Alive in Wonderland

The Broughton family experiences some nature at Anza-Borrego State Park

 

The Broughtons don't get out and experience the great outdoors very often.  There was that trip we took to see the snow this last Christmas -- see me not liking the snow too much here -- when I stopped in the middle of our hike and asked Larry, "What's that weird sound?"  He gave me the 'poor Orange County Suz' look and said, "You mean the wind in the trees?"  Now, I had no idea there was actually a sound of "the wind in the trees."  I thought it was more just poetic imagery or something. 

That said...we headed out on Saturday to the Anza-Borrego Desert to see the wildflowers.  I read about them here--in this blog--and immediately had visions of my family running through open fields of wildflowers, like some soft-filtered '70s laundry detergent commercial.  

Well, the desert doesn't really have 'fields,' more like wide open space with lots of sand and flowers popping through it.  But, there is something about the blooming desert that, without sounding overly sentimental, makes you feel happy to be alive. 

The ride there was just as much fun as the actual 'there' part of the trip. We stopped at truck stops and old diners/gas stations. It felt good. It felt very, very good. We rolled down the windows and cranked the "Roll Down Your Window" mixed tape that I made for the trip.  It's put your hand out the window and pretend it's an airplane-type of music. 

A road trip can be hopelessly botched by the wrong choice in music, so I made you your own "Roll Down You Window" mixed tape. 

(Just click the arrow in the middle to play 

& the little one on the right to FF.)

I also made this short video of our trip.  It's 3:30 minutes long.  I know that is a minute over the ideal time for a video, but I just find us far too amusing to cut it down.  I hope you like it..

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Taking a trip to see the wildflowers in Anza-Borrego from Suzanne Broughton on Vimeo. 

The music in the beginning is the Indigo Girls "Get out the Map" and Jack Johnson sings "Better Together" in the middle and end. I think "Better Together " is meant as a romantic song, but I think it's a good song about family, as well.

I AM like the blogging version of Julie on The Love Boat

Friday we had the second of the Orange County blogger meet-ups that I've arranged. As Marcy put it, "You're like Julie of the Love Boat for OC bloggers."  I am.  

Marcy, Julie, Rochelle, Kristin, Stacey, Dana and I met at California Pizza Kitchen at The Irvine Spectrum for lunch. We talked about the addictive nature of Twitter, our first cars, and all tried to guess the age of our cute-as-a-little-squirrel waiter, Braden (who was 22, of all things).  

I know what you're thinking, CPK? They only service Pepsi there, right? Yes, but their iced tea, proximity to Anthropologie, and ability to seat large parties made-up for their obvious misguided choice in soft drinks. Which I like to call a PepsiBlunder. 

After everyone had arrived--and Kristin gave out her spectacular cupcakes (actual cupcake pictured above)--I called the lunch to order with fake notes and an enormously annoying and bossy manner. I just wanted to clear-up a few things before everyone enjoyed their beverage--except for Marcy and Julie who had Pepsi, which they can't have enjoyed. I wouldn't exactly call it a "lecture," more of just a few suggestions..

. 

Just trying to be helpful.

As you can see, Julie was riveted by my every word.  She couldn't stop taking pictures of the cupcake with her phone long enough to listen?  Probably uploading them to Twitter. Total addict. 

I think the next meet-up needs to be at a place a little more swanky than CPK...and a place that serve Diet Coke...or cocktails. We also need to come up with some sort of name for this assembly of Web 2.0holics. Hmmmm...

The Suburban Sombrero

 

My mom gave me this hat "for when you take the kids to the pool this summer."  This is classic behavior for my mom. She also renews my subscription to "Gourmet" magazine every year and bought me a creme brulee torch--she has a very optimistic view of who I am. As a mom should.  

(Read The "Earthquake Cake" if you want to understand why these are enormously hopeful gifts.)

