We moved in October 1st, from a 2-bedroom apartment to a 3-bedroom townhouse. The apartment was like some New York City building, not in its surroundings or sophistication, but more in that neighbours really didn’t know each other. I mean, we knew our friends two floors up; my friend and her husband who bought their place after they saw mine and liked the building, and there was no avoiding getting to know the busy-body neighbour who was always spying on everyone and reminding the rules of the building whenever you bent them, causing one to believe the guy must have had secret cameras trained in every room of the building, and of course I unwillingly had no choice but to get to know the single dad down the hall, who always seemed to be in the hall at the same time I was, and when he wasn’t jawing my ear off bitching about his ex-wife he was escorting different scantily-clad ladies to and from his apartment. No judgment.

So anyway, we basically didn’t know any neighbours. Here, however, I got to know about 100 neighbours in the first week after moving in. This because we had a two-month old puppy that I had to take outside roughly every 20 minutes during the largely unsuccessful potty-training phase (that lasted roughly 6 months and is now 100% successful – time to rip out these carpets and put in floors because even though those pet cleaning products seem very convincing on their labels, they don’t work worth a crap or I’m doing something wrong), and happily, oodles and oodles of neighbours also have dogs.

So for the first couple of months, as it works in doggy-owner circles, I was not known as Veronica, but “Lucky’s Mom”. Whatever – I overlooked that no one learned my name because even though I was told everyone’s name and their dog’s name, I retained none of them. I have a serious problem retaining Anglo names. If everyone were a Francisco or Alejandro or María Cecilia, I’d know them all. I still call my neighbour Shelly, Stacey. Or maybe her name is Stacey and I call her Shelly. I’m not sure – but she never seems to care. Wait – I think her name is Sandy. So they can go ahead and keep calling me Lucky’s mom.

Anyway, everyone’s super nice, and every time I’m out, someone is also out and we chit-chat. There are like 300 houses in this complex, and the 20 or so families on my street all know the kids, the dog and me, and though it took getting used to not having the anonymity and privacy we had at the condo, I quite like this new setup and can knock on anyone’s door for a cup of sugar, as it were, just like in a Brady Bunch episode. It’s great. Our very-next door neighbours, whom we met on the very first day, even have a key to our place and they are absolutely lovely.

Okay, so it’s not all perfect (I’m sorry you guys, this isn’t what this post is even going to be about but I wanted to give some background). One of the reasons we bought this place was because of the green space behind our house. It’s perfect for the dog. All the neighbours down our stretch don’t have fenced yards, so it’s wide open. And this dog of ours needs tons of exercise daily or she bounces off walls. It’s my understanding this phase only lasts about 2 years (OMG). So recently, rather than walking the dog to the dog park (an exercise in frustration, as she’s always so super excited to GET to the park that she pulls and strains on the leash, and as a result I have to stop her every single step and make her sit like a good girl so she learns not to pull, then she gets up and pulls again, and what should be a 10 minute walk usually turns into a 20 minute walk, by the end of which I’m ready to pull my hair out (JK – I would never go that far. I love my hair. I’m like Samson).

So recently, rather than taking her to the park, I just slip out our back door and throw the ball down the stretch for her 20 or 30 times and she gets exhausted, and she is happy, and I am happy, and everyone is happy. The neighbours even come out on their balcony and watch, and we chit-chat and catch up, and everyone is happy. It’s awesome.

Until one evening last week, when my daughter took Lucky out for her exercise and one guy from the other end of the complex came out and told her how he didn’t “appreciate” us running the dog out there because Lucky, in her zeal, was tearing up the “grass”. It’s a green-space, okay. By definition, it’s surrounded by trees and is completely shaded – there’s no grass, it’s MOSS. So yeah, after a rain, when everything’s super-soft, that moss gets shredded by this pup. None of the other neighbours have ever said a word. Until this guy, who freaked my daughter out. Tough guy, giving heck to a 9-year-old.

This did not deter me. I still went out and threw the ball for the dog, wanting like mad for Grumpy Neighbour to come out and give me hell. Our one next-door neighbour, John, was out walking Lola the pug one time while I was throwing the ball and he got annoyed by the story I told him (“it’s MOSS, not GRASS, what a creep”) and he even figured out who it probably was.

Yesterday morning, at about 7am, I was out again. And lo and behold, grumpy neighbour came out, hair all wild and looking like a typical grumpy neighbour, as though he were cast in a movie.

“Excuse me, excuse me, I don’t appreciate you having your dog run out here, she’s tearing up all the grass, and I don’t appreciate it.”

Grass. Just the word I was waiting for.

“That? It’s not grass – it’s moss. The sun never hits it, grass will NEVER grow there.”

“Humph, humph, humph, well, she’s tearing it all up!” (points)

“That? That’s no one’s backyard. That’s not your backyard. It’s the open space.”

“Well…well…well…the dog’s not even supposed to be off the leash anyway!!!!!” (storms off)

Me, sing-songy, “Thanks, I’ll check with the strata about that!”

Okay – so then I went to get ready for our garage sale. I’d found out the week before that the whole complex holds an every-house garage sale every year, it’s hugely popular and people come from all over. I had some things, not many, that I wanted to get rid of, so I was excited. I started by moving the car out of the driveway and parking it across the way (sort of in front of Grumpy Bastard’s house). Then we set up our things and tons of people started coming by, we met new people, it was a beautiful day, and much fun was had by all. I even made $50 selling an old PVR. Win!!

Okay, now we’re at the beginning of my story.

It got to be about 1pm, I wasn’t being successful with selling our other things, my daughter was invited to a friend’s for lunch, and I decided to go get my son and myself a couple of Subway sandwiches. So I went across the street, hopped in the car, and took off. The complex is full of speed bumps, and over the very first one, it felt like the front of the car kind on scraped on it. Weird. Anyway.

Then I hopped onto the main road and I realized I had to really pull the wheel. I let the wheel go, and the car pulled crazily to the right. First chance I got I pulled into a parking lot (where the liquor store is) and I got out and looked at the right side. The front tire was way flatter than the rear one. I ran into the liquor store, grabbed a bottle of wine (which I meant to do anyway) and kind of rushed to the till. The lady there said, “Wow, you know what you want!” and I just told her I wanted to hurry because it looked like my tire was losing air and I wanted to get it over to the gas station to pump it up. She took one look outside, and said, “Oh, honey – you’re not driving that car anywhere. You’ll wreck your rim.” I looked outside and the tire was now completely, absolutely flat. I have never in my life had a flat tire. I wanted to cry. I didn’t know what I was going to do – I was in a hurry to get back to my kid, who was minding the store back home.

I said as much to the liquor store lady, and told her I had a spare tire and could probably figure out how to change it, and I needed to get back to my kid with his sub, and she started marching out of her store, and said “You have a spare? Sal will change it.” I didn’t get a chance to ask who Sal was because she was already gone.

