Well, I’ll get to Lundvqist later. But because today is my twenty-fourth birthday, I thought I would share with you the hotness that is Marc-Andre Fleury!

Beware: extremely image-heavy below the cut.

Fleury is a 25-year-old French Canadian from a small town near Montreal. The beginning of his professional career in hockey was starting and stopping. I would describe his play as exceptionally talented but inconsistent: when he’s good, he’s unquestionably in the top few of goalies in the league, but his quality of play isn’t level; it goes through highs and lows, and he can have pretty bad games, but very quickly rebound and demonstrate exactly why he is so valuable to have around.

Please note!

He normally does not wear the ugly moustache on his upper lip that show in a couple photos; it is a NHL tradition to let your facial hair grow unabated during the playoffs in hope of a full beard by the time you win the championship — he is so much hotter with his usual understated soul-patch, which you will see more of below.

(In general, the pictures get better the closer to the end ;))

For a long time Fleury wore bright yellow pads/gear, but eventually switched to white because the yellow was so easy to see against the background of white ice and thus easier to get around — white blends in enough to make it more difficult for offensemen to get past.

Fleury’s teammates most often describe him as immature, happy-go-lucky, care-free — he never seems to take anything too seriously, is always ready to have some fun, and is a general goofball.

A couple magazine covers from his younger days:

In mask:

He appears cross-eyed when you see him looking out of his goalie mask from a certain angle. I find this endearing.

In action:

The moment we won the Stanley Cup…

Winter Classic (Ty Conklin was the man in net that day, but there is always another goalie dressed for the game):

Victory parade (which we went to, which sucked but at least I can say we went!!)

Interviews and press conferences:

(Fleury can never talk without grinning. It’s adorable.)

GLASSES OMG:

Named to Team Canada:

Sidney Crosby walking with Fleury. The shirt Sid is wearing was a team t-shirt the 2007-2008 season (iirc) which had the word “SACRIFICE” written on it in the five different languages spoken by various members of the team. (This picture shows just how damn lanky Fleury is. You may have noticed I have a thing for skinny guys.)

In the locker room:

No comment!

I told you he was a goofball:

(I found this one with the filename “poor sleeves.”)

No comment again:

*cough*

Puppy!

Convinced yet?

How about a video of Fleury rocking out to Rock Band with a wild white wig and pink sunglasses?

I rest my case.

But now, there’s a pill I can drop on the floor and let my kitty chew on all he wants! And if he tires of that, he can roll the bottle cap around the kitchen floor for awhile.

(A screenshot of the Etsy page for a pill-shaped cat toy. Several pictures are shown of a long-haired ginger tabby cat enjoying the catnip-filled, half-red half-blue felt toy, and the plastic orange pharmacy bottle with a prescription label reading “Catatonica.”)

The item description:

These jumbo pills contain a healthy dose of extra strength cat nip – just what the good doctor ordered.

Each pill measures approximately 3″ long and each vial contains two.

So get to the pharmacy STAT! You’ll want to make sure you have plenty of “mothers little helpers” on hand.

DOSAGE:
Take one down, bat it around, kitty is sure to have a ball.

POSSIBLE SIDE EFFECTS:
Temporary ants-in-the-pants followed by extreme drowsiness. Increased appetite not uncommon.

Only $8! I spend way more than that on my human medications. Check out kgrantdesign’s shop for more deliciously cute kitty toys. Next up: fried eggs and bacon.

(Cross-posted at FWD/Forward.)

Marc Andre Fleury made the most ridiculous save against the Philadelphia Flyers last night:

This is why he’s my boyfriend. And also why my husband doesn’t mind.

I feel like a five-year-old who just got teleported into Disneyland for the first time. I start bouncing up and down giddily and crying do it again! do it again!!

Philadelphia’s Jeff Carter rushes to the net and makes a shot, which Marc-Andre Fleury thinks he has frozen but ends up coming out for a juicy rebound. Philadelphia’s Daniel Briere works in front of the net trying to chip the puck in, and Fleury falls on his side reaching to stop the puck just outside his crease. Briere makes one last attempt, trying to chip the puck over the body of Fleury, and Fleury, still lying on his side, rolls on his back and curls up just enough to grab the puck out of the air with his glove, legs in the air, rather like a turtle on his back…

Paul Steiggerwald: — good save by Fleury — the rebound, loose around the net, Fleury can’t corrall it — OH! makes a good glove save on a puck that was going over his body and into the net off the stick of Daniel Briere.