I'm calling this hat The Suburban Sombrero, like the Urban Sombrero that sunk Elaine's career at J. Peterman on Seinfeld.  

  I don't know about you, but I can hardly make it though the day without a Seinfeld reference siddling its way in somewhere.  

Suz found this montage on YouTube of The Top 100 Seinfeld Quotes.   Suz will get upset if you don't watch it.  Suz is happy you read her blog.

This year's Thank You Note to my parents

Every year for Christmas my parents give Larry & me Christmas Money as a gift with the request for us to get ourselves "something special." And every year I send my parents a Thank You note giving them some bogus story about how we spent the money.  

See last year's note here. 

Ungracious? Yes. Funny? Mildly.   

I think they would be truly disappointed if they received heartfelt card.

Say it isn't SNOW!

I'm not a snow person.  I can count on one hand how many times I've been in the snow.  I'm firmly a California Coast girl--born in Orange County and attending college in San Francisco.   I don't have much snow cred and frankly, that's okay with me.

 

Here I am in the snow in Palm Springs last weekend.  See how happy I look? What a natural smile brought on by the joy of being outdoors in the freezing cold...or, more accurately,  brought on by my husband saying "Smile Suz, you look like you're miserable." Truth is, I was miserable and only the thought of a nice martini waiting for me back at the lodge was enough to make me trudge back up the snowcapped mountain and not just lay down in the snow and surrender to the bitter winter cold.

I usually am a shutter bug (see my OC Flickr page here), but while traipsing around outdoors, I felt uninspired and longed for a dramatic street scene, hastily chained up bike or interesting wall mural to photograph.  I wasn't able to shoot off even a few photos of the great outdoors--though I did get some cute pictures of my kids before they got wet and wanted to go back inside. 

It reminds me of the scene from Annie Hall when one of Woody Allen's wives is trying to get him to move to the country and he says, "...I don't like the country, there's no place to walk after dinner."  So true. With all the trees, pine cones, and birds there wasn't anything to shoot and I certainly wasn't going to take my hands out of my warmish pockets for a picture of a snow covered rock.  

It's not that I have anything against the snow.  I think it's super for other people.  I just feel it should stay where it belongs in my life: high atop Mount Baldy for me to admire from the heated seats while driving down the 241, spray painted on windows during the holidays, and falling slowly--suspiciously like bubbles--on Main Street at Disneyland.  These are all perfectly acceptable forms of snow in my opinion.   

My New York-born husband has accepted I won't ever be a snow bunny, so I hope you do, too.  So, I'm dreaming of a "clear with a slight chance of Santa Ana's Christmas!" Not a white one..

This was written for my blog at The Orange County Register, "Mommy's Mind is not Toy."

Birthday card I made for myself ♥

Today is my birthday.

So many opportunities and I have taken every one

As some of you may remember, I have been working on a feature story about the insanely awesome OC Roller Girls for the Orange County Register. It went up today on their website. You can read it by clicking below, and if you like it, please select "recommend" at the top of the page. I'm enormously grateful for all the support I have received from everyone who reads me--thank you!

Right here to go to the story.

The Register has given this blogger so many opportunities and I have taken every one. If you are a writer in Orange County and have a story idea, I strongly encourage you to send it to Andre Mouchard, (amouchard@ocregister.com). He doesn't usually bite and almost always watches his language in emails (you're on your own if you call him).

Good luck and let me know how it goes...

The four deadly party personality types

Larry and I go to a lot of parties--fundraisers, birthday parties, business functions. Normally, under humane conditions, I have a good time. I'm one of those rare, slightly annoying, people who just loves people. Sit me next to the gal with twelve cats (read THAT story here), or the guy who used to be in a punk band and now has an insurance business, or the Italian divorcee who likes to tell stories about her ex, Tony, "The Pig." I'm happy, just give me a glass of wine and a warm sweater and I'm set for the night.