I went out to my car, and she came out of Sergio’s Pizza a couple of doors down, with Sal, who was wiping his hands on his apron and whose bald head was gleaming with sweat from being in a blazing hot kitchen on a blazing hot day. Liquor store lady was showing him my car, and I was introducing myself and saying hi, and he busily asked where the spare was, I opened the trunk, and he grabbed everything he needed and got to work. He had the spare on there in 5 minutes flat, told me not to drive over 60 and to get the tire fixed as soon as possible, as a spare is really just a temporary solution, it’s not meant to be permanent. He even told me where to take the tire. He showed me the tire, and there was this nail with a big head on it protruding from the rubber. Liquor store lady said “Oh, honey – you got good.”  I got my wallet out to thank him and give him something for his trouble, $10 from my $50 earnings from that morning, and he absolutely refused any money. I went to shake his hand but he showed me they were covered in tire-yuck, so I just squeezed his shoulder and thanked him profusely.

I called my son and gave him the story, to which he replied, “Does this mean there’s no sub?”, and I reassured him there would be, he’d just have to wait a little longer. It took me 4 minutes to get to Kal Tire, where Sal sent me, and I walked in and told my story to Jesse behind the counter, who explained they didn’t have time right then to change the tire, but to leave it, they’d patch it and call me when it was ready. I asked him how much that would be (I’m a single mama on a tight budget – I need to know these things beforehand, if only to know if I could afford a 12-inch versus the 6-inch at Subway). He said, $30 plus HST (goddamn you, HST!!!) and I said, perfect! After all, I’d still have roughly $15 left from my morning sale.

Then Jesse came to the car to get the tire, we went to open the hatch where it was, and Jesse said, “Oh, hey! You’re a Habs fan!” – obviously from the “FAN ON BOARD” with the CH in my rear window. I asked if he was too, and he said yes, and I was temporarily distracted by this happy coincidence, and grabbed my Habs car flag from the trunk to show it to him while he retrieved the tire, and then Jesse said, “Hmmmmm. Uh oh.”

What, uh oh?? And Jesse broke the news to me that the nail was in what’s called the “side wall” and that that wasn’t good.

“What do you mean, that’s ‘not good?’ What does ‘not good’ mean?”

“Well, we might not be able to fix it.”

“What does that mean?? Don’t you just have to stick something on the inside and fix it? What if you can’t?”

“If we can’t you might need a new tire.”

My mind wildly calculated what one new tire would cost, okay, that’s way more than what I made for the PVR, and said, “Look, Jesse: You can’t give me bad news. I can’t afford a new tire, I’m on a tight budget, and I don’t want any bad news! NO BAD NEWS!” And he nodded, said he would do his best, and to leave the tire and he’d call me close to closing time so I could come get it put back on.

I drove away, calling out the window “no bad news, Jesse!!” then made my way to Subway and got my kid the footlong and went back home and packed up our unsuccessful shop and took the dog for a hike. I decided to just enjoy my day even though I was going to have the unexpected expense of a car repair that would negate the bonus $50 we’d made that morning – in fact it was going to end up costing me more, but hey, at least it would be $50 cheaper thanks to the sale. Just look at the bright side.

It got to be 4pm, and I was back home and rehydrating after losing about 3 litres from the hike in the blazing hot sun, realized I’d have to go get the tire soon, and called Jesse. He said, “Don’t worry my dear, your tire’s next on our list, and I’ll give you a call as soon as it’s ready.” So he basically still had no news. It got to be 4:50 and I knew they closed at 5pm, so I just grabbed my cell and hopped in the car to go to Kal Tire. 5 minutes later, the phone rang and it was Jesse, telling me, “You can start making your way here, my dear,” and I said I was already on my way!

I got there and had to wait a bit while Jesse tended to another customer, wringing my hands because I just wanted to know if he’d fixed it or if I needed a new tire. He finally got to me and gave me the AMAZING news that they’d managed to fix it and I was so happy I don’t remember the rest. He took the key to the car, pulled the car into the shop, and the guys got to work putting the tire back on. Jesse came back to the counter, was giving me the spiel about keeping an eye on the tire to make sure it wasn’t losing air, and I was digging in my wallet for $40 of my $50 ($30 something + HST (goddamn you, HST!!)) and he had the invoice out, didn’t take my money, handed me the invoice, I scanned it, and the total was….$0.

I looked up at Jesse, and he said, “It’s on the house. From one Habs fan to another.” I could have leapt over the counter to hug him but instead put my open palm up, he put his up, and I smacked it with one of my signature palm-stinging hi-fives. He didn’t even wince, which is formidable since my hi-fives usually elicit an “Ow!! Why do you smack so hard?!!” (Because I hi-five the same way I shake hands or hug tight – I mean it!!!) I took off again, and Jesse said “Remember – keep an eye on it!” (which I have – it looks wonderful) and as I drove away, I reflected:

The neighbour came close to ruining my morning: Lose.

I met nice new people and made $50 during the garage sale: Win.

I got a flat tire for the first time in my life: Lose.

Sal the Angel from Sergio’s Pizza changed my tire and refused payment: Win.

Jesse told me I would probably need a new tire: Lose.

Jesse told me he was a Habs fan too: Win.

He was able to fix my tire so I didn’t have to buy a new one, AND he didn’t charge me: WIN.

Moral?

Habs fans are awesome, and so are pizza chefs. For all kinds of reasons. And nice, awesome neighbours way outweigh 1 Grumpy Bastard who has nothing better to do than be perched at his window waiting to ruin a hyper puppy’s fun.

(Is anyone else wondering if Grumpy Bastard put that nail in front of my tire the one time I didn’t park in my driveway? Me too.)

P.S. I just realized I had no trouble remembering Jesse’s name! Even though it’s an Anglo name that starts with a J, which I always have particular trouble with. Must be because he’s a Habs fan.

P.P.S. I forgot to mention that liquor store ladies are awesome too, even though that goes without saying!

I’m still learning about the new guy, and from what I’ve read and after seeing the presser, I like him – I’m excited. Molson is actually kind of a genius because he has appeased all the sensibilities of the francophone militants – the new guy, Marc Bergevin, is a Montrealer who is bilingual – so that’s covered. Bergevin also happens to have management and scouting on his resume, being part of an organization when it has won the Cup, and…a personality? This is personally my favourite part. He’s young and fresh and played NHL hockey for 2 decades, and during the onslaught of speculation of who the new GM would be, he was very respectfully spoken of and his qualifications lauded on the radio. God bless Pierre McGuire, who was the runner-up for the job, and who the radio station I listen to, TSN990 in Montreal, unabashedly schilled for the second the vacancy was announced. People on Twitter love to hate Tony Marinaro, but I don’t – more on that later – and in my opionion it was Conor McKenna who was most constant in his promotion of McGuire. It just kind of made me feel icky. I don’t even get why McGuire got that close, to be honest. So he knows people. What does that have to do with the price of…what’s the saying? Anyway, he didn’t get the job and TSN990 still cannot go a day without mentioning him.

