I Feel Good! Or, He Shoots! He ... Well, He Shoots

(If I sound bitchy at any point, it's because I had this entry half-written and then, in a moment of distraction for which I have no excuse whatsoever, I closed the window in which I was typing it up. Lord have mercy.)

I missed my Monday morning shinney game last week; the week before, my left skate-blade broke in two, as I discovered in the dressing-room following the game. I was not alone in wondering when it had happened and how long I'd been playing on it.

Turns out the Hockey Store didn't have the proper blade in stock and had to order it. It wasn't ready until this past Thursday and I picked up the skate on Saturday.

So. Yesterday ...

No late calls came to disturb my plans.

At 0801 hours, Young Geoffrey gathered up his bags - two knapsacks and a shoulder bag - and his stick and staggered to the elevator. Outside, he made his way around the building to his bicycle, locked across the street from 52 Division. Within 5 minutes, he was cycling up St-George avenue, so determined to reach his destination he barely glanced at the few pretty co-eds braving the elements at that decidedly un-student-like hour.

First at the rink, he settled in to equip himself. Naturally, the skates were fully-laced before he realized he'd forgotten his jock.

Off came the skates, down came the pants, on was strapped the "protective cup". Other players soon wandered in and Young Geoffrey found himself the second player on the ice, rather than the first.

* * *

It was a good game, probably the best we've had this young season. Fast-paced and as hard-fought as this gaggle of near-middle-aged men (so far, no women have showed up this year) ever fight.

It was also my best game, I am happy to report. I was pretty strong defensively (though I did make one blind pass right up the middle - and heard about it more than once in the dressing room after the game) and even led a couple of rushes. Twice, I had shots at the net! By jiminy! I just may score a goal this year.

Anyway, I won't bore you with a blow by blow account of the game. It is just shinney, after all.

After, most of us retired to a nearby diner for some breakfast, kibbitzing and coffee. I surprised all by not ordering a beer come 1100 hours. (Interesting sidenote about these men: when I did so two weeks ago, through the jokes at my expense, a couple of them - neither of whom I know outside of the weekly game - made a point of telling a couple of people they knew and who happened to be on the patio with us that I work nights and that my ordering a beer at 11 in the morning was not unreasonable. Nice guys. But I digress.)

As we broke up, and the boys hopped on their bicycles (I can't wait for a snowy Monday! I am - by god! - going to get some good pictures this year), I headed south, fully intending to head home.

But Rhino's Bar and Grill called out to me as I approached it and I soon found myself venturing into that fine establishment for "a" beer.

Which turned into 5 beers and a chance to go through the newspapers that I had been carting around, as well as a couple of magazines.

It was nearly 1600 hours when I finally got in. And 2230 when I awoke.

Isn't that always the way. I have the next three days off and I am now on a schedule that will easily see me sleeping through the evenings, instead of going out and - a la some of the advise I have recently been given - introducing myself to members of the opposite sex.

Which me luck in getting to sleep before noon today, folks!

Not Quite What I'm After ...

Haven't been working on the novel. Exploring livejournal, among other sites, smoking cigarettes and quaffing a couple of ales.

Come 10:30 or so, I decided to check my (snail) mail before trundling off to bed.

The post was just leaving, having a brief chat with my superintendent, a remarkable woman of 84 who runs three apartment buildings - and runs them well, may I add.

Bernice is about 5 feet tall, of a matronly build and carries a shock of metallic red hair; the lord alone knows where she gets her dyes.

She's also flirtatious as hell.

I said good morning after pulling my mail from my slot. We exchanged greetings and I told her I was about ready for bed.

She planted her hands on her hips, swivled 'em a little, and said, "You've come to the right place!"

"Well," I said, "if you're offering ..."

She laughed and jerked her thumb towards her apartment. "And I've got another couple of pussies inside."


Post-scriptum: Why in the world does livejournal's spell-checker suggest that "livejournal" is mis-spelled?

My Cat's Breath Smells Like Foam Rubber

I awoke this evening at 6:00 o'clock, nearly on the dot. My cat, Chet, seems to just know when I wake up, because he seems to just suddenly be there, moments after I raise my head, crusty eyelids breaking open like two frozen slices of bread, separated straight from the freezer.

One thing I've learned, working nights and sleeping days is that, if there is anything in this world that shows that our Lord is a merciful God, it is the invention of foam-rubber ear plugs.

You haven't seen them? In my case, they are a floruescent pink, shaped like little bells, or Chrismas tree ornaments. To use them, you twist and squeeze them between your thumb and fore-finger, then insert them (yes) into your ear, where the foam expands to fill the space - and never mind those who tell you not to insert anything smaller than your elbow into that cavity.

A simple technology, they nevertheless do an excellent job, blocking out the sounds of filthy day-timers wandering in the hall and that kid upstairs who sometimes likes to run back and forth, back and forth, over my tired little head.

Chet, for some reason, has developed a taste - almost an obsession - with them. It took a while for my to realize it, what with their occasional propensity to fall out of one's ear while sleeping. And you know how little things can disappear among one's sheets or drop off the bed and bounce into the darkest, deepest spot beneath it!

But one morning some months ago, I didn't wake up, I was awoken! There was ... something ... tugging at the plug in one of my ears. Chet. The little bastard wasn't waiting for it to fall out, he wanted it now!

I don't know what he likes about them; I don't imagine that foam rubber would taste good to me. Maybe it's like chewing gum to him. At any rate, he eats them. I know this, because they pass right through him; I've found far more than one of them while cleaning out his litter box.

Anyway, today, he saw me take them out. He approached my outstretched hand, tail twitching, hunched low to the bed. I was lying there, still groggy, with my left hand close, resting against the wall (he hadn't noticed me slip the plugs under my pillow). He watched my hand with a hunter's intensity, and a cat's small spasms of concentrated excitement, then reached out and batted my hand, as if to force open my palm. I let my fingers open up, like a flower in the morning sun.

He batted me again, as if he could not believe what was before his eyes: no foam rubber. I opened and closed my hand, then opened it again, so he could not fail to understand the truth: no snacks for you, buddy!

And so the day begins. Contrary to my morning vows, I doubt I'll be going out tonight. Instead - I know! - I'll hang out here at home, maybe play on the computer, maybe - hah! - do some writing. With luck, I'll get to sleep at an hour that will allow me to arise around noon. And tomorrow I will step out into the world. And drink.