But, every once in a while the party tide washes up a table filled with people I'd rather not spend the evening with. Larry and I recently attended a party just like this. I couldn't get a decent conversation going with anyone, the music was loud, and it was Kool and the Gang, and it was cold in the room.

I plugged along in party conversation mode with the man across the table. "How do you know Ted (name changed to protect the good-willed host)?"

"We belong to the same country club," he sipped and said through his Merlot. Egads! This is an insurmountably pretentious answer. Even if you haven't ever laid your eyes on Ted anywhere but "the country club" for heaven's sakes shrug your shoulders and say, "from around...just around."

Next?

In my plight to make it through some of these situations, and to help you, I have broken down these deadly party personality disorder people into four categories. There are more, but these are the main perpetrators:

The Crashing Bore

Favorite topics of conversation: Possible deadly reaction of buffet food to their medication. The "freaky" dream they had last night. How cool they were in high school.

How to handle: Play interested. To everything shake your head and say "that's interesting." (Note: This only works if your spouse knows that when you say something is interesting, it means you think it's not interesting.)

The Arrogant Real Estate Related Professional

Favorite topics of conversation: Their weekend at "the River." How much they bought their house for in 1998. Wine.

How to handle: Play dumb. Act as if you haven't ever heard of anything they are talking about.
"What river?" "Where is Villa Park?" "Is that a type of alcoholic beverage?"

The Salesman

Favorite topic of conversation: How much money you could be making selling (fill in blank here). How much money they made last year. How much money do you want to make.

How to handle: Say you and your spouse have more money than you could possible manage already. "We are loaded. My husband makes so much money, I wouldn't know what to do with any more." Then blow your nose in a twenty dollar bill and throw it on the ground, just to drive the point home.

Minute-Detail Talker

Favorite topic of conversation: The difference between French goat cheese (or chèvre) and domestic sheep cheese. The thread count of the napkins and why I should care. How she wanted to bring her New Graphic Op Art Large Sabrina bag by Coach but was afraid the bold pattern would throw off her Dolce & Gabbana Satin Psychedelic Dress she got at....

How to handle: Ask the waiter if they serve Mountain Dew, when they don't (which they won't in California) storm off and go sit at another table.

After four false conversation starts with each of the above types, I was ready to head out, someone caught this little scene between Larry and me at the front door of the house. I had really had it.

Fine, so I was over-reacting a little, but wasn't Larry nice about it?

(Pictured above, Larry & me. Read about it here.)

Easy out

I wasn't ever much of an athlete, but I have always jumped right in to things that I liked. My enthusiasm for any particular sport, new passion or random hobby has ALWAYS out-matched my skill at the activity.

My friend Glen (You remember Glen from this video) and I had the conversation recently about the dubious award given in school sports: Most Improved Player.

He believes it's given as a consolation to the player who is, well, too lame to get a "real" award. Me? Being optimistic, sunny, trademarked naive, I argued it's given to the person with the most gumption and brightest future.

Then this weekend I found these awards, which explained my staunch support on the side of MIP.

All from the same year--seventh grade. All from the three sports I participated in that year--volleyball, soccer, and softball.

My latest affair

I guess this is how it happens a lot of the time. You're at a party and BAM! you see him and it changes your life forever.

At least that is how it happened for me...but, not with my husband, with another man.

I was simply trying to have a nice time at a dinner party and then I saw him sitting there by a half empty glass of Merlot.

So unassuming, yet bold, and he had a knife sticking straight into his middle.

(Click link below for the rest of the story so you don't have to email me and ask if I'm okay.)

Lessons of The Earthquake Cake

I come from a long line of quitters.

Not to make excuses, I'm just giving you a preamble for the following story. It has always been my way (and the way of most of my "folk") to: give up, take the easy way out, throw in the towel.

If something breaks, like the remote control or a zipper, I just as soon throw the item away then attempt to fix it. Or if I open a new appliance or toy and find instructions with more than two steps, it instantly becomes "something daddy needs to put together." I won't even make the smallest effort to figure it out. I'm not proud of this glitch in my personality--I'm working on it.

