So the Avalanche played again last night.
I don’t see where this is even relevant any more, because the Colorado Avalanche seem to skate eight nights a week, while Hubs says (also eight nights a week), “How ’bout that Duchene, huh?! And little Ryan O’Reilly? Skating phenomenons, aren’t they? They make me happy! Did we buy their Christmas gifts yet?”
As a side note, though, Hubs may be striking those two boys OFF OF his shopping list now, because they just lost, ZERO TO SIX, last night. This morning Hubs whined, “They took a beating! In fact, I wanted to GIVE THEM a beating when it was all done for playing like crud!”
Hubs thinks of these boys as his children, people.
Which they actually COULD BE, considering that Ryan O’Reilly was FOUR STINKING YEARS OLD when Hubs and I got married.
He could have been our ring bearer.
And Hubs always calls Milan Hejduk an ANTIQUE who’s going to blow a hip out, if he doesn’t skate slower these days.
Hubs was already seven years old when Milan was born.
I did not sit down at the computer tonight to talk hockey.
I sat down at the desk tonight to tell you about our hockey PRIMER last night.
Instead of gearing up for the big televised game (WHICH THEY LOST! LOST! LOST! PLEASE PAT HUBS ON THE BACK TONIGHT AND SAY, “THEY’LL GET ‘EM NEXT TIME, TIGER!”) by watching pregame locker room reports and pregame speculations made by announcers in suits and ties holding microphones, like we usually do at the Jedi Manor, we watched a show called Mantracker.
The whole idea of the show is that two yahoos are dropped off in the thick of some wilderness area filled with every manner of wild animal sporting big fangs and every bug that is so uncommon, it has yet to be discovered by scientists. They have backpacks filled with water and snacks and handheld video games, if things get slow. For the record, I don’t think they ever have time to play their PS3s. They have thirty-six hours to use a map and make it — on foot — through the forest to the finish line, without getting caught by the trackers.
The trackers have horses.
Which seems a little unfair, if you ask me, but the show’s producers did not quiz me on fairness principles.
Last night was the very first night I’d ever even heard of the show, let alone watched it. But Hubs was ALL ABOUT THE MANTRACKER, because one member of the “prey” team who was trying to outrun the horse-mounted trackers was Shane Doan, who plays hockey for the Phoenix Coyotes. Hubs was actually cheering for the “prey” team, because Mr. Doan doesn’t skate for the Detroit Red Wings.
(The Jedi Manor does NOT cheer for the Red Wings, whether they’re skating on ice or dodging tree branches at a dead run in the mountainous regions of Canada.)
Meanwhile, I cheered for the cowboys on horseback.
These guys went through SOME BRUSH, people. The entire coarse was in British Columbia, with steep cliffs covered in trees and grizzly bears and deep rivers and ravines and also grizzly bears.
(I just wanted to be clear on the grizzly bear thing, and sometimes you can REALLY EMPHASIZE A POINT by either typing in ALL CAPS or by repeating it.)
At one point, I asked Hubs, “Do you think this looks fun?”
And Hubs said, “Heck, yes!”
And I said, “Could you make it to the finish line without getting caught?”
And Hubs replied, “Heck, yes!”
And then I asked, “Would you want me to be your teammate in this game?”
And Hubs told me, “No. Not at all.”
Hubs said that if the two of us were paired together, all he’d hear would be, “This hill is too steep! There are too many bugs! IS THAT A GRIZZLY BEAR?? No? It’s just a log?! Well, it LOOKED LIKE a grizzly bear! I have weeds in my hair! It’s too hot! Now I’m freezing! I’m not walking across that creek in THESE shoes! I drank all of my water; can I have some of yours? Are we there yet?”
Honestly, I think I would like this Mantracker game a whole lot better if it wasn’t… you know… IN NATURE.
In the book of Esther, Esther was born for such a time as this. I was born for such a time, too. My time involves hot water heaters, thermostats, and solid walls to keep grizzly bears OUT. I do not take modern conveniences lightly.
Eventually I had to admit that I’d never make it as a teammate on the TRACKING team. I told Hubs, “After a whole day of looking for those two guys on the ‘prey’ team, and not having even SEEN them, I’d just throw in the towel and quit. I don’t have what it takes to keep looking for someone who’s hiding from me for THAT LONG. I would be overcome with ALL THE BOREDOM. I’d just yell out, ‘Olly, Olly, Oxen Free!’ and be done with it.”
And then Hubs said, “Why don’t you just stick to what you do best, honey? You know… writing nonsense on your blog and spending my money on manicures and coffee dates.”
Hubs understands me so well. I am blessed to have him.
He also rejoiced because the Phoenix Coyote hockey boy reached the finish line without being caught by the trackers, and he and his teammate hugged and hugged when they made it.
Hubs told me that two guys hugging after thirty-five hours of running through the Canadian wilderness is one of the two times that it’s socially acceptable.
The other time is when they win the Stanley Cup.
If you have The Cup in your hands, you can hug anyone you want to hug.
And then, people, as if watching a show where ice skaters run over the river and through the woods wasn’t enough of a hockey primer, we followed it up with a new show called Moonshiners.
It was a little bit of reality TV where a bunch of guys wearing nothing but overalls over their naked chests and pronouncing words SO STRANGELY that the English version of their sentences had to be written out at the bottom of the big screen run around the backwoods of Southern states, looking for a good source of fresh water to set up an illegal still.
And then they find 500 pounds of corn hidden under a tarp in another section of the woods, after having left money to pay for said corn in a mailbox some eighteen miles away, which they load into their trucks in the dark of the night, because apparently the local sheriff will have some questions for you if you get pulled over with THAT MUCH CORN in your truck IN THAT PART of the country.
I think the word we’re looking for is SUSPICIOUS.
We watched as a woman with no teeth (NO! TEETH!) held a shotgun up and refused to let a guy pass through a county road. We watched as one old coot said that his family had been in the moonshine business since 1902, and that it was his heritage.
For the record, his beard looked like a rat’s nest with a permanent tobacco stain through the center of all the snarled gray hair, and, although he was speaking English, I couldn’t understand a single word he was saying.
That’s why dialogue boxes for the hearing impaired are so convenient when you watch this show.
He also said that smoking and guzzling moonshine wouldn’t kill you. I know that he SAID this, because I read the English translation at the bottom of the TV screen.
And then Hubs looked at me and said, “I would be really good, actually, at hiding a still and making moonshine. A tax-free income off of grain alcohol may be my life’s calling.”
Right after Hubs ran through the woods and tried not to get caught by the trackers on horseback, he’d dodge the small town sheriff with 500 pounds of corn in his truck.
In his overalls WITH NO SHIRT.
Does it even surprise y’all that we STILL HAVE WORMS IN OUR REFRIGERATOR FROM THE BOY’S LAST FISHING TRIP IN SEPTEMBER??!
Oh, people. We are THAT family!
Happy Wednesday night.