the sloppy copy

Try diagramming that sentence!*

Why do publishers (?) sometimes include the phrase A Novel beneath the title of a book? Really? Is that what this large, book-like thing is? Huh!

For approximately four years, my bank has been trying to verbally beat me into agreeing to open a money market account. This morning I read that these accounts are probably the next big thing to fail. Guess my desire to keep all my savings in an empty cereal bar- box in my sock drawer was the right decision after all eh, SEC?**

Pasted from Twitter: Word I’d like to eliminate from my vocab: “someday.” (Ah, so inspirational!) Also: “wad” (ah, so disgusting). For real, though. The “someday” thing is getting old. Remember that old Nike slogan? Just Fucking Do It Already?*** Yes. Just.

While we’re only-vaguely on the subject, name me a word with the same aaah sound as “wad” or “quad” that isn’t a gross-sounding word. Can’t, can ya?

Oh, and while we’re naming things, does anybody possess a magical coffee mug (sans lid) that keeps their coffee hot (or at least above room temp) for longer than, say, five minutes? Room temperature coffee makes me gag, but I’m also uncoordinated enough that drinking hot coffee from a travel mug is a third-degree facial burn waiting to happen. How about those Tervis things I keep writing about? I mean, those totally awesome Tervis things I keep writing about! The things that I’d loooove to try out for free and post rave reviews on! I like this idea so much I’m dangling my participles around like some sort of drunk, free-balling grammarian.****

That’s it for now, folks.

*Do they even teach that anymore in school? Don’t answer that. It’ll just make me surly and self-righteous.

**Note: Please don’t break into my apartment looking for my sock drawer. I have no sock drawer. Also: no savings.

***I think this was eventually shortened.

****Heeeey, do not picture your college English professor here because I accidentally did. Dr. N! Sober up and put some damn slacks on!

Note: I’ve tried – and failed – numerous times to come up with some sort of “theme” for this blog. I think this post is officially my White Flag. I write about what I want to write about. It will be hit or miss with most readers. I’ve made my peace with this. Sort of.

You want to know who’s cool? Georges Vézina, that’s who. He’s so interesting, I feel I must tell you more about him.

If the name sounds familiar, or even vaguely so, it’s because the current National Hockey League annually awards a trophy bearing his name to the “best freaking goaltender in the whole damn league” (I’m paraphrasing here). And I’m pretty sure you’ve got to be pretty freaking special to have a “best of” trophy named after you.

"Bonjour, bitches. Je m'apelle Bad Ass." Photo credit: http://thirdstringgoalie.blogspot.com/2011/01/1924-25-montreal-canadiens-georges.html

And special our boy was. First, there’s the issue of his birth name: Joseph-Georges-Gonzague Vézina. It’s about as French-Canadian (thus, novel [to me]; thus, cool [to me]) as it gets, eh? I suppose Joseph-Georges-Gonzague was a bit of a mouthful for sa mère to be yelling around the house (she’d had seven other kids before him, after all), so Georges it was.

As was likely All The Rage back in 1901, he left school at the age of 14 to help son papa in the old man’s bakery. Yep, descended from an immigrant baker. Bonus Novelty Points.

And then there’s the hockey thing. More specifically, the ice-hockey-goaltender thing. It takes a fairly rare specimen to willingly play goal today, much less in 1910, when Vezina made his first exhibition start for the Montreal Canadiens. Remember here, this was avant-Vaughn, avant-Bauer, avant-Reebok: they didn’t need no stinkin’ face masks.

Yikes, eh? Hard core.

For sixteen seasons- count’em: seven in the NHA, nine in the NHL, all with the Habs – ol’ Georges toiled between the pipes, playing for 327 consecutive regular season games.* During his career, the Canadiens won two Stanley Cups and appeared in the Finals three more times. And let’s talk hard numbers here: Lead the League in Goals Against Average seven times (runner-up an additional five times). During the 1924-25 season (his last full season played), his GAA was 1.81.

He was 38 at the time.

Bon travail, Monsieur! 

Vezina also had the distinction of being an all-around swell guy. His nicknames:
le Concombre de Chicoutimi
(The Cucumber of Chicoutimi – a reference to his calmness and the rural Quebec town of his birth)
l’Habitant silencieux
(the Silent Habitant – again referring to his quiet, steady presence on the Canadiens, affectionately known as “the Habitants,” or, now: “Habs”)

So steady, so dependable was that his 327-game streak was broken only by his collapse on the ice during a game in 1925. TB, it was, and his career (and sadly, life) ended quickly thereafter.