Given this persuasion, it was baffling that I wanted to make my husband's birthday cake. I was determined (determination: another trait not abound in my family) to make a cake from scratch. Now, just to clarify, when I say from "scratch," I mean from a box.

I was in the middle of my pre-party freakout while I was making cake #1. I was distracted by plagues of flies in the kitchen, Palin's updo on TV, and finding just the right music for baking a birthday cake (turns out Billy Bragg was a poor choice, better suited for grilling, I think). So, when I went to unload the first layer onto the pedestal, this is what happened.

Now, I'm no expert, but I knew this was wrong.

This is the part where the story gets perplexing. One hour before the party kicks off and I traipsed back to the market, but not to buy the easy, pre-made cake from the bakery, but to buy more mix to make another cake from "scratch."

Why the sudden ambition? Why am I motivated now? for this? Why not to finish college? Or to (fill-in the gazillion other important things I have given up here)? No idea. Larry was as shocked as I was. "Wow, you really don't want to give up do you?" he said with an expression I rarely get directed my way: pride.

While I began to make cake #2 I realized the carton of eggs was untouched. "EGGS! I FORGOT THE FLIPPIN' EGGS!" This cake was going to be different. "I can do this!" I tell myself with an unfamiliar voice.

And I WAS doing it: Tristan Prettyman my new music of choice (figuring a female voice would be more encouraging), EGGS, 32 minutes in the oven, unload the layers on the pedestal (bingo), crumb layer (channeling Martha saying, "crumb layer"), final frosting, removed the protective wax paper....and this is the result.

Again, no expert...but this isn't right either.

I called reinforcement. "Can you stop and get a cake for me?" I asked my girlfriend, Jill, with a feeling I have manage to avoid most of my life due to lack of trying: defeat.

My cake and the bakery cake sat next to each other on the counter as a testament to one of my life's mantra "sometimes it's better to just give up." But, you know what? That's the cake everyone wanted: The earthquake cake (the name they gave to that sunken cake). "I want a slice from the fault line," smiled/laughed Larry.

Everyone agreed it was the best of the two cakes. So, I suppose the lesson of the Earthquake cake is twofold: failure can be charming if you play it off just right, and next, if you HAVE to make a cooking mistake for a dinner party better it's on the cake than the chicken, because bad cake is still pretty good, but bad chicken can land everyone in the Emergency Room.

The Olympics of the immeasurably average

If there is one thing the Olympics has taught me, it's not the obvious, "reach for my dreams" or the words to the song "Simply the Best," they've taught me that I am inexcusably self-involved.

The Olympics aren't about ME. I know that. They're about athletes achieving the highest level in their sport. They're about countries coming together to participate in an event that has spanned thousands of years. Thousands, I say! Hercules himself would be astounded at the spectacle of athletic mastery of the modern games.

So why do the Olympics just make me think about me?

When I watch the athletes' precision, grace and strength, I think, where do I fit in here? Why am I so staggeringly common? Admittedly, the years of unrelenting practice and early start time immediately exclude me for any real attempt at greatness. But I wonder, if they had the Olympics of the immeasurably average, would I shine then?

Now there's a competition that doesn't make me want to fake an ankle sprain. Bob Costas could interview me on my macaroni and cheese making ability. "You have an innate ability to mix just the right amount of milk and butter, how did you hone that skill?" "Well Bob," I'd answer, "I was a latchkey child in the '70s..."

The other haunting question of the Olympics is this: What if the one thing in life I could do perfectly, my genius, was in finding my vertical in a springboard dive, but I never dove off a board in my life? The idea that I might have missed my calling pops up in almost every category of competition.

