The Mean Hockey Stick That Is Mocking Me

My hockey stick is trying to teach me a lesson. Yet I am unwilling to abide to it.

It's a nice, "Mylec" brand hockey stick that I picked up a Savers. I planned on using it for church hockey this season (yayyy! the season has begun!!), that way there would be more sticks for other people, and I would get used to having the same weight and size stick each game; thus hopefully improving my performance. The only problem with this stick was that it had a purple blade. A purple blade is fine, especially when it matches the purple and white stick-part.

But I am obsessed with matching things if it is within my human capability.

My team this year is The Lone Rangers (or "The Loon Rangers..."...don't worry, this is an inside joke type of thing...). We have really really really cool looking colors. A deep gray/charcoal colored shirt, with silver and deep teal accents. I love the colors, and I'm convinced they're the neatest looking jerseys this season.

There's only one problem.
I have a purple stick.
Luckily, I also have one whole drawer dedicated to duck tape.

Before I actually saw the shirts, I was told about the colors. Unfortunately, I thought of the blue/teal color as a totally different shade that it was. I started duck taping the stick-part of my hockey stick, using my light blue colored tape, and my silver for a few stripes. Electrical tape came in the picture too. But before I did all the taping, I started to get bugged by the purple plastic blade. If only it were a coordinating color!
If only, if only, if only.

And then I got an idea.

What if I painted the blade?

The voice in my head starting talking to me and saying:
"Eh, it won't stick. It'll peel off, and you'll be back to purple."
And then I started talking back,
"But, but, but, I just want to experiment! I don't really care if it doesn't work. I just want to do it to do it. After all, it's not like I want to build a homemade bomb or anything. I just want to use acrylic craft paint to change the color of my hockey stick blade!"

And so I did.
...After all, I had made a good point to my head.

The next day, I painted (I did this outside mind you) over the purple, with a nice, light, calypso blue acrylic craft paint. I just used my little paint brushes that we keep in the linen closet. And get this: I didn't even get ANY on myself, or anything else besides the blade! Oh, I was so proud of myself! (this is "miss fumble-fingers talkin' here).
And there is was, a new color on my own hockey stick.

There was of course, one problem.
It scratched off.

Of course, since I had strongly assumed that this would happen, I didn't get at all disappointed. And then, after that was when I used the duck tape on the wood. That turned out nicely too, and it all matched perfectly: The paint, the duck tape ...Ahhhh...

And then the light bulb started switching on again (I'm not sure if this is a good or bad thing, looking back on how a lot of my ideas work...).

So here's the thing: I have these wonderful, long, baggy athletic shorts. At the moment they are sitting on my bed. They were basically a birthday present from my Aunt, and I absolutely love them. I really really wanted to wear them to play hockey. There was only one problem.

They are black and white (this is fine, after all, these colors go with anything), but with maroon accent stripe-thingy.

Noooo...

I love the maroon color! I really do! It looks awesome, and I wouldn't have it any other way!

...But it doesn't match with teal and charcoal...!

Now, I am fine with the fact that by now, you are laughing at how extremely silly I am to be such a match freak. Just about anyone would be shaking their head and sneering at me for this. Even I would be shaking my head and sneering at me for this!
But for some weird strange reason, when I'm on a hockey team, I have the sudden urge to coordinate everything. I think this comes from seeing other people wear their color-matching tube socks, and their bright colored bandannas, and all that yadda yadda yadda stuff.
I am usually not bothered by this kind of stuff.
But when I am. I definitely am.

But never fear, I have resolved the delima of the non-matching shorts of awesomeness.

If I can put duck tape on my hockey stick, then why can't I put duck tape on my shorts??
And since I could come up with no excuse to not put duck tape on my shorts (after all, it is easily removed, and it's not like it leaves a mark or anything behind) I did just that.
I was set.
My stick and my shorts matched. I convinced my dad to let me use his black bandanna (thanks dad), and was finished.