Kind of like how I don’t get why everyone and their mother matter-of-factedly think Patrick Roy will be named as the next coach. Why? Why. I simply do not understand. Yes, he was a great goalie, perhaps the best the Habs ever had (by far not the classiest though), and yes, he obviously would give his eyetooth for a chance to coach in the NHL. He himself has been in the press answering all kinds of questions ever since the speculation began, reminding everyone that his ringer’s always on. My personal opionion of this guy is not positive, to say the least, as far as his character is concerned. I recently rewatched that brawl between the Sagueneens and the Roy-coached Remparts, where Roy Jr. went off like a demented rabid animal on the Sagueneens goalie, who was as far from the action as he could get without leaving the ice; and it still makes me sick. And I will never forget or forgive Roy for how he turned his back on the franchise. Sure, Tremblay and Houle could have handled it better, but Roy went against the family in public – like a spoiled kid. There is much more that can be said but I don’t like to talk about him too much; and I just hate how his name is always on everyone’s lips for the coaching job. I really, really, really hope he doesn’t get chosen. There are way more guys out there with actual NHL coaching qualifications to choose from (or poach, even). I really hope that Molson isn’t considering a hot-headed egomaniacal coach with no NHL coaching experience to turn the last place team in the East around.

As for Tony, I actually like him. We all know someone like him, and he’s just a guy with a radio show. The guy’s not Idi Amin. Some people vehemently dislike him but continue to listen to him, which is obviously to Marinaro’s credit. He talks about soccer too much for my taste, but I can’t blame him for that, of course. He’s on a sports station. The things I like the least about his show is all that Italian music he plays or even when he sings. Everything else I don’t mind, and actually like. I like having a radio station that I can listen to the moment I wake up in the morning that is talking about Montreal sports. I seldom am aware of what’s going on in the city I actually live in because I can’t get enough Habs news. Oh but Tony, if you’re reading, I do have a little feedback for you: don’t remind everyone of when you had a scoop and it turned out you were right. I’m happy for you that you were right, but you knew you were right, and eventually everyone who attacked you knew you were right, so there’s no need to remind everyone. It’s unbecoming, and one reason I dislike that so much is because Don Cherry does it all the time. I can understand you wanting to remind all the people who attack you that you were right, but in the end, who really cares about them. You’re still the one with the show, you’re still the one people are listening to (even, apparently, when they don’t like it), and I like you. You seem like a nice person, and it does take character to put up with the abuse you get on Twitter. I’m on your side.

Now that we seem to know who the Assistant GM is, who’s going to be the next coach? This will be huge. And, as with every year, fans will be critical from the first moment anything negative happens. Hell, a lot of fans are critical even when nothing negative has happened.

No pressure, Bergevin. No pressure. Welcome to Montreal.

She told him it was time to go to the hospital to make it better, all cool and collected, and we got him and the other kids in her van while she went to call her husband, who was still at work, to get her to meet them at the hospital. And they were off.

This family lives a few doors down from my house. So again, last night I was taking the dog out, and my daughter was along for the walk. This guy a few doors down was fixing something in his front doorway, and I called out, “Hi! I’ve been wondering, how’s your boy?” and he said, “He’s great!” with a big smile. And I said, “Did he get stitches?” and he kind of looked at me for a second, and then I said, “Have I got the wrong house?” and he said, “Yeah, my son’s only 9 months old!”  So I just laughed and said, “Congratulations! And I’m glad he’s doing great!” and he said thanks, and I turned around to see if my daughter was keeping in step, and she said “Moooooom, that is SO EMBARRASSING!” which made the dad laugh, and me laugh, and I said, “Why?” but it didn’t really matter, she was just horrified that he was going to think I’m crazy now. This doesn’t matter to me in the slightest. Also, all our damn houses look alike. Could happen to anyone.

Like that time that one mom at my kid’s baseball game was pregnant with her 6th kid, and I said, “What are you, some kind of religion?!” to which she just giggled. Like seriously, was she working on having her own baseball team? I found out later that she’s a Mormon. Whatever, she’s a Mormon with a sense of humour.

Or that time my kids were acting up when we were on our way in to Costco, and I ran like Phoebe all the way to the Costco entrance, just to horrify them and shut them up. They were horrified, and everyone in the parking lot was laughing at me. Parents, this is a very effective tool. I only had to do it once, and have threatened them with it ever since.

Or that time I got my girlfriend a candle and candle holder for her birthday, and the teller was wrapping it up for me. She was having a hell of a time with the big thing of crinkly paper, so I offered, “Do you need a hand?” then realized to my horror that she really did – she had an artificial limb. She didn’t even blink however, and just said, “No thanks, I’ve got this.” Actually, I don’t think she even realized my gaffe – it’s just a saying. It’s not like I saw that she was missing a hand then made a joke about it.

Or that time that guy was just standing outside my office building holding a coffee cup and looked at me, and I pre-empted him by telling him I was sorry that I didn’t have any change. Turns out he was just a dude drinking coffee. Innocent mistake.

I haven’t always not cared what people think, it’s been a long road. And you know what gets me embarrassed? Nothing.

Actually, one thing recently made me turn beet red, but that was because I swore at this guy who jumped into my office while I was sitting with my back turned, and grabbed my arm. There’s this one guy who always does that, sneaks up on me, and I can’t stand it. So I swore at him, something about his mother, actually, then turned around and it turns out it was this whole other guy. A suit, even. A really nice guy who always stops in to say hi whenever he’s in town. I was horrified, and explained, but he was just laughing. Another guy with a sense of humour (thank GOD. That could have been career-limiting).

Aside from that, I can’t remember one time in recent memory I have been embarrassed or wondering what people must think of me. It doesn’t mean I’m ever deliberately insensitive, I do care about other people’s feelings, it’s just that sometimes I think out loud and don’t consider other people’s situations. I keep thinking I must do better at that, because I really always do want to be nice.

Anyway, I can’t think of how to end this. I’m sure I have more examples of foot-in-mouthedness, but I can’t remember any right now. And I’m sure there will be more in future. I’ll keep you posted. Actually, have you got any?

Or, blog.

Hasn’t been anything worth noting lately, just plodding along like usual. I did run into an old colleague this week who mentioned she’d come across my blog by accident, and that she likes it, which is cool. I thought I should write but there really isn’t anything to write about. So let’s do this.