Let me make this clear: this beast of a man was playing through tuberculosis. Damn, son! (note: I think some professional athletes have a lesson or two to learn from this example. Not that I condone infecting one’s team with a highly-contagious disease, but I think one can play through a hangnail, say, or an owie on their toesies).

After Vezina’s death, Canadiens manager Leo Dandurand “told reporters Vezina ‘speaks no English and has twenty-two children, including three sets of triplets, and they were all born in the space of nine years.’”**  Okay, so that was not true; he apparently spoke some English and had two sons (with his wife, at least). But one only hears (and spreads) rumors about such, uh, copious parentage when one is dealing with the Man’s Man: it’s seen as impressive (or weird, or wrong—depends on how you look at it I suppose). In this way, Vezina was also a symbol of virility.

This revered, respected, admired and adored epitome of the Greatness of the Early Game fascinates me, and I hope you found these tidbits of trivia and history at least basically intriguing.

If not, you should probably maybe not subscribe to this blog any longer.
*Or 328; I’ve seen both numbers quoted.

Sources:
BabelFish text translation
(Sorry, high school French teacher. I don’t remember anything)

“Georges Vezina.” Hockey-Reference.com. Web. 06 Mar. 2012.

**“Georges Vézina.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 26 Feb. 2012.

“History of the National Hockey League.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 03 May 2012. Web. 06 Mar. 2012. 

“NHL Vezina Trophy Winners.” Hockey-Reference.com. Web. 06 

“Vezina Trophy.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 03 Apr. 2012. Web. 06 Mar. 2012. 

When it comes to being entertained, I can be pretty cynical and jaded. I watch the television show, see the film, read the book, and in a half-hour I know the ending (or at least, I think that I do). 90% of the time I’m right (or halfway there). 9% of the time I’m completely surprised (and occasionally disappointed). As for that remaining 1%? I’m so freaking entertained and engrossed by the entire thing that I’m not even attempting to venture a guess.

image courtesy barnesandnoble.com (also: this book is not about a victoria's secret angel, which is what I think it looks like)

Like with the book I just finished: The Probability of Miracles by Wendy Wunder (awesome name, eh?). It’s actually classified as a “young adult” novel but I’m technically a young adult, right?* At least, it didn’t read like the sappy, melodrama-ridden schlock that I feared it might be.

Because the potential is there: Cam, our angsty-and-teenaged main character, has cancer and has exhausted all of her treatment options (what an uplifting premise, right?). So her mother decides to take their family to a town in Maine that’s supposedly “enchanted” or “magical” in order to “heal” her.

And that’s all I’m going to tell you, because hey – reading that much of the synopsis hooked me.

A couple notes:
– The characterization and scene descriptions are, basically, magical. Wendy can write, y’all. Even the minorest of characters are somehow presented in Technicolor detail without being distractingly-wordy.

– It’s not as depressing as it sounds, nor is it as fluffy as it sounds.

– You can read the first few chapters online here. Try not to be turned off by the teeny-bopper vibe from this website. The publisher (?) seems to be trying really hard to sell this book. I see what they’re trying to do – make it appeal to a generation of iPhone-addicted social media whores – but it was overkill times one thousand, for me.

Happy Reading!

*You shut your mouth.

…which, loosely translated, refers to Lassie saving Bontemps from a vampire casino.

Happy Mardi Gras, everyone! And no, I don’t completely understand what I am wishing you. Something about eating King Cake – which I believe is some kind of celebratory choking hazard – and beignets – which sounds like ornamental cabinet hinges but, from what I understand, are much tastier.

Get your partying out now, people, because after this you’ve only got forty days to bitch to your coworkers and acquaintances about the Great Sacrifices you’ve made for Lent and how they’re truly Cramping Your Style. I mean, omg: you’re giving up Diet Coke for Lent? How will you, like, manage?

My grasp of (what I call) Real Christianity is tenuous, but I think maybe the point of Lenten sacrifice isn’t to broadcast it to the world in hopes of promoting your Pity Party. I’m not saying that giving up soda or chocolate or coffee isn’t a “good” enough sacrifice.  I’m just saying: isn’t the absence of fill-in-the-blank supposed to remind you of, oh, Something Greater?