Now, the stick blade paint still scratched off easily, but I didn't mind, as long as it didn't come off on everything and turn the other sticks and hockey floor calypso blue. I just figured that by the end of our game, my blade would look like a neon blueberry that had got attacked by a tiger and was bleeding something purple (...what a graphic description...).

But oh, horror!
When I saw the Lone Rangers' shirts, I realized that I had the wrong blue on!

Noooo... (again)

The second thing that went a little wrong, was that the blue started to come off on the floor!
Drat.
...But after all, why should I be terribly disappointed. I sorta expected that little conflict.

So, what with the non-matching blue duck tape shorts, and a stick that they had there, I played my first game of the season.
We did pretty good, and I had an absolute blast! The final score was 9 to 4, with us yelling gleefully for victory.

Even if my favored shorts among all the rest did not match, I was happy.
But when I got home, I had a new task on my mind.
Firstly, I had to get the paint off, and maybe try something else that would turn the color to something with a little more team spirit.
And secondly, I need to swap out the duct tape on both the shorts and the stick to colors more along the lines of turquoise/teal and gray/silver.
The second part of that agenda would be simple. Yet I sorta wanted to kick myself for having just used up nearly all of my teal tape on a bag only a couple days ago. All I had left of that color were a few scraps. Fortunately, I had a lot of silver (thank you Dbug, for getting me silver duck tape for my birthday! It is greatly appreciated!). So now my stick has sliver tape, with a few teal stripes. And my shorts are now black and white and bright, tin foil-looking sliver for stripes.
The only thing now, was to figure out what to do with the stick blade.
And I had an idea.

Before doing anything else, I needed to get the bright blue paint off for good. This meant either scratching it off with a finger nail, or using my handy pair of scissors to scrape against the blade, and take off the color in little flakes. Luckily, one of our friends came over, and to kill the time while I finished with school, he scratched off a lot of the unwanted stuff. And yesterday, I was able to finish with scratching and scraping, and start my new plan.

Plan B: Code: Black Sharpie Marker (...actually, I guess there's not much of a code in that one...).

Now, before I just started scribbling away on my purple plastic blade, I did check and see if the fine line that I drew would rub off. I thought I remembered putting it to the scratch test too, but maybe that experiment slipped my mind.
It seemed to work pretty well, so I went ahead, and started turning what was purple into black. I probably lost a few dozen brain cells while doing this, because of the fumes I breathed in, but I'm guessing I don't have much to lose in that area. And by the time I was done with the whole blade, I was pretty proud of myself. It didn't look to bad. And it didn't seem to scratch off, not at all like the paint did. I rubbed it around on the pool deck in the backyard, and it seemed to hold up okay. And it was then when I thought I had triumphed over the purple hockey blade.
My victory was very satisfying.

...Even if it was short lived...

This morning, I was just doing my school in my room (I'm home schooled remember). Math to be specific. And my brother comes into my room. He starts messing around with my hockey stick and his hockey stick, and eventually ends up hitting the carpet really hard with them. I still don't know why he did this, but I guess we all have the urge to hit the floor really hard with something like a hockey stick every once in a while. Well, just as I was explaining to him the the sharpie marker did seem to come off like the pain did. I looked at the floor where he had hit it with my stick.

I said something like this:
"Yeah, the sharpie doesn't come off like the Paint-- Oh no. Maybe it does..."
And then I basically wanted to kick myself again. Either myself or the person who hit the floor really hard with my hockey stick numerous times.
And then our conversation turned to something like this:

"Aghh! look at the floor!"
"Huh? That? oh, that's not paint."
"No, it's not. It's black sharpie stains!"
"Oh. Well that's not going to come out."

Enter: The feeling of panic that you get when you do something like bang a giant hole in the drywall of the house, or over flow the sink and flood the kitchen.

Thanks to my life-long (or as long as my life has been so far) experiences of spilling things, staining things, ripping things, etc., I know pretty well exactly how to use ordinary hand soap to get sharpie stains out of my bedroom carpet.
Eight balls of paper towels later. I determined that all the black sharpie marker had to be washed, scratched, or scraped off of my hockey stick.