• The Bruins were eliminated from the playoffs. This is the one and only thing I was wishing for these playoffs. I’m still smarting from having them eliminate my Habs last year. My Habs were down key players and it still took the big bad 100% healthy Bruins a 7th game overtime to send the Habs packing, with an offside goal. I hate them. Now they’re golfing, and I feel like everything is right with the world once again.
• My girl brought home a sort-of report card/update from school. I say a sort-of report card because B.C. teachers have been on a job action all year. They don’t do report cards or parent/teacher interviews, and they give assignments in class then leave the room. Why do these people want to be teachers if they don’t want to educate? They don’t like their salaries but they know they’re not going to be making heart surgeon money when they go to school for their diploma, right? Anyway. My daughter is doing all right except for that she talks too much in class. I don’t know where she gets it.
• My allergies are killing me. I take double doses of Benadryl and it does the trick for 4 of the 6 hours they say the effect lasts. The nighttime pills are awesome.
• I once had this really beautiful guitar that I was going to learn how to play. But then I got pregnant and couldn’t even hold it in front of me anymore. Then I got busy with being a mom. So the guitar sat there for like eleven years. I decided to take it up again. Took the guitar to the store to have it tuned and the guy said, “These strings look 10 years old!” I said, “Eleven, actually.” Who knew strings could get too old? I hate learning, I wish I was awesome instantly.
• The puppy is finally fully potty trained so I steam cleaned my carpets. I’ve decided to install floors though. The laminate vs. hardwood debate was waged, and laminate won. Because it’s CHEAPER.
• It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago. A Twitter friend said he sent me a birthday card. It took a long time coming, and he asked me frequently if it had arrived yet. Well, it arrived this week. And guess what, it wasn’t a card. It was this. I almost died of a heart attack. A HEART ATTACK. Thanks Doug – I can’t believe you did that.
• I don’t know why it’s sideways.
  
• The first part of my morning was spent ignoring a hyper puppy as best I could while I tried to manage a cup of coffee and reading up on hockey news. Okay, 2 cups of coffee. Puppy was indignant by the time I finally said “Go walk?”
• I take her to the park and use the Chuckit (best invention EVER) and throw the ball like 100 metres for her for about 40 minutes. When she stops chasing at breakneck speed it’s time to go home. The whole walk to the park is spent trying to get her not to pull and lead and the whole walk back I practically have to drag her like a carcass. She carries her ball home and froths so much at the mouth she looks like a rabid beast and her gob hangs down like a Santa beard. It’s super gross.
• The Habs haven’t announced their new GM and MONSIEUR MOLSON MY PATIENCE IS WANING.
• Daughter finally got the treatment I was expecting she’d get from the drama queen down the street. She was so sure she’d finally found a new best friend in our new neighbourhood, and this girl’s friendship was fairly dazzling. I smelled her coming from a mile away. Very dramatic, centre of attention, centre of the freaking universe kind of kid, who takes turns choosing who to shun from the neighbourhood girls for some unimaginable slight. Daughter got the “your friendship is no longer required” bit with no reason and was heartbroken. She’s hanging out with me more now while she recovers. That kid’s dad fights all her battles for her too. I don’t get involved. I did tell my kid that she’s better off, and to be wary if she’s somehow magically allowed back in to audition for the role of best friend again. Being anointed to that other kid’s circle is too much work, there’s too much drama, and you have to walk on eggshells, and slip-ups are not allowed. No thanks.
• This stuff is new to me, growing up with 2 brothers I mostly hung out with boys, and was never involved with girls and drama queen antics. It’s horribly boring. The Drama Llamas can kiss my butt. Kiss it!
• It’s funny, because as an adult my best friends are all women. The best women ever. Well, my bf is also my bestie even though he’s a guy because he happens to be one of the most awesome people on the planet. The PLANET.
• I just realized my dog’s got my attitude too. She loves people and other dogs but when a yappy little mutt tugs at the leash and tries to sic her, my dog just sits and tilts her head like “are you being serious with me right now?”, then just walks away to pursue something more pleasant. No biggie.
• Right now I’m sitting with my feet on the table, typing on the laptop while Beethoven’s symphonies play, and the dog snoozes and dreams under my legs. I feel awfully grown up. Or like I should have on a pair of slippers like Jim Dear wore in Lady and the Tramp, and be smoking a pipe. I wish this townhouse had a fireplace.
• Went for dinner at a friend’s last night for her hubby’s birthday. It was so nice. Sitting down after dinner having a few glasses of wine, we got to talking about all kinds of stuff. One topic was how fast my hair and fingernails grow. Apparently it’s a sign of good health, but it’s actually a pain. It’s not as fun as it sounds. Stupid bangs.
• I wish someone in my neighbourhood could cut hair. Seems like everyone I know has a friend who comes over to their house to cut their hair. I have never been blessed that way.
• I cut my own bangs once. ONCE. Lesson learned.
• OK, must get up and get stuff done around here. I’m out of topics.

Until next time. Fingers crossed that the next post will be jubilation or ranting over whomever’s FINALLY hired for the GM job. Have a nice Sunday!

Chances are if you’re at this site, it’s because you are a Habs fan. Or you like me, you really like me. OK, so you’re a Habs fan.

You know my misery. The season’s over, officially yesterday. Time to enjoy a few days of denial before those around you get excited for their team in the playoffs.

But for now, let’s enjoy yesterday. The Habs beat the Leafs in the season-ender, in an exciting, emotional game.

The Habs actually played really well. Very well, even. And this with Budaj in nets, because Price sat out the last 3 games due to a mild concussion suffered during a collision during practice with the wee Desharnais.

Can we talk about Cowboy Carey for just a second? Or at least, look at him.

It’s not the sharpest image because it’s a still captured on my iPhone from a TV screen. Still, hubba hubba. Sigh.

…

OK so it was a great game, we saw Cole with his 35th goal (I still want him to be captain), Pacioretty with his 33rd, I got to tweet “Pleks with a shorty on the breakaway!” for the final time in the season, and of all the guys, Staubitz scored a beauty into the empty net for his first goal in the dying seconds of the season.

It was during those last minutes that I got a serious knot in my throat knowing this was the last I’d see of them until October, and it was after the game was over that I cried real tears. It was really touching to see the players, including those who hadn’t skated, take to the ice in a final salute to the fans who’ve stuck by them through one of the worst seasons in memory. The team had gone through a lot of changes and rough times and the fans (the real ones, I mean) have stuck by them through the whole thing. The guys even took their jerseys right off to give them to a few lucky fans, and Subban triple-low-fived one of them. It was awesome! I’d had to switch to RDS to watch any of this, because CBC had immediately cut off any of the post game celebration and indeed all of the following proceedings at the Bell Centre.

Geoff Molson was there, looking on proudly, and I choose to interpret the look on his face as that of someone who knows big, exciting things are in the future for the team, and for us. I was really, really happy for the feeling.