Watching the Olympics can be--if you like to torment yourself in these ways--the ultimate ghost-of-Christmas-past experience. "You shouldn't have listened to your seventh-grade P.E. teacher (slash social studies teacher). Your 'lame' stride would have made you a star speed walker," the ghost shakes his head while we watch an old Super 8-scene of me spastically running down the track in a pair of Keds.

Darn you Mr. Pratt! Darn you and your Dolphin shorts (slash clip-on tie).

What if I have missed my opportunity of grandeur by not committing my life to be an Olympic coxswain? I know, I'm too tall to be a coxswain, and what about that? You hear it all the time, "Phelps has the genetically perfect body for swimming." What is my body perfectly build for? I know it's not J.Crew swimming suits. I know it's not walking all day at Disneyland in flip flops. So what then?

The unanswerable questions just pile one on top of the other while the self-involved watches the Olympics.

There are the moments of pure brilliance and glory, when tears fill my eyes as the announcer is able to put into words the magnificence of the moment and I think... "I shouldn't have dropped out of broadcasting school." Arr, I'm doing it again.

The ghost in me...she really don't fade

On Thursday, Larry, Chris, his friend Stacey, Lisa and her husband, Joe, went to see the Psychedelic Furs (Yaz was the headlining band) at the Pacific Amphitheater. It was a beautiful night, perfect for sitting outside and taking in some nostalga.

When the first song began, Richard Butler came bouncing (seriously, bouncing) on to the stage and started to belt out, President Gas, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. Like the feeling you get when your weird uncle has had too much wine and starts to talk about "the meaning of love" or "Bill O'Reily"--it's going to be a long night. Butler's voice was rough, I can only suspect from years of smoking and screeching out lyrics like "inside you the time moves and she don't fade the ghost in you she don't fade" (Ghost in you) with heartfelt passion.

It was awkward. I almost had to turn away? I held my breath. Then came the next song and the next and with each one, Butler's, zeal and downright perkiness began to charm me. He sounded better on the sweeter songs (Heaven and Sister Europe), more melodic. The concert just got better as the songs piled up.

Then it happened: I was lost for a moment during the song Heartbreak Beat. It was the breeze of a summer from my teen days blowing through the air. It wasn't a particular memory or person that came to mind--I was just there--1987. The melody and sound of a voice as familiar as a friends was lulling me into another time, briefly.

Then it was over.

Someone said something or I looked up to see an ad for some product that didn't exist then or I looked down and saw my iPhone, something jolted me back. (Just like when Christopher Reeve saw that cursed penny in "Somewhere in Time." **deep sigh at the thought of that movie**)

The Furs were still good. They looked old, man did they ever look old. But taking a hard look at the audience, to be honest, we all have packed on the years. It was fun. I had worried that maybe the only redeeming thing a band like The Psychedelic Furs had to offer me was a link to my past--maybe that was it. But their music is enduring. It is still alive and meaningful.

I wish I could say the same for Yaz--yikes!

Do me a favor, open the door, let 'em in...

Guess who came knockin' at my door today? Marcy and Vicki surprised me with a visit.

(Such a lovely sight to see)

They came with gifts and words of encouragement for the new house. This is the kind of things you get from two artists/bloggers...lucky me.

(Take a look at the cards on the flowers and champaign. Well done gals! Thank you.)

Larry said he could hear us giggling upstairs as he cleaned out the garage. (Both parts of this sentence I like--the giggling and the garage cleaning--it was a good day.)

Here are some pictures of the new abode. I am feeling right at home here. So much more than our old house. This house just "fits" us.

My new office.

(See my muse on the wall? Thanks Inside a Black Apple. Also appearing, Fifi Lapin's Rabbits, one of Annie's Bears, and Birdo by Matteart.)

The dinning room all lit up for our party.

Wanderlust for the perfect bra

Recently, I went on a mission. Not a spiritual one. Not a do-gooder one. A mission to find the perfect fitting bra. I heard rumors that one was "out there" somewhere and when I say "out there" I mean at Nordstom. There, I was told, they have trained professionals with tape measures around their necks who knew their AA, B, DD's.

