Where are you from, who do you know, how strange that we have found each other in this corner of the world!
Next post. How I got another cousin.