Bob Errey: Absolutely sick save by Marc-Andre Fleury, laying on his right side, and Briere thought he had himself when he chipped it, but Fleury somehow got the glove reaching back! …

This is the game Mitsy plays with me when I sit at my desk. I’ll touch her on the front side, then reach around to a spot of fur poking out under the shelf in the back, and she flops and rolls around feigning great surprise and indignation, mewing at me — then flopping back around and staring expectantly for me to continue. This goes on til my arm gets tired reaching up, and she’ll keep rolling and flopping for some time, staring down and meowing at me.

And pictures.

Mitsy cuddling on my lap.

Both of them on my desk, stirring up trouble.

Buddy is a big huge bully. Often he will fight his sister out of whatever spot she occupies — on the wide open floor, in a box, on a chair, or in this case, on top of my desk — and either take over, or just wander off. Bully, I tell you.

Have some kitty pictures.

Buddy makes a mess on my desk.

And then they took a break.

Buddy may have been better named Dusty.

Buddy has taken a liking to a shoe box I threw on the floor one day while digging through my closet. He really, really doesn’t fit. It’s buckling out at the sides and from the top, it looks square — despite being a normally-constructed oblong shoe box. But this is my 14lb kitty who’s actually too thin for his skeletal frame, so he fills it out pretty well.

I think he looks like a bit of a cat-box-boat. Sailing the linty red seas.

MOON SHOE IT UP!

Second, here’s Billy Mays (RIP) going through the drive-through at McDonalds.

(I’ve heard that (surprise, surprise) the morning radio show people this is associated with are assholes, and I’m sure they are, given that it’s pretty much a requirement in the genre. Fortunately, they don’t appear to have part in this video — it’s all Billy.)

What’s been cheering you up this week?

(Cross-posted at Feministe.)

This one is pulled up from the archives. Buddy has some Chair Time.

A unit of time whose literal length is constantly changing due to rapid miscalculations of a computer wielding an operating system developed by Microsoft (i.e. Windows 95).

My husband had the brilliant idea to apply it to me and my various disabilities: the Manda Minute. To wit, “We’ll be out the door in five minutes!” will probably mean twenty, but it will change constantly as time progresses, and could end up being only eight minutes, or even — thought very rarely — two.

I try to be as honest as I can about time estimates, but there are so many fluctuating considerations and variables that it’s almost impossible to know for sure. I overestimate as it is, but chronic overestimation makes guessing useless anyway — if I say twenty minutes when it’s actually going to be five, what good am I doing anyone? and I’m going to be screwing with the medicine I have to plan out, the periods of activity and rest, and so forth.

Welcome to my life.

“Halp”

Buddy has what we call “Chair Time.” There is something about these kitchen chairs that drives him crazy.

And Mitsy, true to her feline roots, fits herself into small spaces.

But I’m a total plant newb, so I don’t have the slightest idea where to start.

So: Any suggestions for plants relatively easy to care for, apartment-friendly, and safe for cats?

Purified water? Iced tea? Crisp fujis? Low-fat yogurt? Soda cans? No innocence is left unspoiled. Beware the cold-soaked onion, my friends.

I was on the T on my way home from a job assessment in Pittsburgh. I’d been shaky all morning, having difficulty breathing, upset tummy, and so on. I wasn’t altogether well.

It was five or so stops from my destination when I decided I had better take a pain killer. I’d popped one when I got to the building, but it wasn’t doing much for me. I couldn’t just wait until I got to my car, because that would be some time, and I had a long drive home and other things to do after that. With fibromyalgia, delaying a pain pill 20 minutes isn’t just a 20 minute delay and then the same relief you’d have if you’d taken it 20 minutes earlier. It means that it will take longer for the pill to kick in when you do take it, and it’s got more pain to kill, and it’s going to be less effective on the whole. Pain builds, so the longer you go without treatment, the worse you are when you get around to it, and the more work it takes to treat it (which makes things worse for you throughout).