(That's right, I said AA.)

Some of you might be thinking, she means an "A." No! There is a size called "AA." It's smaller than an "A" and, I think, the most delightful of all bra sizes. Not just a silly "A" and not all show-off-y like "DD".

I'm getting ahead of myself.

So I found myself at Norstrom, face to face with a bra "pro." At least I think she was a pro, she had a real notebook and everything. She was all of 20 year olds and she had recently had eyelash extensions that she "just totally loved." So good. Let's call her "Jen." Jen was very skillful with her measuring tape and listened with compassion as I told my story of the hours spent scavenging through the random A bins at Victoria Secrets sales, the poor sales person sent to the "back room" to find a smaller size in a bra I loved (only to come back defeated and empty-handed or sometimes never to return), and the years of wanderlust looking for the perfect fitting bra.

She scribbled down my numbers, tilted her head and then she said the words that changed it all: "You're a 'AA', not an "A."

"Really?" I said in surprise (not to be mistaken with disappointment). "I didn't know there was such a thing. 'AA,' really?"

Jen nodded sadly, her eyes filled with compassion behind their perfectly coifed lashes, "Yes, it's (pause...she collects herself) smaller than an 'A', " she barely finished.

"Great! Do you have these 'AA' bras of which you speak? Can I try one?" I said with renewed zeal and hope.

She trots off and brings me back five or six. The whole time I'm making jokes like, "So you must have an overstock of these in Orange County...Do you offer a discount on the smaller sizes?" That kind of thing. Obviously not embarrassed or ashamed.

I like the way I am.

After one last crack, something like, "Have you ever sold one of these at South Coast Plaza? Will there be any special ceremony or fanfare?" Ms.-all-of-20-years-old, new-eyelash-extensions, never-stepped-foot-outside-Orange-Countys-limits said, (dramatized pause) "It's okay, you have a pretty face."

Gee thanks, Jen.

Some of my compadres...

All this for meatloaf burgers...

We headed over to the Mitchell's house for a little Memorial Day BBQ this afternoon. The guys took to the kitchen and the girls to the new Wii Sport...What did the kids do? They were around somewhere. Ben did get stuck in the doggie door once, but besides that little incident, they played nicely amongst themselves...leaving the adults our own more mature pursuits...

Memorial Day 2008 from Suzanne Broughton on Vimeo. (Glen, Larry and Joey)

My About Page: Embarrassing crushes, deepest regrets and how Lloyd Cole saved me from Wham!

I was tagged to write three random things about myself...three? I have 50 over in my "About Page."

I think #50 explains why.

Ways to amuse yourself in Orange County

I don't care for Starbucks, I much prefer "The Bean." I can be fiercely loyal to ultimately pointless things--like coffee, shampoo or ....

When circumstances such as location or parking make Starbucks more convenient (which is almost all the time), this is how I make the trip worth it ...

When I order, I act like I have never stepped foot in a Starbucks in my life and need an enormous amount of help ordering.

At the counter I stammer, "Hmmm, what's popular here?"

The stunned barista usually says something like, "Hot or cold?"

To which I reply, "Oh, I don't want anything to eat, just a coffee."

Stumped, cashier most likely will say, "No, do you want a hot drink or cold drink?"

Then I spring a look like it's the first time I've ever heard of an iced cold java, "Oooo cold coffee? I'll have one of those."

You see where this is going ... We go through the various choices – blended, on ice, caramel, vanilla, mocha, whipped cream – and with each suggestion I get more and more excited at the idea of it.

"Great! I'll have a small iced mocha coffee," I finally say.

This is where it gets really fun. An employee at Starbucks must be mandated to never utter the words "small," "medium" or "large," so they always repeat it like this, "That will be a tall iced mocha."

"Yes, a small iced mocha coffee," I 'repeat' back.

"Okay, a tall iced mocha," they 'repeat' back.