Then I saw Coach Cunneyworth being interviewed on RDS and I wanted to shoot my TV. For the first time since he’s become coach, the interviewer decided to cut Cunneyworth off to “simultaneously” translate into French everything the coach said. He used up more airtime than the coach did. He acted like he didn’t care that Randy was even standing there; more so like it was deliberate that he was pointing out Randy’s lack of French skills. I’m no body-language expert but it was a passive-aggressive interview; the interviewer didn’t even crack a smile at him, was rude to him if you ask me, then at the end stepped in front of Randy to sign off and Randy tried to thank him and the guy looked contemptuous as if to say “we’re done now”. I’m really touchy when it comes to Cunneyworth’s mistreatment so I may be reading more into it, but I just don’t think so. Did you see it? I just tried to upload it to Youtube but it’s not taking. Better you don’t see it.

To contrast this, I then went to listen to the interviews in the locker room and heard Max Pacioretty say the exact following about Cunneyworth:

“He overcame a lot of adversity; he brought us together as a team, and he did a great job this year, so hopefully he’s here next year. Obviously that’s not up to any of us, but I know that in the room, he’s well-liked, everyone likes him a lot, and he did a great job this year.”

Then, to the question, “what did Randy have to say at the end of the game?” Pacioretty responded:

“You know what, he was proud of us and we’re proud of him. He was put in a very tough situation this year, and he rose to the occasion. He brought us together as a team, and you know, you guys don’t see what happens behind closed doors, but I can tell you, Randy did a great job this year. Like I said, not many people get put in that situation, so it’s tough. But I know the guys in the room wanted to get that win for him tonight, and throughout this stretch we’ve been wanting to get him some wins just to prove that he belongs here.”

Anybody who expected Cunneyworth to spin gold out of the tattered remains of a team that he was given is just as dumb as anyone who expected Barack Obama to undo 8 years of his predecessor’s disasters in one year. Geoff Molson made clear that he’s listening to the fans last week during his statement for Gauthier’s dismissal. I hope he’s listening to the players, too.

And to Cunneyworth, who expressed his desire to stay with the organization during the post-game conference.

Until then, his vacation will be to “head to the cottage for a couple of days and that’s about it. And then, it’s all yard work”.

I’ll bet you think this post is going to be about 30-year old music you probably haven’t even heard of and how ancient I am. It’s not. It’s about the Habs. Of course.

No matter what generation you’re from, there will be a point in your life when all the music you hear you think directly applies to you. Like, “Oh, my god, they looked into my soul, saw what that rat-bastard who said he loved me and would love me forever was saying and doing behind my back, and then they wrote this song.”

So it’s funny, but listening to Stevie, I started thinking – all of this applies to a very high-highs, low-lows, tumultuous relationship I’ve had for the past six months.  A heart-wrenching, sickening relationship. The kind that makes me laugh, and cry, and want to throw up from the anxiety.

My dysfunctional relationship with the Habs.

We all know that this season has been a write-off since about January, and although I claimed to hold onto hope and have faith in mes boys, I had that 1,000 pound rock in my stomach that knew otherwise.

“So you had a little trouble in town,
Now you’re keeping some demon down,
Stop draggin’ my, stop draggin’ my, stop draggin’ my heart a-round”

It’s totally what they did, although I’m sure it was unintentional. Get me hoping, like waiting-by-the-phone-waiting-for-it-to-frigging-ring hoping, lifting my hopes with decisive wins and stringing them all together like popcorn, only to send me crashing back down to earth when they decided my feelings didn’t matter anymore. Heart. Draggin’. All OVAH.

But during those moments when I realized everything the Habs were doing was not actually all about me, I got a little maternal and my heart just squished for them.

Imagine this bunch of guys, and the B.S. they’ve been put through by their fans, by the media, by management, coaches, everything – I can really only count maybe 3 or 4 games this year that I thought they were phoning it in. And I had admiration. I felt their hopes rise when their coach finally got canned about a season too late, and loved them as they stood by their new coach and fought hard for him. Under their new coach, they got to communicate and were also communicated to. They started scoring goals, lots. And enjoyed getting to score even when they had a lead. I was so happy for them.

They had a bunch of wins in a row then, for the first time in forever, and it felt like all we could do was win. And there came a point in the season when they had about 24 games left, and they could still make they playoffs if they kept streaking and won 17 out of 24 at least. I could tell they wanted it. My heart started hoping and believing they would do it. Seventeen.

“But from the moment that I first laid
Eyes
on
him
all alone on the edge of
Seventeen“

I remember that magic number.

Then we saw it dissipate before our very eyes. We were all fed up, screaming for a house-cleaning of monumental proportions, from the TOP DOWN GODDAMMIT, and just…what were they even waiting for? We’re talking about the “Yankees of Hockey” – and a franchise that had become a laughingstock. It was sickening and embarrassing. With the apologies for hiring an anglophone coach, who they pretty much cut off at the knees even before he coached his first game, by telling everyone he was temporary. Nice.

I sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted that job. But take it he did, that Randy Cunneyworth, and despite the cries for his head and harrumphing over his lack of acceptable language skills, he held his head high, and even shyly tried out a brief French phrase when meeting his would-be lynch mob face-to-face: “Je suis tres content”. It was such a sweet phrase. He won me over. I was already on his side, truth be told – I always take the side of the guy who’s being treated shabbily. Always. Especially in this instance – he wants to coach these guys he cares about, but all anyone, or at least the squeakiest wheels, could talk about was the fact that he couldn’t speak French. I thought, and tweeted, that if I were Cunneyworth, I’d tell them all to shove their French up their butts and coach my team and do what was actually important – win games and communicate with the players. Not communicate with the media. What the hell was this? This was supposed to be about hockey. Then I’d take my last paycheque at the end of the year, flip everyone the bird (no I wouldn’t but I’d want to), and go get a better job in a different market.

And the rest of the NHL world was clapping with glee at another reason to make fun of us. The stupid language debate. And the team got behind their coach, with Carey even saying during interview something to the effect of, “gee, sorry I’m not francophone, I’m just trying to tend goal,” and the like.

It was not lost on me that some of the most derisive scoffers were Leafs fans. For a time, it appeared the Leafs were in a playoff position. And astoundingly, these fans of this team who had for the seven previous years not even made it to the post-season, and whose team had not won a Stanley Cup since the NINETEEN SIXTIES!! felt entitled to be in a position to look down their nose at us.

Hey Leafs fans, whatcha gonna do with that parade you were planning, btw? Maybe dress the Leafs like bunnies and call it an Easter parade.

After that inevitable, crushing game where we were finally officially mathematically eliminated from playoff contention, it was just a couple of days until the Habs’ owner, the fully bilingual Geoff Molson, held a press conference and announced that the General Manager and Bob Gainey were leaving the organization. And he talked about the franchise. The storied franchise. And restoring it to glory. And doing right by the fans, the best fans in the sport. And about how winning is the only acceptable outcome; how simply qualifying for the playoffs is not the goal, the ultimate goal is the only prize; every season; no lesser standard can be accepted. The Cup. End of.