Whatever. It’s just a thought.

also potentially available in t-shirt form.

Edit:  D’oh! I think Lassie should be wearing beads here. Except it took me long enough to figure out how to draw a collie that didn’t look like a horse-man, so just pull a Gladys Knight and use your imagination.

If I ever win the lottery, I’m not going to tell anyone about it.

Parents, brother: okay, you can know.

Everyone else: sorry, but it’s okay. There will be indicators. Read on.

1. I will begin construction on a family compound.
Big plot of land, several houses. Separate houses. I love my family, but there’s a limit. Compound would also include a guest house for friends….if you’re ever invited to “the ranch,” odds are good Julie’s come into some money.

2. I will arrange to anonymously give my family and friends stuff I think they need.
You might log into your account with your lender and see the balance is zero… Or maybe when you wake up one morning your front porch will be filled with a variety of superfluous gift baskets filled with the kind of items no one buys for themselves but secretly covets, mainly: anything that’s ever been As Seen On TV. As you slice open leather shoes with your new Yoshi Blade, think of me.

And yes, leather shoes will be included in the basket.

3. My wardrobe will slightly change.
You will say “That is a cute pair of sparkly sneakers!” And I will say “Thanks, they’re from Target.” And you will say “That top is cute, too.” And I will say, “Thanks, it’s from Target.” And you will get the picture.

4. I will redecorate.
Maybe I haven’t won enough to build a set of new homes. Maybe I’m still living in my little apartment. But I will invite you over for a Cheez-it and Sangria party and you will see that there is now a Skee-Ball machine where the couch used to be.

Also, a spread containing every variety of Cheez-it available in this country.

You are now asking yourself Why wouldn’t she tell me that she won the lottery? We are Bestest Friends! We begin phone conversations calling each other derogatory names for women! We have known each other for years! We have held each others hair while we puked up “punch” that was 97% tequila and 3% ice! How could she not tell me?

To be honest, this is for purely selfish reasons. If I came into goo-gobs of money (a Juanita term), there would truly be part of me that would want to help out everybody I know and I’d be so guilt-ridden and anxious about not being able to give money to every single person that my winnings would end up being spent on rhinoceros-strength benzodiazepines that have been banned by the FDA.

When the alternative is all-you-can eat Cheez-its and unlimited Skee-ball, I think you’ll come to respect my decision.

a mock-up of my living room, apres lottery. note the current location of the couch (indicated by an arrow) and its replacement

When I think that I’m telling a Great Story, one of two things usually happen: Half of the time, I realize halfway through that I’ve already told it and the people listening to me are only being polite. During the other half, the people listening just stop me outright. Or they roll their eyes so hard they actually do stay that way. 

I think this is because 99% of the time, I’ve already told the story to myself. Whoa, crazy lady alert. Code red, folks. 

Okay, let me explain:
Everyone’s got a neural mechanism responsible for their internal narration, right? I think, at the most basical of levels,  it’s just a human thing. I believe it’s located in the hypoparietathalareticulumus, yes? Yes.

I zeroed in on mine at a pretty early age. Who knows why, perhaps as an escape from my normal, trauma-free childhood. Anyway, I have always meticulously chronicled the things that happen around me – for what purpose, I’m unsure. Sometimes it’s so I can tell the story to others. The rest of the time, it’s just a nutty little compulsion, I suppose.

But as far as habits go, I’d file this one under Weird, But Occasionally Useful. I do it so often I think this is why I remember my dreams so frequently: my brain just automatically goes into Recap Mode, even when I’m only sorta-awake, so that by the time I wake up, I have a nice prepackaged anecdote waiting for me.*

The downside to this: I’ve sometimes “told” a story, like, fourteen times before I actually say it aloud/write it down. The down-downside to this: I’ve sometimes told a story aloud fourteen times already. The really down-downside to this: people suspecting that you have brain damage because you’ve seriously told us one hundred times that you had a dream that you were riding on the outside of the airplane, oh my God stop telling that stupid story.

Anyway, I throw this out there for two reasons.
First: as an apology and forewarning to you, Gentle Reader(s). I’m trying to write more often, which inevitably means I’ll tell the damn airplane dream story at least seven more times. And don’t get me started on the countless references to Unfortunate Haircuts of My Past. I regret those already, even more so than the Perm of ’89 or the Bowl Cut of ’98. Oh god. Flashbacks.
Second: I’m curious as to how strange this mental peccadillo truly is. I imagine that it’s not that weird: everyone does it… right? (Pleasesayyes).

