I’m headed down that steep, slippery slope to lameness. It’s only 11:30, and I am exhausted (although fairly certain I’ve caught a bug; let’s hope it’s not the swine). The quality of my blog entries is terrible due to the fact that I am exhausted all the time.
It’s Stanley Cup Night, and Canada is in chaos. Downstairs right now there are 10 rowdy drinkers all clustered around the TV, girls and guys alike. I joined them for awhile, sandwiched between my current roommate and my ex-roommate, every now and then being subjected to someone bolting forward and screaming at the TV. Pittsburgh is in the lead so far, and every time someone scores, one of the boys will call a guy named Phil.
“HI PHIL. WHERE’S YOUR TEAM? WHY AREN’T THEY SCORING ANY GOALS? YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE. DETROIT SUCKS. DETROIT SUCKS!!! DAN CLEARY IS A FAG!”
There’s some interesting tension in the household, considering half of the spectators are Nova Scotians and the others are Newfoundlanders, so everyone is either rooting for Cleary or Crosby. And that’s all I know about hockey, seriously. Also, some sticks and a puck are involved.
It’s pretty awesome. I try to muster the same enthusiasm that seems to bind most Canadians, but I’m not athletic and I’m generally just clueless. I tried to get DirtySailor to teach me the basics of hockey last year, and I failed miserably. It was all a part of my scheme to make boys fall in love with me, an angry, feisty, redheaded hockey chick. Fail.
Oh well, I can partake in the drinking festivities at least.