The speech, carefully delivered in both French and then English, gave me chills. It was brilliant.

Then I wanted to eat my own head when I heard the first question of the Q&A: have you decided that the ideal profile for the new GM be that he is bilingual?

Molson’s response made me want to leap out of my seat and fist pump in the air (but I couldn’t because I was listening in my car while driving to work but I screamed out a YAAAAHOOOO!) – “Um, um… la réponse est NON.” Of course, being in Québec it will be nice for the eventual selected candidate to speak French, but he carefully would not say it was a requirement. Just a nice-to-have. Lots of people listening on Twitter were saying he was being sneaky, and to read between the lines, but let’s not forget: this is the guy who gave his blessing to a “uningual anglophone” coach in this market; interim or not. I’m quite liking the cojones on this guy. And how many years have the Leafs been sucking in general, for example, and how long has Burke had his job? Molson basically gave his brass 2 seasons. Then he did what was right. AND, seemingly and genuinely (to me) listening to the fans. The guy opened a Twitter account, for god’s sake. He also made some veiled digs at the exiting GM, saying that the new one had to be an “excellent communicator.”  The last guy was not so much with the communicating. With anyone. And the dude was bilingual.

Now, all the names being bandied about since the presser thus far are French, but there has been no selection or announcement made by the Habs organization, and Molson made clear that the selection and process would be completely confidential – and refused to bow to the francophone-requirement questioning. “La priorité #1 est trouver la meilleure personne.”

Molson’s response to another question: ” The third element, which is difficult to quantify, that undying desire to win…at all costs.”

I’m crossing my fingers that they go out and find the best, most kick-ass person for the job. I don’t care if he speaks 14 languages, or only one. And I believe that this team, with so much character, who could have thrown in the towel weeks ago (hi Leafs), but have had a great few last games, even winning 5-2 tonight, have got the stuff now.

Markov is back.

Gionta will be back.

Carey is still focussed.

Pacioretty, Desharnais and Cole give us all reasons to celebrate.

Subban is developing beautifully.

And we could get a terrific draft pick!

Can you feel it? It’s just early days of Spring, but I smell October. I smell it. The old coach and the old, pasty GM devoid of any character or personality or affection for the team are GONE. There’s all kinds of possibilities now. And I can’t think that the core bunch of guys on this team, who continue to show that they care even in the twilight of this black season, will do anything but change things around for us.

“Stand back, stand back!“

Just 2 more games now. Last one’s against the Leafs. I don’t care about what the stats say or what the standings say – Saturday will be fun. And beating the Leafs will be VERY fun. I will continue to watch every second of hockey that the Habs have left.

And it’s going to be an exciting off-season too, non-hockey readers. Sorry. There will be blog posts.

Check it. It’s written by yours truly to Twitter, the night before the Habs were due to play in Vancouver.

And GUESS FREAKING WHAT.

I know, it’s been two weeks, and I really should have blogged about March 10th, the night the Habs played in Vancouver, the night I look forward to all year, way before now. However, mama’s been busy, like way busier than usual even, and then it seemed like old news and way too late to blog, but then the Habs won in regulation last night for the first time since March 10th, and I saw a tie-in opportunity, so here we are.

So I voiced my private fantasy to Twitter, that my very favourite player on the Habs who I have this (un)secret thing for, would play for the first time in 16 months on the very and only night I could be present to see him. And oh, Andrei. Didn’t you just.

Of course I’m no sort of clairvoyant, Andrei had been travelling with the team and rumours had been running rampant the whole road trip, and I could never decide if the rumours made my heart sing, or break. And then, the day or two before the game in Vancouver, no one was talking much about it, and I thought “it’s too quiet”. I felt something was up. And then I tweeted my tweet. It was met with the usual “dream on” and Mr. Injury Prone responses, but I held onto my dream.

The next morning the rumours were back, and I told everyone to can it because my heart couldn’t take it. And then, the Habs confirmed it. Andrei had been taken off the injury list. He wasn’t confirmed to play, however, just off the injury list. I said to myself, “self, you’re going to see Andrei on the ice tonight. And you will be there. And he will be there. And you’ll BOTH BE THERE.” As if they’d make that big announcement if they had no intention of playing him. I even took  the trouble to post it to Facebook, which I’m never even on anymore.

I was actually ill with excitement and anticipation. Well, I was also just ill. I’d been hit with a sledgehammer of a cold or bronchitis or the plague or something just a few days earlier and was still feeling awful but no longer like I was dying and I was popping Benylins like popcorn because there was no way I was staying home and missing the Habs play in Vancouver and there was NO WAY I was missing Markov’s return.

I was also faced with a dilemma. I had said I was wearing my #67 jersey for the game, had actually been planning to ever since I’d acquired it the previous summer. Max Pacioretty, a prince among men, had recovered from a murder attempt exactly 1 year and 2 days earlier, and had rebounded way beyond anyone’s expectations, scoring his THIRTIETH goal of the season just 2 days earlier, on the anniversary of the hit that could have ended his life, let alone his career. Max. Max knows how I feel about him and I decided if I made a last minute wardrobe decision and wore the Markov jersey, he would understand. Anyone who can forgive the man who tried to kill him would forgive me for wearing my #79 jersey in honour of Andrei’s first game back.

I have one in red, and one in white. I wanted to make extra-sure they’d be in their away jerseys that night (last year they wore red) because I wanted to match, and once it had been confirmed to me by various Twitter friends, I laid my white one out, got ready, and went downtown early so I could grab a good spot down at ice level for warmups.

This is how early I got there.

And I got a pretty good spot.

I 

I also got some video of when they took to the ice for warmup:

It was magic. The guys skating right by me, mere inches from where my face was practically pressed against the glass. Oh and guess what? Remember how last year when I went, Max shot pucks right at me from across the ice? Well, this year, I was sitting there furiously trying to tweet out a really great picture that I got, and the lady beside me poked me in the ribs and said, “I think Max is saying hi to you.” And once again, there he was, shooting pucks at me. You guys.

When the guys skate by, they’re all professional and focused on warming up and pretend they don’t see zillions of fans in the CH gawking and picture taking. The next time Max skated by, I grinned and waved furiously at him. And I swear, he looked.

There won’t be a game recap, but it was a beauty. Markov was back for the first time since November 2010, Price was on FIRE, Staubitz fought, White tried to get into a few skirmishes, Subban got a goal, and Vancouver only got to celebrate ONCE. It was more than I could have ever asked for.

When the 3rd started and we got another goal right away, the Canucks faithful started leaving in droves. I hmphed. Even 3 years ago when the Habs got spanked 7-1, I still stayed until the very end. I did this time too, and was treated to the triple low five and the 3 stars…all Habs. Of course.

I recorded the game so I could re-watch when I got home, with commentary. Damn, Habs fans are loud. I’ve set the game to delete “never”. Never ever.

Life is just a fantasy.