That’s all I got. I tried to find some kind of really nice way to tie this all together but I can’t. So here’s a gratuitous link to something I find very funny, but has absolutely nothing to do with everything I just wrote (you’re welcome):

*I always imagine that these little “I had a dream last night that…” stories are fantastic icebreakers, even though I’m pretty sure most of my casual acquaintances think that I have some sort of out-of-control hallucinogen habit or just completely make this shit up, neither of which are true. Also, define “habit.”

Hey, people who have those “I’d Rather Be…” bumper stickers: I don’t care. Actually, no one cares. No one gives an insert-weird-idiom-here that you like to fish for bass or run marathons or exploit indigenous peoples or take landscape photography. If you’d truly rather be doing it, you’d fucking be doing it, yes?

No? Well, whatever. I still don’t care.

I mean, HELLO. AN-Y-ONE would rather be doing something else instead of whatever it is they’re currently doing as you read the ass of their Honda, right?

I’m right. Don’t argue.

What needs to happen is someone should start printing bumper stickers that go on the front of your car. They’d look something like this:

Someone get on that. Please.

For those of you new to the majesty and intrigue of the National Hockey League, the NHL playoff system might be confusing. While our country’s football league playoffs take approximately six hours, the NHL prefers to heighten the Excitement and Drama by stretching the process over the course of several days, months and/or years.

Right now, you are probably on the edge of your seat with Anticipation,* for this is the point in the season when things really Pick Up. Yes, in just short of six months, one lucky North American  US city will be awarded Lord Stanley’s Cup, which, when referred to in the possessive, sounds much more disgusting and far less desirable than the actual trophy.

But how excited should you be, Hockey Fan? To determine your favored team’s chances, ask yourself the following questions:
1.  Do I live in Montreal?
If yes, is it the mid 70s-to-early 80s?
If no, better luck next year.

2. Does my team currently have less than 40 points in the League standings?
If yes, dear Ohioan, shift your allegiance a bit further east to Pittsburgh for the foreseeable future.

3.  Are there freakish identical twin redheads on my team?
If yes, do not make direct eye contact, even if the game is televised. THEY CAN SEE YOU AND THEY ARE WATCHING. Also, odds are in your team’s favor.

4. Am I able to pronounce easily the last names of more than 75% of my team’s roster?
If yes, were you born in a former Eastern Bloc nation / the Soviet Union / Scandinavia?
If no, do you speak fluent Russian, Czech or Swedish?
If no, better luck next year.

If, after answering this brief questionnaire, you feel that your team’s outlook is bleak at best, you needn’t fret: The odds are still decent that they will make the Top 29 and thus, advance to the First Round of the playoffs.

But then what?

At the close of the Regular Season, a simple bracket system is created to determine each team’s advancement through fifty-three rounds of play, each increasing in difficulty with each passing month. Once a team progresses through the Regular Double -Blind Round-Robin Elimination Rounds and completes the quest through the Enchanted Gorlok Forest, they compete in the Semi-Finals.

During the Semi-Final death matches, teams will battle each other in the 25 Heures du l’Hockey, an endurance test akin to Le Mans, but on ice. Also, the goalies are blindfolded.

The Championship Series is next, during which teams must compete wearing skates that have been dulled by the soft ice, which is melting because it’s already fucking June. Here, the goalies’ glove hands are bound behind their back with electrical cable tied to a blasting cap. Also, the blasting cap has already been inserted into the explosive charge.** This round is often referred to as The Race Against Time.

The victors are at last crowned in a ceremony that takes place in their city’s most riotous neighborhood. If 22 members of the 23-man roster are able to make it from the playing venue to the ceremony, the Cup is ultimately theirs. Also, a mix of wild boars and drunk fans of the opposing team armed with AR15s have been unleashed in the streets.

At this, the playoffs come to a close.

But do not fear, Hockey Fan! Pre-season will begin again in three short days!

*and/or hemorrhoids.
** if this makes no sense, blame Wikipedia. And my short attention span. Or my cut-and-past skills. Or a combination of all three.