(Heeheehee ... properly satisfied now.)

My best friend and I just did this at a drive-thru Starbucks yesterday--they really WON'T say anything but the Starbucks sizes.

I always tip big for being such a jerk and I never do it if there is a big line--I'm not THAT mean. I NEVER do this at The Bean, ever!

The blogging version of a "Meet Cute"

I got together with two of my blogging friends for lunch on Monday. Vicki, from I Think I'm An Artist, and Marcy, from The Glamorous Life. I waited patiently at 11:30 at Red Robin for them to arrive...I waited...and waited. Unfortunately, I was waiting at the wrong restaurnt--we were meant to meet at California Pizza Kitchen across the parking lot. Opps.

Vicki, who is an old friend of mine, called, "Where are you right now?" I told her I was sitting with my iced tea waiting at RR. "You dork! We are supposed to meet at CPK!" She isn't one to tame her words and, let's face it, I am a dork.

So they hauled themselves across the parking lot, winding through the Escalades and Tahoes, to RR where I was chatting with the waitress, "Finally, there are here, so rude!"

We had a nice lunch and since Vicki and I hadn't ever met this Marcy person before, we asked a lot of questions...turns out, she's just as funny, cute and interested in me (ha, ha) as she is online.

She really was great and I look forward to a long real and cyber-friendship.

Oh, look here they are trying to hide their annoyance at me...

As we were winding down our lunch when should walk in? My best friends, Jana and Jill. They were exhilarated and hunger from their trip to Target, ready to enjoy their Teriyaki Chicken Burger. Talk about world's colliding...

Hockey Me vs. Girl Me at The Ducks Game on Friday Night

My husband and I were lucky enough to be given tickets to the Duck's playoff game on Friday night. I know! To see the Duck's shoot down the Stars 5-2 was a purely satisfying experience.

This was my second hockey game (read about my first game HERE) and the game continues to swoon.

I was utterly blissful sitting in our borrowed seats at the Honda Center--The Ramones blaring, Ruby's tri-tip slider perched on my lap, and oh, yes, my big orange foam finger patiently waiting for the first goal...

Throughout the game I found myself locked in an internal dialog that pitted my new-found hockey me (my
masculine self) against my girl me. Kind of like when you see a little devil on one shoulder of some poor
conflicted soul and then a little angel on the other. Neither of my "me's" is good or bad, just indifferent
to the other's point of view.

It went down something like this:

Girl me: Oh no, that tri-tip must be a gazillion calories.
Hockey me: Frick! Is that horseradish mayonnaise?

Girl me: Is anyone going to clean up that blood on the ice? Someone is going to slip and fall...
Hockey me: Drat! Blood? I missed it, what happened?

Girl me: That's it Perry, playing well is your best recourse. Nice shot.
Hockey me: Make them pay, Perry!

Girl me: I think I will ask this nice gal in line at the women's restroom about the rules of the game.
Hockey me: I think I'll just react with the crowd--scream insults, look peeved and motion fiercely toward the ref--find out what the deal is later on Adam Brady's Blog.

Girl me: Why can't they still be called "The Mighty Ducks?" It was so paradoxical and ironic. (Wait, that's the "writer me" talking. Shoo, go read something...you're embarrassing me!)

Girl me: Oh, I hope his wife isn't watching.
Hockey me: He totally deserved that body check.

Girl me: I don't want Ben (our four-year-old son) to ever play hockey.
Hockey me: I want Ben to be the best hockey player that ever lived!

It was an exhausting night, as you can imagine, with all the quarreling and posturing. It's going to get brutal next season when hockey me insists on wearing a humongous Ducks' Jersey with "Ducks' Chick" sewn onto the back and a bright orange and black feather boa around my neck.

See you next year, Ducks! I still love you! Get some rest, maybe take some time for yourself to reflect. Treat yourself to a message. (That's girl me talking, alright.)