T-minus Two Hours

I'm just thiiiis close to the start of my vacation and, shortly thereafter, three weeks in Spain. Every moment of waiting is torment, relieved only slightly by running through the few key Spanish words that I know. Hola. Cervesa, por favor.

If there's internet access to be found, I plan to try and blog a trip diary, more for myself than my 4.5 person-strong readership. If not, there's always paper.

By the time I get back, this crap weather better have turned to summer in Montreal. Or at least to an enthusiastic spring. I'm warning you.

Them's my boys!

Today I've got a voice that's rough, and scratchy, and pitched down to a low rumble... sort of Melissa Etheridge after long scotch and cigarettes bender.

This is what happens to a gal when she spends three hours screaming.

Every save, every shot on goal, the good and lousy penalty-killing, roaring epithets at those big nasty Bruins, sending coaching advice down from a hundred feet above the ice, making sure they could hear how much we loved them every single time that puck tucked into the net -- it all takes alot out of the ol'cords. But it's a sacrifice I was willing to make. A badge of honour, if you will.

What a game.

Three in a row in the third when we were down 3-1. Three in five minutes. Saku scoring the winning goal. What a goddamn game.

The only sour note in the night, far worse than the two in a row we let in, was caused by the fans. Booing the American national anthem was something I never thought I'd see, especially in Montreal. It was an appalling lack of class. I was so embarassed I could have walked down there and apologised to the Bruins myself.

Some have said that it was payback for the Pistons fans booing Toronto the other night during O Canada but, frankly Scarlett, I don't give a damn. It sucked to hear it come from us.

But there was a nice surprise too. Two Boston fans were alone in the cheap seats; the Blues, where everyone's got a painted chest, face, or arse that they wave at the cameras. And where, coincidentally enough, 75% of the Molson sales happen. Those Boston boys were taking alot of heckling. At one point, about a hundred people started up a chant of "ass-holes! ass-holes!". If the Bruins won, I feared they were gonna be killed.

After the end of the first a group of red-and-blue painted frat boys wearing what seemed to be giant Habs socks on their heads made there way towards the lone bit of yellow and black. I watched anxiously. After a moment or two, in that mysterious way guys have, they suddenly became friends. Much masculin hand-shaking and arm-slapping occured and then everyone dispersed to their corners with a smile and another beer. Sometimes, I really love guys.

And I will always love those Habs.

Wanna know why I rarely look at my referrer logs? Because I find queries like this:

mariah+carey+legs+and+feet
graphics+of+the+koolaid+man
duct+tape+breasts

On second thought, this may be reason to check them. And check them often.

In other news, there are so many things I've been wanting to post about over the past couple of weeks. So many, too many, that I've got that deer-caught-in-the-headlights feeling--so much to do that I can't find a way to start.

Plus, I haven't gloated to anyone about my upcoming trip in at least a day.