So.

I didn’t have a drink. And there wasn’t really any way to get a drink, unless I wanted to waste an hour and a half getting off the next stop, wandering around looking for a restaurant or market, acquiring the drink, making my way back to the stop and waiting for the next trolley. Needless to say that wasn’t going to help my pain state either.

I’ve dry swallowed pills a couple times before. The last time I was fourteen or fifteen, and the memory is vague, but I did it. I mean, it wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t bad or anything.

So I pulled my pill case out of my purse. And I started saving up my spit. (Oh, stop gagging, you faker, you’ve done it before.)

My mouth was dry, though — happens from time to time; Sjogren’s, allergies? I don’t know, I’ve never really looked into it. Anyway, you swallow drugs with the spit you’ve got, not the spit you wish you had; I put the pill in my mouth and tried to swallow.

And the spit went down and the pill…. didn’t….

Let me pause to clarify something. This is half a generic Vicodin. It’s fucking huge. And this is no sugar-covered caplet or sweet smooth gelcap. It’s compressed powder with a light seal around the surface. And I don’t know if you’ve ever tasted Vicodin powder, but it’s basically powdered vomit acid.

And it was coating the entire inside of my mouth and throat.

OHGODOHGODOHGOD

I gagged and I heaved and my eyes almost rolled back into my head, I swear it — I spat the soggy pill into my hand and looked at it, trying not to puke. Tears were forming in my eyes. Maybe because I let the spit go down first? I sat there trying to save up more, but I kept swallowing in an attempt to get rid of the awful taste and sawdust texture. (Didn’t work.)

Eventually I held back as much as I could, and I gave it one more go.

And I failed.

I wrapped the pill and stuffed it in my purse and tried to distract myself. It didn’t work.

Of course? The train had to make every. fucking. stop between there and my destination.

It took another twenty or so minutes before I got to my car, and I headed straight to the Wendy’s across the street for a nice long drink. But I was tasting that shit for the rest of the day. At the end of the night when I poured my final glass of water — half to take my bedtime medicine, half to use the next morning for same — I tasted it again.

It’s almost gone now. Almost.

I’m not going to be trying to dry swallow any pills again any time soon.

Yowza.

As an addendum, consider this photograph of Senator Obama, unabashedly courting the Young Women Who Love To See Men Being Shamelessly Goofy With Their Children vote:

Photos from.

Don’t laugh. I went in looking for a comfortable pair of shorts so I wouldn’t die of heat exhaustion this summer. And I’m not comfortable wearing above-the-knee skirts in general, but I grabbed this pair thinking it was shorts, then tried it on for the heck of it, and discovered… I look damn cute in that thing.

So. Skort.

Still looking for those shorts, though.

On the way to a Penguins game one day earlier this year, we realized we didn’t have any dollar bills — which we’d need to ride the T up to the arena. I ended up in a Petsmart looking for something cheap to break a larger bill. I walked out with a handful of dollar bills and a rattling furry mouse toy.

The toy has since lost its tail but — miraculously — the eyes, nose and ears remain. (I’ve lived with cats my entire life; I know those little plastic and felt additions usually last all of a week.) What surprised me further, though, was that Mitsy is thoroughly attached to this toy. She will carry it around the house and sing and coo at it — or toss it about and yell. And if you shake it, she’ll come running. (She never actually does anything once she’s there. She just sits prettily and stares up at you, as if supervising.) I suppose it’s as close as anything will ever come to a teddy bear for a cat.

We call him Ratticus.

Of course, what surprised me the other day, when I came home with a new litter box (big enough for our very big Buddy cat) and an impulse-purchase cat toy — a catnip bee that squeaks when it senses motion or impact — is that Buddy latched onto it almost instantly. Understand, Buddy doesn’t play with cat toys. He plays with pen caps and pieces of plastic and his eternal favorite, twist ties, but he doesn’t play with cat toys.

But he plays with Tweety Bee. Maybe this will be his Ratticus.

(my own photo, thankyouverymuch)

Hi, Sax Guy!

I look forward to a Pirates season full of Pink Panther melodies walking the bridge over the Allegheny River.