...Here we go again...

When once I had taken it outside in the full sunlight, I realized that the sharpie does not stick the the blade as well as I had thought before. And it did not look as nice and neat as I thought it did when I was in less light. This was when I started wondering if I had ever actually checked to see if it was scratch-proof. Because, as I said, I thought I did, yet, after using a twig to scratch most of the black off, I was pretty sure that it wasn't.

And now my stubborn hockey stick is still, or presumably still, outside where I left it.

I think it's mocking my determination to match. For all I know, if hockey blades had faces, mine would probably be sticking it's tongue out at me.
It's taught me a lesson, yet I think I still refuse to learn it.

Thus is the story of my mean mean hockey stick.

Your currently obsessively-matching blogger,
Plink.

The Last Goodbye

Before you read this post, I just wanted to let you know that I've posted it on both Animal Lover and Dragons Fly. So if  you've read one, you've read the other.

I do not remember 9/11.

In fact, I didn't even know what it was until not very long ago. I had only just turned 3.

I've seen videos. I've heard stories. I've read headlines.

America is nursing it's wounds. One year at a time.

Today is the tenth anniversary of that day.

9/11/11. I'm sure that the history channel is showing disaster shows all day today. After all, that's what they do every year at this time.

But I'm thinking of people who said their last goodbyes without knowing it.

..."For granted farewells" if you may.

I've been thinking about this post for a few days now, but only recently decided to link it with the anniversary today. My original idea was to use a small, sweet little story to remind us to never take time on earth for granted.

Seven or eight years ago, I was at my grandparents house, in Tucson. We had just gotten back from running errands (the "we" being my grandma, grandpa, brother, and I), and when once I had gotten inside, my grandpa told me to go and look in their backyard. Curious of what he wanted me to see, I did just that.

Their backyard wasn't much at the time, it was pretty large, with a guest house and two sheds, but other than that, only a tree, a few grassy spots, and dirt patches were all connected to each other by brick-like paths. This back yard would later become my grandpa's "farm," where he now plants his own veggies, has a chicken coup, and uses above-ground pools for collecting rain water to water his gardens.
Anyhow, when I poked my head out their back door, wondering at what might be outside, I saw a little black, white, and gray dog, sitting on the guest-houses' front doorstep. Being the little animal loving four or five year-old I was, I ran forward, exclaiming:
"A puppy!!" with delight.
...At least, that's what I remember saying. But I think it was later said that I had shouted:
"A 'puttin'!!" Since at the time, I guess I couldn't pronounce "puppy" right (always thought it was weird how when you're just leaning how to say things, you heard yourself pronounce things right, while in reality, your pronounce them wrong).

So I rushed to the little dog, (she was only about 18 inches or so), and started petting her. She has floppy ears, a grey back, neck, and head, with white around her neck, belly, tail tip, and muzzle, and four "sugar paws." She had a long body, with short legs, a feathered tail, and non-shed coat. Her fur, if allowed to grow out, was just a little wiry.

She was just a little mutt, perhaps five years old, and as calm, cool, and collected as a dog could get. She just sat at the doorstep, as if she had lived there all her life.

My grandpa then realized that he had left the gate to the backyard open, and the little dog had trotted in on her own. He decided to take her and I on a walk around the neighborhood, going door-to-door, to find if she belonged to someone, and had run away.

After all, something like this had happened not too long before, when at "Winter Haven" (a place where the display amazing Christmas lights and other holiday stuff), we had found a beautiful Shepard-looking dog that was obviously lost and very confused. We had taken her back to my grandparents house, (I started calling her "Bluey," yet I have no idea why...) and decided to walk around, to try to find "Bluey's" owner.

