hockey

As I've mentioned, I undertook a big steampunk project effort Halloween this year, which I'd love to show you but only finished it by the skin of my teeth (weird expression) and I haven't properly photographed it yet. 

I wore it to a friend's Halloween party last weekend and I was grateful for the opportunity to take it for a test drive, but it's a bit of an ordeal to put on, and long experience gained over many Halloweens has taught me that doing my regular job at a desk for eight hours in a corset makes me cranky by day's end. 

Last Monday, I went to a movie with a friend. Having sort of skipped dinner, I did something uncharacteristic and actually bought food (or the closest approximation thereof) at the theater. My hotdog came with a medium drink. When the clerk hoisted the beverage onto the counter, the resounding thump was followed by a beat of total silence, before my friend and I burst out laughing. The receptical before me was a 44 ounce trough. I would only be exagerating slightly if I said I could fit my cat Weasley in that cup. And Weasley? Not small.

I had an unorthodoxly sportish weekend. I played hockey on Friday, softball on Saturday, and hockey again on Sunday. Just about every muscle I have is sore to the point where it was too much to knit last night. I had been thinking I might pick up a ballet class this week, but now I think I'll curl up in a ball for a few days and wait for my body to start speaking to me again (or at least stop swearing at me).

People have been asking how hockey's going.

Hockey. Is. Awesome.

I finished up a six-week class with the self-descriptive title of "Skills and Drills" in which I learned how to skate faster, did not learn how to perform backwards crossovers (despite my best intentions), and, at least once per lesson, listened to my instructor bellow, "Shannon, how do you hold your stick?!?"

Don't laugh.