I’d like to state, for the record, that the version of Edward Scissorhands that appeared to me in a dream twenty-two years ago* was far more interesting than the version released to filmgoers.

Do you remember your dreams? I’m able to recall at least one or two random snippets of my sleep-nonsense almost every single morning. A (very informal) poll of some coworkers reveals that this is sort of an odd phenomenon, but the way I figure it, I live inside of my own head most of the time anyway. I think I’ve trained my brain to latch onto this kind of crap longer than some people.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Scissorhands. Basically I went to sleep one night, dreamed that I was watching the film, and woke up absolutely convinced that the movie took place entirely on a spaceship. I thought I was some sort of Film Psychic – I hadn’t seen the movie, had caught maybe three seconds of the trailer, and yet I, Julie, was able to piece together the entire plot in my sleep.

Surely there was a career in that, right?

It wasn’t until much later that I realized I had been just a teensy bit off-base, though I suppose it didn’t completely surprise me (for the record, I’ve still never seen the film in its entirety – is there a space-travel sequence of which I’ve been hitherto unaware? Pleasesayyespleasesayyes).

And this has happened to me before, a few times. I just can’t recall which movie I dreamed up. The Fast and the Furious, maybe. Tell me: do they drive quickly and vehemently? Because I might’ve called that one.

just a mock-up. ya know, just to see how the public responds to my idea.

*Whoa. How old am I, again? Sheesh.

Edit: Cheese-and-rice, Julie! Talk about some first-world problems! Oh, poor me! I’m too warm and cozy at night! My life is hard! Oooh, woe is me!
I honestly disgust myself sometimes. Please forgive me.

*             *             *

Friends, this post is to inform you that I am moving. I’m not sure where I’m going yet, but it will be someplace cold (possibly Canada, or an area with “tundra”). I also don’t know when I’m moving, but it will be soon – hopefully before winter ends. While I shall miss all of you dearly, I just really want to get some use out of this down comforter on which I threw away my hard-earned dolla-dolla-bills, y’all.

Cue harp music and that wavy thing they do with the camera when someone’s having a flashback on an 80s television sitcom.

After I got back from visiting Brother in Warshington in August, I started having flashbacks of my hotel bed. But instead of waking up in a cold sweat and hiding behind furniture when startled, I’d catch myself daydreaming about that sweet, sweet nest of luxury into which I’d collapse my weary body each evening after spending the day sightseeing and having my skin seared off by the blazing sun.

Oh, friends: it. was. divine.

Oh, friend, I will not forget you.

So divine, in fact, that I was able to almost-completely ignore my near-crippling phobia of hotel beddding (though I think the sun poisoning lowered my resistance). And after I returned home, I wanted more.

Like some sort of down-feather junkie, I stalked the internet in hopes of finding some kind of affordable down blanket into which I could basically assimilate myself each evening. I would – literally – not rest until The Perfect Bed was recreated within my own apartment. And at last, I met my match through Overstock.com.

This is where the fantasy unfortunately ends.

The furnace-ing of my apartment is such that the bedroom and bathroom become far hotter than the kitchen and living room when the heat is running. Like – very noticeably different. Like, whoa. Don’t misunderstand; this is GREAT when taking a shower on a cold morning! …but it’s not so great for other things.

Like sleeping with a down comforter on top of you.

I thought that I read somewhere that down blankets are good year-round, but this one is apparently not one of those magical blankets. I’m good until about 3:00 each morning, when I wake up soaked in sweat (ok, not literally, I don’t have some sort of condition) and have to turn the fan on. 32 degrees outside and I’m sleeping with a fan on. Why don’t you just kick off the damn blanket? you’re saying. Except I sleep better with a blankie on top of me, I whine in response. It feels weird to just lay there with nothing on top of me. That’s what she said! That’s what she said!

In defeat, I’ve been forced to abandon my wondrous down blanket in favor of the normal old quilt that served me perfectly well for the past eight years of my life (I imagine there’s some sort of bedclothes trash-talking that goes on when I’m away: Haha, sucka! I was here first and I WILL ALWAYS PREVAIL. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!).*

But the memories of Perfect Bed still haunt me, which is why I must relocate myself to more frigid climes (or just sleep with the window open, I guess) in order to once again relive the magic. For I will always remember the good times, Perfect Bed. They can’t take that away from me.

*okay, now my quilt is kind of scaring me.