Anyway, the word I played was “faxed”. (I hope my cyber-opponent doesn’t read my blog, or at least, that he doesn’t read this before his turn. I’ll bet he won’t guess it.)

It got me to thinking: faxed. To fax. Fax is a verb. Fax. Say it enough, and look at it enough, and it becomes a weird word. When did fax become a verb? Fax wasn’t even a word when I was a kid. Facsimile was. Like in all those commercials, where they told you to send in a proof of purchase or reasonable facsimile. From a tender young age, I knew a “reasonable facsimile” meant “close enough”.

A fax, however, is now known as that piece of paper you stick in a machine and send to another machine to avoid having to put it in an envelope and mailing it to someone. Who the hell ever would have believed you could do that?

I see it with my kids most of all. These kids, who have shelves full of DVDs, now obsolete thanks to Blu-Ray, and now stocking up on Blu-Rays. Pretty soon even these will be obsolete since you don’t have to get DVDs or Blu-Rays anymore thanks to Netflix and On Demand. I am a technophile and keep up with everything new so I don’t often stop to consider how everything has advanced in my short (not short) life. When I tell my kids about how when I was a kid you had to wait until your favourite movie came on the TV schedule to watch it, you couldn’t fast forward through commercials, or you were limited to watching movies during their tenure at the theatre, they look at me like I’m a sad creature making up stories. They can’t conceive it.

Take the other day. My 11-year old son was hanging out chatting with me in my bedroom while I made my bed. I have this phone in my room which is totally modern, but not cordless. It’s just plugged into the phone line, no power line. I have it so that on those occasions where the power goes out and cell lines go down, we’re able to make phone calls if we have to. You know, the handset is connected to the base by one of those curly cords. When I was little eight million years ago, it was cool to have a 30-foot long curly cord in case you wanted to speak in privacy in the hall closet.

Anyway, my kid never hangs out in my room so I don’t think he’d ever even noticed the phone in there. I was busy fluffing pillows and tucking in sheets, and the phone rang. I asked him to answer it. He looked in the general direction of where the ringing was coming from, saw the phone, looked back at me, panicked, and said, “what do I do????”

YOU KIDDING ME? That says it all.

On the other side of the whacked-out generational equation is my mother, who was practically brought up with horse and buggies. This woman, tough broad that she is, easily the most intelligent, sharp person I know, has the serious downfall of not comprehending anything post-1960. It’s a wonder she knows how to operate a microwave. How many times have I packed up the kids and driven to her house because her DVD player doesn’t work? “Hmph! This stupid thing I spent a fortune on last week isn’t working! It’s broken. No, no, no, it’s broken. Ha! What’s the use of all of these disposable expensive machines? I just want to watch On Golden Pond! I finally found the DVD and all this old woman wants to do is WATCH HER MOVIE!”

So while trying to explain to her what button to look for on her remote, she just says “no, no, no, no, no”. She’s from the generation that’s afraid to push any buttons. When I leave my place and she’s going to be the next one to be there, after picking up my kids from school, I can’t leave the burglar alarm on. I say, “Mom, you just have to punch in these 4 little numbers” ” nononononono”, or, when I tell her, “Mom, you have like 8 voicemails on your cell phone, here’s how you retrieve them” “nonononono” – I give up. So I pack up the kids, drive 10 minutes to her house, grab her remote and push “input” and the piece of crap disposable DVD player suddenly starts playing Katherine Hepburn going, “Noooorman! The loons!” and my mom goes, “Huh! Well.” Then I pack the kids back up again and come back home. I solve her problem in like 20 seconds but she still doesn’t want to learn how to do it herself.

I love gadgets and all the latest things but I’m still old, too. Like, I find myself thinking that music nowadays is crap. That kind of thing. With the exception of The Black Keys and stuff like that. I never listen to pop radio because it drives me crazy. I find out about new groups if they’re on SNL. And, I’ve got an iPad (sort of dying inside because I can’t get the latest one) and am addicted to everything Apple – but I won’t read a book on my iPad. Real books are still better. But at least I’d know how to read one on the iPad if I wanted to. And I shudder at anyone who still has, like, a flip phone. One of my coworkers has a phone that doesn’t even text, and it makes me a little sick. She takes great pleasure at using it around me just to drive me crazy.

OK, so if I post this now, Greg (if that’s his name – that’s another thing – he could be anybody) will have taken his turn already. If he’s like, 18 or something, maybe he won’t have guessed faxed. On account of faxes are already old fashioned.

Not MY Porsche of course, it’s the boss’s. He asked me to take it in for him while he’s away because some lights are going off on the dash so it needed checking out.

Sure, my pleasure.

Well. It’s this big SUV so the first thing I did when I got in was adjust the seat. This fancy car is no dummy, it realized immediately that I was not the regular driver so it kept on beeping at me: “Driver 2, make your selection! Make your selection! MAKE YOUR SELECTION.” What selection?! I just wanted to adjust the seat.

So it kept on beeping at me and beeping at me so when I came to my first stop light, I saw that one of the things lit up on the dash was a BIG EXCLAMATION POINT. Of course, I say to myself, the parking brake must be on! It wouldn’t like that. So I proceed to look for the parking brake, because of course it isn’t where you’d expect, like in my Mazda, it’s right beside the gear shift, looking all like a parking brake. My eyes start scanning the dash, which has more buttons and knobs than an AIRPLANE then remembered that in one of my old cars, the parking brake was a pedal on the far left. There it was! OK, so I also remembered that to disengage it, you have to sort of quickly step down on it. Which I did. Not so quickly, because it was actually a long slow way down. OK, so now the exclamation point is RED which means that NOW that sucker’s engaged. And just FYI, you know how some cars will still let you drive when the parking brake’s on? Well, PORSCHES DON’T.

I sat through 3 green lights trying to figure out how to DISengage it, because the quick foot-tap thing wasn’t working. IT WASN’T WORKING. As I contemplated my predicament, and what an ass I looked like, I pictured my poor friend who’d offered to go with me and give me a lift back, sitting at the dealership wondering where the hell I was, and before deciding to make myself look like even further of an ass by taking out the manual to see how to DISENGAGE A PARKING BRAKE, I finally opened the door to squat down and have a look at the stupid brake, I saw a little release lever and pulled it, hoping I wasn’t opening the hood. Thank Jehosephat, it was the damned brake. I could finally leave the intersection. Also, thank you, Vancouver drivers, for not honking at me while sitting through all the green lights. They obviously took one look at me and saw that I was not qualified to be in such a complicated vehicle.

So I was on my way, the car screaming at me, Driver 2, Driver 2! You are not my usual driver, and I’m not falling for it! Make your selection, make your selection! I DON’T WANT TO SELECT ANYTHING, EXCEPT MAYBE SHUT YOUR TRAP, OR EJECT!!