I still remember what happened when we walked up a random driveway in the neighborhood. I recall that there was a guy on his cell phone, and when he saw us, he saw us, and asked if he could help us. We explained, and asked him if he knew who's dog this was. In a moment, he stuck his head in the front door, and called to someone else. I can't remember what name he called, but presently, a guy came out,

"Sofia!" He exclaimed, almost in tears, and started hugging the dog. Then he started thanking us over and over again. We left, glad that we helped a guy and his dog reunite.

...Even though I was disappointed that the dog's real name was not Bluey.

But back to the little gray dog.

At the time, I don't think she had any collar on, so my grandpa just tied a rope around her neck, and used it as a leash. I tagged along, and we went from door to door and neighbor to neighbor, yet no one had seen the dog. I was glad. After all, I loved dogs, and was excited about the thought of my grandparents getting one. So with every door step we came to, I hoped that the little gray pup would be unknown.

This was basically what happened, but there was always one house that stuck to my mind.

The dog seemed to want to stay as near to the door as she could, and we tried knocking and ringing the doorbell, yet no one came to answer. After a few tries, we started to step off the porch -- and the little dog wouldn't come with us. She hesitated, and finally trotted away.

I often wondered later if she knew the people who had lived there.

Back at the house, I remember that my grandpa called the pound, wondering about any missing dogs and such, but no one could tell him anything. I think they considered taking her to an animal shelter, but in the end they didn't. They also offered her to my aunt who lives in Tucson as well. She already had two bigger dogs, Darby and Daisy, and would later get two others, Ivy, and Dixie, whom she still has at the moment.



Darby

Daisy

 

Ivy



Dixie

 Well, the little gray mutt didn't end up going to my aunt's (which is a good thing because she ended up not liking to be around other dogs, especially hyper ones quite so much as many other canines do), and she didn't end up going to the pound either. But before she settled in to stay, something rather peculiar happened.

I don't remember exactly how this little dog got out of my grandparent's backyard after she had been found. Perhaps my grandpa accidentally left the gate open again. Or he may have even left it open on purpose, thinking that maybe she's find her way back home. But later that day, we found that she'd run away again. I think we all seriously doubted that we'd ever see her again.
But sure enough, maybe an hour or so later, she showed up! But the oddest thing was, was that this time, she had a red collar on!
I wasn't too long after that, that she got away again! (At least, I think this happened, it's gotten kinda muddled).
And once again, we all thought she'd gone for good.
But much to our surprise, while backing out of the driveway, on our way to run more errands, the little mutt trotted right in front of the car, wagging her tail, and looking at us as if wondering why we were leaving without her.
And if you thought the red collar thing was weird, then you'll never believe this:
Now she was wearing a white collar.

It wasn't too long after that that my grandparents realized that this little dog was going to boomerang back to them weather they wanted it or not.
She became part of their family shortly after, but one thing was still a problem. What should they call her?
Of course, my little five year-old head could work out plenty of silly names, which seemed so great and reasonable at the time (and just as bad, if not worse than "Bluey"), but thank goodness that my grandparents just smiled at me and said:
"We'll have to think about it." Whenever I mentioned on of my made-up names.

Finally, the decided on the only perfectly appropriate name:
Puttin.

Puttin turned out to be one of the most wonderfully behaved inside dogs on the planet. She responded to her name, she obeyed without ever having to take dog classes, she was house trained instantly, she absolutely doted on my grandpa, who became her absolute favorite person in the whole world, sitting on his lap, and savoring every command he gave her. She seemed to pick up on English, and understood just about anything my grandpa would tell her. She followed him everywhere, and to my grandma's delight, she didn't shed, and was extremely mild-mannered.

Oh, what fun I had as a five, six, and seven year old, playing, and talking (and probably accidentally torturing the poor patient dog, who preferred mature people to rambunctious and irritating little kids) to Puttin when her and 'Grammy' and 'Poppie' came to visit us, and us to them. 

