Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Bad Beavers, Bruised Ribs and A Hipster Score

We all get warnings that, at the time, we don't notice.

For instance, if a Canadian referee says, after listing a couple of minor infractions that she'll call a penalty for, "but beyond that, it's just hockey," what she's really saying is: "as long as the fouls that the tournament organizers are concerned about aren't committed, you can beat on each other as much as you'd like." And, by the way... uh-oh. The ref giving a nod to a free-for-all when you're used to something a little primmer... a big neon warning sign that the Canadian teams you're about to play will beat you to a pulp.

And then, if you're playing a women's ice hockey team called the Flying Beavers... well, don't expect things to end without a few bruises. As one of my team-mates pointed out after we played them, there were some bad Beavers on that bench. And really, if you're a Flying Beaver, you're going to have a chip on (I'll skip the cheap joke that is readily available in any sentence in which "Flying Beaver" appears) your shoulder.

One of the baaaaad Beavers decided to pay some close personal attention to me (in a bad-touch way, but not that kind of bad touch), and butt-ended me in the ribs hard enough to leave two bloody rectangles on my ribs. Just the size of the end of a hockey stick. It doesn't hurt too much as long as I don't do anything too sudden. Like breathe. I think, actually, she was trying to punch me, not butt-end me, but since she was holding me with the hand that she wasn't holding her stick with (she didn't want me to make off with the puck... but, neeener-neener, I did, bloodied ribs and all), she ended up punching me with her stick hand and giving me my nasty bloody bruised spot. My daughter actually said "let me see your bloody spot again!" Nope, it doesn't sound any better put in the "I think she just meant to punch me" way. Sadly, I didn't mention it soon enough to my big sister for her to to beat up the bad Beaver.

Foodwise, I was in a hockey tournament, with three games on Saturday, so I didn't exactly sample the food delights that Vancouver has to offer (although I did partake plentifully of Caffe Artigiano's lattes). The food needed to be nearby and available. And it was consumed far too rapidly for any photographs. Or thoughts. Here's the peas with preserved lemon and mint that I had Monday, though. With lemon roast chicken. Mmmm.

However, fashion-wise (aside from trying to sort out the crack-whores from the regular hookers on Hastings, near Sav-On meats), I did make a score. I'd been trying to explain the female hipster uniform that's been near ubiquitous lately to my sister. It goes as follows:


1) Super-skinny jeans.


2) A long-ish knit top, preferably with some kind of detail, like gathering at the neck, or little puffed sleeves, or a little bit of ruching (spelled right? No idea) up the side seams.


3) A short little jacket (or sweater).

4) Around the neck: scarf or necklace.


5) Shoes: flats, extra points for ballerinas, cut-outs or patent leather, particularly red.


Seriously, I've been seeing the minute variations of this all over the place, and particularly on the Pike/Pine corridor, lately. Part of the reason I took my sister to Baguette Box (aside from the truffle fries and scrumptious sandwiches) was to look for the hipster outfit- we were only going to be a block away from Bauhaus. But... nothing.


But in the hotel bar Saturday night, as we hunched over our beers (I don't know if it was a bad Beaver that dished it to her, but my sister hurt her neck) after our fourth game in 24 hours, in pranced two perfect examples of the outfit I'd been describing. They hit every mark... except they'd changed their ballerina flats for heels, since it was evening. We would have high-fived, but that would have hurt too much.


And all I have... is a picture of guys playing cricket in Stanley Park on Sunday morning.






1 comment:

Abuela said...

Loved the blog and the comments -so true- about truffle fried.