Best of Boston, Life Lessons, Pop Culture

Ice Ice Baby

There’s an indoor skating rink about a half-mile from my house and, for the past couple of years, whenever I pass by, the place whispers to me: Ice Ice Baby, Ice Ice Baby

First, a little background: I skated regularly throughout my childhood and teen years.  While I was never exactly graceful, I had good balance and could move at a steady clip.  The last time I was on the ice was during college and, after that, my skates were left abandoned in my parents’ basement.  Eventually the leather dried and cracked, and the skates got tossed.

Over the years, I replaced skating with spectating and, as evidenced by my past blog posts, I not only love hockey, I am hopelessly devoted to the Boston Bruins

Because my Bruins make it look easy, and because this charming old rink is walking distance from my house, it was only a matter of time before I got the urge to lace up and get back out on the ice.  What better way to get in some cardio and burn a few calories, right?

On a whim, I bought a pair of ice skates.  Then brought them to be sharpened.  And, realizing I was sorely out of practice, and considerably older than the last time I went skating, I picked up a set of knee, elbow, and wrist pads.  I was ready to go.  Ice Ice Baby, Ice Ice Baby.

I skated about twenty minutes before I stumbled.  Suddenly, I was airborne and, arms out-stretched, went leaping through the air as if I were about to dive into a swimming pool.  Only this water was a frozen block of ice.  I came down on my stomach and chest, remaining prostrate and stunned until a nice stranger helped me up.

The pain was immediate and sharp and I figured I’d pulled a muscle in my arm.  I left the rink and, as soon as I got home, I reached for the Ice Ice Baby.  The next day, when I couldn’t move my arm at all, I sought medical care.  Turns out I fractured my shoulder.  Specifically, the ball joint of my humerus bone.  Note the spelling: that’s humerus, not humorous.  Because there is nothing funny about it.

For the past week I’ve been mostly immobile, sprawled out on my chaise, popping ibuprofen for the pain, and eating ice cream because, clearly, I need more calcium in my diet.  The one thing that could drag me from the chaise and back out into the world?  Tickets to the Bruins/Vancouver game.

As my brother and I approached the Garden, I spotted the bronze statue of Bobby Orr that immortalizes his famous “flying goal.”  Pointing to the statue, I exclaimed, “Hey, that’s what I did!  I went flying through the air just like Bobby Orr!”

Only Bobby Orr didn’t suffer a fracture.  He scored the over-time goal that won the Bruins the 1970 Stanley Cup Championship.  Ice Ice Baby!

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Girl Talk, Life Lessons

Inked

The following is a re-post from October 2016.

When I was a kid, it seemed like the only people with tattoos were guys who’d been in the military or who rode motorcycles.  Getting tattooed is painful and it proved these guys were strong, tough, cool.  In other words – badass.

Once in a great while, I’d see a woman with a tattoo but it was usually a dainty little red rose on her ankle or shoulder.  Still, I never considered doing it myself.  For one thing, I didn’t feel strongly enough about anything to have it branded into my skin.  Then there was the pain factor.   And a badass?  Definitely not me.

But getting tattooed has become so commonplace that it hardly seems the act of courage or rebellion it once was.  These days, it’s more about artistic expression and individualism. That being said, getting tattooed remains a painful endeavor and, you have to be gutsy to let that needle go at your skin.

Full disclosure here: I got inked.

Like far too many women, first I was cut.  Next, pumped full of poison.  Then came the tatts, and finally they nuked me.  I guess that makes me a badass after all.

You see, my tatts are radiation markers.  I am a breast cancer survivor with four small permanent black dots on my chest.  But I’m also a hockey enthusiast, a devoted Boston Bruins fan, so I choose to think of my tatts as small hockey pucks.  Four little pucks in honor of the greatest hockey player that ever was: Number Four – Bobby Orr!

It’s October.  Hockey season started last week and my Bruins are back on the ice.  It’s also Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Have you scheduled your mammogram?

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Girl Talk, Life Lessons

Inked

When I was a kid, it seemed like the only people with tattoos were guys who’d been in the military or who rode motorcycles.  Getting tattooed is painful and it proved these guys were strong, tough, cool.  In other words – badass.

Once in a great while, I’d see a woman with a tattoo but it was usually a dainty little red rose on her ankle or shoulder.  Still, I never considered doing it myself.  For one thing, I didn’t feel strongly enough about anything to have it branded into my skin.  Then there was the pain factor.   And a badass?  Definitely not me.

But getting tattooed has become so commonplace that it hardly seems the act of courage or rebellion it once was.  These days, it’s more about artistic expression and individualism. That being said, getting tattooed remains a painful endeavor and, you have to be gutsy to let that needle go at your skin.

Full disclosure here: I got inked.

Like far too many women, first I was cut.  Next, pumped full of poison.  Then came the tatts, and finally they nuked me.  I guess that makes me a badass after all.

pink-ribbonYou see, my tatts are radiation markers.  I am a breast cancer survivor with four small permanent black dots on my chest.  But I’m also a hockey enthusiast, a devoted Boston Bruins fan, so I choose to think of my tatts as small hockey pucks.  Four little pucks in honor of the greatest hockey player that ever was: Number Four – Bobby Orr!

It’s October.  Hockey season started last week and my Bruins are back on the ice.  It’s also Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Have you scheduled your mammogram?red poppy

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Best of Boston

Just Add Ice

Last Sunday night, while most people were watching the Oscars, I was at a Boston Bruins hockey game.  What can I say?  Hockey is my favorite sport.  Ordinarily my brother’s my hockey buddy, but he couldn’t make it.  A friend was eager to join me, much to the chagrin of her husband and children.  We brought a sign we thought would surely get us on camera.  It said,  COUGARS LOVE BRUINS.Bruins Sign_CC We were, after all, women of a certain age.  And my Boys are wicked cute.

When the roving cameraman ignored us, a couple sitting nearby shouted to get his attention.  He shook his head and said, “Can’t show that during prime time.”  Meanwhile, another live broadcast was underway where at least a half-dozen Hollywood starlets were dangerously close to having wardrobe malfunctions.  And my sign was too risqué?  Seriously?

My B’s scored first, but their puck luck didn’t last.  Suddenly they were behind 2 to 1 and it grew uncharacteristically quiet in the Garden.  That’s when I overheard the dad sitting behind us explaining the game of hockey to his two small girly-girl daughters.  “How many shots on goal do we have?” he asked one of them.  “Hear the tap tap of the stick on the ice?  That means pass me the puck…”

He reminded me of all the things I love about hockey.  The sheer speed and perfectly choreographed chaos of it.  The rattling of the boards.  How watching a game clears your head and gets your blood pumping.

spoked BWarriors on skates, my Bruins play with grit and grace.  At six-foot-nine, captain and defenseman, Zdeno Chara is the tallest player in the NHL.  When we say, “don’t poke the bear,” we are referring to Big Z.  Patrice Bergeron is the league’s best two-way forward.  He played Game 6 of the 2013 Stanley Cup finals with a cracked rib, torn cartilage, and a separated shoulder.  It’s been said:  If hockey was easy, they’d call it football.

Win or lose, I love these guys.  Sunday night’s match up with Tampa Bay was a crucial game in the standings.  The final score was 4 to 1.  My Boys didn’t just lose, they stunk up the ice.  But no worries.  We’ll make the play-offs.   Just add ice.  And drop the puck.

Drop The Puck

POST SEASON SHOCKAH — My Bruins didn’t make the play-offs.  Instead, they’re off playing golf, and I’m rooting for the Blueshirts.  Go Rangers!

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