The whole way to the dealership. Thank god it’s only like a 10 minute drive. I get there, my friend’s there, and I pull into the service garage, and can’t get out fast enough, and there are 3 Porsche guys waiting to take the car, and I jump out and say, “This is NOT my car, and it hates me! It’s been beeping at me the whole way here, MAKE A SELECTION! and I don’t know what it wants me to decide, and I sat through 3 green lights trying to figure out the parking brake! Aargh!” They all just looked at me and laughed, which is the effect I expected to have on total strangers by leaping out of the SUV and shouting at them like a crazy woman.

I went in to the office and told them I was leaving it and would be back on Friday. I also explained why it was there and the guy said, “It might be simple, let’s have a look, we might be able to give it back to you right away.” So I go back out to my friend’s car to tell her about my trip to the dealers and that I might not need a ride back to the office, with my hair whipping around all over the place because Vancouver chose those 2 minutes to have a tornado.

I go back in, and the guy says its just a tire pressure thing and I can take the car in 30 minutes. OMG, I don’t have the boss’s credit card on me and there’s no way I can afford a Porsche service fee! The guy’s all, “Ummm I wasn’t even going to charge you because it’s too easy.” SWEET. So I go back into the tornado to tell Lisa she made the trip for nothing, then go into the waiting room to stare at this space age coffee maker (can Porsche EVER DO SOMETHING SIMPLY I JUST WANT COFFEE) and this nice fellow came over and made my coffee for me because I can’t fool Porsche, they know I’m not qualified to even be there, and then the car was ready and it didn’t beep at me the whole drive back and everything was once again right with the world.

Anyhoo, that was my morning, just in case you were wondering.

Blogging from the iPhone. Crazy. Twenty years ago, when I was eight (I wasn’t eight) I could never have imagined such a concept.

• As soon as I wrote “general stuff” I thought of “General Stuff!” the way Robin and Ted on How I Met Your Mother always salute whenever anyone says General, Major, or Corporal anything. You know what I’m talking about?
• I hope that show’s not cancelled before we ever meet the mother.
• That also reminds me, I was translating something from Spanish yesterday for a coworker, and the word was “corporal” which means “bodily”. He said “really?” And I said, “Yeah. Bodily. Of the body.” He wasn’t getting it. It comes from the Latin. You know, where all the words come from. Also, don’t be second-guessing my translations, sonny.
• I’m cranky.
• My streak is over, folks. After coming on two years of good luck when getting pulled over by our boys in blue, receiving kind and gentle warnings instead of cold, hard traffic tickets, the streak is over. I’ve now had 3 tickets, the actual kind I have to pay for, in about 5 months. Blah.
• I also had that one car accident last year. Bad car-ma. See. I was being cute. I did a play on the word. I can spell.
• On account of adding teaching Spanish to my stuff-I-do-in-my-nonexistent-free-time list, I seriously have no time to watch TV. There are 111 recordings waiting to be watched on my PVR. I never watch anything live. Except hockey, if I’m home.
• Which means I never see commercials. Unless they’re on during a Habs game that I’m watching live. As a result, I go around singing the Subway jingle in French a lot. “Douze pouces, cinq dollars, douze pouces, cinq dollars”. It’s catchy, and annoying.
• We’ve got 3 American Idols to watch from last week. It’s fun watching Idol on PVR, because when you forward through all the stupid filler, you can watch 2 hours in like 20 minutes.
• Yeah, I’ve said it before, but we watch Idol, okay. There’s precious little that I can watch around the kids. All we watch together is Idol and Modern Family. We vowed after last year, when that one ridiculously inversatile kid with the red hair who somehow turned every song into the exact same song and we thought at the beginning of the competition was an absolute joke, WON, that we’d never watch again. Stupid show. We were that wildly offended.
• My daughter said shortly before the new season, “Look, Mom. We should give the show another chance. It wasn’t the show’s fault he won, it was the voters’. Don’t blame the show – blame America.” So, we’re watching.
• I never say “America” when referring to the U.S. I say the U.S., our neighbours south of the border, etc. Anything to avoid saying America, or Americans. You know why? Because when I went to do my last year of school in Chile after doing all the others in Canada, it took me a couple of History classes to realize that when the teacher said “America” he wasn’t talking about the States. He meant the western world, and of course, America is everything from Nunavut to Punta Arenas. And I thought, huh. Makes sense. The U.S.A. is not “America” all by itself. So other than about 9 times in this point, I never, ever refer to the U.S. as “America”.
• Just picked this back up during first intermission of Hockey Night in Canada. Don Cherry just said “Americans” about 90 zillion times.
• I finally bought an oven mitt. The great big long Starfrit mitt made out of some kind of rubber. Because every time I cook something in the oven, I hurt myself. Either when I’m reaching in there or when I forget to use a glove to grab the lid off the Corningware, etc. Last year, I was pulling the Corningware out of the oven, on a bit of a tilt obviously, because the lid slid right off and and onto my arm, and burned my wrist. It was a nasty, nasty burn. I didn’t freak out too much because I didn’t want to scare the kids but I did let out my torrent of particularly satisfying Spanish expletives. The kids always ask what it means. I say, “flowers in the springtime!” The blister left was formidable, and when it burst a few days later, it pretty much soaked my sleeve. I know, so gross.
• Anyway, the scar from that burn is finally fading and one day I actually wrote “oven mitt” in my shopping list and made sure I picked one up. So last week I was cooking a chicken, put my great big long safety glove on my right hand and used a wee pot holder in my left. Burned my left wrist on the broiler. I’d show it to you, but it’s bandaged. It’s really gross. I’ll buy another mitt.
• Or quit cooking. Too hazardous.
• Just watched the Habs lose to the Leafs. The Habs’ season is for sure over, but I watched because now I’m mainly interested in watching the Leafs lose – if we’re not going to the playoffs, I don’t want the Leafs to, either. It’s lame watching games now, because I know the point is moot. I will, however, be going to watch the Habs play the Canucks here next Saturday. I’ll be wearing my Pacioretty jersey. We might lose, but nothing could be worse than the 7-1 loss I saw here a couple of years ago, I mean, I hope. Jesus.
• The B.C. Teachers are at it again, job actions and such. They’re walking off the job for 3 days next week. Not much of a job they’ve been doing all year though. So yesterday there was a student walkout planned, and I told my son that he had my permission to do it if he wanted. The teachers asked why he was participating in the walkout, assuming that it would be because he was protesting in favour of their position. He said, “I’m protesting against the job action, because it’s having a negative effect on my education.” And they didn’t let him. But I’m so proud of him.
• The relationship my son and I have has been compared to Gloria and Manny’s. A flat chested Gloria and a lean Manny.
• I hate this stupid hockey season, and the fact that it fell on Leap Year just to give us one more agonizing day. Hate. It.

And with that, I’ve got to get a hopefully injury-free supper on the table and watch Puss N Boots with the kids. Buenas noches!