I remember one pleasant day, I was probably about sixish, it was at our old house, which had the giant mulberry tree in the middle of the backyard. Puttin was there to visit, and I remember that I went outside and sat with here, with my back to the tree. I recall the feel of the tender green grass that brushed against my hands when I stroked it (yes, we actually had green grass. It was that perfect time of year in Arizona when you are able to actually plant ripe green winter grass, and watch it shoot up as the days get chillier and chillier). We sat there, and I dug my bare feet in the mud (oh! how I still love no shoes and cool mud...). I remember saying to the little dog:

"Puttin, today you are going back home to Tucson. It's a very long ways away. [(Yeah, I know what you're thinking, but a whole 2 hours seems like a loooong time in the car for a little six year-old)] And I might not see you again for a long time." 

I told the dog I would miss her and all that. And they left later that day. 

I still don't know why that sticks to me so well. I think it might be because from then on, to mock my silliness of thinking that two hours was a long time, I'd tell Puttin the same thing, or at least say it in my head, every time I left to go back home from visiting in Tucson, or when they left our house from a short visit. When I had that conversation it was a time that brings back peaceful, pleasant thoughts, and I doubt that I'll ever forget some of the things that happened under the mulberry. 

...But I could turn that into another story.  

Puttin was a lap-dog, and if Poppie ever sat down in his recliner, he'd instantly have a little bundle of fur, paws, and a feather tale hopping up on top. I even remember one time, when Puttin was just a little to eager for her lap to become available. And just as Poppie began go lower himself onto a bench, Puttin jumped up, only, instead of getting her lap, she got sat on!

By the time I was eight, we had moved to the house we are currently in, and though it doesn't have a mulberry tree smack in the center of the backyard, (which is probably good, due to the fact that my parents have bad allergies to mulberry pollen) it does have a pool, and my Sissu tree which is standing in the sun out front.

I now had my own "puppo dog" as is one of Arlo's nicknames,

...Who you probably already know all to well (...literally).

Puttin and Arlo never exactly hit off all the great, and to Puttin, Arlo was probably considered "The annoyingly freakish, irritatingly harassing monster who lives out back."

And of course, all this is true.

But my story needs to close at some point, and although there are a lot of things I could share about Puttin, I fear that her story has had it's conclusion.

Less than a week ago, she got sick, and there wasn't exactly anything that anyone could do to make her better.

The ironic thing about this, is what I was thinking that last time I saw her.

You of course remember what I said about always saying to her or in my head: "I won't see you for a long time, etc." And I often thought, and I still think about how we never know when our last breath will be.

But when we were last leaving from Tucson, to head back home, I almost went into the laundry room, where my grandma puts her when no one else is in the house, to say my traditional goodbye.

But we were nearly out the door, and at the last minute, I ducked out, telling myself that I would see her soon again, and I could say both hello, and goodbye then.

...Little did I know, that that would be last time I'd be able to say anything to her.

It's amazing. The one time that you take something for granted, it will nip you back, sometimes even right to the bud. I think I've learned that lesson, but there will always be a time when I temporarily forget it.

And today of all days, on the tenth anniversary of 9/11, a day when people took their farewells for granted, is the day that I see my mistake.

A coincidence?

Nah, I think it's just God. And now I'm sure He's teaching me some lessons which I hope I never forget.

 ^37-39"The Arrival of the Son of Man will take place in times like Noah's. Before the great flood everyone was carrying on as usual, having a good time right up to the day Noah boarded the ark. They knew nothing—until the flood hit and swept everything away.
 ^39-44"The Son of Man's Arrival will be like that: Two men will be working in the field—one will be taken, one left behind; two women will be grinding at the mill—one will be taken, one left behind. So stay awake, alert. You have no idea what day your Master will show up. But you do know this: You know that if the homeowner had known what time of night the burglar would arrive, he would have been there with his dogs to prevent the break-in. Be vigilant just like that. You have no idea when the Son of Man is going to show up.

Matthew 24:39-44 (The Message)

God bless the people of 9/11. May they feel his healing. And may we all remember that God is painting a beautiful big picture.

-Plink/Dfly